Brett Halliday
Don’t Fence Me Out
An armed sentry stood outside the closed door. He nodded and opened the door when the rangy detective said, “I’m Mike Shayne.”
There were four uniformed men inside the room. Captain Ott, Military Intelligence, sat behind a flat-topped desk. Another officer sat at his right. A soldier, wearing the three stripes of a buck sergeant, stood a little back from in front of the desk with folded arms, his bronzed face impassive. A private stood at rigid attention in front of Captain Ott’s desk. He was young and he looked frightened. His thin cheeks were freckled and beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
Captain Ott nodded as the door closed behind the Miami private detective. He said, “You got here in a hurry, Mike.”
Shayne said, “I was going out for breakfast when your call caught me.” He pulled off his hat and looked around at the others with a questioning glint in his gray eyes.
Captain Ott leaned back in his swivel chair and said casually, “This is Captain Richards. And Sergeant Blake. And Private Carson. Michael Shayne.”
Captain Richards nodded and grunted something. He had a square, harsh face with round, unblinking eyes, Sergeant Blake said, “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.” Private Carson said nothing. He held himself very stiff and continued to stare at the wall over Captain Ott’s head.
Shayne ran knobby fingers through his bristly red hair and went past the desk to a chair at Ott’s left. A muscle was jumping in the private’s tight jaw.
“I called you over,” Ott told him, “because we may need your help. Private Carson killed a man last night.”
Shayne got a cigarette from his shirt pocket and waited for the captain to go on.
“In line of duty. Private Carson was walking post on guard last night at one of our installations on the keys south of here. At two-thirty a civilian approached his post. Private Carson ordered him to halt but the man continued forward. He repeated the order, and after the third ‘Halt’ he added the warning, ‘or I’ll fire.’ The man continued forward, and in the moonlight was seen to thrust his hand inside his coat. Private Carson fired, as was his duty. The man fell forward, then got to his knees and attempted to level a pistol. Carson fired again, killing him.”
Shayne shrugged and lit his cigarette. “He must have been drunk, deaf, or nuts.”
“It would seem so,” Ott agreed drily. “He was not drunk.” He glanced down at a notation in front of him. “From papers on the body, the dead man has been identified as Lester Moore, of Coral Gables.”
Shayne frowned down at his cigarette. “Dinky Moore? Short and slight? Dark-featured?”
Ott glanced at Captain Richards. He nodded. “That about fits him, doesn’t it, Sergeant?”
The sergeant said, “To a T, Sir.”
“Captain Richards is Company Commander,” Ott explained. “And Sergeant Blake was Sergeant of the Guard last night.”
Shayne crossed one knee over the other and slowly exhaled smoke. His forehead was corrugated above bushy red brows. “Dinky Moore wasn’t deaf nor crazy. A cheap punk — out for any crooked dollar he could get his hands on.” He shook his head. “I can’t see Dinky walking up against an Army forty-five.”
“That’s the curious thing. He didn’t seem at all afraid. As though he was positive there was no real danger. Isn’t that the impression you got, Carson?”
“Yes, Sir.” The young private kept his eyes straight ahead. His voice trembled. “He kept right on coming. Didn’t say a word.”
Shayne said, “This post on the keys. Is it by any chance the same post where practically this same thing happened not more than a month ago?”
“It is,” Ott told him flatly. “In that case, the man approached the front gate which was open. He was unarmed, but disregarded the sentry’s warnings in almost the same manner. It was proved, however, that he was quite drunk. We considered his death accidental until—” The Captain spread out his hands.
“You think there’s a tie-up?”
“It could be coincidence, but—” The Military Intelligence officer doubled his hands up into fists. “Since we entered the war there have been perhaps a dozen such unfortunate deaths throughout the country. Irresponsible youngsters showing off, or drunks. It’s pushing coincidence pretty far to have two of those deaths occur at one isolated post under almost identical circumstances within a few weeks of each other.”
“You think,” said Shayne carefully, “that Dinky Moore thought the fix was on? That he took the sentry’s warnings as just a gesture — expecting another sentry to be on duty?”
“I’m afraid I am thinking along that line. That’s why I called you in, Shayne. To help with the outside investigation, if you will. You know Miami — and men like this Dinky Moore. If we could get a line on his late activities—”
“Do you suspect attempted sabotage?”
“I don’t know what I suspect, Shayne.” Ott’s voice was weary. “I will tell you this: The military establishment in question is one of our most closely guarded military secrets. So far as I know, you are the first civilian to be told that it is, in reality, a secret submarine base for our Caribbean pig-boats. Captain Richards commands the infantry company on detached service to guard the installation. The navy personnel for refueling and refitting submarines live and work underground in carefully camouflaged quarters and shops.”
Shayne tugged at the lobe of his left ear and nodded slowly. “It’s a well-kept secret. I thought it was just a small post for our coastal patrol. Airraid warning or something.”
Captain Ott said crisply, “That’s what everyone is supposed to think. The need for secrecy has been drilled into Captain Richards’ infantrymen. They are allowed only rare six-hour passes off the post which gives them no time for carousing and indiscreet talk in town. No one is allowed inside the wire fence at any time.”
“Close-woven wire,” Captain Richards put in, “with the three gates under constant guard day and night.”
Shayne transferred his attention to the infantry officer. “How often are the guards changed?”
“A new detail every twenty-four hours. Twelve men with a non-commissioned officer in charge. There are four posts,” Captain Richards went on to explain. “Three men are assigned to each post. Two hours on duty and four off.”
“You were in charge of the detail last night?” Shayne looked at the sergeant.
“From four o’clock yesterday afternoon.”
“How did you select the men for their tours of duty on the various posts?”
“I had them count off by fours as they lined up for guard mount. The first four took the first hitch, four to six, on posts one, two, three and four in order. The second group took the second hitch, six to eight.”
Shayne considered this for a moment. “Then their position in line determined what time they’d be on duty at which post. Could a man plan where to get in line to be selected for a certain post at a certain time?”
“Not a chance of it.” Sergeant Blake shook his head doggedly. “We vary the routine of selection every day just to prevent that. Sometimes we count them off by threes — one, two and three for Post Number One, and so on. Sometimes we start at the other end. And sometimes we have them pull numbers out of a hat.”
Shayne shook his head hopelessly. “Then no man could know before guard mount which post he would be walking at a certain period?”
“That’s right.”
“And you don’t allow any trading of posts or tours after the men are assigned?”
“No, sir. That is — not officially. Sometimes the men may trade around a little among themselves.” The sergeant darted an embarrassed glance at his captain. “But there wasn’t any of that last night. I swear there wasn’t.”