Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

All right, his wife doesn’t live in Wilmington.

All right, let’s take it from there.

Let’s take an affair with Claire Cole, let’s take that if it agrees with you, Masters. It agrees with me, so let’s take it Does anyone know about the affair? Well, no, no one knows about it. Then why the hell lie about Wilmington?

And why lie about being married?

Hell, did anyone aboard ship know that Daniels was married? Whoever sent the allotment check each month, naturally. Dave Berson, lieutenant j.g. He sends the allotment checks. He knows Daniels is married. But do any of the enlisted men know? Do any of Daniels’ neighbors — so to speak — know about it?

Hell, what had Daniels said? He preferred to lone-wolf it when he was ashore. Well, that figured. If a married man were going to play around, he didn’t want every guy on the ship to know about it.

That still left the Wilmington lie unexplained. Unless you drew the obvious conclusion, and that conclusion was a rendezvous with Claire Cole, an incriminating rendezvous that would point the finger right at Daniels.

Had Claire Cole mentioned anything about a married man? Had she mentioned it to Jean? If only she’d said something about it, just dropped something, something that could be interpreted...

Well, if he’d needed any excuse for calling Jean, this was it. Damnit, but Daniels was the sly bastard, wasn’t he? Well, sure, it figured. And it provided a possible motive, too. Maybe she threatened to tell the wife all about it. Now, wait a minute, don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe she didn’t threaten a damned thing. Maybe he didn’t like the way she was wearing her lipstick that day. Or maybe she said something that offended him. Remember that she was an officer and he was an enlisted man, and that could have had something to do with it. If Daniels were the man.

And if Daniels weren’t the man, why had he lied?

It was worth checking on. It was worth checking on damned fast. He put the folder back into the file, and then left the Ship’s Office. Let Daniels worry about the property. That was his headache.

Masters cut through the midships passageway and was heading for the gangway when the squawk box erupted.

“Now hear this. Now hear this. Will all officers report to the wardroom immediately, please? Will all officers report to the wardroom immediately, please?”

Masters snapped his fingers and walked over to Donnelly, who was standing the OD watch.

“What’s this all about, Jack?” he asked.

“Search me. The Old Man called it down a few minutes ago. Said to announce it right away.”

“Damnit,” Masters said.

“You better get up there. His voice held what I laughingly call an urgent undertone.”

“His voice always holds an urgent undertone. God damnit.”

He looked longingly at the gangway. Well, he could call Jean later. He shook his head and walked rapidly to the wardroom, entering without knocking.

Some of the officers were already there, and Masters sidled over to Reynolds and asked, “What’s up, Mike?”

“Search me. Probably a cleanliness drive or some damn thing.”

“Be just like him,” Masters said.

“Listen.” Reynolds told him, “you’ve never had a command. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You’ve been in charge of the Atlantic Fleet for years,” Masters said, smiling.

“Oh, go to hell,” Reynolds answered.

They waited around until everyone had shown up, and then the door opened to admit Commander Glenburne. His eyes were very serious. He wore gray trousers and shirt, with the shirt open at the throat, the silver maple leaves gleaming on his collar.

“At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Please be seated.”

They took their places at the table, with the Captain at the head of it. He remained standing, and he placed one hand on the table, the knuckles flat.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll make this short. We’re being turned into a picket ship.”

Masters looked up suddenly.

“That’s what I said, gentlemen, a picket ship. Some of you may not be familiar with the term, so I’ll explain it further. A picket ship scouts ahead of the task force, anywhere from ten to seventy-five miles out. It forms an airtight screen through the use of radar. We’re also using picket ships up in the arctic, to supplement our land-based radar screen there. That’s it.”

The men remained silent Glenburne cleared his throat and leaned over the table.

“What does it mean to us? It means our torpedo tubes will be ripped out and replaced by a tripod mast and antenna for altitude-finding radar. It means we’ll get jamming gear aboard, probably in the compartment alongside Ship’s Service. It means our radarman, radio-technician, and communications-officer complements will practically double in the next few weeks.” He looked at Masters. “It means you’ll be damned busy from now on, Chuck.”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said, nodding.

“All right,” the Old Man said. “We move into dry dock at eleven hundred today. Work will begin on the ship then. I think this’ll be a good time to grant leave to the men, so let’s start the ball rolling. Division heads will turn in their leave schedules by fifteen hundred this afternoon. No radarmen on that list of yours, Masters.”

Masters frowned. “Why not, sir? I mean...”

“I’ll explain it to you when the others are gone. I don’t want to take up their time now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll get under way at ten hundred. You’ll set the watches, Mike.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?” He waited. “All right, then. You’d better get started. If you’ll stay, Chuck, we’ll go into this further.”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said. He remained seated until the other officers cleared the wardroom. Glenburne took out a package of cigarettes and offered one to Masters. Masters took it and lighted it.

“All right, Chuck, this is it. Our new radarmen. Sugar Peter boys mostly, and some men who’ve had jamming schooling, are already on their way to Brigantine, New Jersey.”

“Where, sir?”

“Brigantine. It’s a small island off Atlantic City. The Navy operates a specialized radar training school there. This change means special tactics, Chuck, for both officers and men.”

“I see, sir.”

“The new men are with the new communications officers. You’re to meet them there, at the school.”

“When, sir?” Masters asked.

“You’re shoving off as soon as the office can make out your papers. That shouldn’t take more than a half hour. That’s why I want no radarmen on your leave schedule. They’re all going with you.”

“The men won’t like it,” Masters said.

“Tough,” the Old Man said curtly. “You’d better get started with your packing, Chuck.”

“I’d wanted to go ashore for a minute, sir. I thought—”

“That’ll have to wait. I’m afraid.”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said. “Will that be all?”

“One other thing, Chuck.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“About the dead nurse,” Glenburne said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a good officer, Chuck, one of my best. When it comes time for a fitness report, you can be certain you’ll get a good one from me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Masters said.

“I’ve heard talk I don’t like, Chuck. About the nurse. And about you.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Maybe it’s just scuttlebutt. If it is, all right, we’ll just forget it. If it isn’t — well, I thought I should tell you I don’t like it. The situation has been cleared up, Chuck. Everybody is finally off my ass, and I want it to stay that way.”

“Even if the wrong man—”