Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“Rooms for Rent,” the sign read. Masters climbed the steps rapidly.

Her fingers trembled on the buttons of her blouse. He watched her from across the room. “Did I know this nurse?” she asked again.

“You’re beautiful, Jean,” he whispered.

She finished unbuttoning the blouse, and it hung open over the protective nylon of her slip. She felt absolutely naked, his eyes hot upon her.

“Why don’t you take it off?” he suggested.

She hesitated, and he made a slight movement, as if he would rise from the chair to help her. She slipped out of the blouse then, folded it neatly, stalling, and then draped it over the back of a chair.

“Did... did I know her?” she asked again. Answer me, she pleaded silently. Please, please answer me!

“The skirt,” he said gently. “Shall I help you?”

“No! no, it’s all right.” The skirt. One button, and a short zipper. Only a button and a zipper. Oh, my God.

Her hand moved to the button, and she felt it come undone, and then the zipper slid down, almost of its own volition, and the skirt slithered past her thighs like a live thing. She felt the static electricity as the wool caught at the nylon of her slip, and then the skirt was mounded at her ankles, and she stepped out of it quickly as he came out of the chair.

She stood in her slip and watched him advance, aware of the floor lamp in the corner, knowing the lamp was throwing harsh light through the sheer nylon, knowing she might just as well be stark naked, seeing the emotion flooding up into his eyes. She backed away a pace, involuntarily, and then, as if she could think of no other protection from his gaze and his advance, she shouted, “Did I know the other nurse? ”

The table was between them now, and he stopped on the other side of it and stared at her curiously, and all the fear crawled up into her throat until she thought she would be sick.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“The other nurse. I wanted to know—”

“You said ‘did’! What did you mean by that? Why ‘did’? Why past tense?”

Her hand went to her throat. “I–I didn’t mean anything. I just thought—”

“Why didn’t you say, ‘ Do I know the other nurse?’ Answer me, Jean! Goddamnit, answer me!”

She could not speak. He was crouched over the table now, his palms flat, the forks and the steak knives alongside his hands. His eyes were narrow now, and all desire seemed to have fled them.

“Answer me!”

“I... I...”

“Who sent you to spy on me?” he shouted. “Masters?”

“No! Chuck doesn’t—”

“ Chuck , is it? Chuck?” His eyes were wild now. He knew he was in danger, and she could feel the knowledge triggering inside his head, ricocheting off the walls of his skull. He was like an animal now, trapped, and his eyes raked her body angrily, lashing at her.

“What do you know about Claire Cole?” he snapped.

“Nothing.”

“What’d she tell you?”

“Nothing, I swear. We were roommates, but she never—”

“Roommates!” He hurled the word across the room, and then his hands moved on the table and one of them closed around the gleaming, razor-sharp steak knife.

The street lights were coming on when Masters entered the lobby of the David Blake. He walked directly to the desk, annoyed when he saw no clerk in attendance. He rapped on the bell, and a small man in a dark-brown suit emerged from the shadows, a smile magically appearing on his face.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “may I help you?”

“I’m looking for a girl,” Masters said. “She may have—”

The clerk’s face clouded. He cocked his head to one side and said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but this isn’t that kind of hotel.”

Masters slammed his fist onto the desk. “Don’t be a fool!” he shouted. “She may have registered here, with a man. She’s a blonde, very pretty, registered sometime this afternoon.”

“Her name, sir?” the clerk asked, flustered.

“They probably used phony names. Did a blonde register with anyone this afternoon? Any time after about four o’clock?”

“Well, we get a lot of guests, sir,” the clerk said, plainly miffed. “It would be almost impossible to distinguish one from—”

“A blonde!” Masters shouted. “Look, you idiot, I’ve been looking all over town, and you’re just about the last goddamn stop, and this girl is in danger!”

“We had several blondes this afternoon, sir,” the clerk said, a little frightened by the gleam in Masters’ eyes.

“With men?”

“One with a man, sir.”

“Where?”

“A honeymoon couple, sir.”

“ Where , goddamnit!”

“Surely, sir, you don’t want us to disturb a honeymoon couple.”

Masters reached across the desk. “What room? Take me up there, or I’ll—”

The clerk’s eyes popped wide, and his mouth worked fitfully. He reached for the passkey behind him and said, “Y-y-y-y-yes, sir. This way, sir.”

He picked up the knife in a lithe, smooth motion, his hand surrounding the handle intimately.

“Did she tell you about us?”

“No!” Jean said, backing away now, moving across the room in her slip. He followed her relentlessly, his fingers tight around the handle of the knife, the knife deadly cold and poised in his fist.

“Was this Masters’ idea? Did he put you onto this? Are you trying to find out if I killed her or not?”

“You...” She swallowed and then gulped for air. “You did kill her, didn’t you? You killed her... and the others.”

He took a fast step toward her, seizing her wrist and swinging her back across the room, onto the bed. Her slip pulled back over her thighs, and he advanced on her with the knife, and then he stopped and looked down at the taut, ribbed tops of her stockings, and his eyes grew reflectively canny, and his mouth quirked into a strange smile.

“Yes,” he said softly, “I killed her.”

He kept staring at her legs, as if remembering something, remembering it vividly.

“I shouldn’t have killed her,” he whispered. “All that woman lying on the deck, worthless, dead.” His mouth was twitching now, twitching wildly. “It’ll be different with you, you bitch! No regrets this time. No eating my heart out afterward! You’re going to die, but this time the memory’s going to be fresh. This time—”

“No!” she screamed. “Please!”

He reached out suddenly, his free hand grasping the front of her slip, yanking her off the bed. She came toward him, her back arching, and then the nylon gave with a rasping screech, and she fell back onto the bed, released, the slip torn to her waist.

Slowly he advanced, wetting his lips, the knife poised and ready.

He must have heard the door, the frantic knocking, and then the harsh splintering sound as the wood ripped free from the lock. But he did not whirl until Masters’ voice shouted from the doorway, “Hold it, Jones!”

He whirled and then stepped off on his right foot in one smooth motion, sprinting for the door, the knife high over his head.

“You bastard!” he screamed at Masters, and then the knife came down in a winking arc, and Masters felt fear crackle into his skull. He backed away and stepped to the side, and the blade glittered past his cheek, and then he threw his fist at Jones. He caught the radarman in the stomach, and Jones doubled over, straightening up again when Masters’ fist caught him under the jaw. The knife clattered to the floor, and Jones scrabbled for it wildly. Masters took a quick lunge forward, stepping on Jones’s hand. The radarman let out a sharp cry, pulling his hand back. Masters kicked the knife into a corner of the room, and then stood over Jones, his fists doubled.