The Memory of Eva Ryker (40 page)

According to a Boucheron spokesman, the diamonds will be on public display for the next two weeks in their London headquarters.

The diamond find of the century sat surrounded by purple velvet and glass. It was a star attraction, beyond any doubt, but a star attraction in a refined and very British mode.

No sticky-fingered kids pressed noses against the glass. No tourists snapped flash pictures. The red ropes around the display and the impassive, hulking security guard discouraged such vulgar rubbernecking. But the elegant crowd circulating through Boucheron was definitely curious.

After a quick perusal of the routine merchandise—Fabergé eggs and emerald necklaces—the gentlemen and ladies stationed themselves in front of the case. Gazing at the rather ugly uncut stones beneath the glass, they would read the accompanying plaque:

These diamonds, of unknown origin, were recovered from the R.M.S.
Titanic
on September 25, 1962, by the bathyscaph
Marianas
, belonging to the Ryker International Corporation.

Owned by William A. Ryker, the diamonds are believed to originate from South Africa. Estimates on their uncut value begin at 2 million pounds. Considering their historical value, the diamonds are currently appraised at anywhere from 20 to 30 million pounds.

Boucheron wishes to express thanks to William A. Ryker for allowing the public display of the collection while they are here for cutting, a final appraisal, and auction.

Finished with the reading, the public would eye the diamonds with cool hunger, then meander out the door.

I watched this ritual from a television monitor in the security office. Four days of eyestrain was all I had to show for standing guard at this damn tube.

I was still feeling sorry for myself when I glanced at the screen and saw that my waiting was over.

An obliging gentleman-customer held the door for her. Martha used a cane and hobbled painfully.

My fingers jabbed the videotape machine's “Record” button as I leaned forward. The camera, hidden high in the corner, followed her wandering around the display. I zoomed in on her face.

There she was, sweet and grandmotherly. I found myself grinning. She was too good to be true.

Martha moseyed around Boucheron, giving her just-passing-through smile to the clerks. I squinted at the picture tube as she discreetly appraised the case and the guard. In a few casual glances she fixed the location of all exits in her mind. Martha Klein blinked thoughtfully at the photo cells rimming the diamonds. She even stared into my eyes, searching for hidden cameras. I felt nape hairs bristling on my neck.

Her face registered polite awe at the sight of the diamonds. Long moments passed. She seemed to be satisfied, and turned to go.

I grabbed the microphone of the transceiver at my side. “This is Norman. She's here. She's leaving just now.”

My words were beamed to the unmarked patrol car parked across from Boucheron's front entrance.

“Relax, Norman,” said Tom. “We see her. A woman in a beige suit, walking with a cane.”

“That's right.”

“We're on her.” Sergeant Rand's voice briskly rattled the speaker. “Just stay there. We'll keep in touch.”

“Yeah. Do that.”

They both laughed, cutting me off.

I must have converted five pounds of fat to sweat before they called back.

“Yes, this is Hall. Go ahead.”

Tom's voice was tense. “We've found both of them, Norman—702, London Arms Apartments.”

33

Prowling through Soho at one in the morning, when the fog's as thick as boiled Kleenex, does wonders for the nervous system.

Fidgeting in the front seat of an ancient Daimler patrol car, I watched the hood plow into walls of eiderdown and prayed this night errand wouldn't blow up in our faces.

The orange parking lights, oversized and blazing as in all European cars, picked out macabre images which scuttled into the shadows like hermit crabs. Gothic iron fences with arrowhead crowns crept by our flanks. A sycamore, pitifully naked except for a coat of smog. Cobblestone gutters and cigarette butts. Three Teddies woven out of gray blankness who closed ranks and insolently watched our passing.

The car swept past Old Compton Street, pushing deeper into Soho. Tom, Rand, and Sergeant Morley, our driver, all had that same look I'd seen on veteran GI's at Messina and Anzio—a sweaty-palmed expectancy.

“I must be certifiable,” Tom moaned lowly, “being sweet-talked into this lunacy.”

“You'll get ulcers yet,” I chided. “Didn't I promise to stay out of everyone's way?”

“Norman, you're a professional meddler. Don't try looking guileless and obliging; it's too late in the game.”

“Sir?” Morley broke into the conversation. “Is this our turn ahead?”

Tom squinted through the windshield. “No, the next one down. Left turn. The apartment's on the right.”

The Daimler slithered around the corner and sighed past fire hydrants and the spattering of lighted windows which formed a crazy-quilt pattern in the fog.

Tom pointed across the street. “Here's the place.”

We rocked gently to a stop.

He leaned forward, murmuring gravely into my left ear. “If I ordered you to wait here with Morley, would you stay put?”

“I hope the question's hypothetical. You know very well what this means to me.”

“That's not what I asked, Norman.”

“Then I can only shrug and make no promises. You wouldn't want me roaming around alone. The streets aren't safe at this hour.”

Tom uttered a weary monosyllable. “‘Dogged' is the word that describes you, Norman. And ‘relentless.' Like tidal erosion and the coming of the next ice age.” Easing open the door, his lips bent in a frigid smile. “Come along, my friend. Just be damn sure you stay behind both Sergeant Rand and myself. ‘Bringing up the rear,' it's called.”

“An honored position, .Tom. You won't even know I'm there.”

“That's my fervent wish,” he muttered as we got out of the car.

The Daimler's doors shut with a muted thump. A freighter despondently lowed from the Thames. Piccadilly Square distantly grumbled, even at this hour, with omnibuses and taxis. A cricket preened its legs, then shut up. No eyes peered from lighted windows. None that could be seen, anyway.

Across dank cobblestones we approached the apartment building. Room 702 on the seventh floor. No lights.

A pale yellow glow filtered sickly through frosted panes unimaginatively etched
LONDON ARMS APTS.
Empty milk bottles sprawled on seven grimy steps leading from the sidewalk.

I shut the front door behind me. Wood steps painted a cheap light green curved up and out of sight. An elevator also yawned open. The apartment smelled of human hair and boiled cabbage.

Sergeant Rand seemed oblivious to the squalor, his face flushed with the sweet smell of pursuit. “Do we take the lift?”

Tom nodded. He punched the button as I slipped through the doors.

Two … three … four … five … six … seven.

The doors clattered open like old boiler plates, revealing a gray corridor, finger-smudged and muggy with gas heat.

Numbers ran to the right. 706 … 704 … 702. A corner apartment.

Tom's knuckles rapped the door. “Police. Open up, please.”

Silence. He knocked again.

“Open up, Klein.”

No answer.

Sergeant Rand and Tom backed up two paces, then hit the door with one blow.

The architect of the London Arms must have been in cahoots with the local gentry. The door was the only sound part of the building.

“Once more!” he bellowed. “Give us a hand, Norman.”

The chain latch flew across the grimy flat as we burst through amid splintering wood. My eyes searched out details in the gloom.

An empty rumpled bed. Wind stirring curtains through an open window. Martha Klein's cane propped against the coffee table.

I stood stark still and heard footsteps clanging up the fire escape.

Either I set the land speed record or my companions tripped. I found myself charging up the stairs that faded into the fog.

Suddenly I seemed to soar above above the fog like a jetliner over a cloud bank as I reached the roof of the building.

A bumper crop of
TV
antennas sprouted in the moonlight. The Kleins crouched on the other side of the metallic jungle. They sprang like two cornered badgers and sprinted for the edge of the rooftop.

I immediately grasped their plan. London Arms Apartments did not stand alone but were flanked by twin sisters, each separated by a ten-foot gap. Between the apartments was a makeshift oak beam that served as an emergency walkway across the roofs.

Martha scampered across to the neighboring roof, then Albert followed. As I jumped on the ledge, he kicked the beam into the fog-cushioned chasm between the apartments.

Tom and Rand puffed and wheezed next to me. “What the hell happened?”

I didn't answer. I was halfway down the fire escape before I heard them following.

The fog crept over my head as I stumbled down the stairs. Flat iron bars forming the fire landing loomed beneath my feet. My eyes blinked blearily in the fog as I fumbled through the windowsill.

I took one look and fought the temptation to go back the way I came.

Have you ever been in the middle of a drunken, carousing party? A real orgy which ends in at least three divorces? The swirling bodies in the apartment were bawling and screaming like the return of Bacchanalia.

Gray matter clicked and I realized they were yelling at me. Prune-faced cronies. One old man with incredible John L. Lewis eyebrows. Pitiful children scampering around with runny noses.

The oldest and ugliest whore in the world breathed beer in my face. “What the 'ell is all this? Can't the decent folk get some sleep around here!”

Decent folk. Ah yes—the Kleins' neighbors. Everyone and his aunt must have come to see the show.

The iron steps clanging behind me wiped away momentary blankness. I dodged around the old woman with the beer breath and tore down the hall.

Bodies cringed out of my way like cows brunted from the path of a train. I gave a longing glance at the elevator. No time. As I headed for the stairs, a little kid in matted clothes grabbed my trouser leg and hung tight. Swearing feebly, I pried him off, tossed him at his mother and careened down the steps.

Tom's ragged breathing was behind me.

“How many exits does the building next door have?” I panted.

“It's just like this one. Fire escapes on every side.”

Then they could get away by four exits. Plus the front door.

Steps advanced and receded beneath my feet—three at a time. Fifth floor. Heads peeked out of doors as we twisted down the next flight.

There were no bystanders on the lower floors, not that I much cared. Hollow wood steps, clomping like horse hoofs, formed a dull mallet jarring my skull.

A dusty letter racing by said “Fourth.” Then it was “Third,” “Second,” and “Lobby.” Back where we started and nothing to show for it except fallen arches.

Tom slid open the lobby door. “I don't see anyone.”

What did you expect, I thought bitterly, as the full hopelessness of the situation hit me. “You can't see beyond your nose.”

The fog had lifted very slightly, but there was no more visibility than the Black Hole of Calcutta.

Tom and Sergeant Rand dove into the darkness. I hesitated a moment, hearing their feet cracking twigs on the sidewalk, before scrambling in pursuit.

I caught up with Sergeant Rand, standing alone.

“Where's Tom?”

“Checking back with Sergeant Morley.”

Two hot orange eyes bore down upon us. Shielding my brow against the glare, I saw the chromium grimace of the Daimler grill. Tom materialized by the side of the patrol car, wielding a flashlight resembling a blunderbuss. He took careful aim.

Pearly light splashed into the cul-de-sac between the apartments. Shadows of the fire escape crisscrossed across the alley like prison bars as two amorous cats caterwauled over garbage cans and a dirty picket fence.

“Nothing here,” Tom said unnecessarily. “Let's go.”

The approaching apartment building was a black monolith against a field of charcoal gray. Window boxes, their contents folded up for the night, neatly faced the street. One corner of sandstone was immortalized by an engraved heart proclaiming, “Barney Williams Loves Wilma Rutlage.” I was feverishly wondering about Barney and Wilma's ancient passions when I noticed that the ‘G' of the glass doorway spelling out B
RIGHTON
G
ARDENS
was blotted by a man's silhouette.

My hand grasped Tom's shoulder as I pointed. He moved to comply, but it was much too late.

The Kleins shot through the door, eyes glittering. Wheeling about, Albert spotted us, grabbed his wife's arm, and bounded to the pavement. Tom darted after them as Martha lost her footing, but they straightened up and plunged into invisibility.

“Listen to me,” he yelled, “both of you! We've blocked the streets. No one's going anywhere!”

Tom's empty words echoed among the encircling buildings.

“You'll never make it, Martha!” I cried desperately. “Tell Al to give up!”

We stood still, listening for any reply.

The answering shot tore through the air like a rusty scythe. Hitting the cobblestone pavement, I heard an angry yowling ricochet that splintered concrete by my ear. As the sound ebbed to silence, the fog mooched back in place, smothering all traces of violence.

Even as I jumped to my feet, bedroom windows glowed with curiosity. All we need, I thought savagely, are spectators.

The fog blanket was fraying at the edges, twisting into ground level thunderheads one moment and thin gauze the next. It was a fog that distorted sound badly.

Breathing through my open mouth to avoid telltale wheezing, I concentrated upon the unearthly quiet. Nothing. Then the faint mewing of a baby, cut short with harsh words and a slamming door. A tepid trickle of water gurgling down a gutter. And something else. Sharp rustling. Then silence numbing my brain. Another rustle. Then another. I couldn't resist a grim smile at the sound of heels clicking on the leaf-strewn sidewalk.