Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“By circulating, how you think? You drop a query here and a query there, you know how it works. You see the way the guy dresses, whether he’s got tailor-mades or the reg blues, whether he makes the most of his uniform in a good sailor town, or whether he wears civvies, things like that. I got to admit Daniels threw me at first. That crew cut, you know? I figured him for a boot. But he’s a smart cookie. That haircut gives him a nice boyish look, makes the broads want to clutch him to their bosoms, you’ll pardon me. He arouses — what would you call it — sympathy, I guess.”

“And he’s not married? You’re sure of that?”

“If he is, sir, he’s sure kept it a big secret.”

“Yes, he certainly has.”

“Now, maybe you’re confusing his liberty maneuvers with marriage, sir.”

“How do you mean, Caldroni?”

“Well, like I told you, this Daniels is good. He’s nothing like Singer, you understand, because Singer never misses, never, sir, and that’s the God’s truth. But Daniels ain’t bad, so maybe you’re confusing... Well, sir, it’s almost like being married, when you get right down to it, I guess.”

“What is, Caldroni?”

“You keep this under your hat, sir?”

“Certainty.”

“Daniels, he don’t confine his activities to the Norfolk theatre of operations, sir.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Newport News?”

“Oh, without saying, sir. But Daniels got more far-reaching operations in hand, sir.”

“How far-reaching?”

“Pretty far-reaching, sir. Leastwise, that’s what Schaefer, Lord rest his soul, told me.”

Masters sat rigidly at attention now. “Schaefer told you something about Perry Daniels?”

“Oh, yes, sir. ’Course, Schaefer turned out to be a killer and all, so maybe his word ain’t so good, Lord rest his soul. But he told me this long before he bumped off that nurse, so maybe it’s the truth. In fact, sir, I know part of it’s the truth, ’cause I done some checking on my own.” Caldroni paused. “Like I said, this is when I first come aboard, when I was still casting around for a prowlmate. Now, I got Singer, so I—”

“Never mind Singer, damnit! What’d Schaefer tell you? What’d you find out about Daniels?”

Caldroni’s eyes opened wide. “Well, sir, I got to talkin’ to Schaefer coupla times when I first come aboard. It don’t hurt to know somebody in the Ship’s Office. Never know when you’re going to need a new I.D. card or a liberty—”

“What’d Schaefer tell you?”

“He was the one first tipped me off Daniels was a big man with the broads.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said Daniels had a big network of steady shack-ups all over the country. Now, I don’t know about all over the country, but I know Daniels was operating outside Norfolk. I checked.”

“How?”

“Well, I figured this Daniels was a man to know, you know? So I begun watching the way he operated. Not in Norfolk, that boy. Oh, no. I followed him all the way to the train station once, just trying to find out where this boy had his deal. Asked the ticket guy after Daniels bought his ticket, Mr. Masters.”

“Where did he go?”

“Shrewd cookie, this boy. This was when I was interested in becoming partners, so to speak. When I found out he was a lone wolf, well, hell, there wasn’t no sense studyin’ his operation no more. That’s about when I run across Singer, right in the radar gang, right in my own backyard.”

“Where was Daniels going? The time you followed him to the railroad station?”

“Oh. Wilmington, sir.”

“Wilmington,” Masters repeated.

“Yeah, he’s got a nice little shack-up there, I’ll bet,” Caldroni said.

“Had,” Masters said, and Caldroni eyed him quizzically.

A tall radarman with his white cap tilted back on his head sauntered down the aisle and sat in the seat next to the redhead.

“My name’s Fred Singer,” he said, smiling. “What’s yours?”

It was early morning at N.O.B., Norfolk, Virginia.

The mist that had clung to the front lawns of the base, spreading down from the barracks to the wide, winding concrete streets, had risen slowly, like a specter being called back to the grave at dawn, leaving the brick and the concrete drenched with a wintry sunlight. The men on the base lined up for chow, or made their sacks, or brushed their teeth. The four-to-eight watch relieved, and on the ships tied up alongside the docks or moored in the bay the men lined up for muster.

In the hospital, a pharmacist’s mate named Greg Barter brought breakfast to the man in 107. He wheeled the food in on a cart, and he put the glass of orange juice, the steaming bowl of cereal, the soft-boiled eggs, the slices of toast, the glass of milk onto a tray methodically and then shifted the tray to his patient’s lap.

“Good morning, sir,” he said cheerily, imitating the manner and friendliness of a hotel bellhop. “Is everything all right this morning, sir?”

“Everything’s fine, thank you.”

“Fever coming along nicely?” Greg asked.

“Very nicely, thank you.”

“Does that mean it’s going down, or steady as she goes?”

He looked at Greg warily. There was something about this bastard, something that needed watching. It was just his luck to have a character like this one rung in on him. Greg’s eyebrows were raised in mild anticipation now, his face smug and wisely apprehensive.

“Steady as she goes, sir?” Greg asked.

“I think it’s going down some,” he answered.

“Ah, good, good. Nothing I like better than to see a man getting well. That’s our job, you know. That’s what all we poor hospital lackeys get paid for, isn’t it? We’re essentially pan handlers, but we like to see our dear little patients get on their feet again. Humanitarians, we are.”

“I’ll bet,” he said.

“Ah, but we are,” Greg answered. “Say, mate, would you like to hear an occupational joke? Sort of brighten up your morning, eh, speed you on the way to recovery?”

“If you like.” He drank the orange juice and looked over at Greg.

“Where’d you go through boots?” Greg asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“You don’t like answering questions, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, no matter,” Greg said. “I went to Great Lakes. You familiar with Section Eight?”

“Yes.”

“The nut-house unit, you know? Where they keep the psychos. Well, this story takes place in Section Eight. You listening?”

“I’m listening.” He put some salt on his eggs and picked up a spoon.

“Want to eat that cereal, mate,” Greg said kindly. “Give you your strength back.”

“My eggs’ll get cold.”

“Sure, but eat your cereal, anyway.”

He shrugged and picked up a tablespoon instead, digging into the cereal.

“Good, ain’t it?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, this story. It’s really a sort of a riddle. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“This pharmacist’s mate,” Greg said, “is making the rounds in Section Eight, carrying the pan around, you see.”

“Yeah?”

“So, what did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”

“I don’t know. What did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”

“Wanna peanut?”

“Huh?”

“Wanna peanut? Don’t you get it? He’s carrying around the pan, you see, and—”

“I get it,” he said.

Greg shrugged. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

“Listen, don’t you have any other stops to make?”

“You’re my last stop, Lover. Ain’t you glad?”

“I’m tickled.”