The Memory of Eva Ryker (2 page)

Martha Klein watched the men load her husband on the stretcher. Her face was turned from me.

“No, sir,” I answered. “Nothing useful.”

2

Nearly twelve hours later I was patroling Kapiolani Boulevard, piddling away the final minutes of my ungodly long shift. I wheeled the Chevy right at Kalakaua Avenue, heading for the beach. The sunset reflected in red ragged streaks across the black hood. It was the time of evening when you can't decide whether or not to switch on your headlights. I switched mine on, hoping to set an example.

The radio cut in on my thoughts. “Calling Car 48.”

I reached for the mike. “Car 48 here.”

“Got one last job for you, Norman,” said Sergeant Wong. “Galbraith wants that statement from Mrs. Klein. She's waiting at the Moana. Room 307. Drop by and bring her in.”

I swallowed my irritation. “Roger. Car 48 out.”

The Moana's doorman looked distressed as I slid the patrol car under the main porte-cochère.

“No trouble, I hope.” It wasn't a question.

“Nothing to worry about,” I said over my shoulder.

The desk clerk had the same question as the doorman and I gave him the same answer. He looked unconvinced but kept quiet.

The third-floor hallway was completely deserted. Only faint noises filtering from behind the doors hinted at human habitation. Gurgling water. Squeaking mattresses. Clattering dinner dishes.

I rapped on the door of 307. “Mrs. Klein, this is Patrolman Hall.”

Inside, a dreamy chorus was working its way through “When You Wish Upon a Star.”

I waited, then knocked again.

“Mrs. Klein?”

My hand twisted the knob. It wasn't locked. I pushed the door open.

“Mrs. Klein? It's Patrolman Hall. Are you there?”

Fading orange sunbeams peeked between the gap in the drapes.

The music came from a hulking Philco console. Its dial glowed feebly in the gloom. A group began playing “Song of the Islands.” The electric guitars moaning from the radio's belly sounded like dying mattress springs.

I pulled back the curtains, exposing rumpled covers of an unmade bed. The sheets had a slept-in smell.

My hands groped for the bathroom switch. White tile glared under the light. The basin and tub were scrubbed and unused.

Back in the bedroom a tenor was singing something about the waiting palms of Waikiki. I reached for the phone on the end table. The receiver buzzed dully as I stared out the window. Waikiki Beach was rusty amber, a smattering of Tiki torches fluttering to life along its length.

“Main desk,” a man said. “May I help you?”

“Yes, this is Patrolman Hall …”

“… Yes?” It was a Who-The-Hell-Are-You voice.

“I came by your desk a few minutes ago.”

“Oh!” Alarm followed recognition. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, I don't think so. I was supposed to meet Martha Klein here. Has she gone out?”

“No, Officer, she hasn't checked out here, if that's what you mean.”

“Okay. If she comes by in the next few minutes, tell her I'm waiting in her room.”

“Yes, Officer, I certainly will.”

To kill time, I began poking through drawers. No sign of cold cream, hair curlers, or any of the junk women collect wherever they spend the night.

I opened the heavy closet door, revealing three smart but worn suits. A Samsonite pullman sat neatly beneath the racks. Hooked to the inside closet door was a matching woman's dress carrier.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly six. If there was any justice in the world, I'd be home right now. I lit a cigarette, sat in a rattan chair and waited.

“Song of the Islands” mercifully quit. “This is radio KGMB.” The voice had the assurance of Jehovah. “Coming up now, we have the voice of Bing Crosby singing ‘Aloha Oe.'”

Ukeleles and strings swooned. “
Proudly swept the rain cloud by the cliff
…”

My cigarette burned down like a fuse as I scowled at the radio. The sky was blackening beyond the window and the lone light from the bathroom cast dingy silhouettes slanting across the carpet.

“ …
as on it glided through the trees
…”

To hell with this. I went to the phone and dialed Headquarters.

“Central Dispatch. Sergeant Kroger speaking.”

“This is Hall, Car 48. Is Sergeant Wong there?”

“He just went home, Norman. What happened to you? Your radio break down again?”

“No, sir. I was supposed to pick up Martha Klein, but she's not here. Did Sergeant Wong get his wires crossed?”

“It's news to me. Galbraith's been waiting for the last hour.”

“Well, she didn't check out at the front desk.” Casually, I looked around the room, then stopped still.

“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.