“Maybe I don’t know,” Lansing remarked. “Maybe you don’t either.”
The bartender in the Montgomery Barracks officers’ club poured a scotch on the rocks for Captain Cross. Lansing slid onto the stool beside Cross as the Captain sat by the bar, sipping his drink.
“Had a long day, Captain?” the CID investigator inquired.
“Oh, hello, Major.” Cross smiled weakly. “Join me in a little bracer?”
“No, thanks. I’m still on duty.”
“I take it that means you have a few questions for me,” Cross remarked, glancing around the nearly empty cocktail lounge. Although dimly lit, the room was obviously occupied by only a few patrons, all of whom were indulged in their own conversations. “Here is as good a place as any to ask them.”
“All right,” Lansing agreed. “When you were telling me about the SMITTEN project, why didn’t you include the fact that the USAEUR adoption program was your idea?”
“I didn’t really see what that had to do with it.”
“It might have quite a lot. Didn’t you resent Benton for going against your brainchild?”
“Perhaps a little bit,” Gross admitted. “But he wasn’t responsible for SMITTEN’s rejection. I told you before that it was Washington that scrapped SMITTEN not Benton.”
“You seem to take such a setback quite calmly, Captain. If SMITTEN had been successful you’d be a shoe-in for a promotion this year.”
“Something else will come up. I’ll make rank sooner or later. I’m not in any real rush. I’m still young.”
“Yes, you are. You’re quite young for the rank you’ve already achieved. Of course, your ROTC grades were outstanding and you seem to find the military life quite acceptable.”
“Don’t you, sir?”
“I do now, but it took me some time to find an MOS that suited me. Of course, I’m an Officers’ Candidate School graduate. I never went to ROTC. You must have gotten a head start at a younger age.”
Cross shrugged. “I was in an orphanage or two that had pretty strict discipline. Maybe that helped.”
“Yes, I remember that from your 201 file. Your foster parents lost your adoption papers in a fire. The Army must have been quite distressed not to have a birth certificate or any document to replace it.”
“They were.” Cross extracted a pack of cigarettes and a butane lighter.
“Did Lundy repair your television set?”
“What?” Cross asked, an unlit cigarette dangling from his half open mouth. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you did take him out for a couple of drinks afterward.”
“I’m sorry I did.” Cross sighed. “I’d hoped to get him to open up, to tell me what had been bothering him. I didn’t think he’d try to drown his troubles after he started talking about them.”
“What was his problem?”
“A girl. He fell in love with a German National. The poor bastard planned to marry her, but she turned out to be a tramp. She dumped him for a kraut from a well-to-do family. I can’t help feeling somewhat responsible for what happened to him. Maybe if I hadn’t taken him to that tavern he’d still be alive today.”
“You took him back to the billets?”
The Captain nodded.
“And did you escort, him to his room?”
“No. The CQ did, I suppose. At least, I told the NCO in Charge of Quarters duty to see to it he got upstairs. Lundy was so drunk tie could hardly walk and his speech was just an unintelligable slur.”
“I see,” Lansing commented. “But he did fix your TV?”
“I don’t know why you’re curious, but yes, he did.”
“One can never have too much information when investigating a homicide case, Captain.”
“Are you talking about Lieutenant Benton’s death or Specialist Lundy’s?”
“Maybe both.” The Major replied as he rose from the bar stool.
Lansing found a telephone in the vestibule of the officers’ club. Dialing the number to his office, the CID investigator stared out a nearby window, observing the dimness of twilight giving way to the darkness of night. SP5 Wendy Davis answered the phone at the other end of the line.
“How’s the investigation going, sir?” she asked.
“I seem to be finding more questions and no answers,” Lansing said. “How have you been doing?”
“I’ve been trying to find out what happened to Spec. Four Robert Lundy’s corpse, but nothing has come back to me yet. I did a little checking on the late Lieutenant Benton, however. Considering the high status of S-2 personnel, I decided to try the Adjutant General’s office. It seems Benton had arranged for a meeting at the end of the month with the A.G. concerning certain suspicions regarding one of his fellow workers, but he didn’t want to say who it was until he had some more solid evidence.”
“I suppose this is too much to hope for, but did he specify what kind of suspicions he had?”
“Afraid not, sir. He only said it was a critical matter.”
“Hmmm, it’s beginning to look like you should be the investigator and I should be pounding the typewriters,” Lansing mused. “I think you’ve put in a long enough day’s work, Wendy. Get some sleep and maybe some news about Lundy will be waiting for us in the morning. I’ve still got a couple things to do here. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
He hung up and walked outside to his car. Climbing into the Volkswagen, Lansing unlocked its glove compartment and extracted a pair of steel handcuffs. Slipping them inside his belt, he turned on the engine and drove to the Headquarters Battery across the street from the head shed. He entered the billets and asked the CQ if Spec. Four Smothers was in his room. As Lansing suspected, Smothers had left Montgomery Barracks in the early evening and had not returned. Lansing thanked the CQ, then left the billets, returned to his car and waited.
Smothers finally returned to the base at 0127 Hours. Although Smothers was dressed in civilian clothes (a flowery shirt, checkered bell-bottoms and platform shoes), Lansing recognized him. Emerging from his car, the Major beckoned to the Spec. Four, urging him to approach the Volkswagen. Reluctantly, Smothers obeyed.
“Yes, sir?” The enlisted man’s eyes were wide open and his speech nervously rapid.
“Please take everything out of your pockets and place it on the hood of my car,” Lansing told him.
“What for?” Smothers inquired.
“We’ll discuss that after you’ve emptied your pockets.”
With trembling hands, Smothers obliged. He removed a wallet, some coins, a pack of chewing gum and two keys from his pockets.
“Now take off your shoes.”
Smothers’ tongue slid along his dry, colorless lips as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Bending slowly, he untied his left shoe and pulled it off. Suddenly, he shot upright and swung the foot gear across his body, the shoe held by the toe, the thick heel a club-like weapon.
Lansing met the attack, the sides of both hands striking Smothers’ forearm. The twin shuto strokes chopped down hard, stopping the arm and forcing the shoe to fall from numb fingers, moving quickly, Lansing caught the EM’s arm and twisted it behind his neck as he propelled him into the car with a knee to the rump.
“Figured you might do something stupid,” the Major rasped as he held Smothers’ wrist between his shoulder blades with one hand to draw the handcuffs with the other. Keeping a knee between his prisoner’s legs to discourage any attempt to stomp or kick backward, Lansing expertly cuffed his hands behind his back.
Using a knee to check Smothers’ left leg. Lansing seized his right ankle and hauled the prisoner onto the curve hood of the VW, scattering the former contents from Smothers’ pockets. Untying the remaining shoe, Lansing removed it. A small package wrapped in brown paper fell to the pavement.