The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  “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 BRIGHTON GARDENS 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.

  Tom appeared from the orange gloom of the squad car. “I guess we lost them.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “They’re at the end of the intersection on the right side.”

  “How …” he began, then thought better of it, turning to Rand. “Sergeant, get back to the car and radio backup units in Piccadilly. We’re going to have to track them on foot. Get Morley to follow us.”

  Fog rushed to fill the hole where Rand had been.

  “Norman,” he whispered, “stay on the right side of the street, parallel with me.”

  Running into the misty shroud, Tom, Rand, and Morley faded in my mind. There was just me and the Kleins in the dark. I could hear their footsteps, which had abandoned all pretense; thrashing and stumbling down the pavement. I couldn’t tell how much of a head start they had, and I began yearning for Sergeant Rand’s youth; at least the physical advantages.

  I also started wishing for some firepower to match the Kleins. Not for myself; I haven’t pulled a trigger since the war. The experience was like a purgative; a necessary but deplorable evil to be repeated only in the direst of emergencies. But as for Tom and Rand …

  All those TV documentaries flashed through my head. See the genteel, unarmed bobbies. Guarding the bastions of Pax Britannia with a mere nightstick. How jolly civilized!

  But, here an
d now, I had misgivings. Big ones. In the Old West they called guns “equalizers.” More than ever I appreciated the nickname, with all its dreadful implications.

  The fog had turned spotty and halfhearted as I paused for breath at a stop sign at the end of Archer Street. Mercury vapor lamps strung out toward Shaftesburg Avenue filled the blackness with brackish pools of light. Two figures under one of the lamps cast long shadows toward me.

  Tom jogged across the intersection to the left side of the street. Jesus, I thought, he made a tempting target. Moments later my misgivings came to pass.

  A pale yellow flower of light flashed his way. The bullet and its noise blasted Tom off his feet. For one hideous instant arms and legs flailed the air like those strobe photos of race horses with all four hoofs off the ground. Then he crumpled. A wad of old clothes tossed down a laundry chute.

  I rushed to him. A red-black blotch fluttered across his left side. My fingers felt his throat. Thub. And again. Once more.

  “God,” I said painfully. “Just stay still.” The orange fog lights swerved our way. “The car’s coming. You’ll be all right.”

  Tom groaned wonderingly. Deep neural shock. He didn’t realize his arm was a boneless mass.

  The car screeched up as I slung him in the back seat and jumped in front. Sergeant Rand looked thunderstruck.

  “What the hell happened?”

  I didn’t bother to answer the obvious. Morley scrambled for the first aid kit. As Rand pulled off Tom’s jacket and shirt, I leaned over the seat with a wood stake and bandage and began twisting the tourniquet around his left arm. Mercifully, he was out cold.

  Rand blinked in wary approval. “You’re pretty handy with that.”

  I grunted, turning the stake vise-tight.

  “Which way were they heading?”

  “Down Shaftesburg toward Piccadilly.”

  He impatiently slapped Morley’s shoulder as the driver let out the clutch and growled into first.

  My eyes raised. “Aren’t we taking him to a hospital?”

  Rand chewed on his lower lip. “The bleeding’s stopped. Nothing anyone can do for a while. Do you want those two running loose?”

  “Fortunately, Sergeant, the decision’s not mine to make.”

  Gears grumbled as we ate up the pavement. The fog was losing ground.

  “They’ll try to lose themselves in a crowd,” he said, leaning anxiously forward, “so the car’s useless. The Circus will still have its share of people.” His head shook. “God knows how they keep going.”

  The Daimler squealed on to the avenue. Bawdy signs beckoned patrons to strip shows, folk singers, and jazz sessions. London was no longer a ghost town and everyone on the street was a potential victim. Dark crannies between buildings offered no assistance. How to spot anyone in the crowd? Look for the black suit? A light gray dress? All cats are gray in the dark.

  But not gray enough. Cruising slowly past the corner of Shaftesburg and Great Windmill Street, I spotted a familiar head of white hair. “She’s over there!”

  “This is the police!” grated the megaphone on the car’s roof.

  They didn’t need to be told. I got a glimpse of Albert’s snarling face before a gun barrel snapped at the Daimler.

  The noise of champagne glasses tossed into a million fireplaces. The windshield collapsed in razor-sharp sheets. Rand I were out of the car and on the sidewalk as Morley pushed the glass off his face and wheeled in closer to the tangle of traffic.

  People were everywhere, funneling into Piccadilly, screaming and scattering in terror.

  There they were, a few yards ahead, shoveling through the crowd. I flung people aside left and right, cursing and swearing.

  Suddenly the Kleins and I burst into the Circus. My mind received disjointed, garbled images of vast walls of light. A giant pendulum carved out a neon path. Grant’s Scotch. Gordon’s gin. Garish yellow letters of the London Pavillion. Max Factor. Persona Blades. Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum; Healthful, Delicious, Satisfying. Young people gathered with nocturnal pigeons around the blackly gleaming Eros Fountain.

  The Kleins began a heedless dash through the encircling moat of traffic. Scream of brakes and horns mixed maddeningly with the yelling bystanders. They were trapped in the center of the stream of cars as I bounded into the street.

  Angry bawling of English motorists hit my ears as a lane of cheese-box cars jerked sullenly to a stop. A whirlpool of Cortinas, Fords, and Austin-Healys swarmed before me. Albert Klein was just a hood’s width away.

  I flagged the cars to stop, with negligible results. Furiously jumping on the bumper of an Austin Cooper, I slid over the hood and grabbed his sleeve.

  There was a break in the traffic as he smashed the back of his fist into my face and leaped for the curb with Martha. Stumbling off the hood and onto my feet, I couldn’t have been more than five yards behind. I remember a vague collage of gaping, incredulous faces.

  Jesus, how did they keep the pace! But then, I wasn’t the one being hunted.

  The Kleins approached a tube entrance as Martha aimed a fearful glance over her shoulder. I grimaced as they charged down the steps. The subway was a rat’s warren of endless hidey-holes.

  The stairs leading to the Underground belched with Piccadilly fun-seekers. I plowed into their midst. In the background Rand distantly cried, “Police! Move aside!”

  They moved, all right. In every way imaginable. There was no time for courtesy. I mowed people down like bowling pins. Where the hell were they? Ten yards down the ramp I got a glimpse of her dress.

  Martha’s face still held untapped reserves of cunning. She grabbed her husband’s arm and rode through the jostling crowd like an icebreaker, disappearing down the second flight of stairs.

  I kept pushing through the mob like a salmon swimming upstream and gradually rounded the corner. Blessedly, the flow of people stopped. I struggled the rest of the way on my fading rubber legs as they pushed into the porcelain-tiled catacomb.

  “Police! Grab that man!”

  His eyes bulged whitely like those of a terrified horse as he broke away from his wife and jumped over the guardrail onto the tracks.

  Red-faced and sobbing, Martha Klein collapsed to her knees.

  “No, Al! My God, don’t leave me alone!”

  I had no time for her. Vaulting over the railing, I ran to the crowd leaning over the platform like a chorus line above an orchestra pit.

  Albert Klein sprinted down the tunnel. He had barely gone five steps when his left leg caved in under him, his face smashing on the steel rail. Exhausted and dazed, he still managed to look back at his left foot caught on a rail tie. He wrenched desperately at the ankle, lips gnarling in pain, but he was doing nothing but tearing ligaments.

  Strange and devious is the human mind. Push-button morality gets people in the damnedest fixes. One moment I watched him flutter like an impaled butterfly, and the next instant I jumped over the railing, tugging at his leg.

  Far down the tunnel the northbound train greedily winked at us.

  Al thrashed at me, avoiding my grasp.

  “Keep still, goddamit! Don’t you know the far rail’s electrified?”

  He stiffened into virtual rigor mortis.

  Loosen the shoe. I grappled with the laces. If only those idiots would shut up! What were they worried about? And why was that woman screaming? Couldn’t they leave a man in peace?

  Red blotches of fatigue clouded my vision and I shook them away. My palm pushed the back of the shoe down over his Achilles’ tendon. I ignored his painful grunt. It was coming!

  My whole universe was the shoe, the greasy rail tie, and, overwhelming me, the glare and lurching rattle of the train with its twin Cheshire cat eyes.

  Less than ten feet away. A burning image of two headlamps, the conductor’s horrified face, yanking at the air brakes, and screeching, sparking wheels.

  Steam from the air brakes tugged at my trouser cuffs as I jumped and landed on the platform. Either the train or an air po
cket buffeted me. A scream from hell tore through my head as red and blue lights flashed and all went black.

  As the crowd clustered overhead, my eyes blinked open. Ceiling lamps hung down in greeting and a dark figure loomed in the foreground.

  “… you all right?” Sergeant Rand was asking.

  I sat up dazedly. “Is he …”

  His head shook. “You tried, Mr. Hall. There just wasn’t any time.”

  No time … no time … no time …

  His words echoed as I wobbled to my feet. The train was stalled, its scattered occupants craning their heads out the windows. I pushed through the chattering throng on the platform. The conductor and station manager stood at the front of the train, examing the red dripping smear under the front wheels.

  You will not throw up, Norman. Besides being undignified, it solves nothing. Just take a few deep breaths. Don’t try to swallow. Now, one foot at a time, back up and get out of here.

  I turned away from Albert Klein and walked slowly across the subway station to his widow.

  Martha was curled in a shivering ball. She rased her head at my approach.

  “You killed him! It was all your fault! You let him die!”

  I let her cry, not answering.

  Tears streamed down the wrinkled cheeks. “I did it all for him, you know. All the hiding and killing. I didn’t care about it. I wanted to settle down. What would I do with the diamonds? I only wanted to be left in peace!”

  Poor, poor Martha Klein. An old repentant soul, now all alone.

  “You’ll probably get your wish, Martha. All the time in the world to sift through those ancient sins.”

  I dug in my pocket and tossed one of the Boucheron stones to the floor. She watched my heel grind it into a fine pasty powder that glittered in the lamplight.

  Once in Sonora I met a cornered rattlesnake caught, right after a recent kill, with empty venom bags. It was still baring its useless fangs as my friend smashed in its head with a walking stick. At the time I felt a curiously tempered remorse, and I felt the same way now.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”