The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  “… Mrs. Eddington …”

  “… don’t lie to me! They’re here! Tell …”

  “… Eva is next door. You’ll wake her …”

  “… tell me, goddam you!” Lisa shook her by the shoulders, then stopped, spotting the private promenade. “They’re out here! Hiding!”

  Georgia followed her outside, hands fluttering. They stood at the railing, framed by the stars.

  “You’ve hidden them! You’ve taken them away!” Her hair blew beserk in the wind.

  “You’re upset, Mrs. Eddington. Go back to your cabin and get some sleep. Please.”

  The madness slowly left her eyes. Chin trembling, she managed to smile and kiss Georgia on the cheek. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. You must think me a terrible fool.”

  She smiled in understanding, turning to look out at the Atlantic. “No need to explain …”

  Lisa slashed both her hands across Georgia’s neck, toppling her over the railing. The robe and pajamas flashed down into the night. A single splash seventy feet below was immediately lost in the Titanic’s churning wake.

  Lisa turned her attention to the rattan furniture on the promenade. She tipped one chair on its side. Her hand shut the glass door as she stepped back into the parlor. A settee toppled. A table jostled. A vase crushed on the carpet; white porcelain and red roses ground under her heel. But quietly! Not to disturb Eva.

  She surveyed her work. Satisfied, she took Martin’s monogrammed handkerchief, dropped it near the door leading to the promenade, and left the cabin. The steward was still shuffling dishes in the corridor. Lisa turned back to the black interior of the suite.

  “Thank you so much, Miss Ferrell,” she said warmly, wiping her tears. “You must forgive me. I’m … I’m very, very sorry. Good night.”

  Lisa closed the door behind her and headed down the corridor—a woman with a destination—giving the steward a haven’t-you-got-something-better-to-do look. He vanished guiltily into the kitchen.

  As he disappeared, Lisa walked down the hallway to the elevators and rode down to the purser’s office on C Deck.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the assistant on duty, “I’m retiring for the night. Would you please send this up to the wireless office?” She passed him a half sheet of onionskin paper.

  “Yes, of course.” The assistant nodded graciously.

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  Her message snuffled up the pneumatic tube from the purser’s office and clinked into the “Incoming” basket in the wireless room as she returned to the starboard corridor of B Deck. A glance both left and right. Totally vacant.

  Smiling, she reopened the door of B-51, and eased herself back into the parlor. Lisa didn’t make a sound as she tiptoed through the interconnecting cabins to B-55, where Eva Ryker slept.

  26

  “… of course, we have no way of knowing the exact strategy Jason Eddington used to maneuver Clair Ryker into his cabin.” I sighed, wiping my face with a handkerchief. “From what we know of their relationship, she didn’t need much persuasion. And, of all the things that may have happened in B-seventy-six, all we can say for certain is that Clair came to a very bad end. As we’ll hear, the tape testifies to that.

  “The fate of James Martin and Georgia Ferrell is even more mysterious. J.H. simply vanishes from the scene. None of the survivors remember seeing him when the passengers were mustered to the lifeboats early on the morning of April fifteenth. But the almost offhand comments Jason and Lisa later made to Eva very strongly suggest that he joined Clair in the rubbish heap. More waste material in the Eddingtons’ Grand Plan.”

  Scowling, I tugged at my chin. “I suppose Lisa did the actual work. Her very public purchase of a knife as a gift to Martin was more than mere coincidence. And, from studying a timetable of those last few hours before the Titanic struck the iceberg, I think we can safely assume that she also handled the murder of Georgia Ferrell.

  “Our evidence is a little more concrete in the case of the Ryker maid. Several weeks after the sinking, the MacKay-Bennett, a cable-laying ship out of Halifax, picked up about two hundred bodies. She was among them.” I stared at Ryker. “It must have taken a very discriminating eye to pick her out of the anonymous pile.”

  He folded and refolded his hands in a gesture of helpless and ancient grief. They were pitifully white, with gnarled blue veins snaking between the liver spots.

  “Have you ever been to Halifax, Mr. Hall, to see their graves?”

  “Last April,” I replied.

  “I used to take the train up every month. Row upon row. At one time I thought she was there. Hiding. Clair hid from me frequently, you know. After a while I gave up the search and never went back.”

  Ryker’s lips creased tight like an old wound. “To answer your question, Mr. Hall, yes, I did meet the MacKay-Bennett when it returned to Halifax. No Clair, of course; but there was Georgia Ferrell. I made the necessary arrangements at Fairview Cemetery. The headstone and all. And before the burial I had a pathologist look at the remains. She was definitely killed by a sharp blow that snapped her neck.” One hand flapped impatiently. “The old fool didn’t want to commit himself, but both he and I knew it was no accident.”

  I settled behind my desk. “Even with the scattered facts we have, I think they can be welded with some strong hunches to reconstruct the Eddingtons’ plan. To do that, of course, you first have to imagine what would have happened had the Titanic never met with an iceberg on its maiden voyage.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I scratched my head. “It doesn’t take any deductive feat to know that Jason Eddington had to get rid of Clair Ryker’s body. Yet we know that he hid it under the bed, thanks to Eva’s discovery a few hours later.”

  She impassively absorbed my words, her face as blank as an Easter Island statue.

  “In my opinion, the bed was a temporary hiding place,” I continued. “It was no simple matter to shove a carcass out the porthole. Though it was terribly cold that night, passengers were still up and around. Jason and Lisa would have to wait until the early hours of the morning before dumping Clair. In the meantime, the body had to stay out of sight. Under the bed was as good a place as any.

  “On April fifteenth, the morning after the murders, a steward would have discovered Martin’s body in his cabin. The calls would immediately go out to Captain Smith, Dr. O’Loughlin; the whole ship in an uproar.

  “The same steward would run next door to the Ryker suite with the news and discover that Clair and Eva, along with their maid, are missing. There are obvious signs of a struggle. Perhaps, as an added refinement, the steward or one of the investigating officers would discover an object—a tie clasp or cigarette lighter—establishing Martin’s presence in the room.

  “At this point Jason and Lisa come on the scene, Eva with them. They tell Purser McElroy that she banged on their door late last night, in shock and screaming something about J.H. and her mother having a fight.

  “The captain questions Eva—uselessly. She would appear to be in shock, partly in bafflement and partly because Jason and Lisa would’ve kept her doped up. With Eva unable to tell the truth, the officers aboard the Titanic would have little choice but to buy the Eddingtons’ story. I can hear Captain Smith talking to both of them.

  “‘I understand you had a very serious fight with Clair Ryker last night.’

  “‘That’s right,’ Lisa would say, ‘but I went to her cabin later to apologize. I acted like such a fool!’

  “The captain would check with the Rykers’ steward, who’d corroborate her statement. Captain Smith then would show Lisa the murder weapon. Let’s assume for the moment it was a knife.

  “‘Of course, I recognize it,’ she’d reluctantly answer. ‘I bought it for Mr. Martin as a present from the gift shop here on board ship.’

  “Captain Smith would check with the clerk at the gift shop, who’d agree with Lisa. Eva herself saw Lisa buy the knife, but she would be in no position to testify. With such limi
ted information Captain Smith would reach the pat, but inevitable, conclusion.

  “Someone, probably Purser McElroy, who kept his nose to the deck, would whisper old rumors. All about James Martin being one of Clair Ryker’s ex-lovers. The fight with the Eddingtons would have brought things to a head. Late that night, they would speculate, Martin went next door to talk with Clair. They fought. First words, then fists. Eva overheard and ran to the Eddingtons’ cabin. Martin went berserk and killed Clair. In panic, he murdered Georgia Ferrell as a witness and tossed both their bodies overboard.

  “Back in his cabin, Martin realized what he’d done. He took the easy way out; or the hard way, depending how you look at it; disemboweling himself with the knife Lisa had given him.”

  I shrugged. “It would have suited Captain Smith, at least for the time being. Being a stickler for discretion, he’d keep the press out of the affair. The only people he’d notify would be the widowed Mr. Ryker and the police in New York, who’d meet the Titanic at docking.

  “Somewhere along the line Jason would offer to take care of Eva and make sure she’d get to her father safely. As Jason might’ve said, she really had no one to turn to.

  “And so the Titanic would wire the sad news to you, Mr. Ryker. But what the officers on board wouldn’t know was that you were already informed.”

  QWG

  RAU

  WQT

  PCW

  BFW

  IEJ

  TIY

  EVY

  QUR

  ESP

  UKS

  GKP

  YFG

  UBF

  RWA

  RWE

  KIV

  RAG

  ARI

  VTB

  UON

  OUD

  IIB

  WBR

  TIY

  PDR

  ARI

  QPD

  WER

  OBI

  RGW

  URP

  REU

  EPK

  BUX

  XJA

  UCW

  SIX

  ARI

  AWP

  JAB

  OZZ

  I held the cipher up for the Old Man to see. “You know the key, I believe. Like to translate?”

  “Son, you can go to hell.”

  I passed the deciphered message to him. Pale eyes blinked over the lines.

  WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER STOP IF YOU WANT HER ALIVE BE AT SINGER BUILDING LOBBY NOON AFTER TITANIC DOCKS NEW YORK WITH LATEST SHIPMENT STOP NO TRICKS STOP

  Ryker read the message as if contemplating an old enemy.

  My voice was soft. “The ‘latest shipment’ refers to the diamonds, of course.”

  Oblivious to Mike’s warning grimace, his lips slowly moved. “Yes.”

  I put the paper on my blotter. “The Cape Race Wireless Station has a record of the message, since they saved their logs for the Senate inquest of the sinking. It was transmitted from the Titanic five minutes before she struck ice. The destination was Pittsburgh, where, to gather from newspaper accounts, you were staying to wrap up a purchase of new coal holdings. The Eddingtons kept pretty close tabs on you. Closer than the tabs you had on them.”

  The Old Man’s eyes grew red and misty. I tried to remember how I’d felt an hour earlier, before he arrived. The avenging angel armed with Truth. And already I felt tarnished. I had the Norman Touch; the opposite of King Midas’ talent. The gold was turning into shit even as I watched.

  “In any event,” I said lowly, “all my second-guessing is academic. The Eddingtons’ scheme went wildly astray. By the time their cipher reached you in Pittsburgh, the Titanic had already carried fifteen hundred people to their deaths.”

  I kept my eyes on Eva as I rose and returned to the tape recorder. “Are you sure you want to hear the rest?”

  “No, I’m not entirely sure at all.” She nervously brushed the hair back off her face. “Even with Dr. Sanford’s help, it’s not easy. For years I’ve been fleeing the bogeyman in the dark. One step ahead of its snapping at my heels. Now you want me to stop in my tracks, turn around, and ask ‘who’s there?’” Eva turned up to me. “Would you have that kind of courage?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Noncommittal candor. A Norman Hall trademark.” Eva’s lips hinted at a smile. “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t want to play it straight through. As you know, the session with Dr. Sanford became increasingly … disjointed. And it’s restrictive in viewpoint, if we’re to get some idea what happened on the Titanic early that morning of April fifteenth.” I tapped the recorder. “That’s why I’ll stray away from this if it becomes too fragmented or too … painful.

  “Eva, you were a sound sleeper that night. Totally oblivious even to the murder of Georgia Ferrell. A slight crack of an opening door was the only thing that disturbed you …”

  Snug under the covers, Eva Ryker opened her eyes. There was nothing but the blackness of her bedroom and the low rumble of the Titanic’s engines.

  Reassured, she buried her head in the pillow.

  Eva heard a small hiss from the corner of the cabin. She peeked over the covers.

  Another tiny hiss. And another. And another. It was breathing. Inhale, pause. Exhale. Inhale-pause-exhale. Inhale-exhale. Inhale-exhale. Damp and hot, by her ear.

  She sat up, crying, “Georgia! Georgia, is that you?”

  A hand grabbed her throat, fingers digging for the carotid artery as it forced her face into the pillow.

  “No, no!” Eva screamed, thrashing out of bed. As she jumped off the mattress another hand, unseen in the darkness, clutched at her. The corner of the end table hit her above the right brow, but Eva felt nothing. Blood trickled from the cut into her eye, pooling in the socket as the pillow pushed over her face. She struggled uselessly. Eva tried to fight, to run, to stop her descent into the swirling maelstrom, sucking her down through the frothing water, turning to black.

  Eva fell through the abyss and was gone.

  27

  The light hurt her eyes. Eva raised a hand to shield them. A star burst of yellow light focused into a lamp on an end table. The open orifice of a Victrola’s horn yawned from one corner. Two shadowy giants loomed overhead.

  Eva’s fingers dug into the bedsheets beneath her as a woman’s hand reached out to examine the cut above her eye.

  The shadow giants turned slightly and light fell across their faces.

  “Oh Lisa, Lisa! I had an awful nightmare …”

  “It’s all right, darling.” Lisa cradled her head by her breasts and stroked her hair. “Ssssh … ssh. Don’t cry. Everything’s all right.”

  Her sniffling slowed, then stopped. Jason sat on the bed next to her.

  “Hey, Eva,” he smiled gruffly, tweaking her under the chin. “Big girls don’t cry, do they now?”

  “Nope.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress, not noticing the bloodstain. She glanced around at her surroundings and frowned. “What am I doing here?”

  Jason looked serious. “We hoped you could tell us. You came pounding on the door, screaming something about Mr. Martin and a fight. You passed out for a few minutes. We were about ready to call a doctor. That’s a nasty cut on your eye.”

  Eva grimaced and held her hand over the scar. “I can’t remember. I thought I was asleep. Someone was …” Breath quickening, she stared around her. “Where’s my mother? And Georgia?”

  “I don’t know Eva.” He rose and went to the door. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Jason looked at his pocket watch.

  Eleven-forty.

  In the Titanic’s, crow’s nest Lookout Frederick Fleet glanced away from his watch. Only twenty minutes left in his shift. His eyes strained out beyond the ship’s bow. But there was nothing except the stars and the black becalmed sea.

  Mist clouded out of his cheeks. He turned to Reginald Lee, partner on his watch, who grinned and shivered in sympathy. Neither man n
oticed the faint black-on-black patch in the ship’s path.

  He returned to examining the horizon, slowly scanning left to right. His eyebrows raised at the dull gray vision straight ahead. Must be seeing things, he thought. No … he wasn’t. It was small, just a chunk. No … no, by God, Christ, it was a monster!

  Fleet spun and rang the crow’s nest bell three times, then lunged for the bridge telephone. The patch grew even as he grappled with the receiver.

  “What did you see?”

  “Iceberg right ahead.”

  “Thank you.”

  On the bridge First Officer Murdoch heard the news. Fast, fast, a voice yelled in the back of his skull as he yanked the brass telegraph handle to “Full Speed Astern.”

  “Mr. Hitchens!” he yelled. “Hard-a-starboard!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” The Quartermaster’s hands flew at the wheel.

  A quick hard jab at the button brought down the watertight doors.

  Alarms rang down in the bowels of the ship. Stokers glanced up, startled.

  Fleet put down the phone, stood by Lee, and waited.

  It was closing … closing … by God, we’ll never make it … the engines are throbbing, spinning … it’s not so big really, maybe we’ll mow it under … this ship’s strong, unsinkable … Sweet Jesus, how big is that thing … fifty … no seventy … almost a hundred feet out of the water … white and craggy like giant salt crystals … closer … we’re still not turning … Goddamit, how slow can a ship be … closer … high and threatening above the forecastle … turn … turn … my God … TURN!

  Shearing through the water at over twenty knots, the Titanic’s bow began to come around. Slowly, agonizingly. Swinging to port.

  Underwater, white knuckles of ice swept past the Titanic’s hull. Gliding, scraping, ripping. Steel buckled, crumpling like foil.

  Engineer and fireman jumped up at the sound of alarm bells ringing throughout Boiler Room Number Six. The side of the ship peeled open with a groan of tortured steel. Encroaching water churned among the gauges and fittings. The sea at waist level, both men cleared the watertight doors before they ground shut.