Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

There were two men who knew.

One of them might or might not have been telling it to Saint Peter.

The second was telling it to nobody.

He stood in the head and shaved carefully, very carefully. He wanted to look good tonight. This was the first time she’d be seeing him in anything but pajamas or a robe, and he felt that the first impression was the most important one.

Jean Dvorak, Lamb Being Led to Slaughter.

Well, not exactly to slaughter. To Wilmington would be more like it. And not tonight, of course. Tonight was the preliminary bout, so to speak. The main event would come later, depending on what happened tonight. He had no doubts about how tonight would turn out. He was sure of her already. She was a confused kid, yes, but the confused kids were the best kind. She didn’t know which end was up, and she wouldn’t know until he showed her, and he was looking forward to the demonstration with considerable relish.

Confused, but gorgeous. With that nice pure beauty, that unspoiled kind of beauty, like a field of snow waiting for footprints. Oh, Jesus, how innocent!

Her innocence pained him. It was almost too excruciating to bear. Claire had been beautiful, but she was wise and knowing, and a little hard, he supposed, but beautiful, yes, beautiful, hell, you couldn’t take that away from her. But you couldn’t deny she was hard either. He’d spotted her instantly, spotted her as an easy mark — if he appealed to her. He knew she was the kind you had to appeal to. She was hard, but she wasn’t petrified. And he’d appealed to her because he knew which approach to take. The right approach was the most important thing, of course. With Jean, you had to put things on an emotional plane, the undying-love pitch. Well, he was ready to give her his undying devotion, but there were strings, of course, and the strings weren’t too painful, were they? Shouldn’t love be unselfish? Of course, Jean. And isn’t our love a beautiful, fragile, tender thing? Jean, can’t we... Couldn’t we...

Damn right we can, he thought, smiling.

From the sink opposite him, Petroff, a gunner’s mate said, “You back already?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Wha’d you have?”

“Cat fever.”

“Yeah, I had that once,” Petroff said. “Hey, was you there when that pecker checker took the plunge?”

“Was I where?” he asked.

“At the hospital, natch.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Musta been a psycho, huh?”

“Definitely nuts,” he answered.

“Boy, Norfolk’s sure gettin’ it’s share.”

“Yeah.”

“First the dead broad, then Schaefer, then this jerk. This town is jinxed.”

“I’m trying to shave,” he answered.

“O.K., O.K., shave.” Petroff turned away angrily, obviously hurt by his shipmate’s indifference.

He watched Petroff in the mirror for a moment, and then turned his attention from the gunner’s mate, smiling. Jean Dvorak was still on his mind, a ripe fig waiting to be plucked and swallowed whole. One bite. Zoom, down the hatch. And after that... Hell, after the first time, it was easy.

Like murder.

He didn’t like thinking about murder, but he had to admit it got a little easier each time. Especially when you got away with it. And getting away with it was almost as easy as the actual killing. Now there was a disgusting word. Well, that’s what it was. A rose by any other name... Jesus, but Jean smells sweet. Not a perfume smell, no, just a good soap smell, clean, like everything about her. Oh, this is going to be a peach, this is going to be like nothing ever.

That sonofabitch Greg, of course, never knew what hit him. An object lesson for all practical jokers. Play with fire, and you wind up with your brains scattered on the concrete. I should have spotted his bluff right away, but Jesus, he sounded like he had the goods. Well, he’s got the goods now, but a lot it’s going to get him. Maybe a cloud and a harp. Or maybe a pitchfork and an asbestos suit. Serve the bastard right. He shouldn’t have played with me that way. I can’t take chances now. Murder has come easy, but it won’t be so easy if I’m caught, and so I’ve got to be careful, very careful now. The slightest hint, and then I move again. I have to. I can’t take chances. Claire was a snap, and so was Schaefer — but Schaefer knew, and so did Greg. Well, he knew for a second before he found himself doing a swan dive. Anybody who knows is a danger to me. Anybody who knows is leading me straight to the gallows, helping me slit my own throat.

He rinsed his razor, and then he washed the lather from his face. He ran the back of his hand along his cheek. Smooth. Jean would like that. Jean didn’t go for the gorilla type. Jean wanted it tender and gentle, like an opening bud. Well, Bud, I’m just the man to fill the bill. Shake hands.

She was waiting in front of the movies at eight sharp. She wore a sweater and skirt and, because it was a brisk night, a tweed topper. She wore seamless stockings and dark-blue pumps. A long string of pearls trailed over the rise of her bosom beneath the topper. She had tucked her blonde hair under a kerchief, but a pale wisp had come loose, and it hung limply on her forehead now.

She was slightly nervous, and she watched the faces of the passers-by, alternately looking for him and then for someone who might be able to identify her. She was aware of the pounding of her heart beneath the woolen sweater. She was very ill at ease, and she felt sneaky, but she did want to see him because she had to know exactly what she felt, had to determine in her own mind just what was what.

When the car pulled to the curb, she figured it for a pickup attempt. She glanced at it quickly, and then turned her head away.

“Jean,” he called.

She turned to the car again. It was he, behind the wheel of the car!

He opened the door for her, not getting out of the car, and she walked to it hastily and climbed in, slamming the door behind her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi. Where’d you get the car?”

“I hired it. You don’t really feel like going to a movie, do you?”

“Well, I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” She hoped she hadn’t sounded coy, because she honestly hadn’t intended to.

“A drive, I thought. Look at all those stars, Jean. Millions of them.”

“Yes,” she said. “They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

“And maybe a hamburger and some good hot coffee afterward. Are you game?”

“Whatever you say,” she said, smiling.

He pulled the car away from the curb. It was a late-model convertible, but the top was leaky, and she felt chilly.

“You look pretty,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“How do I look?”

She glanced over at him. He was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat, and a blue suit, she supposed; it was very hard to tell in the dim interior of the car. She thought he looked very handsome, though, and she said, “You look nice.”

“Disappointed?”

“No.”

“Good. Where to?”

“Anywhere. You’re driving.”

“O.K., fine. You didn’t feel like a movie, did you?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m still a little nervous,” she said.

“Well, relax. That’s one of the reasons I got the car. I figured you’d feel more secure.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“I guess it’s just— Oh, things have been in an uproar at the hospital. I mean, it may be that. It may have something to do with this.”

“What kind of an uproar?” he asked.

“Well, you saw the bedlam when you checked out this morning, didn’t you?”

“Greg, you mean?”

“Yes. Wasn’t that a terrible thing? He was such a nice boy.”

“Yeah, he seemed like a nice guy.”