Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

The debate assumed major proportions in his mind. He was an officer of the United States Navy, he reminded himself, and his conduct should become an officer of the United States Navy, but the thigh persistently winked at him in the reflection. The girl had put down her magazine now, and he caught a glimpse of the title. One of the romance magazines, and that too weighed heavily in the young lady’s favor. She sucked in a deep breath that threatened the strength of her upper garments, and Masters was almost ready to rise and make the young lady’s acquaintance when he thought of Jean Dvorak. At the same time, one of the radarmen walked down the aisle and plopped into the vacant seat beside Masters, so that he never really knew whether it was the radarman or Jean Dvorak who prevented him from getting to meet and perhaps know the redhead with the extroverted thigh.

“Hello, Mr. Masters,” the radarman said.

“Hello,” Masters answered. He did not turn his head. If a redhead could not budge him from the dubious comfort he had at last achieved, a radarman certainly wasn’t going to turn the trick.

“Mind if I sit here?” the radarman asked.

“Go right ahead,” Masters said.

The radarman, who was already sitting anyway, made himself comfortable. “Ah, this is nice,” he murmured.

Masters wondered about his sanity, until he realized the radarman was sitting directly opposite the redhead, without the slightly smudged hindrance of a reflection in the window.

“Ain’t it, sir?” the radarman said.

“The ride, or the scenery?” Masters asked.

“Oh, both, sir. Both.”

Masters grunted, not moving his head.

“Very nice,” the radarman said, apparently very comfortable in the seat now, apparently planning to spend the night there, or perhaps the rest of the month, or even the rest of his life. “When you think we’ll be there, sir?”

“Early in the morning,” Masters said.

“Think we’ll get liberty?”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t see your face,” Masters said, “and I don’t want to turn.”

The radarman looked at him curiously, wondering if the Lieutenant were sick or something.

“Who are you?” Masters asked.

“Me?” the radarman asked back.

“Yes.”

“Oh. I’m Caldroni. Hey, don’t you know me? Sir?”

“Yes, Caldroni. I know you very well.”

“For a minute there—”

“Where are the other men?”

“Oh, all in this car.”

“Good.”

“Yes, sir.” Caldroni was silent for a long while. “Sir?” he whispered at length.

“Mmm?”

“She’s something, ain’t she, sir?” he whispered.

“The redhead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, she’s something.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but is there anything outside that window that is important to our mission, sir? What I mean to say, sir, is that if you are concerned with duty, I can understand your interest. But if you are not, sir, then may I suggest—”

“I am concerned with comfort, Caldroni,” Masters said. “To be sure, sir. Aren’t we all?” His voice dropped to a whisper again. “This one is built for comfort, sir.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Yes, sir.” Caldroni glanced at the redhead again. “Sir, have you ever been to Atlantic City?”

“No,” Masters said.

“A very nice place, I understand. One of the fellows lives in Jersey. He says Atlantic City is real gone.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Yes, sir. You think there won’t be no liberty at all, sir? None at all?”

‘“We’ll see,” Masters said. He paused. “Did the others send you, Caldroni?”

“The others? What others, sir?”

“The men in the radar gang.”

“Oh, no, sir. Send me where, sir?”

“Send you here. To find out if there’d be liberty in Atlantic City or not.”

“Oh, no, sir. Nosir, sir. Why, whatever put that idea into your head, Mr. Masters?”

“Just an idle thought, Caldroni. Well there may be liberty, we’ll see.”

“That’s very good, sir.”

“And now I suppose you’ll be leaving my company?”

“Well, sir, if you don’t mind — that is, I rather like this seat, you know?” Caldroni looked at the redhead again and wet his lips.

“I see,” Masters paused. “Liberty is a funny word, isn’t it? It implies imprisonment.”

“Sir?”

Masters shrugged. “Another idle thought,” he said. “Forget it.” He paused again. “What do you do on liberty, Caldroni?”

“Prowl,” Caldroni said, smiling.

“Do all the men prowl?”

“Most of ’em, I guess. Unless they’re dead. Or married.”

Daniels, Masters thought. Perry Daniels. Married.

“Not many married men in our crew, are there Caldroni?”

“No, not many,” Caldroni agreed. “A few, though.”

“Do you know Perry Daniels?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“Very well, sir. I had a personal interest in Daniels at one time. A sort of a professional interest, so to speak. What about him, sir?”

“Is he married?”

“Daniels?” Caldroni chuckled. “Hell, no, sir, you’ll pardon me.”

Masters turned his head, forsaking the comfort he’d attained. “How do you know, Caldroni?”

“Well, it’s just a fact, that’s all. Daniels ain’t married. I mean, you’ll forgive me, sir, I think he’s a regular ladies’ man, you know what I mean?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, when you get aboard a ship, you don’t know nobody from a hole in the wall, you know what I mean? A hole in the bulkhead, of course.” Caldroni seemed embarrassed by his nonnautical slip.

“Yes, go on.”

“So you start putting out feelers, you know? First you find out which of the officers is O.K., and which of them stinks. Present company excluded, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“A chicken officer can make things tough for you, Mr. Masters, and I ain’t casting no aspersions, but the Sykes sure got its quota of chicken officers. Present company excluded, naturally.”

“Naturally. Go on.”

“So you learn which officers you can live with, and which officers you wished was dead, and you avoid the ones you can’t get along with. You see them strolling down the deck, you cut into a passageway, you follow? In a ship’s politics, you got to know which politicians can do the most for you. It’s like making a choice — you belong to either the Republican Club or the Democratic Club. O.K., so it’s the officers first, because they’re most important in making your life comfortable. Then you start looking around and figuring which of the enlisted men you want to buddy with.”

“I see.”

“We’re lucky ’cause the radar gang is a nice bunch of guys. But like I said, that’s lucky. They could’ve been a bunch of lemons, and then I’d have been up the creek without a paddle. I didn’t take no chances, anyway. When I come aboard, I started making my own private inquiries.”

“What’s all this got to do with Perry Daniels?”

“Well, sir, you got to choose who you want on liberty, you follow? You don’t want a slob, and you don’t want a guy’s too eager, and at the same time you don’t want some jerk doesn’t know how to part his hair right, you see? If you’re going to prowl, you got to choose a good prowling mate. Now, Singer is just about the best prowling mate a buddy could have. Now, he really knows how to approach a girl. You can put Singer ashore in any town in the world, and I can guarantee—”

“But what about Daniels?”

“Daniels? He’s got a rep. He makes out. So naturally, I wanted to latch onto him. But he operates solo.”

“How’d you find that out?”