“War is indeed hell,” Hammett said. “Let me buy you a drink to ease the pain.” He signaled to the bartender. When both men had fresh drinks, he asked, “What brings you to Alaska?”
“Well, you’ll get a good laugh out of this,” Carey said. “You’ll never guess who we found as a supply sergeant at Fort Lewis. Bennie the Grab. And he had Spanish Pete Gomez and Fingers Malone as his corporals.”
“Mother of God,” Hammett said. “It’s a surprise there was anything left worth stealing at that place.”
“You know it, brother,” Carey said. “So you can imagine how we felt when all of the paperwork checked out. Bennie and the boys wouldn’t have gotten much more than a year in the brig for false swearing when they joined up if it hadn’t been for some smart young pencil pusher. He figured out they were sending a lot of food and not much of anything else to the 332nd here at Fort Richardson.”
“Don’t tell me,” Hammett said. “There is no 332nd.”
“That’s right,” Carey said. “The trucks were leaving the warehouses, but the goods for the 332nd weren’t making it to the ships. There wasn’t a restaurant or diner or private dinner party in the entire Pacific Northwest that didn’t feature U.S. Army butter and beef. We scooped up Bennie and the others, a couple of captains, a major, and a full-bird colonel. All the requisitions were signed by a Sergeant Prevo, and I drew the short straw and got sent up here to arrest him and roll things up at this end.”
“It seems you got here just a bit late, Michael,” Hammett said. “Because unless there are two supply sergeants named Prevo, your man got his neck broken in a gin mill last night. My gin mill, if it matters.”
“This damned army,” Carey said. “We didn’t tell anybody at this end, because we didn’t know who might be involved. And it looks like we’ll never find out now, either.”
“I don’t know about that,” Hammett said. “I need to know two things. Were the men running the supply operation at Fort Lewis regular army? And what was it a kid named Billy Tobin got kicked off the force in ‘Frisco for? If you can answer those questions, I might be able to help you.”
Before Hammett went down the hall to the bathroom the next morning, he took a small pistol from his valise and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. He left it there when he went downstairs for bacon and eggs. As he ate, he read an authoritative newspaper story about the Jap army using babies as bayonet practice targets in Manila. He spent the rest of the day in his room, reading and dozing, leaving the room to take one telephone call. He ate no lunch. He looked carefully up and down the hallway before his visit to the bathroom. When his watch read 7:30, he got fully dressed, packed his valise, and sat on the bed. Just at nine P.M., there was a knock on his door.
“Mister,” the desk clerk called. “You got a visitor. The same fella.”
Hammett walked downstairs and settled his bill with the clerk. He and Miller went out and got into a Jeep. Neither man said anything. The joints on the far side of the city limits were doing big business as they drove past. The Carolina Moon was the only dark building. As they pulled up in front of it, Hammett said, “You might want to find yourself a quiet spot to watch the proceedings.”
“What you doing this for?” Miller asked. “Solving murders isn’t your business.”
“This one is my business,” Hammett said. “Zulu’s got to eat, and I want a return on my investment. Nobody’s making any money with the Moon closed.”
“You and Miss Zulu more than just business partners?” Miller asked.
“A gentleman wouldn’t ask such a question,” Hammett said, “and a gentleman certainly won’t answer it.”
Hammett hurried into the building. He had trouble making out the people in the dimly lit barroom. Zulu was there, and the temporary blonde. The marshal. The MP. Carey, a couple of tough-looking gents Hammett didn’t know, and the major from the party. The MP was standing at the bar, looking at himself in a piece of mirror that hung behind it. Everyone else was sitting. Hammett went around behind the bar, took off his coat, and laid it on the bar. He poured himself a drink and drank it off. The MP wandered over to stand next to the door to the hallway.
“I see you’ve got everyone assembled,” Hammett said to Carey.
The investigator nodded.
“The major came to me,” he said. “Said as it was his sergeant that was killed, he wanted to be in on this.”
“That’s one of the things that bothered me about this,” Hammett said. “Major Allen seems to know things he shouldn’t. For instance, Major, how did you know I was involved in this affair?”
The major was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m certain my friend Major Haynes of the military police must have mentioned your name to me.”
“We’ll leave that,” Hammett said. “Because the other thing that bothered me came first. Oscar, did you call the MPs the night of the killing?”
The marshal shook his head.
“Then what was the sergeant doing here?”
“Said he was in the neighborhood,” the marshal said.
“But Oscar,” Hammett said, “don’t the MPs always patrol in pairs on this side of the city limits?”
“They certainly do,” the marshal said. “What about that,’ young fella?”
The MP looked at the marshal, then at Hammett.
“My partner got sick,” he said. “I had to go it alone. Then I saw all them soldiers leaving here and came to see what was what.”
“Michael?” Hammett said.
“Like you said, the duty roster said the sergeant wasn’t even on duty that night,” the investigator said.
Everyone was looking at the MP now. He didn’t say anything.
“This is your case, Oscar,” Hammett said, “so let me tell you a story.
“There’s a ring of thieves operating out of Fort Lewis, pretending to send food to a phony outfit up here, then selling it on the black market. The ones doing the work were crooks from San Francisco. Tobin here would have known them from his time with the police there.
“Their man on this end, the fellow who was killed the other night, didn’t seem to have any connection with them. Michael told me on the telephone today that he was from the Midwest and had never been arrested. He seemed to be just a harmless pansy who used the Moon to meet his boyfriend.”
“That’s disgusting,” the major said.
“That’s what happens when the army makes a place the dumping ground for all of its undesirables, Major,” Hammett said. “What did you do to get sent here?”
“I volunteered,” the major grated.
“I’ll bet you did,” Hammett said. “Anyway, last night Michael reminded me that Tobin here had been run off the San Francisco force for beating up a dancer at Finocchio’s. He claimed the guy made a pass at him, but the inside story was that it was a lovers’ quarrel.”
“That’s a goddamn lie!” the MP shouted.
“It’s just one coincidence too many,” Hammett said, his voice as hard as granite. “You know the San Francisco mob. They’re stealing from the government. Prevo was in on the scheme. He was queer. You’re queer. You’re sewn up tight. What happened? He get cold feet and you had to kill him?”
The MP looked from one face to another in the room. Then he looked at Hammett.
“I didn’t kill the guy,” the MP said. “It was him.” He pointed to the major.
Everyone looked at the major, then back at the MP. He was holding his automatic in his hand.
“That’s not going to do you any good, young man,” the marshal said. “This is Alaska. Where you going to run?”
The MP seemed not to hear him.
“I ain’t no queer!” he shouted at Hammett. “I hate queers. I beat that guy up ’cause he made a pass at me, just like I said. I’d have killed him if I thought I’d get away with it. Here, I was just giving the major a little cover in case anything happened. Like the place got raided or something. Then the other day he told me some pal of his had warned him that they’d knocked over the Fort Lewis end of the deal and we were going to have to do something about his boyfriend. ‘Jerry will talk,’ he said. ‘I know he will.’ I told him I wasn’t killing anybody. The stockade was better than the firing squad. So he comes out the back door of this place the other night and says he killed the pansy himself.”