Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

“All right, I’ll grant you that. So it could have been either a radarman or a yeoman. How many of each went on liberty that week end?”

“Six radarmen and three yeomen.”

“That really does narrow it down.”

“Considerably. And I’ve narrowed it down even further.”

“How?”

“Well, I wondered how an enlisted man could meet a nurse, and get to know her well enough to propose a week end in Wilmington. The answer was simple.”

Reynolds sighed heavily. “What was the answer?”

“He was in the hospital.”

Reynolds’ eyes narrowed in interest. “Go on, Chuck,” he said.

“I checked, Mike. Since we pulled into the base, thirty men have been to the hospital. Twelve were there within the last three months, and of those, eleven were there for a week or more. Of the eleven, eight were on Claire Cole’s ward.”

“So?”

“Two of those eight men were radarmen. Three were yeomen.”

“Seems to indicate a high sick rate among the white-collar ratings, doesn’t it? What else did you find?”

“I carried it all the way down, Mike. Of the two radarmen, one had liberty on that week end Claire spent in Wilmington. Of the yeomen, two had liberty then.”

“So what have you got now?”

“Names. Three names. Each of the three men had an opportunity to meet and know Claire Cole. Each of the three had week-end liberty when she did. And each of the three had access to a radar-shack key.”

“And who are they?”

“Alfred Jones, radarman third class; Perry Daniels, yeoman second class; and Richard Schaefer, yeoman second class — the recorder on your investigation board.”

Reynolds considered this for a moment. Then he said, “One thing. Chuck.”

“What’s that?”

“I think the FBI already knows all this.”

“Go to hell,” Masters said.

He looks honest enough, Masters thought. He certainly doesn’t look like a killer.

He studied the thin boy standing before the table in the wardroom. He was tall, with penetrating blue eyes and an angular face. He had large hands, and he clenched and unclenched them nervously now.

“Your name is Alfred Jones?” Masters asked.

“Yes, sir. You know me, sir. I’m in the radar gang.”

“Rank?” Masters asked, ignoring Jones’s comment.

“Radarman third, sir. Sir, the G-men have already questioned me. I mean, if it’s about—”

“At ease, Jones.”

Masters looked at the boy and then across the room to where Schaefer, the board recorder, was busily taking notes. “Sit down, Jones,” he said. He waved his hand at a chair, and Jones sat in it. He sat on the edge of the seat. Masters noticed. Quickly Masters dipped into the pocket of his shirt, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and extended it to Jones.

“Smoke?”

Jones shook his head, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to find out whether or not I smoke, sir?”

He surprised Masters. Masters kept his hand out, and he said slowly, “Yes, I am.”

“I figured. They found two dead butts in the radar shack, didn’t they? One belonged to the broad and one to the guy who strangled her.”

“You’re well informed, Jones.”

Jones shrugged. “Scuttlebutt, sir. I also heard the G-men couldn’t find anything but smeared prints on the guy’s cigarette.” He paused and smiled. “I smoke, sir.”

“Have one,” Masters said.

“No, thanks.”

Masters returned the package to his pocket. “Do you know why you’re here, Jones?”

“Sure. I’m a radarman. You figure since the radar shack was locked on Navy Day, it had to be a radarman who opened it. I’m way ahead of you, sir.”

“Do you have a key to the radar shack, Jones?”

“I had one.”

“What’d you do with it?”

“The same thing every other guy in the radar gang did the minute the nurse turned up. I deep-sixed it.”

“Why?”

“Pardon me, sir, but how long have you been in the Navy? I tossed it over the side because all the guys were doing it. I wasn’t going to be the only one caught with a key.”

“I see.”

There was a moment’s silence, and Masters glanced across the room at Schaefer. The yeoman’s head was bent over his pad, and his pencil worked furiously.

“Are we going too fast for you, Schaefer?” Masters asked.

Schaefer looked up. He had a wide face, expressionless now, with large brown eyes that looked moist. “No, sir.”

Masters nodded and turned back to the radarman. “Did you know Claire Cole, Jones?”

“No, sir. I never seen her ever. Not dead or alive.”

“Where’s Wilmington, Jones?”

“Sir?”

“Where’s Wilmington?”

“In Delaware, I guess, ain’t it?”

“You ever been there?”

“No, sir.”

“When was your last week-end liberty, Jones?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“When, exactly?”

“I don’t remember the date, sir. It was a few weeks back. Two weeks ago, I think.”

“Where’d you go, Jones?”

“Newport News.”

“Where in Newport News?”

“One of the flea bags. I don’t remember.”

“Were you with anyone?”

“Part of the time.”

“Who?”

Jones smiled. “You’re getting personal, sir.”

“Don’t get snotty, Jones. Who were you with?”

“Some broad. I picked her up in a bar.”

“What was her name?”

“Who knows?”

“When were you with her?”

“Saturday night.”

“Think you can find her again.”

“Maybe. Why? What’s so important?”

“You sure you don’t remember what her name was, Jones?”

“All right, I remember. Agnes. All right?”

“Agnes what?”

“I don’t know. You want to know what kind of birthmarks she had on her—”

“That’ll be all, Jones.”

Jones stood up sullenly. “You don’t think I killed that nurse, do you? You don’t think that.”

“Shove off, Jones,” Masters said.

Jones seemed undecided. He wavered for a moment and then said, “I don’t feel like no railroad, sir. You get a bunch of brass together and pick on an enlisted man, and I’ll be making small ones out of big ones. I never saw that goddamned nurse, and I—”

“Get out, Jones,” Masters said, “before you really get into trouble.”

Jones snapped to attention, did an abrupt about-face, and headed for the door.

When he was gone. Masters turned to Schaefer and said, “What do you think, boy?”

“About what, sir?”

“This character who was just in here. Was he telling the truth?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Schaefer said slowly.

“Do you remember Claire Cole, Schaefer?”

“Sir?”

“You were at the base hospital, weren’t you?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, sir.”

“Do you remember seeing her?”

“Yes, sir,” Schaefer said. “Yes, I do.”

“Pretty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would a man remember her if he’d seen her?”

“I–I suppose so, sir.”

“Then why do you suppose Jones said he never saw her? Dead or alive. He was on Claire Cole’s ward, too.”

Schaefer said nothing.

“Why do you suppose, Schaefer?”

“Perhaps he’s frightened, sir.”

“Are you frightened, Schaefer?”

Schaefer hesitated a long time before answering. Finally he said, “Why should I be, Mr. Masters?”

In the wardroom that evening, after the Old Man had gone up to his cabin, Reynolds and Masters shared a pot of coffee. Reynolds held his steaming white mug in his browned hands, and the vapor framed his face, giving him an evil satanic look. Masters looked at the exec through the rising steam and said, “You look like hell.”

“What?”