The McBain Brief (19 page)

Caputo had the
garments separated and tagged when I got there.

“You're not going to get much out of these,” he told me.

“No luck, huh?”

He held out the pink blanket. “Black River Mills. A big trade name. You can probably buy it in any retail shop in the city.” He picked up the small pink sweater with the pearl buttons. “Toddlers, Inc., ditto. The socks have no markings at all. The undershirt came from Gilman's here in the city. It's the largest department store in the world, so you can imagine how many of these they sell every day. The cotton pajamas were bought there, too.”

“No shoes?”

“No shoes.”

“What about the diaper?”

“What about it? It's a plain diaper. No label. You got any kids, Dave?”

“One.”

“You ever see a diaper with a label?”

“I don't recall.”

“If you did, it wasn't in it long. Diapers take a hell of a beating.”

“Maybe this one came from a diaper service.”

“Maybe. You can check that.”

“Safety pins?”

“Two. No identifying marks. Look like five-and-dime stuff.”

“Any prints?”

“Yeah. There are smudged prints on the pins, but there's a good partial thumbprint on one of the pajama snaps.”

“Whose?”

“It matches the right thumbprint on the stat you sent down. Mrs. Dreiser's.”

“Uh-huh. Did you check her prints against the ones from the pew?”

“Nothing, Dave. None of her, anyway.”

“Okay, Cappy. Thanks a lot.”

Cappy shrugged. “I get paid,” he said. He grinned and waved as I walked out and headed upstairs again. I met Pat in the hallway, coming down to the lab after me.

“What's up?” I asked.

“I called the Naval Hospital. They gave me the last address they had for the guy. His name is Carl Dreiser, lived at 831 East 217th Street, Bronx, when the baby was born.”

“How come?”

“He was a yeoman, working downtown on Church Street.
Lived with his wife uptown, got an allotment. You know the story.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I sent Artie to check at that address. He should be calling in soon now.”

“What about the sailor?”

“I called the Church Street office, spoke to the commanding officer, Captain”—he consulted a slip of paper—“Captain Thibot. This Dreiser was working there back in November. He got orders in January, reported aboard the U.S.S. Hanfield, DD 981, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard on January fifth of this year.”

“Where is he now?”

“That's the problem, Dave.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The Hanfield was sunk off Pyongyang in March.”

“Oh.”

“Dreiser is listed as missing in action.”

I didn't say anything. I nodded, and waited.

“A telegram was sent to Mrs. Dreiser at the Bronx address. The Navy says the telegram was delivered and signed for by Alice Dreiser.”

“Let's wait for Artie to call in,” I said.

We ordered more coffee and waited. Pat had checked the phone book, and there'd been no listing for either Carl or Alice Dreiser. He'd had a list typed of every Dreiser in the city, and it ran longer than my arm.

“Why didn't you ask the Navy what his parents' names are?” I said.

“I did. Both parents are dead.”

“Who does he list as next of kin?”

“His wife. Alice Dreiser.”

“Great.”

In a half hour, Artie called in. There was no Alice Dreiser living at the Bronx address. The landlady said she'd lived there until April and had left without giving a forwarding address. Yes, she'd had a baby daughter. I told Artie to keep the place staked out, and then buzzed George Tabin and told him to check the Post Office Department for any forwarding address.

When he buzzed back in twenty minutes, he said, “Nothing, Dave. Nothing at all.”

We split the
available force of men, and I managed to wangle four more men from the lieutenant. Half of us began checking on the Dreisers listed in the phone directory, and the rest of us began checking the diaper services.

The first diaper place I called on had a manager who needed only a beard to look like Santa Claus. He greeted me affably and offered all his assistance. Unfortunately, they'd never had a customer named Alice Dreiser.

At my fourth stop, I got what looked like a lead.

I spoke directly to the vice-president, and he listened intently.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps.” He was a big man, with a wide waist, a gold watch chain spraddling it. He leaned over and pushed down on his intercom buzzer.

“Yes, sir?”

“Bring in a list of our customers. Starting with November of 1952.”

“Sir?”

“Starting with November of 1952.”

“Yes, sir.”

We chatted about the diaper business in general until the list came, and then he handed it to me and I began checking off the names. There were a hell of a lot of names on it. For the month of December, I found a listing for Alice Dreiser. The address given was the one we'd checked in the Bronx.

“Here she is,” I said. “Can you get her records?”

The vice-president looked at the name. “Certainly, just a moment.” He buzzed his secretary again, told her what he wanted, and she brought the yellow file cards in a few minutes later. The cards told me that Alice Dreiser had continued the diaper service through February. She'd been late on her February payment, and had cancelled service in March. She'd had the diapers delivered for the first week in March but had not paid for them. She did not notify the company that she was moving. She had not returned the diapers they'd sent her that first week in March. The company did not know where she was.

“If you find her,” the vice-president told me, “I'd like to know. She owes us money.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I said.

The reports on the Dreisers were waiting for me back at the precinct. George had found a couple who claimed to be Carl's aunt and uncle. They knew he was married. They gave Alice's maiden name as Grant. They said she lived somewhere on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, or at least
had
lived there when Carl first met her, they hadn't seen either her or Carl for months. Yes, they knew the Dreisers had had a daughter. They'd received an announcement card. They had never seen the baby.

Pat and I looked up the Grants on Walton Avenue, found a listing for Peter Grant, and went there together.

A bald man in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging over his trousers, opened the door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Police officers,” I said. “We'd like to ask a few questions.”

“What about? Let me see your badges.”

Pat and I flashed our buzzers and the bald man studied them.

“What kind of questions do you want to ask?”

“Are you Peter Grant?”

“Yeah, that's right. What's this all about?”

“May we come in?”

“Sure, come on in.” We followed him into the apartment, and he motioned us to chairs in the small living room. “Now, what is it?” he asked.

“Your daughter is Alice Dreiser?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you know where she lives?”

“No.”

“Come on, mister,” Pat said. “You know where your daughter lives.”

“I don't,” Grant snapped, “and I don't give a damn, either.”

“Why? What's wrong, mister?”

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's none of your business, anyway.”

“Her daughter had her neck broken,” I said. “It is our business.”

“I don't give a . . .” he started to say. He stopped then and looked straight ahead of him, his brows pulled together into a tight frown. “I'm sorry. I still don't know where she lives.”

“Did you know she was married?”

“To that sailor. Yes, I knew.”

“And you knew she had a daughter?”

“Don't make me laugh,” Grant said.

“What's funny, mister?” Pat said.

“Did I know she had a daughter? Why the hell do you think she married the sailor? Don't make me laugh!”

“When was your daughter married, Mr. Grant?”

“Last September.” He saw the look on my face, and added, “Go ahead, you count it. The kid was born in November.”

“Have you seen her since the marriage?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen the baby?”

“No.”

“Do you have a picture of your daughter?”

“I think so. Is she in trouble? Do you think she did it?”

“We don't know who did it yet.”

“Maybe she did,” Grant said softly. “She just maybe did. I'll get you the picture.”

He came back in a few minutes with a picture of a plain girl wearing a cap and gown. She had light eyes and straight hair, and her face was intently serious.

“She favors her mother,” Grant said, “God rest her soul.”

“Your wife is dead?”

“Yes. That picture was taken when Alice graduated high school. She graduated in June and married the sailor in September. She's . . . she's only just nineteen now, you know.”

“May we have this?”

He hesitated and said, “It's the only one I've got. She . . . she didn't take many pictures. She wasn't a very . . . pretty kid.”

“We'll return it.”

“All right,” he said. His eyes began to blink. “She . . . If she's in trouble, you'll . . . you'll let me know, won't you?”

“We'll let you know.”

“Kids . . . kids make mistakes sometimes.” He stood up abruptly. “Let me know.”

We had copies
of the photo made, and then we staked out every church in the neighborhood in which the baby was found. Pat and I covered the Church of the Holy Mother, because we figured the suspect was most likely to come back there.

We didn't talk much. There is something about a church of any denomination that makes a man think rather than talk. Pat and I knocked off at about seven every night, and the night boys took over then. We were back on the job at seven in the morning, every morning.

It was a week before she came in.

She was a thin girl, with the body of a child and a pinched, tired face. She stopped at the font in the rear of the church, dipped her hand in the holy water, and crossed herself. Then she walked to the altar, stopped before an idol of the Virgin Mary, lighted a candle, and knelt before it.

“That's her,” I said.

“Let's go,” Pat answered.

“Not here. Outside.”

Pat's eyes locked with mine for an instant. “Sure,” he said.

She knelt before the idol for a long time, and then got to her feet slowly, drying her eyes. She walked up the aisle, stopped at the font, crossed herself, and then walked outside.

We followed her out, catching up with her at the corner. I pulled up on one side of her and Pat on the other.

“Mrs. Dreiser?” I asked.

She stopped walking. “Yes?”

I showed my buzzer. “Police officers,” I said. “We'd like to ask some questions.”

She stared at my face for a long time. She drew a trembling breath then, and said, “I killed her. I . . . Carl was dead, you see. I . . . I guess that was it. It wasn't right—his getting killed, I mean. And
she was crying.” She nodded blankly. “Yes, that was it. She just cried all the time, not knowing that I was crying inside. You don't know how I cried inside. Carl . . . he was all I had. I . . . I couldn't stand it anymore. I told her to shut up and when she didn't I . . . I . . .”

“Come on now, ma'am,” I said.

“I brought her to the church.” She nodded, remembering it all now. “She was innocent, you know. So I brought her to the church. Did you find her there?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “That's where we found her.”

She seemed pleased. A small smile covered her mouth and she said, “I'm glad you found her.”

She told the story again to the lieutenant. Pat and I checked out and on the way to the subway, I asked him, “Do you still want to pull the switch, Pat?”

He didn't answer.

I
wore moccasins, which were against Navy regulations, and the heat of the deck plates scorched up through the thin soles of the shoes, blistering my feet. I sat aft on the fantail, looking out over the heat of Guantanamo Bay, watching the guys from one of the other ships diving over the side and into the water. The water looked cool and clear, and the guys from the other can seemed to be enjoying it. They didn't seem to be afraid of any barracuda. They seemed to be ordinary guys taking an ordinary swim in the drink.

The Cuban sun beat down on my head, scorched through the white hat there, left a soggy ring of sweat where the hat band met my forehead. The Old Man made sure we wore hats, and he posted a notice on the quarterdeck saying no man would be allowed to roam the ship without a shirt on. He was worried about us getting sunburned. He was worried about all that sun up there beating down and turning us lobster red.

But he wouldn't let us swim.

He said there were barracuda in the water. He knew. He was a bigshot Commander who'd politicked his way through Annapolis, and he knew. Sure. He couldn't tell a barracuda from a gold
fish, but he'd pursed his fat lips and scratched his bald head and said, “No swimming. Barracuda.” And that was that.

Except every other ship in the squadron was allowing its crew to swim. Every other ship admitted there were no barracuda in the waters, or maybe there were, but who the hell cared? They were all out there swimming, jumping over the sides and sticking close to the nets the ships had thrown over, and nobody'd got bitten yet.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and I sucked in a deep breath, trying to get some air, trying to sponge something fresh out of the hot stillness all around me. I sucked in garbage fumes and that was all. The garbage cans were stacked on the fantail like rotting corpses. We weren't supposed to dump garbage in port, and the garbage scow was late, but did the Old Man do anything about that? No, he just issued stupid goddamn orders about no swimming, orders he . . .

“Resting, Peters?”

I jumped to my feet because I recognized the voice. I snapped to and looked into the skipper's face and said, “Yes, sir, for just a moment, sir.”

“Haven't you got a work station?” he asked. I looked at his fat lips, pursed now, cracking and dried from the heat. I looked at his pale blue eyes and the deep brown color of his skin, burned from the sun and the wind on the open bridge. My captain, my skipper. The Commander. The louse.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have a work station.”

“Where, Peters?”

“The radar shack, sir.”

“Then what are you doing on the fantail?”

“It was hot up there, sir. I came down for a drink at the scuttlebutt, and I thought I'd catch some air while I was at it.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded his head, the braided peak of his cap
catching the hot rays of the sun. The silver maple leaf on the collar of his shirt winked up like a hot eye. He looked down at the deck, and then he looked at my feet, and then he said, “Are those regulation shoes, Peters?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Why not?”

“My feet were sweating in . . .”

“Are you aware of my order about wearing loafers and moccasins aboard ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why are you wearing moccasins?”

“I told you, sir. My feet . . .”

“Why are you wearing white socks, Peters?”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, goddamnit. Regulation is black socks. The uniform of the day is posted every day in the midships passageway, Peters. The uniform for today is dungarees, white hats, black socks and black shoes. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know that we are here on shakedown cruise, Peters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know that the squadron commander may pop in on this ship at any moment? Do you know that? What do you think he'd say to me if he found men in white socks and moccasins? What the hell do you think this is, Peters? A goddamn country club?”

“No, sir.”

“When's the last time you had a haircut, Peters?”

“Last week, sir.”

“Don't lie to me, Peters.”

“Last week, sir,” I repeated.

“Then get down to the barber shop after sweepdown, do you understand? And you'd better shave, too, Peters. I don't like any man in my crew looking like a bum.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I . . .”

“Get back to your station. And if I find you goofing off again, Peters, it's going to be your hide, remember that. Now get going.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Change those socks and shoes first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And on the double, Peters.”

“Yes, sir.”

I left him and went down to the aft sleeping compartment. It was hotter down there, and you could feel the sweat clinging to the sides of the ship, dripping from the bulkheads. There was a stink down there, too, a stink worse than garbage, the stink of men living in cramped quarters. I went to my locker and lifted the top, and Ramsey, a Radioman Second, looked down from his sack. He was in his skivvies, and his bare chest and legs were coated with perspiration.

“Man,” he said, “and I thought it was hot in Georgia.”

“The Old Man is prowling,” I told him. “You better move your ass.”

“Let him prowl,” Ramsey said. “That one don't scare me none.”

“No, huh?” I said. I took out a pair of black socks and the regulation black shoes, and then I kicked off the moccasins and pulled off the white socks. “Maybe you like losing liberty, huh, Ramsey? If the Old Man catches you sprawled out like that, you'll get a Captain's Mast, at least.”

“You know what he can do with his Mast, don't you?” Ramsey asked, smiling and stretching out.

“How come you're so brave, Ramsey?” I asked, putting on the black socks.

“How come? I'll let you in on a secret, Dave. You really want to know?”

“Yeah, how come?”

“I'm sick, man. I got me cat fever. The Chief Pharmacist's Mate himself, he said I got to lay flat on my keester. That's what he said. So let the Old Man come down here and say something, just let him. I'll tell him just where the crowbar goes.”

“You wouldn't tell him nothing,” I said, smiling. “You and the skipper are buddies.”

“Sure,” Ramsey said.

“I think you really like the Old Man.”

“Only one way I'd like him,” Ramsey said.

“How's that?”

Ramsey rolled over. “Dead,” he said.

I went up
to the radar shack after changing, and I got to work, piddling around with a bucket and a rag, wiping off the radar scopes, fooling with the plotting boards, making like I was working. The radar shack was about as big as a flea's nose, and I'd already cleaned it thoroughly after chow. That made no difference to the Navy. In the Navy, you cleaned it again, or you pretended to clean it again. Anything to keep you busy. Anything to keep you from enjoying a swim when the thermometer was ready to pop.

Gary came in while I was behind the vertical plotting board, and he said, “What're you doing, Peters?”

“What the hell does it look like I'm doing?” I asked him.

“It looks like you're working,” he said, “but I know that can't be so.”

“Yeah, stow it,” I told him.

“You shouldn't be nasty to non-commissioned officers, Peters,” he said. He smiled a crooked smile, and his buck teeth showed in his narrow face. “I could report you to the Old Man, you know.”

“You would, too,” I said.

“He don't like you to begin with.” Gary smiled again, enjoying the three stripes he wore on his dress blues, enjoying the three stripes he'd inked onto his denim shirt. “What'd you do to the old boy, Dave?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Well, he sure don't like you.”

“The feelings are mutual,” I said.

“You like mid watches, Dave?”

“Whattya mean?” I asked.

“We got to stand voice radio watch in port, you know that. Not enough radiomen. I showed the Old Man the watch list. Had you slated for a four to eight this afternoon.”

“So?”

“The Old Man told me to put you on the mid watch.”

“The mid watch? What the hell for? Why . . .”

“Nobody likes to drag up here at midnight, Dave,” Gary said. “But don't be bitter.”

“What the hell did he do that for?” I asked.

Gary shook his head. “He just don't like you, chum. Hell, he don't like any enlisted man on this ship—but you he likes least of all.”

“The hell with him,” I said. “I've stood mid watches before. Ain't no mid watch going to break me.”

“That's the spirit,” Gary said drily. He paused a moment, and then said, “But you know something, Dave?”

“What?”

“If I had a character like the Old Man riding my tail, you know what I'd do?”

“No. What would you do?”

“I'd kill him,” he said softly. He looked at me steadily, and then turned. “Don't want to interrupt your work, chum,” he said, and then he was gone.

I thought about
that mid watch all morning and, when the chow whistle sounded, I dropped the bucket and rags and headed down for the main deck. I got in line and started talking with one of the guys, Crawley, a gunner's mate. I had my back to the railing so I naturally couldn't see what was going on behind me. Nobody yelled, “Attention!” either, so I didn't know what was happening until I heard the Old Man's voice say, “How about it, Peters?”

I turned slowly, and he was standing there with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face, but the smile didn't reach those cold blue eyes of his.

“Sir?” I said.

“You know what this leaf on my collar means, Peters?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I was standing at attention now, and the sweat was streaming down my face, and my feet were sweating inside the black socks and black shoes.

“Do you know that an enlisted man is supposed to come to attention when an officer appears? Do you know that I am the captain of this ship, Peters?”

“Yes, sir. I know that.”

“I don't think I like the tone of your voice, Peters.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Hereafter, Peters, you keep your eyes peeled, understand? And
whenever you see me coming, I want you to shout, ‘Attention!' in case there are any other members of the crew who don't understand the meaning of respect. Do you understand that, Peters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And so you won't forget it, Peters, perhaps we'll forego liberty for a week when we get back to the States.”

“Sir, I . . .”

“That'll do, Peters. I'll discuss this with the Communications Officer, and you'll be restricted to the ship for a week after we return to Norfolk.”

“I didn't even see you, sir,” I said doggedly. “My back was . . .”

“It's your business to see me, Peters. And from now on, you'd damn well better see me.”

“You're the boss,” I said angrily.

“Yes, Peters,” the captain said coldly. “I am.”

He looked at me steadily for another moment, and then addressed the other guys standing in line. “At ease,” he said, and walked through the passageway near the mess hall.

I watched his back disappear, and then I slouched against the bulkhead, and Crawley, the gunner's mate, said, “That rotten louse.”

I didn't answer him. I was thinking of the mid watch, and now the loss of a week's liberty, after three weeks of shakedown cruise when we'd all been restricted to base. The swabbies on the base all got liberty in Havana, but not the poor slobs who came down to play war games, not us. We roamed the base and bought souvenirs for the folks at home, but you can buy only so many souvenirs in three weeks, and after that you don't even bother going ashore. Sure, Norfolk was a rat town, but it was a town at least, and there were women there—if you weren't too particular—and Stateside
liberty wasn't to be sneezed at, not after three weeks in Guantanamo.

And tomorrow we'd be going out with the cruiser again, and that meant a full day of Battle Stations, the phony General Quarters stuff that was supposed to knit us together into a fighting crew. I didn't mind that business because it wasn't too bad, but after a mid watch—even if you went to sleep right after evening chow, which you never did—it was a back breaker. You got off at four in the morning, provided your relief wasn't goofing, and you hit the sack until reveille. If you averaged two hours sleep, you were doing good. And then Battle Stations all day.

“He rides everybody,” Crawley said. “Everybody. He's crazy, that's all.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I come off a DE,” Crawley said. “We hit more Pacific islands than I can count. This was in the last war, Peters.”

“Yeah,” I said dully.

“We had a guy like this one, too. So we were coming in on Tarawa the night of the invasion and three quartermasters got ahold of him, right on the bridge, right in front of the exec and a pile of other officers. They told that boy that he better shape up damn soon or he was gonna be swimmin' with the sharks. He looked to the exec and the other brass for help, but they didn't budge an inch. Boy, he read the deep-six in everybody's eyes.”

“What'd he do?” I asked.

“He gave the con to the exec, right then and there, and we were never bothered by him again. He transferred off the ship inside a month.”

“He must've come onto this tub,” I said.

“No, he couldn't hold a candle to our Old Man. Our Old Man
is the worst I ever met in the Navy, and that includes boot camp. He's a guy who really deserves it.”

“Deserves what?” I asked.

“A hole between the eyes maybe. Or some arsenic in his goddamned commanding officer's soup. Or a dunk in the drink with his damn barracuda.”