Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

When the voice sounded behind her, she wheeled in panic,

“Can I help you, miss?”

He was a young boy, the collar of his pea coat turned up high, the guard belt slung low on his waist. He carried a billy, and his face was raw and red from the wind that blew in over the water.

“I... I’m looking for a ship. The Sykes. A destroyer,” she said.

The boy smiled. “Oh, yeah. She went into dry dock, miss. You can find her there. You know the ship, miss?”

“Yes, I do.”

He gave her directions, and she nodded, and then he saluted her before she left. She felt awkward returning his salute, the way she always felt whenever a man acknowledged her rank. She tried to tell herself it was the same thing as someone tipping his hat to you, but she knew that wasn’t true, and it always left her feeling a little embarrassed. She walked up the dock, her heels clicking on the plankings, terribly aware of her body today, aware of it as she had never been in all her life before. She knew the boy’s eyes were on her back and her legs, and she consciously stiffened, trying to avoid the unconscious feminine swing of her hips. She was glad when she was off the dock, and she told herself she’d imagined the low whistle she’d heard, that it was simply the wind blowing off the water.

There was a great deal of activity in the dry-dock area; trucks and jeeps scurrying over the ground, cables and torches and welding masks. The rusted hulls of ships rested on their metal beds, and the workmen tore out their guts. She picked her way carefully over the ground, avoiding the large spools of cables, the heavy sheets of metal. She spotted the Sykes, high above her, and she saw the narrow wooden planks leading to the ship’s main deck.

Good heavens, she thought, I’ll never get up there.

She was conscious of the eyes of the workmen, conscious too of the fact that his eyes, unseen, might be watching her from somewhere aboard the ship, and she wished she’d never come here. She looked up at the ship again, saw the OD stepping aside to let a workman with a cylinder of oxygen past. She waved abruptly, knowing it was a very unmilitary thing to do, but doing it anyway.

The OD strolled to the rail and shouted over the clamor of the workmen. “Yes, miss?”

“I wonder if you could tell me—”

The OD cocked his head and shouted, “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t hear you. Just a moment.”

She watched as he left the quarter-deck and navigated across the wooden plank. He climbed down to where she was standing, and she saluted when he approached, and he returned the salute casually.

“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

She turned her back toward the ship. “I’m trying to locate Lieutenant Masters,” she said.

A smile began forming on the OD’s face, and she wondered, God, is that all every man thinks of?

“Well,” the OD drawled slowly, “I’m awfully sorry, miss, but Masters isn’t aboard. In fact, there’s hardly anyone aboard.”

“Yes, I know. But I was wondering... do you know where I can reach him?”

“In Atlantic City.” The smile was broader now.

“Where in Atlantic City?” Jean asked.

“Well, not exactly Atlantic City,” the OD said. “He’s at radar school, miss. Brigantine, New Jersey.”

“Brigantine,” she repeated thoughtfully.

“Maybe... ah... I can help, miss?”

“I don’t think so,” Jean said. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Yes, miss. In a week or so.”

“I see.” He kept smiling at her, and she felt warm and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “If I were to write a letter — I mean, do you know the address?”

“If you just address it U.S.N. Radar School, Brigantine, New Jersey, I’m sure he’d get it,” the OD said.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.” He paused, seemingly debating his next words. “Are you sure I can’t help?” His voice rose hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid not. Thank you, sir.” She saluted smartly, and then turned, walking rapidly. She felt his eyes on her, and when she stepped over a girder and her skirt was caught by the wind, lifting at the back of her legs, she almost ran headlong away from the ship.

She did not turn, but she knew the OD was smiling.

There is something completely desolate and forsaken about a seashore resort in the winter, Masters thought. He looked out over the water as the PT boat sped for Brigantine Island. Beyond the waves rushing white and green against the sides of the boat, he could see the lobster joint that crouched alongside the boat landing. Far down the stretch of tan beach, the Steel Pier jutted out into the water, a huge structure that insinuated its presence on the seascape.

He lighted a cigarette and watched the coxswain at the wheel of the boat. He handles the boat well, Masters thought. And this was a damned fine jamming run. The boys are learning. If the boys back at the hotel did as well with the junk we threw them, we’re going to be all right. He puffed on the cigarette complacently and turned his eyes to the heavy gray clouds piling up on the horizon. Rain will be just dandy, he thought. Rain’ll ground the B-26, and that’ll shoot our night air exercise all to hell.

He flipped the cigarette over the side when the boat nudged the island’s dock. He counted heads as his radarmen leaped ashore, and then he returned the ensign’s salute and gave him permission to shove off. He watched while the crew of the boat, led by the young ensign CO, edged the boat away from the dock, and then swung it around in a wide, foaming arc out onto the water. He began walking back to the hotel with his men then.

The airmail special-delivery letter was waiting in his room.

He threw his cap onto his bunk and shrugged out of his coat, and then he picked up the letter. It was postmarked late Saturday, in Norfolk, Virginia, and this was Monday. The name J. R. Dvorak was in the left-hand corner, and for a moment the initials threw him. When he realized it was from Jean, he ripped open the flap rapidly, unfolded the letter, and sat on the edge of his bunk to read it.

She had a neat hand, he noticed. He put the letter in his lap, lighted a cigarette, and then leaned back against the pillow, picking up the letter again.

Dear Chuck:

I’d have written sooner, but I wasn’t sure in my own mind exactly what I was going to do until just a little while ago. I’m sure now, and I want you to know about it because I’m still not certain about how all this will turn out

I think I’ve found the man who murdered Claire Cole and Schaefer. I think, too, that he killed a pharmacist’s mate named Greg Barter, here at the hospital.

I know this will shock you, and I do wish you were here, Chuck, because I feel so desperately alone, and I’m not even sure I’m proceeding in the right way. But I have to find out if he is the right man, and there’s only one way of doing that.

He came into the hospital with catarrhal fever, or at least that’s what they diagnosed. He was placed on my ward, and I treated him just as I would any other patient, until just recently. He became very friendly, and he is really a charming sort of persistent person, Chuck, and I can see how he’d be able to sway a woman. He swayed me, at any rate, and I hope you know I was waiting for you to write or call me, but when you didn’t I just didn’t know what to do, and he seemed like a very nice person, so I hope you understand. I went out with him last night, Chuck. He told me that he’d dated another nurse, and I remembered then that he was one of the men you suspected.

He wouldn’t tell me who she was, Chuck, and I didn’t want to press him, because if he is the man, then I’m a little afraid of him. He asked me to go with him to Wilmington, which is where Claire went, you know, and he called me this morning, and I told him yes, I’d go.