Red Sky in Morning A Novel of World War II

by Patrick Culhane

  But it was too late.

  The hatch swung open and three Negro sailors passed through, carrying the white sheet that shrouded Driscoll’s body. Sarge and the two white officers plastered themselves to the wall so the impromptu funeral procession could squeeze by.

  A white man in a sheet, Sarge thought, never bodes well for Negroes.

  Even though this one was dead.

  No, especially because this one was dead. . . .

  Chapter 11

  AUGUST 31, 1944

  Pete Maxwell couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or slept, but he was committed to this inquiry and would be Sarge Washington’s Siamese Twin until Dick Driscoll’s killer was locked in the brig. But some aspects of the inquiry were harder than others. . . .

  Like right now, Pete standing poised outside Captain Egan’s cabin, ready to knock at his door. Fist frozen in midair, he turned toward the patiently waiting Sarge Washington and asked, “You’re really going to insist I do this?”

  Even to Pete it sounded pitiful.

  The scarred sailor nodded solemnly. “No free rides in a murder case, Mr. Maxwell. You asked for a professional job, well, this is how it goes.”

  Pete had already submitted to interrogation by the Chicago cop, right after the questioning of second-shift oiler, Lenny Wallace. Next up would be the day-shift oiler, Big Brown, then the other two engine-room sailors, Griffin and Whitford; but first, as Sarge said, “We got to get you ruled out, Mr. Maxwell.”

  This apparently involved going over the business about the knife again and again. . . .

  “After you and Mullins mixed it on the pier,” Pete had told Washington, “I confiscated that knife—that is, picked it up, put it in my pocket until we were back onboard that night. After supper, I got Mr. Driscoll to open the ship’s safe in the captain’s office; and I placed the knife inside, on the right-hand side of the second shelf.”

  “You don’t know the combination?” Sarge had asked.

  “No. Of course, I can’t prove I don’t.”

  “Yeah, and I can’t prove you do. That one’s a wash.”

  That was when Sarge had said they’d settle it by going to see the captain and find out if that knife was still where Pete said he’d left it.

  And so, finally, Pete knocked on the captain’s cabin door.

  “What?” came the familiar gruff voice.

  “Maxwell, sir. I need—”

  But the door sprang open before Pete could finish.

  “You’ve found the killer!” Egan said, grinning—the grin combined with those wild-and-wooly eyebrows to make the captain’s happy face as bad as any of his darker ones.

  Egan’s uniform had a slept-in look—chances were he’d caught a nap in the hours since they’d spoken over Dick’s body in shaft alley, when the captain had pledged to retreat to his cabin till further notice.

  “No, sir. Working on that right now. May we come in?”

  Scowling now, Egan stepped aside and gestured for Pete to enter, which he did, Washington trailing behind him.

  Once inside the cabin, Washington came to attention and saluted.

  Egan returned the salute. “At ease, sailor. Mr. Maxwell, what’s this?”

  “Seaman Washington,” Pete said.

  “I know who he is—I commended him not long ago for his leadership on the pier. But what’s he doing here?”

  Pete felt suddenly awkward that Sarge was being spoken of as if the man were a potted plant, unable to explain himself.

  “Sir, I’ve recruited the seaman to help out in our inquiry.”

  “Really,” Egan said, and the wild eyebrows rose. “And why would that be?”

  Pete told Sarge to fill the captain in, and Washington did so, crisply: “Before I joined the Navy, sir, I was a detective with the Chicago Police Department. Handled a good number of homicides.”

  “That so,” Egan said, studying the sailor with no apparent skepticism.

  “It is, sir,” Washington said.

  Nobody said anything for a while, and Pete wondered how much trouble he was in. He’d known it was a risk to bring Sarge into the investigation, and had hoped to fly under the bigoted captain’s radar. But Washington himself had insisted they come, because of that goddamn knife in that goddamn safe. . . .

  Egan grunted something that was damned near a laugh. “You know, Mr. Maxwell, I’ve underestimated you. I gave you carte blanche on this inquiry, and you have outdone yourself.”

  Not convinced this wasn’t sarcasm, Pete nonetheless said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Bringing on board a man with a professional background, that’s an excellent decision. The kind of hard decision a leader needs to make, as we’ve discussed, so often.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “And using a Negro to question Negroes is politic in the best sense of the word. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But woe betide both your asses if you don’t produce.” Now he looked sharply at Washington. “If you’re here for my permission to proceed, you have it. Carry on, men.”

  “We’re here for more than your blessing, sir,” Pete said, “though I’m gratified to get it.”

  Egan frowned. “Oh?”

  Washington said, “Sir, we’re here to check on Mr. Maxwell’s story. He’s a suspect like the rest of us.”

  Egan laughed again, a more obvious one this time. “Well, I’ll be damned. . . .” Then his smile turned cold as he turned his shaggy gaze on Pete. “Mr. Maxwell, if you’re expecting an alibi out of me, well . . . Mr. Washington, the XO was not here with me during the time that murder must have occurred.”

  “I know that, sir,” Washington said patiently. “May we have a look in the ship’s safe?”

  “The safe?” Egan frowned in confusion. “Mr. Maxwell’s alibi is in the ship safe?”

  Washington risked a small smile. “In a way it is, sir.”

  “Well, then,” Egan said, gesturing grandly, “by all means, let’s have a look. . . .”

  The captain led the way through the door that joined the captain’s cabin with his L-shaped office. Egan ushered them in and opened a door on the right, revealing the ship’s boxy safe, about the size of a table-top radio, resting on top of a three-drawer oak file.

  Egan leaned down and spun the dial and turned the crank and swung open the squeaky door. “You tweaked my interest,” Egan admitted. “What could be in here that would alibi Mr. Maxwell?”

  Washington came forward, Pete right behind: they spotted it at the same time, resting on the right-hand side of the second shelf—Mullins’s switchblade.

  Egan frowned. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  Pete withdrew the knife and handed it to Washington, who began to examine the weapon. In the meantime, Pete informed the captain of the truncated scuffle on the dock, the final day of ammo loading, omitting the names of the participants.

  “There was a fight involving a knife,” Egan said coldly, “and no one went to the brig over it?”

  “Sir, the morale of the men was my chief concern—we had another half-day of ammunition loading ahead of us.”

  “And you did not tell me about it?”

  “No, sir. I felt if at some point the incident became known, I should be the one to take the brunt of the blame.”

  Egan thought about that. Pete hoped this line of bull would pass muster with the captain, because protecting Egan had been the last thing on Pete’s mind, really. But it

  sounded good.

  “You take risks, Lieutenant Maxwell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you stand behind them. I respect that.”

  A snick signaled Washington opening the knife. He examined the blade. “No dried blood,” he said. “But we’ll hold on to it . . .”

  Washington folded the knife shut, and placed it back on its shelf.

  “ . . . ’cause the Navy lab boys may find something, when the time comes.”

  Egan, vag
uely amused, asked, “Does this mean Mr. Maxwell is innocent?”

  “Might not be enough for a court,” Washington said. “But I’m comfortable ruling him out.”

  “Good. Now, how do we know you didn’t do the crime, Seaman Washington?” Egan’s tone was genial, almost friendly. “As a leader among the crew, you might have had the occasional run-in with a hard-ass exec like Richard Driscoll. Not difficult to imagine.”

  “Fair point, sir,” Washington said, not rising to the bait. “My best guess is, Mr. Driscoll got killed around midnight, between 23:45 and 0:15. Right then, I was busy and in the presence of witnesses.”

  “Be more specific,” Egan said.

  “Sir, I was playing craps in the fo’c’sle with half a dozen other crewmen.”

  Amusement played on the captain’s thin lips. “Of course you know gambling is illegal on a line ship of the United States Navy.”

  “I do, sir, it surely is illegal. But I’d rather face court-martial for gambling, sir, than a murder I had no part of.”

  The captain and the sailor stared at each other, eyes locked in a silent, motionless dance—like a snake and a mongoose, only Pete had no idea which was which.

  “I could,” Egan said mildly, “instruct Mr. Maxwell to lock you in the brig for running a game of chance aboard my ship.”

  “That’s a fact,” Washington said, his tone as easygoing as the captain’s. “But, first, you might consider a couple things.”

  “Which are?”

  “One, I never said I ran the craps game. I just said I was playing. To stay out the brig, I just got to say I was only watching, which ain’t illegal . . . but I didn’t. I give you the straight dope, Captain.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “That’s the main one,” Washington said, and risked a white smile. “Lock me in the brig and you’ll never catch Mr. Driscoll’s killer.”

  Egan smiled back. “Pretty sure of yourself, sailor.”

  With a little shrug, Washington said, “Mr. Maxwell knows my background and he’s satisfied. Can I ask you something, sir? Meaning no offense?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you trust your officers? Do you back their judgment?”

  Egan drew in breath through his nostrils; the eyebrows were quivering so much, Pete thought they might take flight. Finally, Egan said, “I do. And you are correct in assuming that I stand behind Lieutenant Maxwell’s decision to involve you in this inquiry.”

  Washington smiled again, no teeth this time. “Thank you, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll get back to work.”

  “Please do, men. Dismissed.”

  Neither seaman nor lieutenant moved as Egan closed and locked the safe. When the captain turned to go back into his cabin, Washington was on his heels, Pete trailing.

  Turning to them, Egan said, “I said, dismissed.”

  Pete said, “Sir, you dismissed us to return to our job. The inquiry into Lieutenant Driscoll’s murder.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Washington said, “We need to interrogate the next crew member on our list, sir.”

  “And who would that be?”

  Pete grinned feebly and said, “We thought, while we were here, sir . . .”

  Washington said, “You, sir. Need to rule you out as a suspect, sir.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Egan demanded.

  “There are times, sir,” Washington said, “when I would welcome a Section 8. But right now, I need to ask you some questions. You see, you worked close with Lieutenant Driscoll—he was your XO. You two mighta had problems that was never heard about.”

  Egan’s mouth was open and so were his eyes; he seemed to be trying to decide whether to be outraged or bust out laughing.

  “Sir,” Washington said, “where were you between 23:30 and 00:30 last night?”

  Egan swallowed thickly. Then he said, “You’re well within your rights to ask. I was here in this cabin, in bed, asleep.”

  Pete asked, “No one saw you, sir?”

  “Mr. Maxwell, I’m not in the habit of inviting the crew of this ship in to tuck me in, read me a bedtime story, and stop in periodically to see how well I’m goddamn sleeping.”

  “Yes, sir. Not a good question, sir.”

  Egan’s expression turned shrewd. “A guilty man would have a better alibi—isn’t that right, Mr. Washington? In your experience?”

  Washington said, “A guilty party would have a better alibi ready than that, sir, if he thought he was going to need one.”

  “Exactly.”

  “ ’Course, that assumes the murder was planned. Spur of the moment is something else.”

  Egan scowled at the Negro detective. Pete cringed, wondering if Egan would throw his two investigators into the brig and start over.

  Washington asked, “When did you get the call about Mr. Driscoll?”

  “Right around 00:30,” Egan said, settling down, perhaps sensing that Washington was helping him build an alibi.

  “Before that, who saw you or talked to you last?”

  “One of the Negro corpsmen,” Egan said. “He brought me a bicarbonate around 21:00. I had an upset stomach.

  I took the bicarbonate and worked on the ship’s log until

  22:00, then I went to sleep.”

  “Which corpsman?”

  Egan shrugged, his voice matter-of-fact as he said, “You boys all look alike to me.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “No offense meant, sailor.”

  “None taken,” Washington said, but Pete detected a faint cold edge in his voice. “Does it for now, sir.”

  “Good,” Egan said with a nod. “You fellows find the killer and find him fast. Ship like this has tensions enough without a goddamn maniac aboard. Sooner he’s locked up, sooner we’ll all be safe.”

  In tandem, Pete and Washington said, “Yes, sir.”

  Out in the passageway, Pete said, “Sorry about the ‘all look alike’ remark. Guys his age, well, they grew up in another time. Still . . . I really don’t know how you can put up with that kind of horseshit.”

  They were going down the stairwell from the bridge deck to the boat deck. At the bottom, Washington turned, his eyes cool in the hard scarred mask of his face.

  “Pete, certain kind of white man ain’t happy just hating us—has to all the time try and prove he’s better than us. Hell, I been dealing with the captain’s kind since I could crawl.”

  “But how do you take it?”

  Washington shrugged. “Had my whole life to get used to it, and I know the Captain Egans of this world are flat-out wrong about us being some damn inferior race. And when I catch Lieutenant Driscoll’s killer? Egan’ll know he’s wrong, too.”

  Pete nodded.

  “And so will you,” Washington said quietly.

  “Hell, I already know he’s wrong.”

  Nodding, Washington said, “Is that why you didn’t say anything in there? You waited till we was outside the captain’s office, ’fore you called him on that bigoted jibe of his.”

  “Well, he is the captain. There are a lot of things I don’t correct captains on.”

  “True enough. But next time you hear shit like that, and it’s not coming from the captain or your boss or somebody high up like that . . . but just some buddy of yours, spouting off about stupid niggers? Do us both a favor—call him on it.”

  “Okay,” Pete said, feeling vaguely hurt. “What next? We have more interviews . . .”

  Washington yawned. “Know what? We ain’t neither of us slept in God knows how long—we get bone tired, we’ll screw up, and we can’t afford screwing up. So let’s take a few hours and get some sleep.”

  “Good idea,” Pete said.

  “Meet you at the officers’ mess in four,” Washington said, then disappeared around the corner to head down a flight of stairs to the main deck.

  Pete went to his cabin with a lot more to think about than he’d had for some time. On his bunk, he got Kay’s picture out—the one of her in a whi
te bathing suit that he wouldn’t show anyone—and focused not on her curves but her lovely face.

  So is Sarge right? Am I a bigot like Egan?

  Darling, no—you’re not perfect, but you do your best. You’ve always treated everyone with respect you came in contact with.

  Maybe so, but the things I’ve done for the crew—the reading lessons, the food I fought to get for them, just treating them fair and square—was it out of fear?

  Maybe a little—you’re a smalltown boy, Pete, don’t run from that—it may be your best quality. Men with black faces are new to you, you’re bound to be a little afraid.

  Or have I been decent to them just so I could feel better about myself? Am I just some patronizing jerk?

  If so, you’re my patronizing jerk, and I’m proud of you. . . .

  He tucked her photo away in his wallet, and lay on his back, elbows winged out, body exhausted but his mind buzzing. A sudden, awful wave of guilt washed over him.

  Dick was dead.

  In all the talk of alibis and bigotry, of evidence and race riots, Richard Driscoll was gone forever, his remains sewn in a white-sheet sack, his handsome looks no good to him or anybody, his breeding, his droll wit, useless. The Fantail Four were no more, and the trio remaining—Pete and Vince and Ben—hadn’t even had time to discuss it, to mourn, to raise a glass of anything to his memory.

  “Sorry, Dick,” he said, and he was weeping when he finally fell asleep.

  he officers’ mess became their de facto interrogation room. Pete sat in a leather booth with the witness in a bolted-down chair opposite. Washington preferred to stand. To hover.

  “I like the high ground,” he’d told Pete.

  Four hours of shuteye didn’t sound like much, but Pete had slept deep and now felt refreshed and alive—refocused, ready to go. Washington seemed equally fresh and on top of his game.

  The first man they interviewed was Big Brown, who had to duck to make it through the door. The day-shift oiler ran a hand over his bald head, as if checking for new growth, and took in the room with sweeping eyes—except for the green leather banquettes along two walls, the officers’ mess mirrored the crew’s one deck down.

  “Take a seat,” Washington said.