Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [175]
“We’re in a warm climate, nobody’ll catch cold,” said Queeg, with a giggle.
“Sir, let me ask you, with due respect, is it worth doing all this to the crew for a quart of strawberries?”
“Mr. Maryk, we have a pilferer aboard ship. Do you propose that I let him go on pilfering, or maybe give him a letter of commendation?”
“Captain, who is it?” Keefer struck in.
Queeg assumed an air of sly secrecy, and hesitated. Then he said, “This stays among the three of us, of course- Well, it’s Urban.”
Both officers exclaimed involuntarily, in the same amazed tones, “Urban?”
“Yes. Innocent little Urban. Surprised me, too, a little, until I went into the psychology of Urban. He’s a thief type, all right.”
“That’s amazing, Captain,” said Keefer. “Why, he’s the last one I would have suspected.” His tone was kind and soothing.
Maryk looked at Keefer sharply.
The captain said, with great self-satisfaction, “Well, it took quite a bit of figuring, I’ll tell you that, Tom, but he’s the one- Well. Let’s get to work. Steve, start the key collecting at once. Announce the search for ten o’clock tomorrow morning, and tell ’em anyone who has a key of any kind on him or in his belongings at that time gets a summary. I shall personally direct the search tomorrow.”
The two officers went out, and in silence descended the ladder to the wardroom. Keefer followed Maryk into his room, and pulled the curtain. “Well, Steve-is he, or is he not, a raving lunatic?” he said in a low voice.
Maryk dropped into his chair and rubbed his face hard with both palms. “Lay off, Tom-”
“I have laid off, haven’t I, Steve? I haven’t talked about it since the Stilwell thing. This is something new. This is over the red line.”
Maryk lit a cigar and puffed blue clouds. “All right. Why?”
“It’s a genuine systematized fantasy. I can tell you exactly what’s happened. Ducely’s orders did it. They were a terrible shock to the captain. You saw what a spin he went into. This is the next step. He’s trying to restore his shattered ego. He’s re-enacting the biggest triumph of his naval career-the cheese investigation on the Barzun. The strawberries don’t mean anything. But the circumstances were a perfect take-off for a detective drama by which he could prove to himself he’s still the red-hot Queeg of 1937. He’s invented this duplicate key to our icebox because there’s got to be one, for his sake-not because it’s logical. It isn’t logical. It’s crazy-”
“Well, what do you say happened to the strawberries, then?”
“Oh, Christ, the mess boys ate them, of course. You know that. What else?”
“He cross-examined them all yesterday morning. Scared them white. And he’s satisfied they didn’t-”
“I’d like to have heard those interviews. He forced them to keep up their lies. He wanted them to be innocent. Otherwise he couldn’t act out the great drama of the key, don’t you understand-”
“You’ve got nothing, Tom. Just another one of your fancy theories.”
“I’ve got a captain with paranoia, or there’s no such thing as paranoia,” retorted Keefer. Maryk impatiently picked up a log sheet on his desk and began reading it. The novelist said quietly, “Steve. Are you familiar with Articles 184, 185, and 186 of the Navy Regulations?”
The exec jumped up. “For Christ’s sake, Tom,” he muttered. He put his head through the curtain for a moment to peer up the wardroom passageway. Then he said, “Watch your voice.”
“Are you, though?”
“I know what you’re talking about.” The exec took a deep breath, and puffed out his cheeks. “You’re the one that’s crazy. Not the captain.”
“Okay,” said Keefer. He looked the exec squarely in the eye; turned, and went out.
That night the executive officer wrote a long entry in his medical log. When he was through he put away the folder, locked his safe, and took down the fat blue-bound Navy Regulations volume. He opened the book, looked over his shoulder at the curtained doorway, then rose and slid shut the metal door, which was almost never used in the tropics. He turned to Article 184 and read