Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

“Yes,” she said reflectively, wanting him to tell her more.

“Monday,” he said almost crooning the word, his confidence back now, his confidence strong and firm in the fingers that candidly caressed her body. “Are you free Monday?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“We could go somewhere. Just the two of us.”

“Where could we go?”

“I know places. We could be together, Jean.”

“Like you and this other nurse?” she probed.

“Just you and me, Jean,” he said, ignoring her question. “Just the two of us. We could be... very close, darling, very close.”

“Where?”

“There’s a place in Wilmington,” he said.

“Wilmington,” she repeated dully.

“Yes. We’d go in civvies. No questions asked. Jean, you want to, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I’ll call you. I’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll know by then, won’t you?”

“I don’t know.” She stopped his hand again. “I think we’d better go now.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. You sleep on it, Jean. I’ll call you.”

“All right,” she said.

“When I call I don’t want to take any chances on anybody listening in. I’ll say I’m... I’m Frank, O.K.? I’ll say I’m Frank, and you’ll know who it is.”

“Yes.”

He kissed her again, longingly, and his hands traveled to her waist and she sat up and squeezed her eyes shut tightly and moved away from him.

“Monday,” he said. “Monday.”

“I’ll see,” she answered.

The room was very warm and very still. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes, sending them scattering like vagrant flecks of dandruff.

Is it Saturday morning already? Jean thought. Has the night really passed?

She lay naked in bed, the sheet pulled to her throat, the blanket wadded down at the foot of the bed. She soaked in the sunshine, feeling its warmth on the sheet and her body beneath the sheet, not wanting to stir, not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to face any decisions this morning. It would be so nice just to lie there forever, warm and secure, with the sun toasting her body, covering her with a warm, secure...

Her body.

She stared down the length of the sheet, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, the sharp nipples etched against the thin fabric, the curves of her thighs, the flatness of her stomach. It looked soft and vulnerable, a woman’s body. It did not look like a weapon.

She had never considered her body as a weapon before, but she knew now that it was one, a very formidable weapon. He would call this morning, and he would expect a decision, expect to know about Wilmington on Monday. Wilmington, of course, didn’t matter at all. Anywhere would have done just as well. Wilmington was just a town he’d picked, a town he knew, the town Claire had gone to. He’d told her he’d dated a nurse before — but was that nurse Claire? Was he the one who’d killed her?

Perry Daniels and Alfred Jones, or so Chuck had said. Of course, Chuck might have been all wet to begin with, in which case there was nothing to worry about; in which case she certainly didn’t want to go to Wilmington for a day. But supposing Chuck had been right, and supposing that man were the killer — then what? She could go to the Sykes, that’s what she could do. She could speak to the Captain and say, “This man is a killer. I want you to put him in the brig.”

Except that the case was closed, as far as the Captain was concerned. Chuck had made that point very emphatically. The case was closed as far as everyone but Chuck was concerned. Chuck and the real murderer. And now me. Now I’m in it

And I can find out if this is the man or not, she thought. I can find out easily because my body is a weapon. It’s comical how strong a weapon it’s become, but with this man it definitely is a weapon, and I know he would tell me what I want to know — if I use my body as a weapon. But if he is a murderer, and if I find out what I want to know, what then? If he is a murderer, then he’s killed three times already, and what will he do to me when he finds out I’ve tricked him, when he realizes he’s given me his secret? And will he tell me, anyway? Suppose I do go along with him to Wilmington? What happens when we’re alone? Suppose he tells me nothing? Suppose he refuses to talk, suppose he only wants...

Can I scream for help?

Did Claire Cole scream for help?

If he’s a murderer, he’s dangerous, and if I go with him I’m taking a chance, a great risk. And why should I care, really?

He may be a murderer!

Yes, yes, but why does it have to be me? I don’t want to go with him. I don’t want to be alone with him again, not in Wilmington, not anywhere. Even if he isn’t a killer, he frightens me. Oh, why can’t Chuck be here? Chuck darling, why can’t you be here?

“Jean?”

She turned her head toward the door abruptly, surprised by the voice. “Yes?”

“Telephone for you.”

“Oh.” She lay motionless, the dust motes floating around her.

“You going to answer it? I can tell him you’re not around, it you like.”

“No. No, I’ll take the call.” She waited until the other nurse was gone, and then she got out of bed and slipped on a robe and a pair of loafers, belting the robe tightly at her waist. She went to the phone outside in the corridor, biting her lips, wondering what she would say to him. Nervously she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said in a small voice.

“Jean? Did I wake you?”

“No. I was... I was up.”

“This is Frank.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

“Well?”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked.

“I...” She hesitated, biting her lip again. Then she said, “All right, Frank. I’m coming with you.”

“Good. Jean, I’ve got a fix in. I can get off the ship in time to catch the eight-fifteen bus on Monday morning. That’s the C and O bus to the Hampton Roads transfer, where we can get a train to Wilmington. Do you know where the terminal is?”

“I’ll find it,” she said.

“Good. If we catch that bus, we can be in Wilmington at three-forty-two. And I don’t have to be back until muster the next morning. O.K.?”

“Yes.”

“Look, we won’t even talk to each other until we’re far away from Norfolk, O.K.? Don’t even look at me when we get on the bus. And wear civvies, don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

“I love you,” he whispered.

She said nothing. She held the phone in a cold hand, waiting for his voice again.

“Jean?”

“Yes?”

“Monday morning, eight-fifteen, the C and O bus. Have you got that?”

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

“You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Fine. I’ve got to hurry back before they miss me.” He paused. “Do you love me?”

She didn’t answer. She hung up gently, hoping he would think she’d hung up during his pause. Then she sat down in the chair beside the phone, her temples throbbing.

She went down to the dock that afternoon, as soon as she was off duty. The weather was turning really cold, and a damp gray sky hung over the water. Her coat was buttoned to the throat, and it whipped about her legs as she strode over the wood plankings. An oil tender was tied up at the dock, but it was the only ship in sight, and her heart lurched into her throat in apprehension. Had the Sykes left?

She stared out over the water, trying to distinguish the ships in the harbor. Maybe the Sykes was out for a short run.