The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  “Norman?” the receiver whispered. “Are you there?”

  I ignored the voice. Something was wrong. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. Now it was gone. I turned back to the phone.

  “… Uh, just a minute, sir. There’s something I want to check out.”

  “… still following with grief the Liko …”

  I examined every corner for a second glimpse of what I’d seen. The room yawned at my efforts.

  Then I saw it. The dress carrier was swinging silently on its closet hook. Swinging where there was no breeze.

  “… one fond embrace …”

  Reaching behind me, I dropped the receiver. The little voice clicked to silence. Only the radio played.

  “… Thus sweet memories came back tome …”

  The carrier still moved. It looked bottom-heavy, like a half-full potato sack.

  “… bringing first remembrance of the past …”

  Walking to the closet, I grappled over my head for the pull cord. My shoes slapped wetly on the floor and my nose picked up a seawater smell.

  “… Dearest one, yes thou art mine own …”

  My fingers found the chain and yanked it.

  “… From thee true love shall ne’er depart. …”

  The bulb swung metronome-fast over my head. Clothes hanger shadows shifted back and forth, covering, then revealing a rusty blood puddle beneath my feet. A fresh spot spattered red on shiny black shoe leather. Another. And another. The stream came from the dress carrier’s bottom.

  “… Aloha oe …”

  I tore at the carrier’s zipper. The seam split in half.

  Blood splashed through the gap and over my face. It covered my eyes.

  “… Aloha oe …”

  Fingers emerged from the bag and touched my shoulder. I grabbed blindly and clenched the wrist, which swung free in my hand.

  “… Eke-o-na-o-na-no-ho-i-ka-li-po. …”

  Another arm brushed my cheek. The weight forced me back. I clung to the dress carrier. It snapped off the hook, landing on me.

  “… A fond embrace …”

  Pushing off the floor, I felt slimy pulp underneath my palm. My tongue lolled around the inside of my mouth. I spit out a bile taste.

  “… before I …”

  Blood. Blinding me. Thick and dark between my lashes, gumming them shut.

  My hands patted the wet carpet, stopping when I found a sphere about the weight of a medicine ball.

  Cradling it in one arm, I wiped my eyes. Shiny blood spread over the carpet. A foot. But not mine. Attached to a leg.

  It wasn’t real. Some goddam nightmare. A monstrous practical joke!

  “… now depart …”

  What a gag! Just dye and arms and legs and rubber tripe you buy in a joke shop. One hell of a stunt!

  “… until we …”

  My face grew red and puffy with laughter and I held the ball to my chest. As my fingers ran over its surface, I felt a nose. And lips.

  “… meet again …”

  I pushed aside mousy brown curls. Two eyes glared through the red matted strands.

  “That was Bing Crosby on KGMB,” the voice said. “Now, for the six o’clock news …”

  The six o’clock news. Six o’clock. The words circled around my head. Six o’clock. I should be home! Dinner’s waiting.

  The Philco was brisk and all-knowing. “Secretary of State Cordell Hull announed today …”

  I’d never heard anything like the scream coming from my throat.

  Flung across the room, the head hit the window, cracking the pane and rolling along the bed sheets.

  The announcer cleared his throat. “… remains hopeful concerning the current negotiations with Japanese ambassadors Nomura and Kurusu. However …”

  I ran. Leaving an open door. Trailing red footprints. Past the shut-up rooms. Ignoring the screaming and shouting behind me. Down the stairs. Tripping over steps. Through the lobby. Tearing from gaping faces and grabbing hands. Into the night. Dodging the red pulsing light and squawking radio of my patrol car. Stumbling through the black sand. Fleeing the following voices and footsteps. Away from the Force and my future.

  Running from the salt-brine smell of blood.

  From the Honolulu Star-Bulletin

  December 6, 1941

  HPD FINDS KLEIN POISON VICTIM

  An autopsy by the Honolulu Police Department of Albert Klein, the late husband of murder victim Martha Klein, has revealed the cause of death as deliberate poisoning.

  “Nicotine sulfate was the substance we found in Mr. Klein’s bloodstream,” explained Coroner Ralph Krumins in a joint press conference with Police Commissioner John Davis late Friday night. “It’s a very rare poison that’s difficult to detect if you’re not looking for it.”

  Krumins explained that there were no recent marks or punctures on the body.

  “We must assume that the poison was administered orally. It would have taken effect very quickly after swallowing. Fifteen minutes at most.”

  Commissioner Davis had harsh words for Patrolman Norman Hall, who first talked with Martha Klein after her husband’s death and later discovered Mrs. Klein’s body at the Moana Hotel. He termed Hall’s fleeing from the murder scene as “cowardly.”

  “When we finally found Hall,” Davis said, “he confessed that Martha Klein had claimed that her husband was murdered. His excuse was that Mrs. Klein was distraught and had no evidence to back up her accusations. Thus he refused to pass on Martha Klein’s testimony either to Inspector Frank Galbraith, who was immediately at the accident site, or to any other superior officer.”

  Davis admitted that Hall found Martha Klein’s body under “distressing circumstances,” but condemned the fact that Hall panicked and left his car.

  “He showed no inclination of reporting the murder to Headquarters. Hall just wandered the streets until another patrol car found him. I believe Hall acted in a shameful manner and will testify to that effect at the inquiry of his performance, which convenes Monday.”

  Davis added that Hall is to be suspended from all HPD duties pending the inquiry’s findings.

  Questioned at HPD Headquarters immediately following Commissioner Davis’ announcement, Hall ignored the pleas of his legal counselor, Alex Nichols, to refuse comment.

  “I’ll be there to answer all questions the Board of Inquiry may put to me,” the young patrolman stated. “I have nothing to hide. There’s nothing I can hide. But, whatever the verdict, I intend to resign from the Force after the inquest.”

  The patrolman’s father, Jerome Hall, a Honolulu importer, refused to speak with reporters, as did Hall’s wife, Louise.

  HPD investigators are still searching for witnesses and leads concerning the brutal November 30 murder of Martha Klein. Wanted for questioning is Catherine Maurois, a maid at the Moana Hotel who left on sick call the night of the slaying.

  She was reported missing the following day by Claudine Maurois, her daughter.

  According to Commissioner Davis, Mrs. Maurois is 49, a brunette, five foot five, and weighs approximately 155 pounds.

  “We’ve filed no charges against Mrs. Maurois. We’re interested only in questioning her. We welcome any information concerning her whereabouts.”

  Police investigators still offer few theories concerning Martha Klein’s assailant.

  “We do know some facts,” Coroner Krumins explained. “Martha Klein was shot in the back with a small .25-caliber handgun. We found the slug during the autopsy. No one reported any shots, so it’s likely that the gun had a silencer.”

  Krumins seemed less eager to speculate upon the grisly dismemberment and disembowlment of the body. “If it wasn’t a psychopathic act, I don’t know what is,” he snapped. “Patrolman Hall could offer very little useful information, but when the lab technicians arrived, they found limbs and major internal organs scattered over the room. The remains were wrapped in a rubber sheet, then stuffed in a dress carrier. Even the head had been defaced
beyond recognition. The only way we could positively identify Martha Klein was by her fingerprints, which matched those on her passport and other belongings.”

  Krumins stated that a man is a probable suspect, since such an act required great strength.

  “However, hysteria can produce incredible physical energy,” he said. “Even in a woman. We cannot overlook all possibilities.”

  3

  January 8, 1962

  Reprinted from the dust jacket of The Death Watch Beetle, courtesy of Random House. Copyright 1961.

  Norman Hall was a twenty-year-old patrolman in the Honolulu Police Department when he witnessed the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Four years later, as a sergeant in Patton’s Third Army, he saw action from Bastogne to Berlin.

  Remaining in Europe after the war, he became a stringer for Reuters and then UPI. His personal experiences in both the Pacific and Atlantic theaters of World War II provided the background for his first three novels. The First Sunday in December, dealing with Pearl Harbor and its aftermath, Through the Shadow of Death, an examination of GI’s in the Third Army, and From the Ashes, with its background of postwar Germany, have sold more than 5,500,000 copies.

  Hall’s successes continued in the 1950s. The Web He Wove, concerned with a Supreme Court judge caught in a McCarthyite smear campaign, won the National Book Award and topped the bestseller list for seven months.

  With the collaboration of his wife, Janice Steiner, Hall has written several popular nonfiction works, notably Opening in Theaters and Drive-Ins Near You, a survey of the American film industry, as well as successful biographies of D. W. Griffith, Field Marshall Montgomery, and Pierre Laval. Hall is a frequent contributor of fiction to Playboy and the Saturday Evening Post, and of nonfiction to Life, Look, the New Yorker, and Punch.

  Hall has one son by a previous marriage. He and his wife live in the village of Fourqueux, just outside Paris.

  Last night I dreamed about Martha Klein.

  It doesn’t happen very often. Not anymore. There was a time, during the Inquest, when sleep was a personal enemy I fought every night.

  Of course, that was years ago. Between then and now is the War, a divorce, remarriage, and my work. All of which makes a pretty fair padding to absorb the jolt of old memories. But, once in a while, the nightmares still come back.

  Lying face down in bed, I listened to my pulse slow to a normal idle. My hand patted the crumpled percale. Jan was up early.

  Sleeping late is one of the pastimes my wife and I usually share. I turned on my side and burrowed my head in the pillow.

  The phone rang and Jan’s footsteps thumped across the living room floor in response. My ears caught the phrase “We’ll be there” before she hung up.

  The footsteps came my way. A fist nudged me in the ribs.

  “Wake up.”

  “Go away. I gave at the office.”

  “Come on, Norman.” She tabbed off the electric blanket. “Time to leave the womb.”

  “The last thing I need in the morning is paperback Freud.” I snuggled into the covers. “By the way, where is ‘there?’”

  “Huh?”

  “As in ‘we’ll be there.’ On the phone.”

  “The Rotunde. We’re meeting Geoffrey Proctor for lunch.”

  I braved one eye outside the border of the electric blanket and saw she wasn’t kidding. Every time we meet a publisher Janice wears one of her no-bullshit tailored suits. The kind Adrian designed for Joan Crawford. Dark green this time.

  “You win.” I flopped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. “What’s Geoffrey want?”

  “An article from you, apparently. For World magazine.”

  “God forbid.” Hot water steamed over my razor as I leaned into the mirror, counting the broken veins in my eyes.

  Jan leaned against the door. “You want any breakfast?”

  “Just coffee.” I took a second look in the mirror. “A quiet prayer wouldn’t hurt either.”

  She nodded in agreement and headed for the kitchen.

  After showering, I rummaged through my closet. What suit? The black? God, no. Combined with Jan’s outfit we’d look like embalmers. I compromised on the gray with the red tie.

  I sat at the dining room table as Jan poured the coffee. “Well, how do I look?”

  She threw out the paper filter from the Chemex decanter, then glanced over the kitchen counter. “Dissipated. A little decadent. Byronic darkness in the eyes. Like Papa or, no … I’ve got it!” She snapped her fingers. “Scott Fitzgerald in Beloved Infidel.”

  “Jesus.” I sipped the coffee and added more cream.

  “Don’t worry. Geoffrey likes the look of shaggy genius.”

  “I’ll try to be suitably unruly.” I finished the coffee and rinsed the cup. “You about ready?”

  Jan headed for the bathroom. “In a minute.”

  ‘In a minute’ turned out to be ten. She was still fiddling with her face as the Silver Wraith convertible crunched across the gravel forecourt and snoozed down the tree-lined road leading toward the Autoroute.

  “Norman, either I am misreading your sleepy Oscar Levant expression …”

  “… Or?”

  “… You’re looking very lukewarm over the prospect of going back to work.”

  “My dear, I will eat a fattening lunch and listen to Geoffrey Proctor’s hard sell. And then we shall see. In the meantime, we play it cool and dumb …”

  “… ‘an unappreciated fine art.’ Yes, I know.”

  “And please remember.” I glanced over my shoulder, then launched the Rolls up the Autoroute ramp. “We don’t turn anything down until he’s paid the check.”

  We arrived at the Rotunde by eleven-thirty, but Geoffrey had still beaten us to the draw. I spotted him at a window table as we waited for the concierge to seat the people ahead of us.

  The dining room was packed with worshipers of the French belly religion. A waiter wove between the tables with a brandy-induced inferno perched on a silver platter. I couldn’t quite identify the delicacy behind all the flames, but it looked something like the Golden Calf from The Ten Commandments.

  Jan was amused by my expression. “Just like Mother used to make?”

  “Yeah. I have a sudden urge for a cheeseburger and fries.”

  The concierge’s distant smile changed to an eager grin when I pointed Geoffrey out. Yes, of course! Mr. Proctor told me to expect you. Right this way!

  Geoffrey’s antenna picked us up before we got to the table. He advanced on me with teeth smiling and hands outstretched.

  “Jesus Christ, Norman! How long has it been?”

  “Three years, Jeff. Good to see you.” His palm was tight and dry. Geoffrey Proctor is silvery and tan, like those fiftyish men who age gracefully in Esquire ads.

  I helped Jan in her chair and half-listened to her and Geoffrey’s bright and brittle words of greeting.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  “Up and down.” He made a stoic face. “Sports Today is booming. So is Woman and Motor Life. World is in a bit of a rut, but we’re going into some fantastic new picture and story ideas.”

  I heard the bell tinkle but I resisted any Pavlovian drooling. “And Proctor-World stock is up, too. I’m sure Old Charlie would be pleased.”

  “Dad never disapproved of profits.”

  “Yep. Occasionally nepotism bears fruit.”

  Turning to Jan, he made a hissing noise through his teeth. “And I thought it was females who are supposed to be castrators.”

  “You know Norman,” she said. “Bitchy on an empty stomach.”

  He glanced at both of us. “We could go ahead and order, but I’ve got someone with me. He should be back from the gent’s room in a minute. Name’s Mike Rogers. A real sharp kid.”

  “One of your execs?” Jan asked.

  “Wish he was.” Geoffrey leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Norman, I have the article of a lifetime waiting for someone with your talent. Not that yo
u need the money. I’ve seen the figures on The Death Watch Beetle. Fantastic! God knows where you get your ideas.”

  “Quite simple. All my books are wet dreams set to prose.”

  He blinked. “I believe it. I wish I could ejaculate so profitably.”

  I peered over Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Your boy’s arrived, I think.”

  He got up and made introductions. Mike Rogers was thirty-plus. Short, stocky, and energetic. Light brown, expertly cropped curly hair. Candid eyes. Open smile. An ail-American face just starting its slow slide into middle age. A very likable package.

  Rogers kept within his shell while Geoffrey talked pleasantries. De Gaulle and Paris traffic and Reeperbahn sex parlors and Liz and Dick at Torre Astura. Fortunately, Jan and I are adept at verbal handball. I knew he would eventually get to the point.

  We ordered from menus the size of an auto windshield. I remember Geoffrey slicing meat when he decided to talk business.

  “Norman, this April will mark the fiftieth anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. World is going to do a special story for our April issue. I think you’re the man to write it.”

  “The Titanic? You mean with the iceberg and Clifton Webb going down singing ‘Nearer My God to Thee?’”

  Rogers spoke up for the first time. “Actually, Mr. Hall, the ship’s band played the Episcopal hymn ‘Autumn’ in those last minutes.” He grinned apologetically at his own expertise.

  Geoffrey eyed my dubious expression. “Doesn’t the subject appeal?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know much about ships. Why don’t you contact someone like … well, like Walter Lord, that man who wrote A Night to Remember?”

  “We’ve decided on a new approach, Norman. New angles someone like you can provide.”

  “A rehash with zing, right?”

  Geoffrey’s cheeks puffed in exasperation. “Mike, you tell him. He wears me out.”

  Mike Rogers smiled disarmingly, scratching the back of his ear. No doubt he’d seen plenty of Gary Cooper movies. “Mr. Hall, other people also think you’re the best man for the job.”

  “Really? Who else?”

  “First, I should fully explain my presence here. I’m an attorney and special representative for Mr. William Ryker. Have you heard of him?”