Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“That’s just what I mean,” Glenburne said, stabbing the air with his forefinger. “Just that kind of talk. Now give a listen here, Chuck. Schaefer killed that nurse. Now you just remember that. Schaefer killed her, and then he committed suicide when the going got too rough. Those are the facts as recorded, and those are the facts as I want them to be.”

“You mean you have your doubts, too?”

“No, I haven’t any doubts. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is good enough for me. If they say Schaefer did it, he did it. I’m satisfied. Do you get what I’m driving at?”

“I think so.”

“All right. I don’t want the ashes sifted again. I don’t want this damned business repeated. The Squadron Commander has finally cooled down, invited me to a party next week, in fact. If he starts hearing talk about the case being closed when it should be open... well, I just don’t want him to hear that kind of talk.”

“Even if it’s true, sir?” Masters asked.

“Goddamnit, Masters, it is not true! Schaefer killed that nurse!”

“I wish I could believe that, sir.”

“You’d goddamn well better start believing it, Masters, and damned soon.” Glenburne paused, gaining control of himself. “Maybe this Atlantic City trip will clear your head.”

“Maybe, sir.”

“You’re going to be damned busy, Chuck, I told you that. You’re not going to have time to run around playing detective.”

“No, sir.”

“So put all of this nonsense out of your mind.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try, sir.”

“Never mind trying, just see that you do, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Understand, Chuck...” Glenburne paused.

“Sir?”

“Understand that in my mind absolute justice has been done.”

“I understand, sir.”

Glenburne studied his fingertips. “This... ah, ashore. You said you wanted to go ashore for a minute. Is it important?”

“Fairly so, sir.”

“A girl?”

Masters hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

“I see.” Glenburne cleared his throat. “Perhaps... perhaps a little diversion is what you need. I mean, to take your mind off this... other business.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“Had you planned on seeing this girl?”

“Yes, sir, I had hoped to. Before your announcement, of course.”

“Of course, your full complement probably won’t arrive at Brigantine until tomorrow sometime.”

“Oh, is that right, sir?”

“Yes. I thought it might be advisable for you to get there first — you know, sort of get acquainted for the setup.” Glenburne considered for a moment. “But if this girl will take your mind off the dead nurse...” He paused. “Do you think she might, Chuck?”

Masters smiled at the blackmail attempt. “She might sir.”

“Then why don’t we postpone the trip until first thing in the morning? Give the office a little time to get the necessary papers for you and your men, anyway. No sense rushing them, they’ve been pretty jammed, what with the promotions business, and now the leave schedule. How about that, Chuck? Give you a chance to see this girl of yours.”

“I’d like that, sir,” Masters said. “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Glenburne said. “You just need a little relaxation, that’s all.” He smiled fraternally. “Little relaxation never hurt anyone, eh, Chuck?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s why I always see to it that my men get sufficient leave. A good policy, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

The two men were silent for a moment. “Well, there’s nothing else on my mind, Chuck,” Glenburne said at last.

Masters rose. “Thank you again, sir,” he said, starting for the door. When his hand was on the doorknob, Glenburne said, “And Chuck?”

“Yes, sir?”

Glenburne smiled. “Enjoy yourself, boy.”

The leave schedule and the promotions list were posted side by side on the bulletin board amidships.

He studied them both very carefully, and then shoved his way through the knot of men crowding the passageway. When he reached the rail, he tossed his cigarette butt over the side.

He walked toward the fantail, and when one of the men greeted him in passing he did not answer. His mouth was a hard line across his face, and his brows were tightly knotted.

So that’s the way it is, he thought. That’s the way it’s going to be.

He was angry, and the anger showed in his face and in the purposeful strides he took. When he reached the fantail, he sat on one of the depth-charge racks and lighted another cigarette.

Dry dock, he thought. Dry dock while they rip out the goddamn guts of the ship. That’s great, just great.

He thought again of the names he’d seen posted on the bulletin board. The thought angered him once more, and he viciously flipped the barely smoked cigarette away.

He was sitting near the fantail, but he did not think of the man he’d thrown overboard so short a time ago. He thought only of his own personal anger, and of officers shoving enlisted men around, and his thoughts made him angrier.

He shoved his hat onto the back of his head, stood abruptly, and headed for the quarter-deck. He’d show them, by Christ! Do that to a man, and you get beans in return. Beans, and cold. He’d show them.

Besides, it was time enough. It was time enough now, and even Masters would be up to his neck with all this conversion. They wouldn’t suspect now, and those names on the bulletin board were all he needed to prompt him to action.

He stepped into the passageway amidships and then through the hatch just outside sick bay. The hatch to sick bay was open, and he saw Connerly, one of the pharmacist’s mates, inside reading a comic book.

“You open for business?” he asked.

Connerly looked up. He was a young boy with a wild spatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had bright green eyes, and he widened them now and said, “Jesus, you again?”

“I don’t feel good,” he answered.

“You never do,” Connerly said. “You spend more time in the hospital than the medics do.”

“If you chancre mechanics did it right the first time,” he cracked, “I wouldn’t be coming back so often.”

“Yeah, yeah. What is it now?” Connerly stood and dumped the comic book onto one of the racks. “You get a dose or something?”

“Don’t get smart, Connerly. I think I’ve got a fever.”

“Well, we’ll find out,” Connerly said wearily. He took a thermometer from where it stood in a jar of alcohol. He wiped the bulb clean with a wad of absorbent cotton.

“You see the lists they posted?”

“What lists?” Connerly asked.

“Amidships. Leave and promotions. Both. Maybe you hit the jackpot, boy.”

“No joke? You’re not snowing me?”

“No joke,” he said. “Go take a look.”

“Sure. Here, boy, stick this in your mouth. Three minutes. I’ll be back before then. Leaves and promotions, huh? Man!”

Connerly handed him the thermometer and then left the compartment. He waited until Connerly was well out of sight and then he held the thermometer in the palm of his hand and watched the rising silver line of mercury. He took the book of matches from his shirt pocket then, struck one, and held it beneath the bulb of the thermometer. He let the mercury go up to 103 degrees, and then blew out the match. It would probably go down some before Connerly came back. Maybe he should have brought it up to 104. Hell, no. A man’s probably dead at 104.

He allowed the bulb to cool slightly, and then put the thermometer back into his mouth. He had it there for thirty seconds when Connerly burst into the compartment.

“Christ, mate!” he said in delight. “I hit second class! And I’m up for leave in two weeks. Brother, how’s that?”