Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“Take it easy, Chuck. The case is closed.”

“I know.”

“There’s nothing more to be done.”

“I know.”

“Just relax, Chuck.”

“That’s just what I’m going to do. I’m going to the Club tonight, and I’m going to get stinking blind.”

It was very pleasant here, Masters thought.

I like the lighting, and I like the soft music, and I even like the background of muted voices. Most of all, I like the Scotch. You have to hand it to the Navy, they certainly know how to choose Scotch.

And Scotch is a miraculous cure-all, a medicine for the soul. He grinned and twirled the liquid in his glass, listening to the ice cubes clink against its side. It even tastes like medicine the first few times, he thought. Only the first few times. After that, you get used to it, and the bloody stuff has no taste any more, and that’s the highest recommendation you can give any medicine.

He wondered if there were Scotch aboard for medicinal purposes. No, brandy, it would be — and the pharmacist’s mates had probably consumed all that a long time ago. Pity the poor bastard who fell overboa...

Well, now, he thought, here we are back again. Like a merry-go-round, Lieutenant Masters. Around and around, and always back to that poor sonofabitch yeoman who got shoved off the fantail.

One of them did it, that was certain. Either Jones, the radarman, or Daniels, the other yeoman. That was for certain. Now, if this wasn’t the Navy, we would take both those bastards and beat them black and blue until one of them confessed. If this wasn’t the Navy. But this is the Navy, Lieutenant Masters. God, you should certainly know that.

Yes, I most certainly do know that. This is the Navy, and the case is closed, and we’re ready to start another case, Scotch this time. Don’t you ever want to become a lieutenant commander, Lieutenant Masters? If you do, drink up and forget Claire Cole, and forget Richard Schaefer, and go about your business. Drink up.

Eat, drink, and make Mary, for tomorrow...

Tomorrow. Oh, well, tomorrow. Where’s Mary now? That’s the important question before the big investigation board. Where’s Mary now?

He sipped a little more Scotch, aware of the fact that his head was becoming a little muddled and his thinking a bit unclear. He drained the glass and looked around the dimly lighted room and his mind echoed, Where’s Mary?

The hell with Mary, he thought. I don’t even know any Mary. It’s time for another Scotch. Scotty, that’s who I know. He got unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the bar. He plunked down his glass and said, “Scotch and water, please. And go easy on the ice cubes.”

“Yes, sir,” a voice answered.

Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full. One snoot full that’s all I need. Where the hell’s that Scotch?

“Hey!” he called.

“Coming sir.”

“Yeah, well, today, not sometime next year.”

“Here you are, sir. Scotch and water, easy on the ice.”

Easy on the eyes, indeed! Who’s the punster in our midst! Lowest form of animal life is a punster.

He lifted his face and looked at the man behind the bar, the man who held his drink extended.

“Well, now,” he said aloud.

“Sir?”

“Well, now, Mr. Jones. Mr. Radarman Third Class Jones. Well, now, what the hell are you doing serving me drinks?”

Jones smiled and put the tall glass down on the bartop. “You ordered a Scotch and water, sir,” he said. His eyes secretly amused, as if the sight of an officer three sheets to the wind pleased him.

“I know what I ordered, Jones. I know damn well what I ordered. Now tell me what you’re doing behind that bar, Jones. You standing radar watch at the Officers’ Club?”

“I swung the duty, sir.”

“I thought the duty was reserved for steward’s mates and such, Jones.”

Jones winked slyly. “Not if you know the right people, sir.”

“And you know the right people, huh? Who are these right people, Jones?”

“Connections, sir. A ship ain’t all spit and polish, you know.”

“Maybe I should know your connections, huh, Jones? Maybe I’d stop getting mid-watches, huh?”

Jones smiled again. “Maybe, sir.”

“Tell me, Jones. What’s so special about Club duty? How come you need connections to get it?”

Jones shrugged. “You know, sir.”

“No, I don’t know. I honestly do not know, so help me. Tell me, Jones.”

“Well, there’s liquor around, you know.”

“Ahhh, liquor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Am I to believe that you have been copping a nip now and then, Jones?”

“Did I say that, sir?” Jones was grinning broadly at him now.

“No, you did not. You very carefully did not say that. You’re a smart cookie, Jones.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A very smart cookie. You and the other one, only one is smarter than both of you together. He’d have to be to do what he did and do it the way he did it He’s the real smart one. Are you the real smart one, Jones?”

“Sir?”

“You see, that’s very smart Pretend ignorance. Very smart. You’re smart, all right Jones.”

A Wave officer staggered to the bar and banged her glass down on the top. She was a redhead and she’d taken off her jacket and her blouse hung out of her skirt in the back.

“Hey, Jonesy,” she called. “Let’s have a little service.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jones said. He walked down the bar to the Wave, smiled, and took her glass. “The same, ma’am?”

“I’m a miss, not a ma’am,” the Wave complained.

“Yes, miss. The same?”

“The same, Jonesy.”

Well, Masters thought here’s Mary now. God, is that Mary?

Jones poured a whisky sour and brought it to the Wave, setting it down before her. The Wave took the drink, threw off half of it, and then leaned forward, her breasts pressing against the edge of the bar.

“You’re cute, you know, Jonesy?”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Miss, not ma’am. I’m a miss, Jonesy. Remember that.”

“I will, miss.”

“Good. You goddamn better well remember it, ’cause I outrank you in spades.”

“Yes, miss,” Jones said.

“In spades.” She nodded her head in accord with herself, swept the glass from the bar, and walked with drunken dignity back to her table in the corner.

Masters said, “Nice, huh, Jones?”

“Sir?”

“The broad.”

“Oh. Yes, sir, if you say so, sir.”

“Is that another reason Club duty is desirable, Jones?”

“The broads, you mean?” Jones shrugged. “Officers’ stuff, sir. Not for the lowly.”

“You sound bitter, Jones.”

“Me? Perish it, sir. I’m the world’s happiest.”

“Why?”

“I just am. Why be bitter. Things are tough all—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You want another drink, sir?”

“No. Thanks, Jones. I think I’ll see if I can’t find Mary.”

“Who, sir?”

“You wouldn’t know her, Jones. Officers’ stuff.”

He turned and put his elbows on the bar, and then began a methodical scrutiny of the room. The Wave with the whisky sour was sitting with a commander, so that was out; she sure as hell was not Mary, not for Masters, anyway. He kept turning his head in short jerks, scrutinizing the place the way he’d scan the horizon for an enemy ship. Perfect lookout procedure, he thought.

When he saw her, he didn’t recognize her at first. She was in dress uniform, and he remembered her in starched white. But he was glad to see her, and he was surprised she was sitting alone.

He lifted his glass and walked across the room, trying to maintain his sense of balance. She was toying with her drink, and she did not see him as he approached. When he reached her table, he cleared his throat.