“Boy, Norfolk’s sure gettin’ it’s share.”
“Yeah.”
“First the dead broad, then Schaefer, then this jerk. This town is jinxed.”
“I’m trying to shave,” he answered.
“O.K., O.K., shave.” Petroff turned away angrily, obviously hurt by his shipmate’s indifference.
He watched Petroff in the mirror for a moment, and then turned his attention from the gunner’s mate, smiling. Jean Dvorak was still on his mind, a ripe fig waiting to be plucked and swallowed whole. One bite. Zoom, down the hatch. And after that... Hell, after the first time, it was easy.
Like murder.
He didn’t like thinking about murder, but he had to admit it got a little easier each time. Especially when you got away with it. And getting away with it was almost as easy as the actual killing. Now there was a disgusting word. Well, that’s what it was. A rose by any other name... Jesus, but Jean smells sweet. Not a perfume smell, no, just a good soap smell, clean, like everything about her. Oh, this is going to be a peach, this is going to be like nothing ever.
That sonofabitch Greg, of course, never knew what hit him. An object lesson for all practical jokers. Play with fire, and you wind up with your brains scattered on the concrete. I should have spotted his bluff right away, but Jesus, he sounded like he had the goods. Well, he’s got the goods now, but a lot it’s going to get him. Maybe a cloud and a harp. Or maybe a pitchfork and an asbestos suit. Serve the bastard right. He shouldn’t have played with me that way. I can’t take chances now. Murder has come easy, but it won’t be so easy if I’m caught, and so I’ve got to be careful, very careful now. The slightest hint, and then I move again. I have to. I can’t take chances. Claire was a snap, and so was Schaefer — but Schaefer knew, and so did Greg. Well, he knew for a second before he found himself doing a swan dive. Anybody who knows is a danger to me. Anybody who knows is leading me straight to the gallows, helping me slit my own throat.
He rinsed his razor, and then he washed the lather from his face. He ran the back of his hand along his cheek. Smooth. Jean would like that. Jean didn’t go for the gorilla type. Jean wanted it tender and gentle, like an opening bud. Well, Bud, I’m just the man to fill the bill. Shake hands.
She was waiting in front of the movies at eight sharp. She wore a sweater and skirt and, because it was a brisk night, a tweed topper. She wore seamless stockings and dark-blue pumps. A long string of pearls trailed over the rise of her bosom beneath the topper. She had tucked her blonde hair under a kerchief, but a pale wisp had come loose, and it hung limply on her forehead now.
She was slightly nervous, and she watched the faces of the passers-by, alternately looking for him and then for someone who might be able to identify her. She was aware of the pounding of her heart beneath the woolen sweater. She was very ill at ease, and she felt sneaky, but she did want to see him because she had to know exactly what she felt, had to determine in her own mind just what was what.
When the car pulled to the curb, she figured it for a pickup attempt. She glanced at it quickly, and then turned her head away.
“Jean,” he called.
She turned to the car again. It was he, behind the wheel of the car!
He opened the door for her, not getting out of the car, and she walked to it hastily and climbed in, slamming the door behind her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. Where’d you get the car?”
“I hired it. You don’t really feel like going to a movie, do you?”
“Well, I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” She hoped she hadn’t sounded coy, because she honestly hadn’t intended to.
“A drive, I thought. Look at all those stars, Jean. Millions of them.”
“Yes,” she said. “They’re lovely, aren’t they?”
“And maybe a hamburger and some good hot coffee afterward. Are you game?”
“Whatever you say,” she said, smiling.
He pulled the car away from the curb. It was a late-model convertible, but the top was leaky, and she felt chilly.
“You look pretty,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“How do I look?”
She glanced over at him. He was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat, and a blue suit, she supposed; it was very hard to tell in the dim interior of the car. She thought he looked very handsome, though, and she said, “You look nice.”
“Disappointed?”
“No.”
“Good. Where to?”
“Anywhere. You’re driving.”
“O.K., fine. You didn’t feel like a movie, did you?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m still a little nervous,” she said.
“Well, relax. That’s one of the reasons I got the car. I figured you’d feel more secure.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
“I guess it’s just— Oh, things have been in an uproar at the hospital. I mean, it may be that. It may have something to do with this.”
“What kind of an uproar?” he asked.
“Well, you saw the bedlam when you checked out this morning, didn’t you?”
“Greg, you mean?”
“Yes. Wasn’t that a terrible thing? He was such a nice boy.”
“Yeah, he seemed like a nice guy.”
“Sometimes I think— Oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“Well, we were always very friendly, Greg and I. He was a nice person to work with, do you know what I mean? Always a cheerful word. We talked a lot, especially when we had the night duty together. He played the violin, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Yes, he did. Not very well, I suppose, but he had a feeling for it. He was really a very gentle person under that rough exterior of his.”
“Yes, he seemed to be a nice gentle guy.”
“And I got to know him pretty well, which is why I feel... well, it’s almost like the kiss of death. Everything I touch. Claire Cole and now Greg.”
“Jean, that’s a silly way to feel. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
“I can’t help it, it’s just the way I feel.”
“Well, it’s just silly, really. Hell, Claire Cole was killed on my ship. Now, I don’t feel any—”
“Are you off the Sykes?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“Well, sure. And she was killed right there, and so was this guy Schaefer. According to your logic, the whole crew should go around feeling guilty. Now, that’s silly.”
“Schaefer,” she said softly. “The yeoman. Yes.”
“You didn’t know him, did you?”
“No. I just... knew of him.”
“Oh, yeah. Nice guy.”
“He... he committed suicide, too, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Two suicides. So close together.”
“Yeah. Say, are you chilly in here? I can turn on the beater.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” She shook her head. “Poor Greg. You were in the solarium with him just before he — he jumped, weren’t you?”
“Who?”
“You. I thought—”
“What gave you that idea?”
“Guibert said so. He said he left you and Greg alone up there.”
“Oh. Oh, sure. Yeah, I went down a few minutes after Guibert. Nice kid, that Guibert, isn’t he? It’s a pity he’s got that dis—”
“Did Greg say anything to you that might indicate he was—”
“Oh, nothing really. He was just looking sort of morose. In fact, that’s why I left. He was too damn sad for me.”
“Yes.” She was very quiet now, thinking.
“Mind if I stop the car?” he asked.
“What?”
“The car. All right if I pull over?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, if you want to.” She looked up at her surroundings. The road was very dark, and he was pulling off the road, into a little clearing in the woods. He cut off the motor and then leaned back against the seat. “Look at those stars, Jean.”