The Memory of Eva Ryker by Donald Stanwood

guard jingled with the keys.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Hall. I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable.”
    â€œI’ve had better nights. Have you come with the wine list for my last meal?”
    â€œNothing 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.
    â€œPlease 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.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you found a Mauser tucked under the seat.”
    â€œHardly, 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.”
    â€œFrankly, Commissioner, he scared the shit out of me. How many other people has he railroaded through that star-chamber court of his?”
    â€œVivian 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.”
    Harkless sat back in his chair, his have-we-made-amends face securely in place.
    â€œYou can relax, Commissioner. A false arrest suit wouldn’t fit into my agenda. But you could do me a favor.”
    â€œCertainly!” He unraveled both hands, folding them serenely on the desk. “Anything within reason.”
    â€œI’d like to see any information on John McFarland.”
    â€œWe don’t have very much. My men tried to obtain prints from the stolen Land Rover but haven’t had any luck. Our leads have reached an … impasse, as it were.”
    â€œI’m more interested in McFarland’s early background. Such as immigration papers.”
    â€œYes, I have those here.” Harkless searched through his top drawer, then pulled out a slender file.
    â€œCould I have a copy?”
    â€œOf course.”
    I glanced through the forms, then raised my head. “It says he was born May 15, 1882 in Manchester. Is there anything here about McFarland’s parents?”
    Harkless craned his head across the desk, reaching out to turn a page. “There, I think.”
    My fingers ran across the entry. “‘Parents Charles and Emily McFarland. Killed in a Manchester-Liverpool train accident, August 26, 1907.’”
    â€œA pity.” Harkless nodded staunchly. “A fellow losing his parents at such a young age.”
    â€œJohn McFarland told me his father owned a shoestore in Brighton and left him an inheritance shortly after the armistice.”
    â€œWell, then.” His eyes were bland. “He must’ve lied, wouldn’t you say?”

9
    January 23, 1962
    John McFarland, as it turned out, lied about a great many things.
    He did serve aboard the Evan-Thomas during World War I. And he was a steward for the Cunard Lines.
    Otherwise John McFarland was a cardboard man, propped up by half-truth, outright lies, and fabrication.
    The meager statistics contained in Commissioner Hark-less’ file taunted me. Sifting through the papers as my 707 pushed across the Pacific toward Oahu, I could feel the facts slipping through my helpless fingers.
    Australian Immigration had no information on McFarland’s whereabouts from April 1912 through November 1914. He didn’t serve