Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“Cat fever, they said.”

The pharmacist’s mate shrugged. “You can change your clothes in the head, too. You got any valuables you want checked?”

“I’ll keep them with me, thanks.”

“That’s right. You don’t trust nobody.”

“Not even my mother, mate.”

“That’s a bad way to be, mate. I feel for you.”

He smiled and left the pharmacist’s mate. In the head, he put on the pajamas and then put his wallet into his ditty bag, in which he had packed his toilet articles and his stationery. When he came outside again, the pharmacist’s mate was leaning against the wall.

“This way,” he said. “You give me them clothes and I’ll have them checked for you. Ain’t no one going to steal your dungarees.”

“How long you been in the Navy, mate?”

“Why?”

“I’ve had everything from scivvy shorts to shoelaces stolen from me.”

“Well, this is a hospital. We take pity on the sick.”

“I know a guy who had a set of dress blues stolen from him while he was flat on his ass with pneumonia.”

“You got pneumonia?”

“No.”

“Then stop worrying. Here’s your bed.”

He looked through the doorway. “A private room?” he asked happily.

“Yeah. You really rate.”

“How come?”

“The ward is jammed. Besides, this room was just vacated.” The pharmacist’s mate paused. “The guy who had it suddenly dropped dead.”

“Oh.”

“Damn’est thing you ever saw,” the pharmacist’s mate continued. “Comes in with a simple thing, and all of a sudden drops dead.”

“What’d he come in with?”

“Cat fever,” the pharmacist’s mate said sourly. “Sleep tight, mate.”

He went into the room smiling. He had not expected a private room, and the unforseen windfall worked like a shot in the arm. He hung his ditty bag on the bedpost, taking his wallet from it and stuffing it between the pillow and the pillowcase. He tested the mattress with his palm, pleased with the soft comfort of it, pleased with the crisp white sheets. This was a far cry from the sack aboard ship. Ah, yes, there was nothing like hospital duty. Bull’s-eyes and toast tomorrow morning, orange juice. Ah, this was grand.

He pulled back the covers and climbed into bed.

He’d have to act sick in the beginning, of course. He’d really had cat fever once, and so he knew the symptoms he was supposed to show. It wouldn’t do to be suspected of malingering. He’d irritate his throat by chewing on some tobacco shreds, and this was as good a time as any to do that. He reached into his ditty bag, pulled out a package of cigarettes, and then broke one of the cigarettes open, aware of the fact that nicotine was a poison, but not planning on chewing that much of it. He put several shreds on his tongue, wincing when the bitterness filled his mouth. He forced them to the back of his throat, almost choking on them, and then he spat them onto the palm of his hand.

He began clearing his throat, purposely straining it, wanting red to show when the doctors examined him. He didn’t know how he’d raise his temperature again, but he’d figure something. A lighted cigarette in the ash tray, perhaps, and then some subterfuge to get the nurse out of the room. He’d work it. He’d worked it before, and there was no reason to think he couldn’t work it this time.

He was very pleased with the way things were going. He’d been spotted by Schaefer last time, but that was on a ward. He had a private room to himself this time, and that meant he’d be alone with whatever nurse they gave him. He had very rarely met any woman who hadn’t appealed to him in some way, and so be wasn’t anticipating a nurse he couldn’t stomach. Women were very funny that way. If they had ugly phizzes, they generally had good bodies and vice versa. Claire had been exceptional in that she was pretty and also owned a body like a brick— Well, there was no sense thinking about her any more. Besides, even if he did draw a dog, he could die for Old Glory. The punch line amused him. He sat in bed, smiling, anticipating his first encounter with whatever nurse they gave him.

He had to admit that he was very clever.

Oh, sure, there were sluts in Norfolk, Christ knew there were a million sluts in Norfolk, but the day he had to pay for it, that was the day he’d hand in his jock. And there were Waves on the base, too, but the Waves were always surrounded by enlisted men, and you had to fight off ten guys before you got near one.

Nurses were the ticket, all right. Sure, nurses were officers, and as such were strictly reserved for other officers. That was a stupid rule, all right, that nonfraternization thing. That’s a rule against human nature, by Jesus! What is a man supposed to do? Can a man help it if he’s got a normal human appetite? Hell, no, of course he can’t. But try to tell that to the brass, just try to explain that to them.

Well, he was very clever about it all. And he was sure enough of his charm to know that once he got to meet a girl, the rest was in the bag. Sometimes he figured his being an enlisted man was in his favor. There was something pretty exciting about doing something that was forbidden. Like a stolen apple tasting better, that kind of thing. The nurses could get all the officers they wanted, but he guessed there was something dull about that. This way, there was an element of danger involved, and any girl liked that element of danger.

“Hi,” a voice said from the doorway.

He looked up, seeing the pharmacist’s mate again.

“Hi,” he answered.

“Got a chart for you,” the pharmacist’s mate said. “How you feeling?”

“Lousy.”

“You don’t look so lousy.”

“No? What’s that got to do with the way I feel?”

“Nothing. I just don’t trust people. ’Specially people with cat fever.”

“You the doctor here?”

“Nope.”

“Then it ain’t your job to diagnose. Besides, I’m the distrustful guy, remember?”

“Sure. I remember.” The pharmacist’s mate went to the foot of the bed and clipped the fresh chart there. “You been here before, ain’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly.

“I thought I recognized you.”

“So?”

“So nothing. You’re a sickly type, I guess.”

“That’s right. I’m a sickly type.”

“Mmm,” the pharmacist’s mate said, nodding.

“When’s the doctor coming around?”

“You can relax,” the pharmacist said. “He’s made his last rounds for today. He won’t be around again till tomorrow morning. Not unless you’re dropping dead. Are you dropping dead?”

“No,” he answered.

“I didn’t figure. I heard you choking a while back, though, so I figured maybe you was ready to kick off. You want me to get the doc, I’ll be happy to do that for you.”

“I can wait until morning.”

The pharmacist’s mate smiled. “Don’t I know it,” he said.

“If you’re finished piddling around, I’d like to get some rest.”

“Sure,” the pharmacist’s mate said, smiling. “Got to let a sick man get his rest. Had to give you a chart, though, you understand that, don’t you? Can’t tell the sick ones from the fakers without a chart.”

“Are you looking for trouble, mate?” he asked suddenly.

“Me? Perish the thought.”

“Then get the hell off my back.”

“Sure.” He shook his head. “You sure talk tough for a sick man.”

“I’m not so sick that I can’t—”

“G’night, mate. Sleep tight.”

The pharmacist’s mate left the room, and he watched the broad back in the undress blues jumper turn outside the door and vanish. He cursed the bastard, and then leaned back against the pillow, wondering if the pecker checker would cause him any trouble. All he needed was a malingering charge against him. That would mean a captain’s mast, sure as hell. If not a deck court. Goddamnit, why’d people have to stick their noses into your business?