Yes.
“Where is Mr. Driscoll?” Pete asked.
Orville pointed toward the open door to shaft alley.
Despite the engine-room heat, a chill traveled through Pete Maxwell as he peered down the dimly lit corridor. If ever he might feel claustrophobic, this was the place—illuminated only slightly better than a tomb, the corridor was nearly two hundred feet long with a forty-watt bulb every thirty or forty feet. Most of the alley was taken up by the drive shaft and the steel casing that surrounded it.
Pete could only marvel that anybody the size of Big Brown could maneuver in such a tight space as this. At the far end, Pete could make out two men in uniform standing over something on the deck. His stomach somersaulted and he had to work to keep everything in it from making a return trip.
He stepped over the coaming into shaft alley and, oh so consciously, put one foot in front of the other, not at all anxious to see what awaited him at the other end.
Chapter 10
AUGUST 31, 1944
Pete Maxwell could never get used to the cramped hell that was shaft alley, its overhead nest of pipes (some wrapped, some not), its recessed walls providing space for fire extinguishers, more pipes and various tools, and a passageway along the massive shaft of the ship that could accommodate one man, but just barely.
As he drew closer, Pete saw Captain Egan and Vince Rosetti standing over something down on what was the ship’s lowest deck, regarding it with a sort of solemn disgust—Egan closer to the brown-uniformed sprawl, his back to the massive shaft, while Rosetti stood back-to-the-wall just down from the captain, closer to the approaching Pete.
Even though he’d been warned, Pete couldn’t make the shape be a human body until he was about ten feet away.
Egan turned toward Pete and acknowledged him with a nod and a crisp, “Mr. Maxwell.”
“What the hell is this?” Pete asked, stopping a few feet from Rosetti, filling the gap between the other two officers in their staggered positions in the cramped passageway. “Some kind of horrible accident?”
“If so,” Egan said, “call Ripley.”
“What?”
Egan gave Pete a ghastly smile. “For this to be an accident, Mr. Maxwell, your friend Driscoll would’ve had to walk through here with a knife in hand, trip and fall, accidentally slit his own throat, then manage to hide his knife before he died.”
The awful gallows humor echoed off the metalworks of shaft alley. Metallic, too, was the iron-tinged scent of blood in the otherwise oily air.
“It’s murder, Pete,” Rosetti said, numbly. “Some lousy bastard cut Dick’s throat.”
In the abstract at least, Pete Maxwell had expected to see killing when he went to war—but he had not expected to see murder. He had known he almost certainly would, serving his country, witness carnage, that he would see death and blood and terrible wounds; he had even accepted (again, in the abstract) that he himself might be wounded or killed or kill someone else. But a fellow sailor, a fellow officer, slain by someone on his own side—another American? Never.
Never arrived as Pete forced himself to look down at the lifeless body of his friend. Driscoll had folded up on himself in the confined space, apparently kneeling, then falling forward and tipping onto his side, a thin scarlet gash across his throat, dripping into a modest pool of scarlet.
Softly, in a dazed sort of mumble, Pete said, “Not as much blood as you’d think.”
Rosetti said, “Killer probably missed the jugular and carotid, but did sever the windpipe.”
“And that’ll kill you?”
“Yeah. In half a minute or so.”
Pete was working to keep his breakfast down. The blocky Egan revealed nothing behind a typically stoic mask. Obviously, Rosetti had seen his share of violent death, patrolling the streets of Los Angeles. Still, was Vince looking a little pale around the gills, or was that just the spotty incandescent lighting?
“Well, Mr. Maxwell,” Egan said with dry sarcasm, “you’re our new executive officer now. Congratulations.”
“Aye, sir,” Pete answered, his tongue thick.
“And your first duty is to find the black bastard responsible.”
The Liberty Hill Victory’s new XO gaped at the captain. “Sir . . . ?”
Egan raised one unruly eyebrow and gave Pete something that might have been a smile but was more likely a sneer. “Do I stutter, Mr. Maxwell?”
“No, sir.”
“You are in charge of the inquiry into Mr. Driscoll’s death.” The captain’s chin came up. “You are to take whatever measures necessary in order to find the kill-happy jigaboo who has turned my ship into a goddamned slaughterhouse. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. Uh, sir?”
“What?”
“You seem convinced it was one of our colored crew. I don’t believe I should exclude the white officers and non-coms in my inquiry. Sir.”
The pouches under Egan’s eyes tightened. “You’re right. You need to be thorough. But may I suggest that if in fact one of these black sons of bitches has killed one white officer, he may not hesitate to kill another, and another? Has it escaped your attention, Mr. Maxwell, that we are seriously outnumbered here? That the white teeth floating in the darkness of the Liberty Hill do not belong to the goddamned Cheshire Cat?”
“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”
“You may certainly include the whites in your inquiry. But it is well-known that a knife or razor is the preferred weapon of niggers north and south, and I would suggest you start there.”
Rosetti said, “We haven’t had a bag inspection since San Diego.”
One hundred knives had been confiscated before the Liberty Hill left port.
“That might be wise,” Egan said, eyes slitting beneath the out-of-control brows. “Now, Mr. Maxwell, I’m going to my cabin, where I have paperwork to do. If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Aye, sir,” Pete said.
Egan waggled a thick finger at Pete. “Remember, Mr. Maxwell, I don’t care how you do this thing, just get it done. We’re in the business of shedding Jap blood, not our own.”
“And my other duties, sir . . .?”
“Temporarily suspended. In the meantime, Mr. Connor and Mr. Rosetti . . . and myself, of course . . . will take care of the ship.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Shoving past, Egan strode out of shaft alley, wide enough to damn near fill it, leaving Pete and Rosetti staring at each other with the corpse of their friend slumped nearby.
“He’s passed the fucking buck again,” Pete said, upper lip peeled back over his teeth.
Rosetti shrugged. “Captain’s prerogative.”
Instinctively the two officers moved away, a few yards, from their dead comrade, almost as if they were afraid Driscoll might eavesdrop.
Pete frowned at Rosetti. “You really believe this had to be the work of one of the colored boys?”
“They do outnumber us palefaces something like eight to one. But why would one of them single Dick out, in particular?”
“Why would anybody? Dick could be a sarcastic snob, but that’s no murder motive.” Pete let out a long sigh. “Vince, I’m going to need your help on this. You’re a pro at this stuff—I’m a rank amateur.”
“Pete, buddy—I was a beat cop! You know what I did at murder scenes? I waited till Homicide got there, the plainclothes boys—I don’t know shit from shinola about solving crimes.”
“And I do?”
Rosetti patted the air with two palms. “My job was just to make sure nobody did anything stupid till the dicks arrived. What you need is a real detective—an honest-to-God Sam Spade, and where exactly are you going to find one on this bucket?”
“Well . . . hell.” Pete found himself grinning, even with dead Dick Driscoll so nearby: Vince didn’t know how right he was. “We do have one.”
Rosetti frowned. “Who? Connor? Pete, he wrote for Jack Benny, not The Shadow.”
A certain ir
ony was not lost on Pete—Driscoll had been killed with a sharp blade; yet it was the knife-scarred face of Sarge Washington that had come immediately to mind.
“The skipper said I should take whatever measures were necessary to catch this killer, right?”
Rosetti’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah . . . that’s what he said. Why am I suddenly nervous?”
Pete answered this rhetorical question by telling his friend who the detective on the Liberty Hill was.
Rosetti’s mouth dropped open; when he got it working again, he managed, “You got to be fucking kidding me, right? A colored shamus? What is he, black Irish?”
Pete said nothing.
“Is there such a thing as a black detective? Where the hell do they have ’em?”
“South Side of Chicago, for one. How do you think he got the nickname ‘Sarge’? Not in the white man’s Navy!”
But Rosetti was past his initial astonishment now. “He was a sergeant with the Chicago PD, you say?”
“He was,” Pete said. “Detective bureau, too.”
Rosetti sighed, shook his head. “I don’t know, Pete. None of that cancels out the fact he’s colored. Here we are, sitting on that powderkeg Dick Driscoll always talked about, and you think it’s a good idea to have one of the enemy goin’ around
lighting matches on the subject!”
“Who’s the enemy?”
“Well . . . in this situation, these coloreds. You know damn well Egan’s right—one of them did it. Got a white officer alone and took out a razor and got even for hundreds of years of—”
“Of us assuming the worst about them? Calling them ‘coloreds’ and sticking razors in all their hands?”
Rosetti scowled. “Don’t you go making me out a bigot! I got friends in L.A. every damn color in the rainbow—how many pals you got back in Iowa who aren’t as pasty-faced as you, Pete?”
This was rich, coming from somebody as pasty-faced as Rosetti about now; but Pete let it pass.
Instead he said, “Let me grant you that the Negroes are our major suspect pool. But if we want to get cooperation out of them, how better than having one of their own handling the inquiry? They’ll see their interests fairly represented, and know we’re not just rushing to get some kind of revenge.”
Rosetti said nothing for fifteen or twenty seconds, really thinking over what Pete was saying. Finally he said, “All right, I’ll admit you got a point, Mrs. Roosevelt . . . but do you really think our local Klan reps, Griffin and Whitford, will stand for questioning by a colored seaman?”
Pete gestured with open hands. “Well, what if Egan promoted Washington? If Sarge was a petty officer, then Griffin and—”
“Listen to yourself, Pete. You really think Egan’s going to promote a black? And about the time the captain gets wind of you turning his precious investigation over to a colored boy, you’ll be knocked back to seaman yourself !”
Knowing his friend was right, Pete said, “Okay, then. One of us’ll have to stay at Sarge’s side, and work with him, and make sure everybody—black and white—cooperates. And since you have police experience—”
Rosetti grinned nastily. “You may be the XO now, Pete, but the captain himself is the only one gets to pass the buck on this bucket. You heard Egan—him and me and Connor run the ship, and you run the investigation.”
“Come on, Vince, be reasonable . . .”
“Reasonable don’t enter into it. The captain was specific about your duty—you will have to officially lead the inquiry, with Washington helping or advising or what-have-you.”
Pete just looked at his friend; then finally he grinned, shook his head, and said, “Thanks for everything, you miserable prick.”
Rosetti grinned back at him, but something bittersweet was in it. “Dick was right—your language is going to hell. You are officially salty, my friend.”
Pete smiled, shook his head again, then turned, leaving Rosetti with the body of Richard Driscoll.
Rosetti frowned at his back. “Where the hell are you going?”
“To find a real detective. Not some damn beat cop.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Make sure nobody does anything stupid,” Pete called over his shoulder, “until the dicks get here.”
Pete started up to the bridge to summon Washington on the intercom, but saw the sailor on the main deck, near one of the winches, deep in conversation with a couple other Negro crewmen. They all snapped to attention as he approached, then saluted.
He returned the salute. “Sarge, a word?”
Washington glanced at the other two sailors, who did a quick disappearing act. The officer and the seaman moved to the rail where Pete offered Sarge a Chesterfield.
Washington took it, and Pete lighted him up with his Zippo, then lit his own smoke.
“Mr. Maxwell, afraid I don’t have nothin’ for you yet, where Orville’s concerned. I buttonholed him this morning, and the boy still won’t spill who’s been messing with him. Fact, he told me to just forget about it.”
“This is something else,” Pete said, waving that off. “Another problem. Bigger problem.”
Washington’s eyes narrowed. “What’s happened, Mr. Maxwell?”
“It’ll get around the ship soon enough—for now I need you to stay mum about this.”
“About what?”
Pete exhaled smoke. “Sarge, we’ve had a killing below deck. A murder.”
“Jesus Christ. Who?”
Pete told him.
Washington shook his head. “Damn. Somebody murder the exec? Who in hell would do a damn fool thing like that?”
“That’s what I need your help to find out.”
“My help? Hell, Mr. Maxwell—I’m just another colored seaman.”
“No you aren’t, and you sure as hell know it. Right now you’re one valuable seaman, colored or white, because of what you did in civilian life.”
Shrugging, Washington said, “Wasn’t Mr. Rosetti a cop, before the war? Better an officer, a white officer, do this thing.”
“Vince walked a beat. We need a detective.”
“You mean you need a colored detective, to help keep the peace on your slave ship.”
“I didn’t say that. And I think I deserve better than that.”
“You probably do,” Washington said, sighing smoke. “Who found Mr. Driscoll?”
“Orville did.”
Washington gave Pete a hard look. “You said this wasn’t about Orville.”
“Far as I know, it isn’t. A body turns up in shaft alley, one of the oilers finds it, happens to be Orville. Now you know as much about it as I do.”
Washington smirked mirthlessly. “Does seem like that little fairy turns up wherever and whenever there’s trouble on this ship.”
“Well, he’s the first man you’ll talk to, then.”
Washington’s eyes and nostrils flared. “That’s it, isn’t it? You already decided a Negro did this, and I’m appointed Uncle Tom, to put a black face on this necktie party.”
Pete sent his cigarette sailing over the rail. “Listen to me, Washington. That’s not who I am, and you damn well know it. I make no assumption that this was the work of a Negro.”
“Then you’re a fuckin’ fool—it’s mostly Negroes on the ship, and the weapon’s a knife. We both know—even if Captain Egan don’t—that the last mix-up on this ship was a knife fight . . . ’tween me and another colored sailor.”
But Pete was already shaking his head. “I’m not trying to put a black or a white face on this inquiry. I need a detective and it’s my damn luck that you’re the only one around. All I want, Mr. Washington, is to find the truth of this, and to find the son of a bitch who killed my friend.”
A humorless laugh rumbled up out of Washington’s chest. “You after truth or revenge, Mr. Maxwell? Best make up your mind.”
“Call it what you want, Sarge. But I promise if you can help me find the killer, black or white, we will lock him up until we get to port, where
he’ll face court-martial. You have my word. Nobody gets lynch-mobbed on my watch.”
Washington’s gaze was cool and hard now. His voice had a surprising lightness of tone as he asked, “You really think I’d help you put a black man away, Mr. Maxwell.”
Pete met the sailor’s gaze. “Yes. I believe you would put away your mother, if she did a crime.”
Shaking his head, Washington said, “Now you’re flat-out wrong, Mr. Maxwell. I’d let my mama walk.” He grinned suddenly. “Now everybody else? They is fair game.”
“Good. You’ll help me, then.”
“I will. Got a condition or two, Mr. Maxwell.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“First, you’re with me every step of the way. I’ll be your colored Sherlock, but I need me a white Watson.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Second, we finish this no matter where it leads.”
“Sarge, I already told you . . .”
Washington held up a hand. “No matter who did this, looking into this murder, we gonna have to tear this ship apart . . . and this ship, this crew, will tear itself apart at the same time. You get my meaning?”
Pete frowned. “I don’t think it has to. We’ll be fair and straightforward and—”
“Mr. Maxwell, right now this crew be eating oatmeal and spoiled mutton, you hadn’t stepped in. So now is not the time to pass the piss and say it’s rose water. We both know this is an ammo ship full of Negroes run by white men that could go off any time; we start pokin’ around, we just might light the fuse.”
“You’re saying, we put a Negro sailor in the brig on a murder charge and we could have a race riot on our hands.”
“Yeah. I am.”
Pete exhaled smoke. He thought for a moment or two. Then: “We’re in the middle of the Pacific in the middle of a war, Sarge. We can’t ignore the murder of an officer by a person unknown on this ship. Who’d be murdered next?”
Sarge raised an eyebrow. “More likely you than me, Mr. Maxwell.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What do you suggest?”
Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II Page 17
