WHEN DUTY WHISPERS LOW (The Todd Ingram Series Book 3)

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Dear me.” Mrs. Peabody covered her eyes.

  “Sorry.” Ingram reached behind the bathroom door, lifted his bathrobe off the hook and quickly put it on. He walked out, pushing hair from his face.

  Landa and Mrs. Peabody started talking at once. Bullard stepped between them, his palms straight out. “Awright. Awright. We can settle this easily right now.” Bullard turned and said, “Mr. Ingram, do you know this man?” He nodded to Landa.

  “Yes, Sir. He’s my commanding officer.”

  “Well, then. What happened?”

  Mrs. Peabody screeched, “It’s the man from last Thursday night. He hit Mr. Ingram.” Then she belched. Red-faced, she covered her mouth.

  Ingram rubbed his cheek. “I heard something at the front door. I opened it and there was Commander Landa. Then I slipped. It was, er, dark.”

  “No lights?

  “I hadn’t turned them on.”

  Bullard turned to Landa. “Commander, you picked the damndest time to show up.”

  “Plane just got in from Brooklyn. Damned coast-to-coast flight; bouncing around. Tired.” He lowered his eyes. “...emergency leave...”

  “Why didn’t you ring the bell?”

  “I did. It doesn’t work,” said Landa.

  Bullard nodded to the cop at the front door who reached outside and pushed the button. Nothing.

  “I didn’t know it was broken,” said Ingram.

  Bullard walked up and examined the red weal on Ingram’s cheek. “Ummm. Nasty.” He looked over his shoulder at Landa and said softly, “You sure you know this guy?”

  “I know him very well. He was the captain of my ship. I was his executive officer. We just got back from overseas.”

  Bullard stepped back and scratched his head. “Wait a minute. Ingram, Ingram. Do you have a wife named Helen?”

  “Yes! Why?” Ingram’s hands went to his hips.

  Bullard grinned and told the story about the night he steered Helen and Laura Dutton away from Shanghai-Red’s to Olsen’s restaurant. Then he put on his cap and walked for the door. “Welcome back, you guys. Where were you, anyway?”

  Ingram and Landa looked at each other, then shrugged.

  “Military secret, huh? Somewhere in the South Pacific, I’ll bet. Well, you’re okay in my book. Anything you want, just call. And I hope the Missus doesn’t mind that I told the story. Say how is she?” He looked toward the bedroom to find Fred sitting in the doorway, blinking.

  “On her way to Africa.” Ingram quickly gave Bullard details. Behind, he saw Landa’s shoulders sag as he relayed the story.

  “Well, I’m sorry. Hope she returns soon. Okay, folks. That’s it for us. Goodnight.” Bullard and his partner walked out.

  Ingram thanked a confused Mrs. Peabody for her vigilance. Finally, she beat a retreat.

  After a long moment, Landa cleared his throat. “We even?”

  “Yes, we’re even. Sit, Jerry, sit.” Ingram sat on the couch, massaging his cheek.

  “Can I stay? The BOQ is jammed.”

  The whole issue of Landa’s refusal to use proximity fuses flooded Ingram’s mind. But he was so glad to see Landa, he decided to let it ride. “Promise to clean up after the cat?”

  “If you’re in a pinch.”

  “The guest room is yours. And your brother’s trunk is in there.”

  “I’ll go through it tomorrow.” Landa opened the door, retrieved his B-4 bag off the front porch and shoved it into the middle of the floor. Then he sat heavily.

  “How is...your brother?”

  “Didn’t make it. Infection set in.”

  “Oh, Jerry. God. I’m sorry.”

  Landa looked into space and nodded, his lips pressed together.

  “Where did you bury him?

  “...cemetery in Brooklyn.” Landa sniffed.

  “I wish I could say something.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, no, thanks. I’m ready for the sack. Except for one thing.” He straightened up. “About this proximity fuse business.”

  “Yes,” said Ingram, glad that Landa had brought it up.

  “There are tin-can skippers out there who agree with me. They don’t trust those things either. New, untested. High failure rates. Hell, Todd, we didn’t know a damned thing about these VT’s until good ole’ Frank Ashton sashayed out there kissing everybody’s butt.”

  “But Rocko ordered you to use them.”

  Landa thrust out his chin. “How did you find out?”

  Ingram admitted to eavesdropping while he waited for travel orders across the companionway from Rocko’s office.

  “Hmff. So that’s what set you off. Yes. Rocko did order me to use them. I didn’t and I’m sorry about that. Sorry for not obeying an order, but not sorry about those damn VTs. I’ll tell you, Todd. I’ve made peace with myself and I’ve made peace with Rocko.” He sighed and went on. “Besides there’s stuff I just can’t tell anybody about this. What I can say is when I look up and see a Jap diving right on me, I’d rather use something that’s tried and tested like the Mark 18 fuse, rather than some Frank Ashton whiz-bang bullshit that has no performance back-up.”

  Ingram exhaled and couldn’t help but reflect that it was a whiz-bang Jap dive-bomber that planted a bomb in the Howell’s after engine room, blowing her in half. But then, he considered, VT fuse or not, that bomb would have found its way to the engine room, anyway. The Val had come from another direction and they just weren’t ready. With no firing solution, he couldn’t blame Landa, or fuses, or anyone else. More properly, he should have blamed himself for not being vigilant. In a way, the men being trapped in the after section was his fault, not Landa’s. His shoulders slumped and he looked up, watery eyed. “I still think about Edgerton, hot lips, whatever the hell we called him. All those guys back there, screaming. All the time, I dream. All the time, I---“

  “---Todd, damnit.”

  “No, you, damnit,” he fairly yelled. “You don’t know what it’s like. You snapped out of it because you’re strong. You’re so damned strong you’ve muscles in your shit!” He stood and pointed. “You’re not like me. It doesn’t bother you. ItBA

  “---Shut up!”

  Ingram sat, too tired to carry on.

  “It still rips me up,” Landa said, looking in the distance. “But bitching about it doesn’t help. Yes, I am like you. I dream. But don’t forget what we once agreed to.”

  “What?”

  “Let the dead bury the dead.”

  Ingram leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands. Quietly, he said, “I almost jumped overboard the other night. If it hadn’t been for Seltzer, I would have.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Scared the hell out of me.” Ingram told him about De Reuter’s red-hot magazine bulkhead stunt.

  “Roland’s still pulling that gag? Don’t worry, you wouldn’t have jumped.”

  “But I tried.”

  Landa picked up his B-4 bag and yawned. “Todd. Sometimes you really are a horse’s ass.”

  “What?”

  “If you really wanted to jump, you would have jumped, Leo Seltzer or not. Did you crap your pants?”

  “No.” Another phrase hit Ingram: Hemingway. “Don’t look forward or back. Stay in neutral. Live for now and the time of your next meal. “

  “So how did you do?”

  “Roland recommended me for command. They’re giving me a ship.”

  Landa stuck out his hand. “That’s swell, Todd. Congratulations. Which one?”

  “Pence. Just about finished an overhaul in Melbourne. She’ll be headed for Tulagi, soon. I’ll be working for Rocko.”

  “Ralph Druckman’s ship?”

  “I think that’s right.”

  “You lucky bastard, She’s newer than the Howell. And Druckman’s a hell of a skipper. You’ll have a great crew.”

  Ingram gave a thin smile.

  “We’ll have to celebrate.” Landa looked at his watch and r
ubbed his eyes. “Tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Then it dawned on Ingram, “What’s going on with the Howell? Can you really salvage her?”

  “We’ve got Halsey sold. Now we’re waiting for an ATF to haul her off the beach. In the meantime, there’s something I have to do here.”

  “Yes?”

  “I should go see Luther’s widow. Laura? Was that her name?”

  “Yes. But I wrote her a letter. I should be the one to go.”

  “No. He was one of my officers. I’ll do it.” He pulled out a rumpled piece of paper. “...NBC Studios in Hollywood. Woopie.”

  “Maybe you’ll get discovered.”

  “Just my luck.” Landa walked toward the guest bedroom. He stopped and said, “Your next door neighbor, Mrs. Peabody?”

  Ingram yawned. “What a firecracker, huh?”

  “Except she said I was the man from last Thursday night?”

  “Yes?”

  “Not me, buddy. Last Thursday night, I was in Brooklyn.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  29 March, 1943

  Hollywood, California

  A soft spring rain had washed the city clean, and now it sparkled under a golden sun and rich blue skies. The trolley car merrily rattling down Hollywood Boulevard was jammed full of grinning soldiers, Sailors and Marines. Jerry Landa was lucky to have a seat. But he was uncomfortable in his dress blues, as the late morning grew warmer and warmer. It had been an arduous, two hour trolley car ride up from San Pedro, including a thirty minute wait in the downtown Pacific Electric terminal; but finally, he’d made it here and was anxious to get off. He stood, and his seat was instantly occupied by an Army Private who had trouble smoking a cigarette and chewing gum at the same time, a boy really. He joined his buddies at a window and they leaned out, waving at a pair of young girls sauntering down the sidewalk, their skirts billowing in a light breeze.

  They whistled and howled. The cigarette-smoking, gum-chewing Private yelled, “Hi ya, toots.”

  The girls accepted it all nonchalantly, smiling and waving back.

  The trolley picked up speed and swayed, its bell clanging mightily. Landa reached up and grabbed an overhead strap. God love those kids. Looks like their first time on liberty. Have a good one boys, for in a couple of months, you’re going to be men, and you’re not going to quite understand why. Worse. Some of you won’t be coming back.

  Landa caught himself. Stop it. That’s not why you’re here.

  Two blocks later, the conductor shouted “Vine Street.” The trolley slowed, then lurched to a stop. Landa jostled his way out with about twenty other servicemen and walked south. Two blocks later, he stood before his destination. A two story art deco building, it was the West Coast headquarters of NBC studios. Landa walked up the main steps and wove his way past a long line of people that ended at a theater window with a sign reading: RADIO SHOW TICKETS. He pushed through a pair of heavy glass doors, his heels clicking on the glossy black tile of a vast lobby. The only furniture was an empty large desk sitting before a bank of heavy plate glass windows. On the other side, stood an impressive array of floor to ceiling radio-transmitting equipment. Inside, men wearing white lab coats paced before the machines with clipboards, peering at gauges and taking readings.

  Someone walked up behind him, “May I help you?”

  Landa turned to find a balding uniformed guard with deep crevices in his face. A name tag read: JENKINS.

  “Er, yes, I’m trying to find the NBC symphony orchestra.”

  “What in the world for?” Jenkins gave a dry smile and looked Landa up and down.

  Landa removed his cap and said, “Well...er Dutton. Laura Dutton. I’m here to see her.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir. There’s no Laura Dutton here. Now if you don’t mind stepping---“

  “---West. I forgot. You probably know her as Laura West. That’s who I’m here to see.”

  Jenkins looked at Landa as he were a Nazi spy. “I’m sorry, Sir. The orchestra is in rehearsal and in any case, we can’t allow any one back there to---“

  Landa produced his best gleaming grin. “Hold on, Pal. I’m not here for autographs. Laura is married to a shipmate of mine. Actually, a guy in my crew.” And then his face turned somber. “The guy was killed, and I’m here to pay my respects.”

  “Oh.” Then he rubbed his chin. “Well, you should try her at home.”

  “I don’t have the address. Everything is so private here in Hollywood, you know.” Actually that wasn’t quite the truth. Landa had tried many times to call Laura West, but the line was always busy.

  “But if her husband lived with her...”

  “This is where she works. Their real home is---was in Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “Well...”

  “Look, Pal. I’ve got a ship to catch and a war to fight. All I want to do is give her my best wishes on behalf of the Howell’s crew and see if there is anything I can do for her.”

  “Very well. Wait here.”

  “Thanks. Just tell her the Howell’s Captain, Jerry Landa, is out here.” The guard walked off and Landa strolled back to the plate glass to watch the radio engineers.

  Three minutes later, Jenkins was back accompanied by another guard. “He said, “I’m sorry, Sir. The orchestra is in rehearsal and no one is permitted in or out. Now if you don’t mind, please step outside. Perhaps you’d like a ticket to the Red Skelton show; the line just opened.” Jenkins waved a palm at the front door and reached for Landa’s elbow.

  Landa said, “Hold on. I didn’t come all the way up here just to take a load from two 4-F flunkies who can’t even wipe their noses.”

  “You heard the man, Mac.” The other guard stepped up and curled a lip.

  “One moment, please.”

  It was a slender middle age woman with blond-silver hair pulled back into a bun. What amazed Landa was that she was over six feet. With grey-blue eyes, Landa figured she must have been a knock-out when she was young. She asked, “Is this man right? Were you Luther’s commanding officer?”

  Keeping his eye on the guards, Landa said, “Yes, ‘mam.’“

  “What ship?” she asked.

  “Howell.”

  “I’m Roberta Thatcher. Please come with me.”

  “But Mrs. Thatcher. This guy doesn’t---“ said Jenkins.

  Roberta Thatcher spun and faced the guard. Actually, she looked down at him. “He’s coming with me, Jenkins.”

  “Okay, okay. But don’t blame me if...”

  “If what?” she asked.

  Jenkins shrugged and walked away. Soon, the other guard followed.

  Roberta Thatcher turned and walked through a double door and into a rabbit-warren of wide corridors, vestibules and stairwells. She took a flight of stairs and walked toward the rear of the building, her heels clicking on the linoleum. Turning this way and that, Landa lost track of where they were. Mercifully, they drew up at a door simply marked: REHEARSAL 246.

  Across the way, a door opened and a stout man with a thin moustache walked out. Landa recognized Xavier Cugat, who looked him up and down, smiled, and walked down the hall.

  “Ahem.” It was Roberta Thatcher.

  “Yes?”

  “There is a problem.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. West, er, Dutton is taking her husband’s death rather hard.”

  Landa said dryly, “Well, she hasn’t had a lot of practice.”

  Instantly, Mrs. Thatcher drew up to her full height and inhaled deeply.

  “I’m sorry. That was below the belt.” Landa really did regret saying what he did and wished he could take it back.

  For the first time, her face softened. “I know. It must be terrible out there. You’re very kind to stop by.” She reached down and opened a door. “Go on inside. You’ll see what I mean. I hope you can help her.” She pushed the door a little wider and piano music drifted out.

  “What?”

  “Please. Go on in. And when you’re ready, I’ll get you a pass to the art
ist’s cafeteria for lunch. If Mr. Cugat is still there, he might give you his autograph.”

  “Well, thanks.” Landa walked in and the door was closed behind him. It was a large room, perhaps twenty by thirty. And dark. Only one floor lamp illuminated the ceiling. A few folding chairs and music racks were scattered about. In the far corner stood a gleaming black concert piano. An open window gave on to what Landa guessed was an alley. Outside, Landa could see the HOLLYWOODLAND sign in the hills greened by the recent rains. A woman was silhouetted before the window, playing something classical he realized. He felt at a loss, as the only music he knew anything about was Spike Jones.

  Stepping closer, he found her hair was an uncombed sandy brown which jutted in every direction. In fact, it looked unwashed and ratted. Clear rimless glasses were fixed on her nose and she played with her eyes closed so he couldn’t tell the color.

  A half empty bottle of scotch sat on the piano. Beside that was a tumbler with about two fingers-worth. It’s odor drifted about the room; the unbridled smell of the cheap stuff.

  She was mashing her music, Landa could tell. On occasion, her finger often jabbed two keys at the same time. Once in a while she would stop and redo the passage and it would sound beautiful. The rest of the time, she went back to mashing it.

  Landa slowly removed his cap, tucked it under his arm and stepped close. In spite of her hair, Luther’s wife was...beautiful. Nobody had told him but, he mused, why should they? And she was good on the pianoBhe could see it was a SteinwayBwhen she put her mind to it.

  Open your eyes, Laura.

  She did, and they found him at once. Immediately, her playing became precise, beautiful, very professional, like many artists who made it look ridiculously easy.

  She put her hand to her mouth and gave a petit belch.

  Landa smiled.

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Who? Me?” Landa made a show of looking around.