Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

“Jean.”

He smiled. “Nice knowing you.”

She seemed uncertain as to what to reply. She smiled briefly and then studied her hands in her lap.

He sighed deeply. “Well, is there anything unusual that might shed some light on this? Anything she said or did?”

“I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t,” Jean said.

Masters smiled. “That’s exactly my trouble. Perhaps... Were there any men she saw regularly?”

“I told you, I really don’t know. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Well,” she said, and then stopped. “I don’t like to talk about Claire. I mean, I feel strange. She’s dead and...”

“What is it?”

“Well, about two weeks ago she had a week end, and she was very secretive about where she was going. The girls all kidded her about it, and she kidded them back, but she still wouldn’t tell us where she was going.”

“What kind of kidding?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Stuff like ‘Be careful, Claire,’ stuff like that.”

“What did she say?”

Jean blushed again, and Masters waited. “She said... Well, really, I...”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘If you’re going to do it, do it with a sailor.’ ”

“Claire said that?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Then you think she spent the week end with a sailor?”

“I... I guess so. Maybe.”

“Did you ever find out where she was going?”

“Yes.”

“You did?” he said, enthusiastic now. “Where?”

“Wilmington.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw a ticket to Wilmington, Delaware. When she was changing her purse. The ticket was on her dresser.”

“One ticket?”

“Yes, just one.”

“I see.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“It could, I suppose. When was this? Two weeks ago, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it’d be simple enough to see which of our men had week-end passes two weeks ago,” he said. Then he rose abruptly and extended his hand. “Thanks a lot, Jean. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

She rose, too, taking his hand in a firm, warm grip. “I hope I gave you something you can use,” she said. She smiled then, and he marveled again at the transformation.

“Listen,” he said. “I know this is a little abrupt, but... well, I feel awful about putting you through an inquisition, and I’d like to make up for it. Do you suppose we could have dinner together?”

“Well, I don’t know. I...”

“A movie on the base, then? How’s that? A movie and a soda afterward? I know you haven’t got the duty because you just came off. What do you say?”

She looked at him steadily for a few moments. At last she said, “No, sir. I don’t think so. Thank you, though.”

The smile dropped from Masters’ face. “Well, thanks anyway,” he said. He felt awkward again, and his fingers roamed the band of his hat. “Thanks,” he said once more, and then turned on his heel and walked past the information desk, and down the low steps.

When Frederick Norton and Matthew Dickason stepped off the plane at Norfolk Air Base, there was probably not a man within a radius of three miles who did not know they were FBI agents.

Their appearance was in no way responsible for this widespread knowledge, for they looked like anything but federal men. They did not wear trench coats or low-slung fedoras. Their artillery did not form conspicuous bulges under their jackets. They did not move furtively, nor did they steal about with catlike treads.

Frederick Norton was a somewhat portly man of about forty-five, wearing a gray pin-stripe suit and a neat gray Homburg. His white-on-white shirt was clipped securely at the collar with a slender gold pin. He wore a narrow blue silk tie upon which a gold fleur-de-lis design had been skillfully embroidered. He looked like a tired businessman whose plane had accidentally put down in Norfolk rather than the Palm Beach for which it was bound. Even his jowly cheeks and cold eyes bore out the simile.

Matthew Dickason might have been Norton’s office boy. He wore a rumpled brown tweed suit and no hat. His hair was clipped close to his head, in the fashion he’d affected all through college and law school. He had clear blue eyes and a slightly pug nose, and though he was pushing thirty, he could have passed for a college freshman, and often did.

The two men stepped from the plane and into a waiting jeep, and every pilot and crewman within viewing distance knew that these were the two G-men who were coming to clear up the mess about the dead nurse. The jeep contained a coxswain and a full lieutenant. The full lieutenant shook hands with the two agents, snapped a terse order at the coxswain, and then leaned back as the jeep crossed the airfield and headed for the naval base.

“Have you ever been in Norfolk before?” the lieutenant asked Norton.

“No,” Norton said.

“A nice little town,” the lieutenant ventured. “You’ll like it.”

“Will I?” Norton said.

“Well, yes. Yes, I think you will.”

“I’m glad,” Norton said. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a leather cigar case. He carefully removed and unwrapped one cigar. From his vest pocket he extracted a small pair of silver scissors, with which he promptly snipped off the end of the cigar. He did not offer one to Dickason because he knew Dickason did not smoke. He did not offer one to the lieutenant because he knew their relationship would be terminated as soon as the jeep reached the ship. He was sure as hell not going to waste a good cigar on someone he’d never see again. He lighted the cigar and relaxed, watching the scenery of the base unfold as the jeep bounced its way through the clean, well-ordered streets.

“Yes,” the lieutenant said, “I think you’ll enjoy your stay here.”

Norton puffed on his cigar and said nothing.

“Much to do in town?” Dickason asked. His voice, in contrast with his boyish appearance, was rather deep and full chested.

“Well, there’s always something to do,” the lieutenant said, “if you know where to look.”

“And you know where to look, is that it?” Norton asked.

The lieutenant smiled graciously. “I’ve been stationed here for three years now,” he said.

“You deserve the Navy Cross,” Norton answered.

The lieutenant didn’t know quite what to answer to that one. He blinked at Norton for a moment, and then retreated in silence for the remainder of the ride.

The U.S.S. Sykes was not a bad-looking ship. It had long clean lines, and it bristled with guns. The man in the street, who couldn’t tell a cruiser from a PT boat, would probably have considered the Sykes a superdreadnaught battleship. It was not a battleship. It was a destroyer, and the name was an aptly chosen one, with its connotations of great destructive power. The jeep pulled up to the gangway, and the lieutenant shook hands with Dickason and Norton before leaving them there.

“Well,” Dickason said, “here’s the boat.”

“The ship,” Norton corrected. “If these Navy morons hear you calling it a boat, they’ll keel-haul you.”

He puffed on his cigar and studied the low-slung litheness of the ship. He cleared his throat then, snorted, flipped his cigar butt into the water, and walked up the gangway. Dickason followed close behind him. A crowd of sailors had already gathered at the rails. Norton ignored the crowd. He walked with his head down, watching the wood of the gangway. He did not lift his head until he was standing on the quarter-deck, and then his eyes looked into the smiling cherub face that belonged to Ensign Le Page.

Le Page extended a chubby, freckled hand.

“Mr. Norton?” he asked. “Mr. Dickason?”