“On the Canal, sir.”
“Get rid of it right after inspection, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Regan, step aside,” Phelps said.
“I’ve got it, Phelps,” Devereaux put in.
“I thought—”
“I’ve got it,” Devereaux repeated.
He knelt before David’s locker and began moving the clothing around carefully, committing his invasion of privacy like a gentleman. His hands stopped on a cigar box. He opened it, saw a pile of photographs, and — even though he’d never seen her in his life — instantly recognized the top photo as the girl in Talmadge, Ardis Fletcher. He suddenly bit his lower lip, shoved the box to one side, and thrust his hands to the back of the locker. His hands met resistance and stopped. He glanced up at David. David wiped sweat from his lip again.
“All right, how’s it going down here?” a voice asked from the ladder.
The sailor closest to the ladder shouted, “Atten-shun!”
Devereaux got to his feet, his hands empty, and turned to face the captain as he came down the ladder.
“At ease, at ease,” the captain said. “Have you turned up that piece?”
“No, sir,” Phelps said.
“Mr. Devereaux? You giving these lockers a thorough check?”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
The captain walked to where Devereaux and David were standing side by side. He glanced into David’s open locker. “Where’d you learn to square your gear, Regan?” he asked.
“Great Lakes, sir.”
“That’s a pretty sloppy job, isn’t it? Irish pennants all over the place.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I made a mess of that locker,” Devereaux said.
“Nobody asked you, Mr. Devereaux.” The captain squinted his eyes, studying first Devereaux, and then David. “Step aside,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The captain knelt before the locker. He picked up a pair of socks, threw them back into the locker, and then saw David’s cigar box. “What’s in there, Regan?”
“Some... some pictures, sir.”
“Open it.”
“Yes, sir.”
David knelt and opened the box. His hand was trembling.
“You nervous, Regan?” the captain asked.
“A little, sir.”
“Why?”
“I... I don’t know, sir.”
The captain glanced at the contents of the box, nodded, and said, “Very well, move those jumpers for me.” David picked up the jumpers and put them onto the pile of T shirts which were covering the .45.
“What’s behind those shoes, Regan?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“I saw something back there, Regan.”
“No, sir, I—”
“I saw something, Regan.”
“Oh. Oh, yes, sir. A pair of binoculars.”
“Give them to me.”
David moved his black shoes onto the pile of jumpers and reached to the back of the locker for the binoculars. He handed them to the captain.
“Are these government property, Regan?”
“No, sir. I bought them in Honolulu.”
The captain glanced at them and handed them back. “All right, move those jumpers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the T shirts.”
“Yes, sir.”
With his back to the captain, David squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then picked up the jumpers.
“Come on, Regan, on the double.”
“Sir...” Devereaux started, and then hesitated.
“Yes, Mr. Devereaux?”
“Sir, I’ve searched this locker and...”
Again Devereaux hesitated. David, his hands on the pile of T shirts that were shielding the .45, looked up at Devereaux. He’s going to tell, he thought. He’s going to say he found the gun.
“Yes, what is it, Mr. Devereaux?” the captain said.
“Sir, I think I should tell you—”
“Captain down here?” a voice from the top of the ladder asked.
“He’s here, sir,” one of the seamen answered. The captain turned as Levy, the senior gunnery officer, came down the steps.
“Oh, there you are, sir.”
“What is it, Mr. Levy?”
“I think we’ve found the piece, sir,” Levy said.
“Where?”
“Seaman first class has it, sir. Claims he bought it from a dogface. A soldier, sir.”
“Where is he?”
“Aft sleeping compartment, sir.”
“Let’s talk to him,” the captain said. “Carry on,” he called over his shoulder, and went up the ladder.
“Does he want us to continue the search?” Phelps asked.
“I guess not,” Devereaux answered. “They found the gun.”
“I’d better find out,” Phelps said, and he went up the ladder after the captain.
Devereaux turned to David. In a tight whisper, he said, “Take that gun topside and throw it overboard.”
“Now, sir?”
“Now. Move!”
“Yes, sir!” David grabbed the gun and tucked it under his shirt. In thirty seconds he had thrown it over the side, but he still wondered what Devereaux was about to say when he’d used the opening words, “Sir, I think I should tell you—”
Devereaux, on the other hand, knew exactly what he’d been about to say. He’d been about to say, “Sir, I think I should tell you I’ve found the gun. I was going to report to you privately, sir. I didn’t want to embarrass young Regan before his shipmates.”
That was what he was about to say. He had been spared the statement by the intrusion of Sol Levy, the gunnery officer, and the news that a seaman first class had the missing .45. As it turned out, the .45 really had been purchased from a soldier, but it was considered stolen government property nonetheless, and immediately confiscated. By the time the search was resumed, David had already disposed of the weapon. Devereaux, unfortunately, had not disposed of the nagging knowledge that he’d been about to inform on David to save his own skin.
The thought was a new one to him, and he examined it carefully, examined too the inborn American aversion to the informer. He did not enjoy casting himself in the role of the rat. And yet, undeniably, he had been about to tell on David, would have told on David in the next instant. Anyone would have done the same thing, he thought. It was a matter of Regan or me. What do I owe him anyway? Nothing. I only owe number one, George Devereaux. Still the idea of informing was not a palatable one.
I didn’t tell on him, he thought. But I was about to. Well, maybe I would have changed my mind in the last minute. Maybe I would have said, “Sir, I think I should tell you I’ve searched this locker thoroughly, and you’re only duplicating my effort.” Maybe I would have said that if Levy hadn’t come down the steps at that moment. Maybe I would have protected Regan after all.
But he knew he’d been about to inform, and he knew he would have informed if he hadn’t been interrupted. And he knew, too, that contact with David Regan somehow brought out all the worst elements of his personality, somehow reduced the private image of himself to a person he didn’t even know and, worse, a person he despised.
I have to destroy him, he thought.
At first, he thought he was referring to this image of himself, the image he hated, this person who did things George Devereaux would not have done, this childish man who thought longingly of young girls, this vindictive man who insisted on punishing, this timid man who would not face up to the captain, this intolerant man who mouthed democratic principles, this disgusting man who was an informer.
And then he realized he did not want to destroy this image at all. He only wanted to destroy the source of this image, the one person who caused him to see himself so unflatteringly, David Regan. Unconsciously, he began to plot against David, continuing with the revisions all the while, plotting, plotting. There seemed to be no way of eliminating him, of reducing him to nothingness, no way of ripping David out of his life.