Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing or not, Chuck, but it seemed to me I could find out if I were alone with him again, and it seemed to me that a murderer should be revealed, shouldn’t he? Chuck dearest, shouldn’t I take the chance if it means exposing him?

Well, we’re leaving Norfolk Monday morning at 8:15, and we’ll be in Wilmington at 3:42 in the afternoon. I don’t know where he’s taking me, and I don’t know what I’ll do when I find out whether or not he’s the killer, but even if I can’t get anything out of him, maybe I can find out where he took Claire in Wilmington, and even that is a start. I think this is the right way, but I wanted you to know about it just in case anything should go wrong.

His name, Chuck, as you probably know by now...

Masters read the name rapidly, and then crushed the latter in his fist. Of course. Jesus Christ, of course. It had to be. It couldn’t be otherwise; not now, it couldn’t. He got to his feet quickly.

What was today? Sunday? No, no, it was Monday already! Then... oh, Jesus, they were already on that train to Wilmington! Could he get to them? Could, hell! He had to!

He left his room and rang for the elevator in the hallway. When the car came, he got in quickly, taking it up to the Commanding Officer’s floor. He walked rapidly into the office, gave the yeoman there his name, and asked to see the CO immediately on an urgent matter. He looked at his watch and then paced the floor anxiously while he waited. The time was 1036.

At 1041, he was ushered into Lieutenant Commander Whitley’s office. The CO rose, extended his hand, and shook Masters’ hand warmly.

“Sit down,” he said, “sit down. Been keeping you hopping this past week, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said. “Sir, I’d like permission to go ashore immediately on a matter of extreme importance.”

Whitley cocked his head and stared at Masters. “Important, huh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Extremely so.”

“And you have to go into Atlantic City, eh? Well, I can’t see any reason why—”

“Not Atlantic City, sir. Wilmington. Delaware.”

“Wilmington?” Whitley was already shaking his head.

“Sir, I have to—”

“I can’t grant that permission, Masters. You should know that.”

“Why not, sir? This is—”

“I can grant you liberty, sure. But Wilmington! Masters, you’re under orders from the captain of your ship. Those orders sent you to Brigantine. I can’t countermand those orders.”

“But, sir—”

“If it’s that important, get a wire off to your skipper. If he replies with permission, you can take off at once, of course.”

“Thank you, sir.” Masters rose and started for the door. He turned abruptly, remembering Whitley. “I’m sorry, sir. I—”

“Go right ahead, Masters. Good luck.”

He sent the wire from the pay telephone on the main floor, and then he began waiting for the reply. The answer came at 1251. He tore open the envelope frantically.

CAPTAIN GLENBURNE AND EXECUTIVE OFFICER ASHORE ON LEAVE. AS SENIOR OFFICER ABOARD CANNOT COUNTERMAND ORDERS OF COMMANDING OFFICER IN HIS ABSENCE. SORRY CHUCK. YOU’LL HAVE TO SWEAT IT OUT.

ARTHUR L. CARLUCCI

LT., USN

He cursed Carlucci, and then he cursed the Navy, and then he cursed Whitley for not being decent enough to grant him a sort of extended liberty without running into any “countermanding” red tape. And after he had cursed out everyone he could think of, he went up to his room and packed a bag, and then he began looking for Ensign Andrew Brague, the new meathead communications man they’d given him.

When he found him, he said, “I’m shoving off, Brague. You’re in command.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to Wilmington. I’m jumping ship, goddamnit. Keep it under your lid until I’m off the island. Then you can scream all you want to.”

“But... but, sir...”

“So long, chum.”

It was 1320 before he got to the station. He asked at the information booth for the next train to Wilmington, and they told him it would leave at 1355, making a stop in North Philly at 1440, and leaving there at 1454 to arrive in Wilmington at 1532.

Fifteen-thirty-two! Ten minutes earlier than the train Jean would be on. He could be waiting for them at the station in Wilmington when they arrived. He thanked his guardian angel, bought a ticket, and then looked for a pay phone. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Jean had changed her mind at the last moment, in which case he’d want to get another wire off to Carlucci, asking him to restrict his man to the ship. He haggled with the operator until he made it clear he wanted the nurses’ quarters on the base, and then was told he’d have to wait until they had a free line. He asked the operator to ring him back, and then he sat in the booth and watched the black hands of the clock on the wall march steadily toward traintime. At 1321 the phone rang, and he hastily snatched the receiver from its hook.

“Hello,” he shouted.

“I can make your call now, sir.”

“Well, Jesus, make it!”

He heard some interoperator gobbledegook, and then the honeyed Southern tones of the Norfolk operator came onto the line. His operator gave her the number, and there was a series of clicks on the line, and then the steady on-and-off hum that told him the line was busy. He nearly rammed his fist against the wall of the booth, and then the operator said, “I’m sorry, sir, the line is busy.”

“This is an emergency, operator. Can’t you cut in?”

“I’m sorry, sir. If you’ll wait, I’ll ring you back.”

He looked at the clock on the wall. “Operator, I’m getting aboard a train in... eleven minutes. Make it fast, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

He hung up and waited, and he heard the train pull into the station, saw the passengers in the waiting room straggle out to meet it. At 1330 the phone rang again, and he grabbed the receiver eagerly.

“Yes?”

“I have your call now, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello?”

“Hello, Jean?”

“I beg your pardon.”

He realized he hadn’t made a person-to-person call, and he rapidly said, “Get me Jean Dvorak on the double, miss. This is an emergency.”

“Yes, sir,” the voice on the other end said, recognizing authority.

He waited for three minutes, and at 1333 she came on the line again.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Dvorak is not aboard, sir.”

“When did she leave?”

“Early this morning, sir.”

Outside, on the track, he heard the conductor yell, “Board! Board!”

“Thanks,” he said, and then he hung up rapidly, ran out of the booth, and hopped onto the train just as it started rolling out of the station.

The train pulled into North Philly at 1449, as scheduled. It was supposed to leave again at 1454, after a five-minute wait in the station. It did not leave until 1520, twenty-six minutes behind schedule. When Masters arrived in Wilmington, at 1600 that afternoon, the train from Norfolk had already arrived and left again.

Masters searched the station for Jean frantically. At 1605 he resigned himself to the fact that she was somewhere in Wilmington with a murderer as her escort.

Where? he wondered.

And then he began looking.

They sat on opposite sides of the small table. The table had been set up by a bellboy who assumed the couple in 201 were honeymooners. The waiter who brought the two steak dinners and the bottle of champagne had assumed the same thing. He had served them with polite aloofness, having learned long ago that honeymooners did not relish conversation or any other kind of intrusion. He had left them quietly and unobtrusively, closing the door gently behind them.