Blue eyes crinkled. “Only an outsider or a crazy man walks around Coober Pedy in trousers and a sports coat.”
“It was air-conditioned in the plane.”
“Here, too.” He pointed inside. “Come on down and I’ll fix you a drink. Then we can talk.”
I went in first, placing each foot carefully as McFarland made mind-your-head motions behind me. Five steps down and I was standing in a neat little living room filled with an old but spotless sofa and chair that would have looked comfortable in the lobby of a postwar Hilton. The ceiling barely scraped the top of my head, making me slouch. Around the corner I saw a tiny kitchen and bedroom. Every cranny gleamed with fanatic care.
McFarland latched the door behind me and climbed down the stairs. “Cozy, isn’t it?”
“That I’ll admit.”
“It gives some people the creeps,” he laughed. “Claustrophobia and all. But the underground design is pretty efficient for heating and air conditioning. Out here you can’t afford to waste power.” Heading for the kitchen, he glanced over his shoulder. “Something to drink? Gin? Scotch? I’ve got some Hennessey Four-Star that makes pretty good mouthwash.”
“Sold. With ice, please, if you have it.”
McFarland winced. “You Americans and your ice. How many decent bottles of whiskey have been bastardized by that dreadful combination?” As he went around the corner to rattle through his refrigerator, I took the opportunity to check out the room. No paintings or photos. An old Phillips table radio but no TV. The room mirrored the guarded facade of its owner.
John McFarland was about five-nine. Neither thin nor fat. A round face with small watchful eyes. White hair clipped short to fuzzy-dandelion length. He could pass for a young seventy. Or an old fifty-five, for that matter. His nonfeatures were already fading from my mind, like the images on an uncoated Polaroid print.
He came around the corner, ice cubes tinkling brightly from one of the two glasses. “Here we are. Take a seat.” He handed me the glass, then raised his own.
“Mr. Hall, I’ve heard a great deal about you. All that time in the Pacific during the war. And the stories about those goddam island paradises.”
“I believe you’re thinking of Michener.”
“Oh.” He took another slug of scotch.
“I wouldn’t worry, Mr. McFarland. It’s you I want to talk about.”
“You can call me John. Assuming I can call you Norman. Then we’ll both save a great deal of tongue twisting.”
“That’s fine by me. What I want to know about …”
“I can guess, Norm.” He pointed at the radio. “Once in a while I keep in touch with the outside. And now that radio keeps yammering ‘Titanic, Titanic, Titanic.’ As if one sinking wasn’t enough. That goddam bloody Ryker is bringing it up for air.”
“Well, not quite. More like a treasure hunt.”
“Really?” His eyes narrowed. “What’s he hope to find?”
“No one really knows.”
McFarland snorted. “No one’s really saying, you mean.”
“Maybe so. But I’d like to know something about your background on the Titanic.”
“What background? We only completed three fourths of a voyage.”
“You must recall something about the ship.”
“Oh, sure. After all, it’s my claim to fame.” He smiled ironically. “Staying afloat on the morning of April fifteenth was the most important thing I ever did in my life.”
“What do you remember most?”
“She was beautiful. Elegant.” He raised his hands helplessly. “Not very articulate, am I?”
I didn’t answer, hoping my silence would draw out the words.
“It wasn’t simply a matter of luxury,” he finally said. “Both of the Queens were posh enough, much like a well-heeled men’s club. But the Titanic served a very special clientele. English lords. Krupps and Rothschilds. Second-cousin Hapsburgs and Hohenzollerns; an incestuous pack of stuttering bleeders. American robber barons. Astors and Vanderbilts and Whitneys. The White Star Lines planned to build three sister ships to transport the rich in a style even they weren’t accustomed to. Heavy mahogany furniture. An indoor swimming pool. Carpeting everywhere, growing thick like beige grass. An imitation Parisian cafe, The first was the Olympic. Then the Titanic. The third ship, the Britannic, was sunk during World War One.”
“You don’t sound exactly unhappy about what happened.”
“Do you believe in a Divine Plan?”
“No. Not that my belief or disbelief would matter in the long run.”
“Well, I do. The Titanic is too beautiful a symbol to be explained any way else. The ship ‘God Himself couldn’t sink.’ Only He did. Taking all the rich and privileged down with her. A sneak preview of the future, I would say. The friends and relatives of the victims would all go down in her wake once the war broke out.”
“An interesting theory, John. When you have proof let me know.”
“Fortunately, such things are beyond proof,” he said amiably. “What else do you want to know? My daring escape from the sinking ship? It worked, as you can see.”
“Not right yet. I’m interested to know why you came here.”
“No water. Dry land from horizon to horizon.”
“I’d prefer something a little less facile. Like an explanation of what you did from nineteen twelve, after the sinking, to nineteen twenty-three, when you joined Cunard.”
“You’ve been spying on me.”
“Just looking at your personnel records.”
“The fourteen to eighteen war, mainly. I joined the Navy and served on the Evan-Thomas during Jutland. Nearly got my arse torpedoed from under me more times than I can count.”
“What about after the war?”
“My father died and left me some money. I took a few years to run through that.”
“What did he do?”
McFarland focused on the water droplets beading his glass. “He owned a shoe store in Brighton.” A shrug. “Anyway, I ran out of money in twenty-three, so I signed up with Cunard.”
“What did you do immediately after the sinking? It was another two years before the war broke out.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lazed about. Odd jobs and all.”
“You never told me why you came here.”
“I had friends aboard the Mary who talked nothing but Australia. The open frontier and so forth. One of them mentioned the fortune in opals to be made out here. Coober Pedy and Andamooka—that’s about three hundred miles to the southeast—mine about two million pounds a year,” He laughed, slapping his stomach. “I was still strong then, enough muscle left to handle a jackhammer, and I thought what the hell. I bought land just north of here. And slaved for two ball-busting years. I hit my first seam early in fifty-one.” McFarland lifted his palms. “The rest was downhill. I hit again in fifty-seven. I’ve been coasting on that ever since.” He finished off his glass. “Mind if I ask you a question, Norm?”
“Ask away.”
“Why’d you come to me? Just to talk about the Titanic?”
“Mainly.”
“There must be other old bastards left from the ship.”
“Probably. But I got onto your name from Fred and Mima Heinley, a couple who live in St. Petersburg, Florida.”
“Never heard of them.”
“You haven’t met. But they were close friends of a young couple who you must’ve served on the Titanic. Albert and Martha Klein.”
McFarland’s eyes focused into space. “Klein. Klein.” His lips pursed. “Albert and Martha, you said?”
“That’s right. They were newlyweds.”
Slowly, then rapidly, he shook his head. “No, can’t say that I do.”
“They were very young,” I persisted. “Early twenties.”
McFarland kept shaking his head. “Sorry …”
“Very good-looking.”
“I really can’t …” he drawled regretfully.
“Both blond.”
His
face was an empty smiling mold. “Wish I could help you. But I had a lot of people on B deck portside. More than I can remember.”
“You’re sure.”
“Sure!” He stood and ambled for the kitchen. “You know, Norm, I’d offer you another drink but I’m running sort of late. I’ve got company for dinner. You know how it is.”
Yes, I knew. With a sigh I got to my feet and headed for the door. McFarland was pouring himself a double.
“Well, John, thanks very much. If you have anything else to tell me, I’m staying at Jack Forrester’s place.”
“I’ll surely do that!” He pumped my hand. “Let me lead the way up.”
After unlatching the big double doors, he gave me a hand up the stairs.
“Glad we had our little chat, Norm.” He patted my shoulder. “See you around. I might even read one of your books.”
“You might try The Death Watch Beetle.”
“I’ll do that! What’s it about?”
“Deceit, mostly.”
“Sounds great.”
“Yes, 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.”
“Why’s that, Norm?”
“Well,” 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.
“Are you Mr. Norman Hall?”
A flashing brass badge. A stern, jowly face towering overhead.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Come 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.
“What’s all this about anyway?”
“You’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.
“What about my luggage?”
“All 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.
“This 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.
“Here he is, sir.”
The room was large, but I saw only the man in it.
“Mr. 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.
“Oh, 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.
“Could 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?”
“Neighbors 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 outer office. Shirts and pants lay sprawled in erotic positions on the floor. The silk lining of the two-suiter and the weekend case had been efficiently slit.
I should have played it smart but I was scared and fuming.
“What the hell is this, Vivian!”
“I think you know, Mr. Hall.” He prodded my clothes with one shoe. “If we had found a Mauser in your bags, it would have solved a lot of problems.”
I stared open-mouthed for several seconds before I could speak.
“You know, Vivian, in my country there’s a popular stereotype that all stupid cops live in the Deep South. It’s reassuring to find that Australia has its share.”
His jaw stubble flushed to a pink marble hue as he gave a sidelong glance to his men. “You were the last person to see John McFarland alive.”
“Except for the murderer. McFarland was healthy and well on his way to getting drunk when I left him.”
“Nobody remembered anyone but you visiting McFarland’s house.”
“Why don’t you try using your head instead of cracking walnuts with your ass. The dust tracks that serve as roads in Coober Pedy wouldn’t hold tread marks for five minutes. You don’t have a single damn way of knowing who went to McFarland’s place.”
“You were the only stranger there.”
“So what! Who’s to say one of his fellow desert cronies didn’t blow open his skull over a crooked game of cards. Besides, the killer could’ve driven in from anywhere. Andamooka, Mabel Creek—any of those pestholes.”
“We’ve considered that.”
“Then what the hell am I doing here! I never met John McFarland before Saturday. Until last week, I’d never heard of him. You can talk with Proctor World Publishing if you don’t believe me. Or Commissioner Bramel at Scotland Yard.”
“Big-time connections aren’t going to help you. You chartered a plane to Coober Pedy. You spent the afternoon with McFarland. No one else was seen with him. You shot him when he turned around, dumped the body in the bathtub, and cleaned up the blood. Then you tossed the Mauser out in the desert.” Vivian restlessly shifted on his feet. “The motives are your own. But one way or another, you’re the one who’ll pay.”
“No court this side of the Iron Curtain could work with the crap you’ve laid out. You admit you have no motive. No weapon’s turned up. A dozen witnesses can testify about my interest in John McFarland. A fiasco like this will bust you off the force.”
“I’ll look after myself, if you don’t mind.” He looked at the officer standing behind me. “Buckley, this man’s under arrest. Suspicion of murder.”
I felt a prickly tremor at the back of my neck. “I assume I can make a phone call.”
“Down the hall.” Vivian’s eyes had no more expression than two camera lenses.
It took five minutes of hassling with long distance to get my home number. One ring. Two, Four. Seven. God, I thought, what time was it in Paris …
“Hello.” Jan had risen from the dead.
“It’s Norman.”
“Christ,
of all the times to call …”
“Shut up, dear. We’ve got troubles. Call Frank Aylmer right away.”
“In London? He won’t be up.”
“He will be once you call. It’s time he did more important things than divvying up divorce spoils. You should also phone Geoffrey and Tom. The American consul wouldn’t hurt either.”
Silence. “Norman, are we being sued again?”
“Worse.”
They freed me early Tuesday morning. As I said, they had no case.
I spent the night with an amiable red-veined wino who snored and snuffled in an upper bunk. The cell smelled equally of cockroach spray, human hair, and stale sweat.
Sergeant Buckley came to get me at eight A.M. His mouth smiled anxiously as the guard jingled with the keys.
“Good morning, Mr. Hall. I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable.”
“I’ve had better nights. Have you come with the wine list for my last meal?”
“Nothing like that, sir.” He held the jail door open. “Commissioner Harkless would like to see you.”
The Commissioner wore a polished variant of Buckley’s expression. Smile. Smile. Honed by constant practice.
“Please sit down, Mr. Hall.” We shook hands and he waved at the red leather chair facing his desk. “This won’t take long.”
Harkless squinted at the sunlight flooding his beige office walls as he chose each careful word.
“We found an abandoned Land Rover just outside Coober Pedy. It had been stolen from Mabel Creek Saturday night. There are no tracks left unfortunately. A sandstorm from up north destroyed any traces.”
“I don’t suppose you found a Mauser tucked under the seat.”
“Hardly, Mr. Hall. We didn’t expect anything so … fortuitous.” He peeked out warily from under his eyebrows. “Needless to say, you are no longer under suspicion.”
I didn’t answer. Harkless fidgeted in the silence. “I hope you weren’t too upset by Detective-Inspector Vivian’s rather forthright methods.”
“Frankly, Commissioner, he scared the shit out of me. How many other people has he railroaded through that star-chamber court of his?”
“Vivian has been very successful for over twenty years. His success causes him to be … excessive at times. He’s retiring soon. As a matter of fact, after this particular case, Vivian may be retiring earlier than he expected.”
The Memory of Eva Ryker Page 6
