When he stopped talking, the entire room was quiet.
“That was quite a speech,” the woman said, her voice much less friendly than it had been.
“You’d have been better off just giving me another drink,” Hammett said. “But don’t worry. I can get it myself.”
He was looking at a painting of a moose when a slim, curly-haired fellow who couldn’t have been more than thirty walked up to him. He had a major’s oak leaves on his shoulders.
“That was quite a speech, soldier,” the major said. “What’s an NCO doing at this party, anyway?”
“Ask the general,” Hammett said.
“Oh, that’s right, you’re Hammett, the hero of the morale tour.” The major took a drink from the glass he was holding. “You must be something on a morale tour with speeches like that.” When Hammett said nothing, the major went on, “I hear you’re involved in the murder of one of my sergeants.”
Hammett laughed. “I don’t know about involved,” he said, “but I’ve got a fair idea who did it.”
The major moved closer to Hammett.
“I think you’ll find that in the army, it’s safer to mind your own business,” he said. “Much safer.”
Hammett thrust his face into the major’s face and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another voice.
“Ah, Sergeant Hammett,” the voice said, “I see you’ve met Major Allen. The major’s the head of supply out at the fort.”
“Thanks for clearing that up, General,” Hammett said. “I thought maybe he was somebody’s kid and these were his pajamas.”
The major’s face reddened and his mouth opened.
“Sergeant!” the general barked. “Do you know the punishment for insubordination?”
“Sorry, General, Major,” Hammett said. “This whiskey just plays hob with my ordinarily high regard for military discipline. “
The major stomped off.
“That mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day, Sergeant,” the general said. He sounded as if he were trying hard not to laugh.
“Yes, sir,” Hammett said. “But he is a jumped-up little turd.”
“Yes, he is that,” the general said. “Regular army. His father was regular army, too. Chief of supply at the Presidio. Did very well for himself. Retired to a very nice home on Nob Hill. This one’s following in the family footsteps. All polish and connections. There, see? See how politely he takes his leave of the hostess. Now you behave yourself.” The general looked at the picture of the moose. “Damned odd animal, isn’t it?” he said, and moved off.
The general left the party a half hour later and Hammett a few minutes after that. He made his way down the short, icy walkway and, as he turned left, his feet flew out from under him. As he fell he heard three loud explosions. Something whirred past his ear. He twisted so that he landed on his side and rolled behind a car parked at the curb. He heard people boil out of the house behind him.
“What was that?” they called. And, “Are you all right?”
Hammett got slowly to his feet. There were no more shots.
“I’m fine,” he called. “But I could use a lift downtown, if anyone is headed that way.”
~ * ~
It was nearly midnight when Hammett walked into the smoke and noise of the Lido Gardens. A four-piece band was making a racket in one corner, and a table full of WACs was getting a big play from about twice as many men in the other. Hammett navigated his way across the room to the bar and ordered a whiskey.
“Not bad for a drunk,” he said to himself and turned to survey the room. His elbow hit the shoulder of the man next to him. The man spilled some of his beer on the bar.
“Hey, watch it, you old bastard,” the man growled, looking up. A broad smile split his face. “Well if it isn’t Dash Hammett, the worst man on a stakeout I ever saw. What are you doing here at the end of the earth?”
“Dispensing propaganda and nursemaiding Hollywood stars,” Hammett said. “Isn’t that why every man goes to war? And what about you, Carey? The Pinks finally figure out how worthless you are and let you go?”
The two men shook hands.
“No, it’s a sad tale,” the other man said. “A man of my years should have been able to spend the war behind a desk, in civilian clothes. But then the army figured out that a lot of money was rolling around because of the war and that money might make people do some bad things.” Both men laughed. “So they drafted me. Me, with my bad knees and failing eyesight. Said I had special qualifications. And here I am, back out in the field, chasing crooks. For even less money than the agency paid me.”
“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.”
“That’s a goddamn lie,” the major shouted, leaping to his feet. “I don’t even know this man. I’ve got a wife and baby at home. I’m no fairy.”
“You’re for it, Tobin,” Hammett said to the MP. “He doesn’t leave anything to chance. Why, he tried to shoot me last night just on the off chance I might know something. I’ll bet he does have a wife and child. And I’ll bet there’s nothing to connect him to either you or the corpse. And there’s the love letters Michael found in your foot-locker.”
“Love letters?” the MP said. “What love letters?”
He looked at Hammett, then at the major. Understanding flooded his face.
“You set me up!” he screamed at the major. “You set me up as a fairy!”
The automatic barked. The slug seemed to pick the major up and hurl him backwards. The temporary blonde screamed. All over the room, men were taking guns from holsters and pockets. They seemed to be moving in slow motion. The MP swung the gun toward Hammett.
“You should have kept your nose out of this,” the MP said, leveling the automatic. His finger closed on the trigger.
Don Miller stepped out of the hallway behind the MP and laid a sap on the back of his head. The MP collapsed like he was filled with sawdust.
Miller and Hammett looked at one another for a long moment. Hammett took his hand off the pistol in the pocket of his coat.
“I think that calls for a drink,” he said, pouring himself one.
The marshal was putting cuffs on the MP. Carey looked up from where the major lay and shook his head.
“I guess this means you’ll be able to open up again, Zulu,” Hammett said.
~ * ~
The following afternoon Miller found Hammett lying on a table in the cramped offices of the magazine Army Up North, reading Lenin.
“I’ve got some errands to run in town,” he told Hammett.
“Fine by me,” Hammett said, sitting up. “I’ve been thinking I’ll put in my papers. The war can’t last much longer, and this looks like as close as I’ll get to any action.”
“You’d have been just as dead if that MP shot you as you would if it’d been a Jap bullet,” Miller said.
“I suppose,” Hammett said. “This morning the general told me they were going to show Major Allen as killed in the line of duty. They’ll give Tobin a quick trial and life in the stockade. The whole thing’s being hushed up. The brass don’t want to embarrass the major’s father, and they don’t want the scandal getting back to the president and Congress. This is the country I enlisted to protect?”
Miller shrugged. “I got to be going,” he said.
“Right you are,” Hammett said. “And by the way, thanks for stepping in last night. I didn’t want to shoot that kid, and I didn’t want to get shot myself.”
Miller turned to leave.
“I suppose I’ll just give the Moon to Zulu if I go,” Hammett said.
“That’d be real nice,” Miller said over his shoulder.
He went out, got into a Jeep, drove downtown,
and parked. He walked into the federal building, climbed a set of stairs, walked down a hallway, and went through an unmarked door without knocking. He sat in a chair and told the whole story to a man on the other side of the desk. “That’s all very interesting,” the man said, “but did the subject say anything to you or anyone else about Marx, Lenin, or communism?”