Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

The two plates rested on the small table now. Jean’s steak was hardly touched. His steak had been devoured in apparent good appetite, and his crossed fork and steak knife rested on his bone-cluttered platter now.

“Drink your champagne,” he said.

She reached for her glass, her hand trembling. She put the rim to her lips and took a tiny sip.

“More,” he said. “Champagne is good for you.”

“I don’t want to get dizzy.”

“I get dizzy just looking at you,” he said. He paused. “Why don’t you take off your jacket?”

“It’s... it’s a little chilly in here.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, smiling. “Go ahead, take it off.”

She unbuttoned her jacket, conscious of the thrust of her breasts, and his eyes coveting them.

“That’s a pretty blouse,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Y... yes.”

“Don’t be. We didn’t have any trouble registering, did we?”

“No. How did you know about this place?”

“The David Blake? I just knew it, that’s all.”

“Did you bring that... that other nurse here?”

“What other nurse?” he asked, smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said you’d dated another nurse.”

“Oh, her.”

“Did you bring her here?”

He shoved back his chair and walked around the table, standing behind her chair, putting his hands on her shoulders. “What do you care about any other nurse for?” he asked softly.

“I...” She tilted her head coyly, trying to smile, the smile giving the lie to the hammering fear within her. “I guess I’m just jealous.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t make you happier to know I brought anyone else here, would it?”

“Yes, I think it would.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want reassurance. I’m still afraid someone will... will catch us.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. He bent down and kissed the side of her neck, and she shivered involuntarily. His hands were still tight on her shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “Finish your drink.”

She lifted the glass again, not drinking. “Did you bring her here?” she insisted.

“Yes. If it’ll make you feel more secure, yes, I did.”

“And... and no one found out?”

“Not a soul.”

“Was she from the hospital at Norfolk? The other nurse, I mean?”

“You talk too much, Jean,” he said, and he pulled her out of the chair, his arms encircling her, his mouth reaching for hers.

He was unfamiliar with Wilmington, and so he didn’t know where to go, didn’t know where they could have gone. And, not knowing where to go, where to look, Masters felt a futile sense of desperation. Time was a trap, and he was enmeshed in the whirling, grinding gears. Time tried to crush him, and there was nothing he could do against time, nothing he could do against the steadily advancing hands and the knowledge that she was alone with him somewhere. The clock on the station wall grinned at him with evil intent, and then the smaller replica on his wrist when he left the depot, the steady tick-tick, the hands biting into the face of the watch, ripping off minutes, steadily advancing, and he didn’t know where to go.

You walk toward the center of town, he thought.

You have to evolve some sort of plan, he figured. You have to plan or you get crushed in the wheels of time. But what’s my plan? How do I stop a murderer when I don’t even know where he is? Where, where? A big hotel, a small hotel? A rooming house? A motel on the outskirts of town? A friend’s apartment somewhere in town? Where? Oh, for Christ’s sake, where?

He stopped a passer-by, and he asked about hotels and rooming houses and motels, and he came up with a mental list, and then he kept walking toward the center of town, thinking, I’ll take them as I come to them. I can’t bother with any special kind of order now. Time is my trap, but time can be my ally if I work this right. I’ll walk and I’ll stop at each one I pass on any street. And then I’ll take the next street, and the next, and maybe, maybe...

He quickened his pace and ducked his head against the wind.

Jean stood in the circle of his arms and turned her head, avoiding his lips. “No,” she said. “Couldn’t we... couldn’t we talk a little first?”

“Well, honey, we haven’t all day, you know. We’ve got to get a train at—”

“I know, but talk to me. Please.”

“Sure,” he said, sighing. “What do we talk about?”

“Your... your other nurse.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Was she from Norfolk?”

“Yes, she was from Norfolk,” he said wearily.

“Did I know her?”

“Aw, come on, Jean,” he pleaded, “what’s the sense in this?” He took her hand and pulled her to a chair with him. He sat abruptly, yanking her onto his lap. He tilted her back then, and his mouth clamped down onto hers, his lips moving savagely. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip was strong, and she could barely move in the tightness of his embrace. There was real fear inside her now, a pounding, staccato fear that drummed in her blood. She shouldn’t have come here. No, she knew that now. This was senseless, this was idiotic. He could... he could...

His hand dropped to the top button of her blouse, and suddenly dropped again, and again, and she looked down to see that the three top buttons were unbuttoned. She could see the dark valley between her breasts, and his hand moving swiftly on the blouse, button after button.

“No!” she said sharply, and he glanced up quickly, surprised. “I... Let me do it myself,” she added hastily.

He smiled and released her. “All right,” he said.

She got off his lap and walked across the room, the table with the empty plates and glasses, the soiled forks and steak knives between them.

How many buttons are there on this blouse? she wondered. How long will it take me? Oh, God, what do I do next?

“A blonde,” Masters said. “A pretty blonde. With a man.” The man with the eyeshade studied him curiously.

“Can you hear me?” Masters asked, his voice rising.

“I c’n hear yuh, awright,” the man with the eyeshade said. “Well, did they register?”

“Um,” the man said.

“They did?” Masters asked eagerly.

“No, didn’t say that, young feller. Just trying to think.”

“Did they? For Christ’s sake, did they?”

The man with the eyeshade blew his nose. He folded the handkerchief carefully, put it into his back pocket, and then cleared his throat. “Nope,” he said. “Don’t believe so. You lookin’ for a room, I think I might be able to—”

Masters turned from the desk and walked through the small lobby and then down the steps onto the sidewalk. The elm in front of the small establishment cast a long shadow on to the pavement, and he glanced unconsciously toward the sun, saw it poised close to the horizon.

Darkness soon, he thought. Night.

He glanced in both directions.

Where now? Which next?

At the end of the street, he saw a small swinging sign with the legend “Rooms for Rent.”

He began walking rapidly, his shadow darting before him, his strides devouring the long stretches of concrete.

How many has it been now? That woman with the wart, and then the starched clerk with the carnation, and the old man who was reading the newspaper and who wouldn’t talk business until we went inside to the desk, and the pretty brunette in black (a recent widow?), and now this one with the eyeshade and the green shadow over his face. How many have there been, and how many more do I hit before I find them?

Give me radar now, give me a radar set that can tear down these goddamn walls and see what he’s doing to her, and where!