Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“You ever get a breakfast like that on your ship?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Nah, not like this one. There’s nothing like hospital duty, is there, mate?”

“My ship’s a good one,” he said.

“Which ship is that?” Greg asked.

He hesitated. “The Sykes,” he said at last.

“The Sykes. What’s that, a DE?”

“A DD.”

“Oh, a D... The Sykes , did you say?” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “You off the Sykes , huh?”

“Yeah. What’s the matter with that?”

“Nothing.” Greg paused, thinking. “You boys had a lot of trouble there recently, didn’t you?”

“No trouble at all,” he answered.

“I’m talking about Miss Cole,” Greg said, his eyes squinched up tightly now.

“Oh, yeah. That.” He shoved his cereal bowl aside and started on his eggs.

“FBI and everything, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What was this guy’s name who did it?”

“Schaefer.” he answered, his eyes on the egg.

“Schaefer. Sounds familiar. He ever pull duty here?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeoman, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmmm.”

“What’s wrong with being a yeoman? Listen, ain’t you got anyplace else to go? What’s this? The local hangout?”

“I think I remember Schaefer. Yeah, I think so,” Greg said. “He was here about when you were, wasn’t he?”

“Who said I was here?”

“I said. I checked your records.”

“What for?”

“I like to know my patients.”

“Since when did you become a medic?”

“What are you getting riled about, mate?” Greg asked, his eyes studious and alert now.

“Who’s getting riled? I just like to eat my breakfast without having to listen to a lot of crap.”

“Did you know Miss Cole?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Nice girl. You’da liked her, mate. The hot-pantsed type, but a nice girl.”

“Too bad I didn’t know her,” he said warily.

“Yeah, too bad,” Greg answered. “And you’ll never get to know her now, will you? I mean, Schaefer killing her like that. Too bad.”

“You gonna read a mass, or what?”

“What’s the matter, mate?” Greg asked sweetly. “Don’t you like me?”

“Not particularly,” he answered. “Why the hell don’t you shove off?”

“Sure.” Greg said, and then his voice turned hard. “You’d better start looking sick again, pal. The doc’ll be around any minute.”

He turned his back and walked out of the room.

She came into 107 like a burst of sunlight. He had been waiting for her all afternoon, and now that she was here, he was truly excited. She was a damn good-looking girl, with good legs, better maybe than Claire’s, and a nice innocent face that made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. She looked vulnerable, vulnerable as hell, and she was swallowing his line, he could see that. She didn’t wear much lipstick, and her lips were ripe and perfectly formed, and he wanted to kiss those lips until they were bruised and red.

“Hi,” she said from the doorway. “How’s the sick man today?”

“Better, now that you’re here.”

“You’re a fresh one,” she said.

“Can I help it? A man comes in with plain old cat fever, and you cure that, but you give him a worse disease.”

“Really? And what malicious ailment have you contracted here?”

“Heart disease,” he said, his eyes serious.

“That’s quite normal,” Jean said lightly. “Every man falls in love with his nurse.”

“And his nurse?”

“His nurse is here to take his temperature right now.”

She shook down the thermometer, and he said, “The other side of the bed, Jean.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled.

“I like it better that way. I’m superstitious.”

Jean shrugged. “All right,” she said, sighing. “If you say so.”

She walked around to the other side of the bed, so that the window was behind her, so that the sunlight streamed through the crisply starched uniform and the sheer slip beneath it, outlining her legs. He watched her legs, pleased with the way he had maneuvered her so that she was in silhouette, pleased with her vulnerability and her naive innocence, thinking this one was going to be like falling off Pier Eight.

“Open,” she said.

“You’re pretty, Jean.”

“Now stop that.”

“You’re lovely.”

“Stop, I said.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re too talkative. Here.” She rammed the thermometer into his mouth.

“Y’ve n’right abbe s’pretty,” he said around the thermometer.

“Don’t talk with the thermometer in your mouth,” she warned, looking at her watch.

He took the thermometer out of his mouth for a moment. “You’ve no right to be so pretty,” he repeated.

“Oh, now hush. And put that back in your mouth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting.

Jean giggled and turned away from him, walking to the window. He watched the lithe slender lines of her body. He could see the harsh elastic of her brassiere where it bit into the flesh of her back beneath the whitely transparent top of her uniform. This is better than a match, he thought. This is a damn fine way to raise a temperature. I wonder what she looks like in civvies. I wonder what she looks like in her underwear. Christ, she must look beautiful!

She turned from the window, the smile still on her face. “All right,” she said, “let’s see how you’re doing.” She took the thermometer from his mouth and studied it. “Mmmm,” she said.

“Am I dying?”

“No.”

“Why don’t people ever tell you your temperature? Doctors and nurses always make such a big mystery out of a thermometer reading.”

“You’re normal,” she said.

“That’s good,” he answered. He paused. “But maybe it isn’t, either.”

“Why not? I should think you’d want to get out of here.”

“I do, but...” He shook his head.

“What’s the matter?”

“Jean, when I leave... I won’t see you again, will I?”

“You’re impossible, do you know that?”

“I’m serious now, Jean. I’d like to stay here forever. I’d like to be here with you forever.”

She tried to laugh it off. “Well, I’m afraid that’s a little impractical.”

“I can think of something that isn’t,” he said rapidly.

“ Can you? Well, well.”

“Or... or don’t you want to?”

“I want to take your pulse now, if that’s what you’re talking about,” she said professionally. She took his wrist and looked at her watch.

“My heart’s going like sixty,” he said.

“It’s not too bad.”

“Jean, could you — do you think it’s possible?”

“Do I think what’s possible?”

“Seeing me? After I’m released from the hospital?”

She didn’t answer him.

“Jean?”

“Shhh. I’m counting!”

“The hell with that,” he said, pulling his wrist away and then catching her hand with his. “Answer me, Jean!”

He was holding her hand very tightly, and there was something electric about his grip. She thought of Chuck fleetingly, and the old debate rose in her mind again. Was she flinging herself at Chuck’s head? Surely he was in New Jersey by now! Why hadn’t he called? Or written?

“I... I think you’d better let me go,” she said softly.

“No! Will you see me when I’m released, Jean?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“When will you know?”

“Please, someone may walk in.”

“The hell with everybody, Jean! The hell with everybody but us! Just the two of us, honey, that’s all, that’s all that counts.”