Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

“Sometimes I think— Oh, never mind.”

“What?”

“Well, we were always very friendly, Greg and I. He was a nice person to work with, do you know what I mean? Always a cheerful word. We talked a lot, especially when we had the night duty together. He played the violin, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Yes, he did. Not very well, I suppose, but he had a feeling for it. He was really a very gentle person under that rough exterior of his.”

“Yes, he seemed to be a nice gentle guy.”

“And I got to know him pretty well, which is why I feel... well, it’s almost like the kiss of death. Everything I touch. Claire Cole and now Greg.”

“Jean, that’s a silly way to feel. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”

“I can’t help it, it’s just the way I feel.”

“Well, it’s just silly, really. Hell, Claire Cole was killed on my ship. Now, I don’t feel any—”

“Are you off the Sykes?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Well, sure. And she was killed right there, and so was this guy Schaefer. According to your logic, the whole crew should go around feeling guilty. Now, that’s silly.”

“Schaefer,” she said softly. “The yeoman. Yes.”

“You didn’t know him, did you?”

“No. I just... knew of him.”

“Oh, yeah. Nice guy.”

“He... he committed suicide, too, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Two suicides. So close together.”

“Yeah. Say, are you chilly in here? I can turn on the beater.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She shook her head. “Poor Greg. You were in the solarium with him just before he — he jumped, weren’t you?”

“Who?”

“You. I thought—”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Guibert said so. He said he left you and Greg alone up there.”

“Oh. Oh, sure. Yeah, I went down a few minutes after Guibert. Nice kid, that Guibert, isn’t he? It’s a pity he’s got that dis—”

“Did Greg say anything to you that might indicate he was—”

“Oh, nothing really. He was just looking sort of morose. In fact, that’s why I left. He was too damn sad for me.”

“Yes.” She was very quiet now, thinking.

“Mind if I stop the car?” he asked.

“What?”

“The car. All right if I pull over?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, if you want to.” She looked up at her surroundings. The road was very dark, and he was pulling off the road, into a little clearing in the woods. He cut off the motor and then leaned back against the seat. “Look at those stars, Jean.”

“Yes.” She paused. “You never mentioned you were off the Sykes before.”

“No? Guess it never came up.”

“Did you know Schaefer well?”

“To talk to.” He put his arm on the seat behind her.

“Do you know Lieutenant Masters?”

“Yes.” He moved closer to her. “You know, you talk an awful lot for such a pretty girl.”

“Lieutenant Masters has a theory,” she said, absorbed in her thoughts. “Lieutenant Masters thinks—” She cut herself off suddenly, turning her head slowly to look at him.

His arm tightened around her shoulder. “What does he think?” he asked idly.

“Nothing,” she said. Her mind was racing, suddenly alert. She tried to think clearly, tried to think of the names Chuck had mentioned. Yes, yes. That night on the bay...

“And you still think one of those two men did it? What were their names?”

“Daniels and Jones. Perry Daniels and Alfred Jones.”

She was cold all at once. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? How could she have been so stupid?

“Jean?”

She sat bolt upright. “Yes?”

“Anything wrong?”

“No,” she said. I may be sitting here with a murderer, she thought. He may have killed Claire and Schaefer. And Greg! Oh, God, Greg!

He pulled her to him, and his lips sought hers, and they left her strangely cold this time, but she returned his kiss, wondering how she could know for sure, how she could find out for sure. She was breathing rapidly now, her breasts rising and falling. He kissed her feverishly, mistaking the tempo of her breathing for something else.

“Jean,” he whispered, “I love you.”

She was silent. His kisses traveled over her neck, her ear, her cheeks, her closed eyes, the tip of her nose. His hands were tight on her shoulders. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated endlessly, and she listened to the crooning of his voice, and she thought only that he could be a murderer, that he could have pushed Greg off the solarium. The thought frightened her, and she began to tremble, and again he mistook the harsh breathing and the trembling, and his hand dropped idly to the pearls around her neck, his fingers toying with them, close to her breasts, rising and falling.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked, his fingers exploring each separate bead, fondling the pearls.

“What... what do you want me to say?”

“Something. I’ve just put my heart on my sleeve. Doesn’t that call for a comment?”

“I... I don’t know yet.”

His hand dropped from the pearls casually, almost accidentally. She felt the warmth of his fingers on her, and her first reaction was to pull away, but she controlled her fear, and she asked, “Have you loved many girls?”

“None like you,” he said.

“But many?”

His band moved in a gently stroking motion, the fingers tightening, tightening. He pulled her closer to him, more sure of himself now, sure of the freedoms he could take with her body, sure of his charm. “I’ve never really loved anyone, Jean,” he said. “This is really love.”

“How do you know?” she asked, feeling the fingers caressing her, wanting him to stop, but not daring to stop him because she wanted to hear what he had to say, wanted to lead him to say what she wanted to hear.

“I just know. I want you terribly and so I know I love you. I’ve never felt like this before.”

“It’s biology,” she said. “You don’t really care about me. You just want—”

“No, no.” His hand tightened on her involuntarily. “No, Jean, honestly. I want you because I love you.”

“I think you’re... you’re in love with my uniform. The idea of — getting a nurse — an officer.”

“No, I swear. That isn’t it.”

“It is. I can feel it. I know it is.”

“Jean, believe me—”

She stopped his hand and moved to the other side of the car. “No,” she said feigning injury. “I know that’s what it is. I’m an officer. You’re just excited by the idea, that’s all.”

He scrabbled across the seat toward her. “Jean that’s not so. Jean...” He pulled her to him, kissing her, his hand lingering on her throat and then dropping again, fumbling with the buttons on the cardigan, grasping. “Jean, I’m nuts about you. I want you so bad I could—”

“Stop,” she said. “Please stop! You’re lying to me.”

“What the hell do I care whether or not your’re an officer?” he shouted desperately, his hand touching thin silk now. “You think that matters to me? You think I care about that?”

“Yes. That’s all you care about.”

“I’ve been out with officers before!” he blurted.

She caught his hand at the wrist, holding it away from her body. “Not a nurse!” she said.

“Yes, a nurse. Yes, Jean, I’ve been out with a nurse.”

“Who?”

“Somebody. Jean...”

She released his hand and he caught at her body again. “Who?” she asked.

“A nurse. We were very close.”

“How close?”

“Very close. Jean, we could be close, too.”