Murder in the Navy

by Ed McBain

  “All right, so what?”

  “So he’s not too smart. He’s been in the Navy for a while, and he’s scared stiff of authority. He’s killed an officer, and that officer was a woman, and he knows damn well he’s in hot water. There’s a big hubbub aboard ship, and on the base, and in the fleet. He’s the cause of all the hubbub. He begins to sweat a little.”

  “All right, he’s sweating a little.”

  “The Superior Officer Present Afloat—SOPA—sends over a legal officer and an intelligence officer. Our murderer begins to sweat a little more. Then the skipper appoints an investigation board, and the perspiration really begins to flow now.”

  “This begins to sound like a soap commercial.”

  “No. Our boy is frightened now. The noose is tightening. And then we come. The Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Norton announced it grandly. “Secret agents. The FBI. The dread of all criminals, the nemesis of all evil. So we come to this ship. Bang, everyone is restricted to the vessel. Bang, the crew knows we’re taking fingerprints up in the radar shack. Bang, we begin asking questions, and then our questioning begins to get heaviest on three men: Daniels, Schaefer, and Jones. If our murderer is one of them—and I feel certain he is—he’s beginning to get a little nervous now. After all, how long can he go on outwitting the almighty FBI?”

  “I don’t get your point, Fred.”

  “My point is this: We have nothing on which to convict anyone. Only our murderer, I hope, doesn’t know that. He just sees a lot of activity, secret agents coming and going to the ship, quiet, taciturn, except when they’re asking questions. This guy is not a professional, Matt. We ask about Wilmington. All right, he knows we know about the Wilmington shack-up, and then he begins wondering. Do we know why the nurse was killed? he wonders. As it happens, we don’t know—but he doesn’t know that. She wasn’t pregnant, according to the autopsy. All right, maybe it was just a lovers’ quarrel. But something provoked him into action. He knocked off the nurse, and now we’re asking questions about Wilmington. How’d we find out about Wilmington? One of the dead nurse’s girl friends? If so, how much did Claire Cole tell? Is his identity known? How tight is the noose? Are we just playing cat-and-mouse with him? What’s the penalty for murder? All these things begin eating at him. In short, Matt, he is goddamned good and scared, and it’s just a matter of time before he cracks.”

  “Cracks! You think he’s going to come running to us to confess?”

  “He might. Or he might do something that’ll point the finger at him.”

  “Like what?”

  “How do I know? Maybe he’ll seek out some of the nurses who knew the dead girl. That’ll give us something to follow up, at least. Maybe he’ll try to jump ship, make a run for it. Who knows? But one way or another, he’ll crack. All we’ve got to do is wait.”

  “I don’t know,” Dickason said.

  “I do know. I’ve seen amateur killers before. They don’t know their asses from their elbows.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right.”

  “And me, too,” Norton said emphatically. “I don’t like Norfolk, and I don’t like the Navy. The sooner we get back to Washington, the happier I’ll be.”

  “Norfolk’s not bad,” Dickason said.

  “No, but Delia’s good.”

  “Delia? Oh, your wife.”

  “Yes,” Norton said, “my wife.”

  “So why bother checking these hotels and rooming houses?” Dickason asked, disturbed. “I mean, what’s the sense?”

  “It may make the job shorter. Someone may just possibly recognize the photos. And if they don’t, we just wait. Our killer will make his move soon, you’ll see. They always do, one way or another. When the guilt gets too heavy for them, when they begin to think the whole damn world is against them—bang! They crack.”

  “They crack,” Dickason repeated.

  “Here’s a shop,” Norton said. “Let’s get that coffee.”

  5

  He was quite pleased with the way he’d come through all the questioning. They really had nothing to go on, of course, except the fact that he’d been at the hospital. Well, he’d handled that nicely, he thought. With both the FBI and Mr. Masters.

  There were undoubtedly a good many ways to react to questioning. The point, naturally, was not to appear suspicious, and you could do that by being arrogant about the whole thing, or by being innocent about it. He’d made his choice and then stuck to it, keeping up the pose all along.

  They did suspect him. There was no question about that. But they suspected two others as well, and you can’t hang a man on suspicion. Somehow they’d learned about that Wilmington week end with Claire. Knowing how Claire had felt about the whole thing, knowing now in retrospect, he was fairly certain she had not discussed it with anyone. The Wilmington information must have been a slip, then, something she’d done or said unawares. Yes, they knew Claire had met someone in Wilmington on that week end. He didn’t care how they’d found out. That they knew was enough for him.

  And once they knew that, they’d undoubtedly checked the ship’s liberty list, and then checked that against the list of men who’d been to the hospital recently, men who’d had a chance to know Claire. He’d turned up as a possible suspect. But that was the extent of it. He was sure they didn’t know more than that. If they did, they’d have already pulled him in.

  He had never been seen together with Claire, and that was definitely in his favor. Oh, yes, they’d been very careful about that angle. It had been necessary at the time. You couldn’t expect a j.g. to go running around with an enlisted man. But it was all working to his advantage now, and that was fine.

  Even the Wilmington thing had been completely under wraps. Claire had gone earlier by bus and train, and he had followed later. She had taken a room at the David Blake, telling the desk clerk she was expecting her husband later in the day. She’d registered as Mr. and Mrs. Mark Knowles. She’d had luggage. She looked respectable; Claire always had looked respectable. There’d been no questions asked.

  When he arrived in Wilmington, he called the hotel and asked for Mrs. Mark Knowles. Claire had come to the phone breathless.

  “Claire? Honey? I’m here.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m so glad.”

  “Why? Was it difficult?”

  “No, no. No trouble at all. I’m just lonely.”

  “Well, I’m here.”

  “Good. Are you coming up?”

  “Yes. What’s the room number?”

  She’d given him the number. He’d left the pay phone and gone directly to the hotel. He did not stop at the desk. He went straight to the elevator banks and up to Claire’s floor. He waited until the elevator door closed, waited until he heard the lift mechanism whir into motion again. Then he’d gone to the room.

  They’d spent most of that week end in the room. Whenever they left the hotel for meals or a walk or a movie, they did so quietly. Claire never left the room key at the desk. They had both worn quiet civilian clothing. They had not become overly friendly with any of the hotel personnel or guests. They were, for all practical purposes, just another nice, quiet married couple stopping over in town for the week end. When they checked out, they did so as quietly and unobtrusively as they’d done everything else. Claire had paid for the room when she’d registered. When they checked out, he took their luggage and went to wait outside. Claire left their key at the desk, thanked the manager for a nice stay, and then left. They walked to the railroad station together. They boarded the train at separate cars, not seeing or speaking to each other again once they’d left Wilmington. It had all gone off without a hitch.

  He stood near the fantail now, smelling the faint odor of the garbage cans stacked there, and smelling the deeper, brackish odor of the water slapping the metal skin of the ship. He drew in on his cigarette and thought, I’ll get away with it.

  He was sure of that. Even with all the questioning, even with all the secret horse manure, he knew he would get away with it. He
was sure no one in Wilmington would remember either Claire or him. They’d given no one anything to remember. Yes, he would get away with it.

  The thought didn’t please him, because he liked it better with her alive. She’d been something, all right. She’d certainly been something. Right from the start. One of those things where two people just click suddenly. That spark, sort of, flaring up in two pairs of eyes. She was officer’s stuff, all right, but she’d been all his. He thought of her body again, thought of it in his arms, thought of it as he’d seen it on that Wilmington week end. The thought pained him. She had been so much woman, more woman than he’d ever had before. Why’d she have to turn stupid on him? Why couldn’t she have let things roll along the way they were going? Christ, it had been a perfect setup, and they’d been good together.

  Well, there were other women. That was something you could always count on. Women. No matter what else failed, no matter how hard the Navy hopped on you, there were always women. And once you got off the goddamned ship, even in a sad, town like No Curse Nor Drink Norfolk, he’d always managed to make out. You could count on women. Still, Claire had been something better than most women.

  Maybe he’d pull another hospital stint, get to meet another nurse. Hey, now, that wasn’t such a bad idea. After this was all over, of course. This damn restricted crap was beginning to wear on him. How long can you keep a guy cooped up? This was worse than boot camp. But that hospital idea was a good one. Hell, it had worked before, why not again? Sure, when this was all over. After all the Hawkshaws got through snooping around. Mr. Masters handed him a laugh, all right. Firing questions like a D.A. in court. Where was this, and when was that, and blah-blah-blah. A real laugh.

  Those FBI characters were a pretty good comic routine themselves. Abbott and Costello, or Martin and Lewis. Hell, they couldn’t find the Missouri if someone hid it in their shower stall.

  He chuckled at his own humor, took a last drag on the cigarette, and then flipped it over the side, watching it arc against the blackness of the sky, and then hiss momentarily when it struck the water.

  The FBI boys had returned to the ship at around 2100. It was 2230 now, and he still hadn’t been called for further questioning, so he was willing to bet they hadn’t turned up anything new. He was safe. This was one cookie they weren’t going to grab. He chuckled again, and was turning to go when he heard the footsteps coming toward him. He panicked for just a moment, and then he told himself, Easy. Easy now.

  He squinted his eyes against the darkness, wishing someone would open the hatch to the aft sleeping compartment so he’d have some light to see by. The figure was closer now, and he still couldn’t identify it. Maybe Masters coming to ask some more questions. Or maybe Martin and Lewis again. Maybe they had turned up something. Maybe … No, no, they couldn’t have. No one knew he’d gone to Wilmington. No one had seen him. He was safe.

  “Who’s there?” he asked the darkness.

  “Me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “Schaefer.”

  “Oh. What do you want?”

  He watched Schaefer move closer, and he clenched his fists, prepared for whatever was coming. Schaefer moved noiselessly, stepping close to the garbage cans. He watched him warily.

  “I was just about to turn in,” he said.

  “That can wait,” Schaefer answered.

  “Sure,” he said. He speared a single cigarette from the pocket on his denim shirt, changed his mind and let it drop back into the package again. “What’s on your mind, Schaefer?”

  “The dead nurse,” Schafer said softly.

  He felt his hands shake a little, and he controlled the tremble and asked, “What about the dead nurse?”

  “You know,” Schaefer said.

  He looked around the fantail quickly. There was no one else on deck back there. The stern of the ship was in complete darkness.

  “No,” he answered slowly. “I don’t know.”

  “At the hospital,” Schaefer said. “You and the nurse.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know, all right. I was in the bed opposite yours, and I saw you playing up to her. I saw you, so don’t deny it.”

  His mind raced back. Had Schaefer really been in the bed opposite? Or was this one of Mr. Masters’ tricks?

  “All right,” he said cautiously, “I played up to her. So what?”

  “You went to Wilmington, too,” Schaefer said. “On your week end. I know that.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m not crazy. I know because you asked for a Wilmington train schedule at the office a few days before that week end. I remember that. I was typing up the promotions list when you asked for it. I remember.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said again, but he was thinking furiously now, trying to remember. Had he asked for a Wilmington schedule? Why the hell had he done that? Yes, yes, he remembered now. He had asked. Claire thought it would be safer for him to get the information aboard ship. A lot less conspicuous than her checking on it ashore, and men gossiped a lot less than women. Yes, he’d asked for the schedule, and Schaefer, that sonofabitch—remembered.

  “So what? What are you driving at, Schaefer?”

  “Mr. Masters thinks there’s a connection. I shut up before now because I didn’t want to be a squealer.”

  “You mean you told Masters all this crap?”

  “No. Not yet. But if you killed that nurse …”

  He lashed out suddenly with his bunched fist, catching Schaefer on the point of his jaw. Schaefer staggered back a few paces, crashing into one of the garbage cans. He hit Schaefer again, and this time the man went limp, falling to the deck.

  He was breathing harshly when he bent down for Schaefer. He looked over his shoulder, thankful when he saw no one there. He picked the man up then, dragged him past the garbage cans and to the fantail. He lifted him over the chains dangling there and then released him. He waited until he heard the body splash into the water.

  Then he shouted, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” and he ran down the starboard side of the ship, climbing the ladder to the boat deck and merging with the shadows. Behind him, he could hear the men rushing up out of the aft sleeping compartment.

  At 2247 on 4 November, Richard N. Schaefer, Y 2/c, USNR, leaped to his death from fantail of U.S.S. Sykes. Cry of “Man overboard” brought men from aft sleeping compartment to scene of suicide. Hooks and grapples were used to recover body which was retrieved from water after one hour, thirteen minutes, difficulty arising because body had lodged itself beneath ship’s screw. Artificial respiration was administered, but Schaefer was pronounced dead by Sykes’ chief pharmacist’s mate at 0016, later corroborated by physician from hospital ashore.

  Dickason and Norton were in wardroom with Commander Glenburne at time of suicide, discussing negative findings on Wilmington field trip. Afterward, at scene of suicide, Dickason noted bruises on Schaefer’s jaw and cheekbone, these later attributed to contact with ship’s screw when body struck water and was carried toward ship by current. Paint scrapings on Schaefer’s wrist watch affirm contact with ship.

  As noted in our report 32-A-741, dated 1 November, Schaefer was one of prime suspects in death of Lt. (j.g.) Claire Cole. Without benefit of scientific data, we were forced to piece together circumstantial evidence:

  a) Schaefer knew Miss Cole, having made her acquaintance while confined to base hospital in late September of this year.

  b) Schaefer had access to Combat Information Center (radar shack) key, which is available in Ship’s Office.

  c) Schaefer was on week-end liberty same week end in which Cole kept alleged rendezvous with unidentified sailor.

  Our contention is that Schaefer, driven by guilt, haunted by fear of exposure, took his life by simplest means at hand. Records reveal that Schaefer was expert swimmer, but we believe he swam under fantail, lodging himself beneath screw. Shipmates agree he was acting strangely since death of nurse and ensuin
g investigation. Therefore respectfully request permission to close files on case and permit commanding officer Glenburne to resume normal activity aboard Sykes.

  FREDERICK NORTON (agent)

  Dickason handed the signed report to Norton.

  “Did you read it?” Norton asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I read it.”

  “Well?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Fred.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’m convinced yet.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Matt—”

  “Oh, all right, I know you’ve had a lot of experience in this sort of thing, but I still don’t know, Fred.”

  “What’s the trouble? What’s bothering you now, little boy?”

  “Nothing. I guess it’s the only conclusion we can draw, but I still wish there was something more to go on. No fingerprints, no nothing, and a million damn people crawling all over the ship when the nurse was killed. I just hope we have the right man, Fred.”

  “You worry too goddamn much,” Norton said. “In something like this, you’ve got to take the facts as they fall. I told you the killer would crack, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Well, he cracked. Look, Matt, I agree, either Daniels or Jones could have killed the goddamned nurse, too. But it was Schaefer that jumped off the fantail! You tack that onto the rest we’ve got, and he’s our man.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Do you like this Navy horse manure?” Norton said.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Do you want to go back to Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you want some advice? Forget it. This is only one case, and not a very important one, at that.”

  “Well, I don’t want to seem like an eager beaver …”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Is this standard operating procedure?”

  “Nothing is standard operating procedure. You fit the facts to the case. As far as I’m concerned, Schaefer conclusively proved his guilt by taking his own life. That’s good enough for me.”