Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“Miss Dvorak,” he said. “Jean Dvorak.”

She seemed flustered, and he hoped to hell she wouldn’t blush. Only roses should blush, not women. “Hello, Mr. Masters,” she said.

“Chuck,” he reminded her. “May I sit down?”

“Well...”

She hesitated and looked around the room, and he quickly asked, “Or are you with someone?”

She bit her lower lip. “Well, I was. But she seems to have disappeared or something.”

Masters sat down. “She?” he asked.

“Yes. She.”

He grinned, and Jean Dvorak grinned back, and her face opened again, and he knew he’d never get over what a smile could do for her.

“You should smile more often,” he said.

“Really? Why?”

He nodded his head. “That was the proper answer. When a gentleman gives a cue for a compliment, the lady should always supply the proper answer. That was the proper answer.”

Jean blushed, and he felt instantly sorry for what he’d said. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I had no intention of being coy.”

“Nor I of being a cavalier. You should smile more often because you’re quite beautiful when you do.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Not at all. What are you drinking?”

She looked down at her drink as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, I really don’t know,” she said, seemingly flustered again. “Mary ordered it for me. She’s the one who was—”

“Mary!” He opened his eyes wide, and then the laugh bubbled from his mouth. “Mary! Oh, God, no. Oh, God, that can’t be true. Mary! Well, no wonder she’s lost.”

Jean looked bewildered. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“A private gag,” Masters said. “Forgive me, it was rude.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“No, really. I’m very sorry. It was a personal joke, and a somewhat low one, at that.”

“That’s all right.”

“And I’m forgiven?”

“Really, there’s no need for—”

“Say I’m forgiven. Please do.”

She smiled, and he unconsciously smiled back. “You’re forgiven.”

“Good. Excellent. I feel much better.”

“I’d say you were feeling pretty good to begin with.”

“Scotch,” he said. “The cure-all. I’m drowning my sorrows.”

“Your sorrows?”

“The postsuicide blues.”

“Oh. That boy on your ship.”

“Yes.”

“I saw it in the base newspaper. It was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“More so than you think.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The wrong man, sweetheart. The wrong man.”

She wrinkled her forehead, and he said, “Please don’t do that.”

“What?” she asked.

“Your forehead, the wrinkles. They’ll stay that way.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. What did you mean about the wrong man?”

“Forget it. It’s all part of the postsuicide blues.” He looked at her and said, “You’re doing it again. You’ll be sorry when you’re forty.”

“You mean you think he’s not the one who murdered Claire?”

“Ah. Yes, that’s what I think. Or that’s what I think I think. Listen, do we have to stay here? Don’t all these commanders and captains and assorted brass give you the willies?”

“Well...”

“I know. Don’t say it. You’re waiting for Mr. Right. I saw it on your face that day I asked you for dinner. O.K., apologies extended. I’ll fold my Scotch like the Arabs and silently steal away.”

She giggled suddenly, and then covered her mouth. “You’re really quite amusing when you’re... when you’re this way, you know. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“Honey,” he said, “your laugh outdistances your smile.” He frowned. “That’s a hard word to say, the way I feel. Outdistances. Which is what I shall do right now. Thanks for the use of your table, Miss Dvorak.”

He stood, and she put her hand on his sleeve.

“No, don’t go,” she said. “It’s all right.”

He stared down at her. “What’s all right?”

“I mean...”

“You mean you’ll come with me? We’ll leave all these stripe-happy bastards, pardon me, behind and seek some fresh air that doesn’t stink of the Navy?”

She giggled again. “Well, I wasn’t going to put it exactly that way.”

“Ma’am,” he said, “miss, Jean, there’s only one way to put it. Only one way. Let’s get the hell out of here, but first let me say good-by to a remaining third of the triumvirate.”

“My heavens, who’s that?”

“He poses now as Bacchus, but he may really be Morpheus.”

“Morpheus?”

“The guy who puts people to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

He staggered across the room and stopped in front of the bar.

“Hey, Jones,” he said. “Hey, Jones, you bastard, c’mere.”

Jones moved over to Masters warily. “Yes, sir?”

“Don’t ‘yes’ me, and don’t ‘sir’ me. Just remember this, you bastard. I’ll be watching you. I got nothing to do on that goddamned ship, anyway, so I’ll be watching you. With all my eyes, Jones. Every one of them. I’ll be watching you and that other sonafabitch, and God help either of you the first time you step out of line. Just remember that.”

Jones eyed Masters levelly. “Why’ve you got the knife in me, sir?” he asked.

“Hah!” Masters snorted. He turned and reeled across the room, taking Jean’s arm and leading her to the door.

“I warned him,” he said. “I warned the bastard. Now I’ll watch him. Him and Daniels. Come on, Jean, miss, ma’am. I got a jeep out here someplace.”

“Do you think you should drive? I mean...”

“No, I shouldn’t,” Masters said. “But I will anyway. Do you fear for your life?”

“No,” she said in a small voice.

“You do. You do, and it’s sweet of you to say you don’t. Come on, we’ll walk.” He paused. “I haven’t got a jeep, anyway. Where the hell would I get a jeep?”

They walked down the tree-lined streets of the base. The barracks were unlighted, and the trees cast large shadows on the brick walls.

“This is a beautiful base,” he said. “One of the prettiest.”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s a shame it’s in such a rat town. Rat towns shouldn’t have beautiful bases.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“My bit of philosophy for the day,” he said. “Where are we walking?”

“I don’t know. I’m following you.”

“Well, there are a variety of things available on this lovely base. We can wander around and look at the trees and the flowers. Would you like to do that?”

“If you want to.”

“Or we can stroll over to the air base and watch the Navy pilots make landings in the dark. That is apt to be dangerous.”

“Then let’s not do it.”

“You do not, I gather, appreciate danger.”

“Sometimes.”

“Fine. There then remains a magnificent ball field, complete with bleachers and tons of grass. The weather is uncommonly mild, and we can pretend there is a game in progress. What say?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“It is restricted,” he went on. “But methinks a mere enlisted man guards the portals. We can scare him away with all our assorted bars, Ensign Dvorak.”

“All right,” she said, and then she laughed softly and held his arm tighter. They walked in silence until the outline of the ball field loomed ahead. Standing near the gate was an enlisted man with a guard belt and a rifle.

Masters walked over and said, “You there! Snap to!”

The man leaped to attention. “Sorry, sir. I–I didn’t see you.”

“That’s a fine recommendation for a man on watch. I saw some Waves in their underwear trying to crawl under the fence at the far end of the field. Get over there and stop them.”