Murder in the Navy Page 2

  “I still wish you’d leave me out of it. I’m in it too much already.”

  “How so?”

  “The broad was found in the radar shack. I’m communications officer.”

  “Don’t be bitter,” Reynolds cracked. “Things are bad all over.”

  Masters thought of that as he walked ashore to the nurses’ quarters that afternoon. Things were certainly bad when a respectable communications officer began playing gumshoe. He looked up at the sign that told him he’d reached his destination, sighed heavily, and mounted the low flat steps.

  He entered a long wide room scattered with easy chairs and couches. A few women were reading quietly, and one stood near a piano at the end of the room. He walked quickly to the information desk, took off his hat, and waited. The young Wave at the switchboard looked up and smiled.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m looking for Miss Dvorak. She’s expecting me. I’m on the investigation board of the Sykes.”

  “Oh,” the Wave said. “About Miss Cole?”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced behind her at a large board from which an array of white disks hung. Each disk bore a number, and she consulted these briefly and said, “I believe Miss Dvorak is in, sir. Won’t you have a seat?”

  “Thank you,” he said. He fingered the brim of his hat and then walked self-consciously to one of the easy chairs. He sat, and realized she’d have no place to sit when she came out, so he stood abruptly, feeling foolish, and walked to one of the couches and sat again. A nurse across the room glanced up, and he examined her crossed legs briefly and then turned his head away. The Wave at the switchboard was saying something into the phone, so it couldn’t be very long now. He made himself as comfortable as he could, and he waited.

  He’d been waiting for about five minutes when she came through the door at the end of the room. She walked rapidly, her crisp white skirt flaring out from good legs. She was blonde, and her cap sat primly on her head, its single gold stripe catching the sun that glanced through the windows. He stood and faced her, and when she saw him, she walked directly to him.

  “Miss Dvorak?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Mr. Masters?”

  He nodded and said, “Sit down, won’t you? I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything?”

  “No, not at all, sir. Please forgive my uniform. I just came off duty.”

  “That’s quite all right,” he said, some of her starched formality spreading to him. “I just wanted to ask a few questions about Claire Cole. She was your roommate, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She was a lieutenant j.g.?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long did you room together?”

  “Since I was assigned to the hospital, sir. Six months.”

  “I see.” He felt awkward, and the girl’s attitude wasn’t helping him any. Why the hell couldn’t she relax? “Er, were you with her on Navy Day? When she went aboard the Sykes, I mean?”

  “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Well, I can only tell you what happened while she was with us. I mean, I don’t know anything about how—about how she was killed.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, we went aboard the Sykes at about three—at about fifteen hundred, sir. Claire boarded her first, and waited on the quarter-deck for the rest of us. We went in a group, you see.”

  “I see.”

  “The OD assigned a guide to us, a young gunner’s mate, I believe, and he took us to sick bay, and then he was taking us up to show us the bridge. That’s when Claire disappeared.”

  “Did you notice her absence at the time?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “Let’s drop the sir stuff, shall we?”

  “Yes, si …”

  She caught herself and smiled, and he marveled at the change that came over her face when she smiled. She looked almost pretty, and he found himself staring at her, and then remembered he was supposed to be questioning her.

  “When did you notice she was gone?”

  “When we were on the bridge, si … when we were on the bridge. I looked around, and Claire wasn’t there.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went to the ladder and looked down, and I called her name. There was no answer. I figured she’d gone ahead. I mean, Claire was a girl who could take care of herself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, she could take care of herself.”

  “With men, do you mean?”

  The girl blushed, and Masters was so surprised he almost burst out laughing. “Yes, sir, with men.”

  “Did she have many boy friends?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe she did.”

  “Any aboard the Sykes?”

  “Sir?”

  “My name is Chuck,” he said, “if that’ll make it any easier.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Believe me, I don’t like this any more than you do. Let’s just try to relax, and maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

  “All right,” she said, and then belatedly added, “Chuck.”

  “That’s better. Did she have any boy friends aboard the Sykes?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Did she ever mention the men she dated?”

  “Not too often.”

  “But sometimes?”

  “Yes, sometimes. But she never mentioned anyone aboard the Sykes.”

  “Was it her suggestion to visit the Sykes on Navy Day?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Think.”

  “I don’t know. I think it just sort of came up, you know, one of those things. I don’t think any one of us made the suggestion.”

  “Someone must have made the suggestion,” he said, irritated with her answer.

  “Do you want me to say she made it?” the girl asked. “Will that help you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m not very good at playing cop.” He paused. “What’s your name?”

  “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?”<
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  “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.

  2

  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 superdread-naught 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?”

  “Yes,” Norton said briefly.

  “I’m Ensign Le Page, officer of the deck.”

  “How do you do?” Norton said.

  “The Captain is expecting you, gentlemen. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Le Page picked up a hand phone resting on the platform amidships. He said something into the phone and then turned to face the two agents.

  “He’ll see you now. He’s in the wardroom.” Le Page snapped his fingers at the gunner’s mate who was standing watch with him as messenger. “Take these gentlemen to the wardroom,” he said.

  The gunner’s mate nodded and began walking forward. Norton snorted and followed him, aware of the inquisitive eyes on him. Dickason looked up at the stack, and then at the mast, and then at the bridge, like a sight-seer in New York City. The messenger took them into a passageway and knocked on a door

  “Yes?”

  “OD asked me to bring these men to you, Captain,” the gunner’s mate said.

  “Show them in,” Commander Glenburne said from behind the closed door.

  The gunner’s mate opened the door and then stood at attention while Norton and Dickason stepped inside. He closed the door behind them, and Glenburne rose and extended a tanned hand. He was a man of about fifty-two, tall and lean, with a complexion burned brown from years of standing on an open bridge. His grip was firm, and Norton had never liked these manly characters with the too-firm grips.

  “Gentlemen,” Glenburne said, “glad you arrived. Have a seat, won’t you?”

  Norton and Dickason made themselves comfortable at the long table.

  “Coffee?” Glenburne asked.

  Dickason seemed ready to say, “Yes,” but Norton replied, “No,” for both of them.

  “Have a nice trip?” Glenburne asked.

  “We came by plane,” Norton answered.

  “One of our Navy planes, eh? Got to hand it to—”

  “The Army brought us,” Norton said.

/>   “Oh.” Glenburne cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose we’d better get right down to business. You know all about the dead nurse, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Norton said.

  “Hell of a thing. Haven’t got enough worries, they have to leave a corpse in my radar shack.” Glenburne shook his head. “Well, you boys will clear all that up.”

  “Yes,” Norton said.

  “I’ve already appointed an investigation board.” Glenburne smiled. “Figured we’d snoop around and see what—”

  “Have you restricted all your men to the ship?” Norton asked.

  “Why, no. I mean, that is, it never occurred to me. Do you suppose—”

  “If one of them is a murderer, it might be a good idea,” Norton said dryly.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll do that. I’ll have that done at once.” The Captain walked to a phone and connected himself with the quarter-deck. “Le Page, get me the Executive Officer. Send him to the wardroom. Get me Masters, too, will you?” He listened for a moment, and then replaced the phone. “Masters is my communications officer. He’ll take you to the radar shack, show you where the girl was found. I imagine you’ll want to get started right away.”

  “Yes,” Norton said.

  “I’ll ask Mike … Reynolds, my executive officer, to restrict the men to the ship. I’m certainly glad you gentlemen are here. My investigation board hasn’t—”

  “Captain,” Norton said, “I hope this board of yours isn’t going to get underfoot.”

  “What?” Glenburne asked.

  “Your investigation board. A lot of amateurs dickering in murder are liable to screw up the works. Do you understand, sir?”

  “Well, yes. But …”

  “You can have your board, if you like. Please don’t misunderstand me. I sincerely hope, though, that they’ll confine their investigation to—”

  “I had hoped they could be of assistance. After all—”

  “Con-fine their investigation,” Norton said over Glenburne’s voice, “to a compilation of the facts for the ship’s record. In other words, we’ll welcome evidence, but we don’t want them working at cross purposes with us.”

  “I see.”

  A discreet knock sounded on the wardroom door.

  “Come in,” Glenburne said harshly.

  Mike Reynolds opened the door and stepped into the room. “You sent for me, Captain?” he said.