Free The Memory of Eva Ryker by Donald Stanwood Page A

What’s it about?”
    â€œDeceit, mostly.”
    â€œSounds great.”
    â€œYes, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” I wiped my brow with a forearm. “Well, take it easy.”
    I started off down the trail, then turned around. “You know, John, it’s rather odd you don’t remember the Kleins.”
    â€œWhy’s that, Norm?”
    â€œWell,” I said, shoulders shrugging, “they remembered you.”

8
    January 22, 1962
    They missed me at Coober Pedy. And during the Cessna’s return trip to Adelaide. Not to mention my room at the Ansett Hotel.
    They didn’t actually catch up with me until Monday morning, when I was sitting in a first-class seat of a Qantas 707 headed for American Samoa, Honolulu, and Los Angeles.
    When the plane stopped in the middle of the tarmac, I didn’t pay much attention. Some traffic control problem, I supposed. People across the aisle said an unmarked car was pulling up to the hatch. Maybe a medical emergency. Or customs men. I resumed reading the Adelaide Times .
    â€œAre you Mr. Norman Hall?”
    A flashing brass badge. A stern, jowly face towering overhead.
    â€œYes. Yes, I am.”
    â€œCome with me, Mr. Hall.” A hand on my arm. “Right this way, please.”
    We marched down the aisle. Past gaping faces and turning heads. Down the gangway and into the car. Another man kept me company in the back seat.
    â€œWhat’s all this about anyway?”
    â€œYou’ll have to speak with Detective-Inspector Vivian, Mr. Hall. He’ll explain anything you need to know.”
    The Holden swung away from the airport and tore through graceful tree-lined boulevards.
    â€œWhat about my luggage?”
    â€œAll that’s been taken care of.”
    He hung a left on North Terrace, honking through traffic by the Parliament House and State Library. Then a sharp right down a driveway underneath a blank concrete monolith with little squinting windows. The Holden weaved through the parking garage labyrinth and slid into a space.
    â€œThis way, Mr. Hall.”
    Steel elevator doors opened. My two companions silently flanked my left and right as I watched the floor numbers light up and then die.
    2 … 3 … 4
    Down a neon corridor smelling of Lysol. Two doors hissed open at our approach.
    â€œHere he is, sir.”
    The room was large, but I saw only the man in it.
    â€œMr. Hall, I’m Detective-Inspector Vivian.” Neither hand rose in greeting. “I’d like you to see something.”
    He walked to the wall and pulled out a shining steel drawer. I stared into one of the cautious gray eyes of John McFarland. The remaining pieces of his face and head were wrapped in surgical catgut.
    â€œOh, Jesus.” I felt my knees going. “Where can I sit down?”
    Detective-Inspector Vivian led me to a straight-back chair in the corner of the morgue.
    â€œCould I have some … water please?”
    One of Vivian’s men handed me a paper cup, then joined his companion by the door.
    Vivian stood over me as I sipped the water. “You seem to be taking this very hard, Mr. Hall.”
    I crushed the cup in my hand. “How did it happen?”
    â€œNeighbors found the body in the bathtub Sunday morning. A Mauser Model 1906 fired at point blank range into the mastoid behind the left ear. We have the bullet. A 7.63 millimeter. It took a bit of digging to find.”
    I sighted a trash can in the corner and tossed the paper cup. It missed. “Do you have any leads?”
    Vivian walked to the door where his assistants stood, moving with bearish unease. A big wrestler’s body chafing within his dark flannel suit. “Would you come with me, Mr. Hall?”
    He led the way, the other men staying close behind. We went up one floor in the elevator, then down a passageway filled with hustling secretaries. Unlocking a door, Vivian crooked a finger at me.
    My luggage sat on a desk in the