Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

“This Is nice,” Dickason said. He walked with a quick spring in his step, matching his strides to Norton’s. The weather was uncommonly mild, and Dickason felt as if he were back in college again. He found himself watching the skirts and legs of the girls passing by. He felt good. He felt as if he were doing something. This was a hell of a lot better than dusting for prints in a stuffy radar shack. Shack! Why did they call something made of metal a shack? The Navy. Dickason shook his head. “This is real nice,” he said.

“There’s only one thing nice about it, Matt.”

“What?” Dickason asked.

“It’s closer to Washington. It won’t cost me as much to phone my wife.”

“What made you go into the FBI?” Dickason asked suddenly.

“I like to live dangerously.”

“No, seriously.”

“Security, salary. How the hell do I know?”

“I know why I went into it.”

“Why’s that?” Norton asked uninterestedly.

“Days like today. I mean, what we’re doing right now. I find this very exciting.”

“That’s because you’re still wet behind the ears. When you’ve been in the game a while, you’ll begin to hate legwork.”

“I don’t think I could ever hate something like this.”

Norton said nothing. The two men walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Dickason asked, “Do you think we’ll turn up anything?”

“Maybe,” Norton said. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve narrowed it down to three,” Norton said. “All right, we waste today going around with pictures of the dead nurse and the three suspects. Maybe someone will recognize them. Frankly, I doubt it.”

“She was a very pretty girl,” Dickason said, a little wistfully.

“There are pretty girls everywhere you go. Don’t let that fallacy get you, too.”

“What fallacy?”

“That a pretty girl will be remembered more than a plain girl will. The human memory is a funny thing. I once had a case where we were able to identify a suspect because a woman remembered a hairy wart on his nose.”

“You’ve had a lot of cases, haven’t you, Fred?”

Norton stopped walking. “You know, Matt, sometimes you sound plain stupid,” he said.

“What do you mean? Just because I—”

“Skip it, skip it. Yes, I’ve had a lot of cases. Did I ever tell you about the time I foiled a plot to blow up the Pentagon?”

“Did you really?” Dickason asked.

“Sure. They wanted to fire Hoover after that and give me his job. I wouldn’t take it. I’m a very simple man at heart.”

“Agh, you’re full of crap,” Dickason said.

“I know. Come on, here’s the next rooming house.”

The two men paused before a white clapboard house. The house was small, with twin gables and dormer windows hugging the upper story. Red shutters decorated each window, and a big silver maple in the front yard fought valiantly and fruitlessly to retain its last few browned leaves. Norton opened the gate and walked to the front stoop. He pulled the old-fashioned bellpull, and then waited.

“What do you think this one’ll be?” he asked Dickason.

“I don’t understand.”

“The expression. When we say we’re from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Shock? Fear? Dead faint? Haven’t you ever noticed how the expressions vary?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

“She’ll be an old lady this time,” Norton guessed. “When we tell her we’re FBI men, she’ll invite us in and then give us a list of neighbors she suspects of being Communists.”

“I say a young blonde with good legs,” Dickason said, joining in the game. It was times like this that made working with Norton a lot of fun.

“I’ve been doing this for sixteen years now,” Norton said, “and I’ve never had a young blonde with good legs.”

The door opened a crack, and a middle-aged woman looked out. She studied Norton’s face for a moment before she spoke.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, ma’am,” Norton said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

They both held out their FBI identification cards.

The woman’s hand went involuntarily to her throat. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

“May we come in?”

“Yes. Yes, please do. Is anything wrong? Is something the matter?”

“No, ma’am, just a few routine questions.”

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “Come in. Please.”

She opened the door wide, and Norton and Dickason stepped into a dim, cool foyer.

“You rent rooms, is that right?” Norton asked.

“Yes, sir. But I have a respectable clientele.”

“No question about that, ma’am. We were just wondering if you could identify some photographs for us. If you could tell us whether or not you rented rooms to any of these people.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean...”

“Suppose you try, ma’am,” Norton said. He reached into his jacket pocket for the leather case containing the photographs. He handed the landlady a picture of Claire Cole first It was a snapshot taken during the summer, with Claire in uniform, a smile on her face, before the nurse’s quarters.

“No,” the landlady said instantly. “I don’t rent to servicewomen.”

“Why not?”

“Woman’s got no business in the service,” she said. “Gallivanting off and fooling around with men. No, I don’t rent to servicewomen.”

“This girl was a nurse,” Norton said.

“Well, I still didn’t rent her a room.”

“Look at her face,” Norton said. “She may have been wearing civilian clothing, so forget the uniform. Did you ever see her before?”

The landlady studied the photograph intently. “No,” she said, “never.”

“She may have taken a room with a man, and they probably registered as man and wife. Do you recognize any of these pictures?” He handed her photographs of Jones, Schaefer, and Daniels.

“Sailors,” the landlady said. “Heavens, no!”

“You don’t rent to servicemen, either?” Norton asked.

“Soldiers, yes. But not sailors. Not that drunken lot. Oh, no. I’ve never had a sailor in my home, and I never will have.”

“As I said,” Norton told her, “they may have been in civilian clothing. Would you study their faces again, please?”

The landlady looked at the pictures, examining each one carefully. “No. I’ve never seen any of these people before. Not the girl, and not the men either. Why? They do something?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Norton said. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

“They do something?” the landlady asked again.

Norton was already outside on the stoop. Dickason turned and waved. “ ’By,” he said cheerily.

They walked together to the gate, Norton silent “She was a bitch, wasn’t she?” Dickason said.

“Not particularly.”

“I mean—”

“Because she’s choosy about who lives under her roof? That’s her prerogative. I don’t much go for sailors, either.”

“Well,” Dickason said.

“This is all going to be a waste of time anyway,” Norton said. “Where the hell’s that damn list again?” He reached into his pocket and came up with a letter on an FBI letterhead. He ran down the list, selected one of the addresses, and penciled it out. “That takes care of that one. About seven more to go. You feel up to it, or you want to stop for some coffee first?”

“I could use some coffee,” Dickason said.

“You’re beginning to catch on,” Norton answered, smiling.

“Why do you think this is going to be a waste of time, Fred?”

“It is,” Norton said.

“But why?”

“Because I don’t think anyone will remember them. Besides, this will all work out fine, anyway. We’ll be in Washington before you know it.”