Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

“The FBI?” Chuck whistled softly. “Why them?”

“First, because there were civilians aboard when the nurse got it, and second, because this ship is a federal reservation. If prosecution is ever started, it’ll go right to the U.S. Attorney for trial in a federal district court.”

“That’s just my point. We’ve got all these people on it already. Those two meatheads, and now the FBI. Why the hell do we need an investigation board of our own?”

Reynolds shook his head. “You just don’t know the Navy. The Old Man has three stripes, and he’d like four. If he can crack this himself, it’ll be fine. You think a dead nurse in his radar shack helps him get that fourth stripe?”

“I bleed for him,” Masters said.

“Bleed for me a little, Chuck,” Reynolds put in quickly. “We need the board. The Old Man says five men and a recorder. He wants a senior member, and I’m it. I need three other members and they should be lieutenants, and I need a junior officer and one of the yeomen as recorder.”

“So?”

“So I’ve got Carlucci and Davis as my two lieutenants, and I’ve got Ensign Le Page—”

“That moron?”

“I need a junior officer. I’ve got this yeoman second — what the hell’s his name? — Schaefer, yeah, and I need one more lieutenant.”

“Why the hell pick on me?”

“Can you think of anyone else? This is a tin can. Chuck, not a battle wagon.”

“How about Ed?”

“He’s on leave. Look, Chuck, I went over the whole list You’re it.”

“Is that an order?”

“Order, hell. If you want to put it that way, yes. It’s an order. Now get off your dead rump and put a shirt on. We’re meeting in the wardroom in ten minutes. The Old Man wants us to get started before the G-men show up.”

“Private eyes,” Masters said disgustedly.

“What the hell are you kicking about? The FBI’ll probably crack this before we even get to ask a question.”

“I still wish you’d leave me out of it I’m in it too much already.”

“How so?”

“The broad was found in the radar shack. I’m communications officer.”

“Don’t be bitter,” Reynolds cracked. “Things are bad all over.”

Masters thought of that as he walked ashore to the nurses’ quarters that afternoon. Things were certainly bad when a respectable communications officer began playing gumshoe. He looked up at the sign that told him he’d reached his destination, sighed heavily, and mounted the low flat steps.

He entered a long wide room scattered with easy chairs and couches. A few women were reading quietly, and one stood near a piano at the end of the room. He walked quickly to the information desk, took off his hat, and waited. The young Wave at the switchboard looked up and smiled.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m looking for Miss Dvorak. She’s expecting me. I’m on the investigation board of the Sykes.”

“Oh,” the Wave said. “About Miss Cole?”

“Yes.”

She glanced behind her at a large board from which an array of white disks hung. Each disk bore a number, and she consulted these briefly and said, “I believe Miss Dvorak is in, sir. Won’t you have a seat?”

“Thank you,” he said. He fingered the brim of his hat and then walked self-consciously to one of the easy chairs. He sat, and realized she’d have no place to sit when she came out, so he stood abruptly, feeling foolish, and walked to one of the couches and sat again. A nurse across the room glanced up, and he examined her crossed legs briefly and then turned his head away. The Wave at the switchboard was saying something into the phone, so it couldn’t be very long now. He made himself as comfortable as he could, and he waited.

He’d been waiting for about five minutes when she came through the door at the end of the room. She walked rapidly, her crisp white skirt flaring out from good legs. She was blonde, and her cap sat primly on her head, its single gold stripe catching the sun that glanced through the windows. He stood and faced her, and when she saw him, she walked directly to him.

“Miss Dvorak?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Mr. Masters?”

He nodded and said, “Sit down, won’t you? I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything?”

“No, not at all, sir. Please forgive my uniform. I just came off duty.”

“That’s quite all right,” he said, some of her starched formality spreading to him. “I just wanted to ask a few questions about Claire Cole. She was your roommate, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She was a lieutenant j.g.?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long did you room together?”

“Since I was assigned to the hospital, sir. Six months.”

“I see.” He felt awkward, and the girl’s attitude wasn’t helping him any. Why the hell couldn’t she relax? “Er, were you with her on Navy Day? When she went aboard the Sykes, I mean?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Well, I can only tell you what happened while she was with us. I mean, I don’t know anything about how — about how she was killed.”

“I understand.”

“Well, we went aboard the Sykes at about three — at about fifteen hundred, sir. Claire boarded her first, and waited on the quarter-deck for the rest of us. We went in a group, you see.”

“I see.”

“The OD assigned a guide to us, a young gunner’s mate, I believe, and he took us to sick bay, and then he was taking us up to show us the bridge. That’s when Claire disappeared.”

“Did you notice her absence at the time?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Let’s drop the sir stuff, shall we?”

“Yes, si...”

She caught herself and smiled, and he marveled at the change that came over her face when she smiled. She looked almost pretty, and he found himself staring at her, and then remembered he was supposed to be questioning her.

“When did you notice she was gone?”

“When we were on the bridge, si... when we were on the bridge. I looked around, and Claire wasn’t there.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to the ladder and looked down, and I called her name. There was no answer. I figured she’d gone ahead. I mean, Claire was a girl who could take care of herself.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, she could take care of herself.”

“With men, do you mean?”

The girl blushed, and Masters was so surprised he almost burst out laughing. “Yes, sir, with men.”

“Did she have many boy friends?”

“Yes, sir, I believe she did.”

“Any aboard the Sykes? ”

“Sir?”

“My name is Chuck,” he said, “if that’ll make it any easier.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Believe me, I don’t like this any more than you do. Let’s just try to relax, and maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

“All right,” she said, and then belatedly added, “Chuck.”

“That’s better. Did she have any boy friends aboard the Sykes? ”

“I really don’t know.”

“Did she ever mention the men she dated?”

“Not too often.”

“But sometimes?”

“Yes, sometimes. But she never mentioned anyone aboard the Sykes. ”

“Was it her suggestion to visit the Sykes on Navy Day?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Think.”

“I don’t know. I think it just sort of came up, you know, one of those things. I don’t think any one of us made the suggestion.”

“Someone must have made the suggestion,” he said, irritated with her answer.

“Do you want me to say she made it?” the girl asked. “Will that help you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m not very good at playing cop.” He paused. “What’s your name?”