The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  Finally visible under the spotlights, the ship bumped against the pier and every photographer triggered his flash-lamp. The gangways were eased across under the magnesium glare.

  One by one the survivors filed off the ship. Seventy widows. Henry Sleeper Harper and his dog, Sun Yatsen. Irish farmers and Turkish peasants.

  William Ryker watched each face as he stood at the foot of the gangway with his personal physician.

  He then spotted his daughter on top of the ramp. Carried by Dr. McGhee, Eva blinked fearfully at the magnesium flares and the searchlights and the roaring voices around her.

  McGhee gave her to Ryker. His tears and kisses were ignored. Eva’s face remained blank.

  “I’ve got to get her out of this rain!”

  “Go on!” McGhee nodded, yelling above the crowd. “I want to have a word with your doctor.”

  With Eva in his arms, Ryker ran back to the Packard.

  McGhee unfurled his umbrella, then held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor …”

  “… Stevens.”

  “… I need to give you some facts about your patient.”

  “Yes?”

  “From what I can determine, Eva’s not physically ill. Run down from exposure, of course. And she has some nasty abrasions and contusions which I’ve tried to deal with. But it’s her state of mind I’m worried about.”

  Dr. Stevens nodded. “She looks very frightened.”

  “Frightened! During the past four days she hasn’t said a word! Not one word. I don’t understand it.” McGhee glumly rubbed his five-o’clock shadow. “Or maybe I do and don’t want to.”

  Under his dripping umbrella, Stevens scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve given Eva a rather thorough examination. She’s no longer … intact.”

  “I … I don’t follow.”

  “Goddamit, man,” McGhee snapped. “Don’t give me that! Of course you ‘follow’!”

  “Such an occurence isn’t unusual, considering the strenuous experience …”

  “Trust me to know some simple anatomy, Dr. Stevens.” His voice lowered to an indignant whisper. “I’m familiar with the clinical details of … cases like this. What I don’t know is the emotional stability of her father. You’ll have to decide when—and if—he should be told.”

  Dr. Stevens looked uneasily over his shoulder. Ryker stood one leg on the Packard’s running board. The car’s exhaust smoked impatiently.

  He listened for a long moment to the rain drumming over his head, then turned back to McGhee.

  “Thank you for your advice, Doctor.” Stevens formally pumped his hand. “I’ll have to think it over.”

  With a final parting nod, he headed back to Ryker’s car.

  Albert and Martha Klein stood at the head of the Carpathia’s gangway and watched the red tail lights of the Packard vanish in the rain. Walking arm in arm, they sidled through the crowd.

  Up on the Boat Deck John McFarland studied them until the blond heads were lost in the field of shiny black umbrellas.

  Ten days later, in St. Petersburg, Florida, Mima Heinley eased open the screen door of her apartment off Central Avenue. “Yes? Could I help you?”

  The Kleins stood together and smiled diffidently. Albert spoke up. “The apartment next door’s for rent, I hear. Folks downstairs said you have a key.”

  “Sure do! Be right with you.” Mima scurried into the bathroom and fished the key from Fred’s pants.

  “What now?” He grunted from the tub.

  “A young couple to see the apartment.”

  Fred splashed soap off his handsome black mustache. “More trash, I suppose.”

  “Oh, hush up!” She playfully slapped his muscular shoulders. “Fact is, they look real nice. The clean bright type this neighborhood needs.”

  As Fred dried himself and yanked on his pants, he heard Mima’s high, thrilled voice in the living room. “Oh, I just know you’re going to settle right in and make yourselves a fine home!”

  30

  “… unfortunately, the exact method of escape off the Titanic used by Jason and Lisa is lost in the past.”

  I walked across the den and opened the window, breathing the cool afternoon air. Lurking mental cobwebs blew away.

  “We know from Eva’s tape that Jason Eddington wound up in Boat Number Four, one of the last to leave the ship. Lisa made her exit earlier in the evening, although it’s impossible to pinpoint the exact boat. Both of them were very good at covering their tracks.”

  Sitting behind my desk, I drained the last of my whiskey glass. I held it up to the window light. Water beads dripped coolly between my fingers.

  “So, after the rescue by the Carpathia, we had another metamorphosis. From Steven and Julie Herrick to Jason and Lisa Eddington to Albert and Martha Klein. One can’t help being struck by their audacity.” I cocked an eyebrow at Ryker. “They knew their only chance of escaping your vengeance was to lose themselves among the anonymous ranks of the seven hundred five Titanic survivors. Of course, from the beginning, their identities as the newlywed Eddingtons had been a cooked-up façade to serve their purposes aboard ship. But it took a very peculiar sense of irony to adopt the names of Albert and Martha Klein.

  “I suppose the ruse had its own crazy logic. The Kleins were certainly easily verifiable as not being among the rescued aboard the Carpathia. All Jason and Lisa had to do was give the new names to Second Officer Bisset, who was compiling the survivors list. I imagine they took the elementary precaution of telling Bisset their new names out of earshot of any fellow passengers from the Titanic. Paper work and passports were a total mess after the disaster, of course.” I shrugged. “All in all, Jason and Lisa—or should I call them ‘Albert’ and ‘Martha’?—must have found it very easy to shuck off their previous guises.

  “One thing puzzles me,” I said to the Old Man. “You knew something about their past. Why were you so ready to accept their deaths? Simply because the names ‘Steven and Julie Herrick’ weren’t on the survivors list?”

  He massaged the swollen knuckles on one hand. “You’re so frightfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hall. At the time … no one was thinking very clearly during those dreadful days.”

  “I can understand that. But there’s another mystery surrounding Al and Martha’s escape. What became of John McFarland after his brave confrontation with Jason out in mid-Atlantic?

  “It’s fair to state, I think, that McFarland lost his courage. Probably not through threats of physical violence. He was working closely with the crew aboard the Carpathia and would be quickly missed if he fell victim to Albert and Martha. But I’m sure they quickly told him the score. Their word against his and all. McFarland struck me as a man who’d bow a little too quickly to the inevitable.

  “In any event, Albert and Martha Klein nimbly dodged all obstacles and vanished once again when the Carpathia reached New York. Ten days later they quietly surfaced in St. Petersburg, Florida, as the new neighbors of Fred and Mima Heinley. They remained good neighbors for the next twenty-nine years.

  “The records I’ve found on the Kleins over that period are rather sketchy. They applied for a business license to open a produce store on May 9, 1912. The new Albert and Martha certainly weren’t strapped for cash. When they left London on the Titanic, they must’ve brought along quite a nest egg.

  “But the Kleins resisted all pressures to expand their little business. Fred Heinley told me of Albert’s determination to keep it ‘in the family.’ By running a nice clean business and refusing to grow, they kept a very low profile.”

  Mike Rogers leaned forward. “What exactly are you driving at?”

  “Come now.” I impatiently stood, then leaned on the edge of the desk. “Use your head. Better yet, ask your client.”

  Mike turned in appeal to Ryker. The Old Man at first didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were mannequin-blank. But the lips slowly moved.

  “In those first days after Eva came back to me, I wasn’t thinking too clearl
y. She was home and their names didn’t appear on any survivors list. That was enough. But then Stevens told me what they’d done to my daughter, and I prayed they’d be alive.” He painfully swallowed. “Every night I got down on my knees and pleaded to God to make them be alive, so I could personally find them and tear out their living guts …”

  “Mr. Ryker!” Mike warned. “For Christ’s sake …”

  “That very week I was rewarded.” He cocked a brow my way. “It’s damn odd, Hall. I’ve never had another prayer answered before or since.”

  “Things even out in the end. You answered John McFarland’s prayers by making him a rather wealthy man.”

  Ryker showed no surprise at my good guess. “Son, the money was nothing compared with the news McFarland brought me.”

  “Your generosity enabled him to take rather large chunks of retirement in between both world wars.”

  “McFarland wasn’t a greedy man.” Ryker’s eyes were trained elsewhere and elsewhen. “He came to my house in Newport. Important information, he insisted, which he had to tell me personally …”

  John McFarland and William Ryker sat sipping Irish coffee at a white-painted wrought iron table on the sun terrace of the white rococo Ryker summer cottage. They looked upon bright clipped grass sloping down toward Narragansett Bay. Out on the lawn a black housemaid guided Eva on a spring stroll.

  Ryker kept both flint-eyes on his daughter as McFarland talked and talked, spinning his horror tale. Eva clung tight to the maid’s hand. Her back was turned and each foot plodded mechanically in turn. Left, right, left.

  Ryker closed his eyes, then realized McFarland had stopped. “And you saw both of them leave the Carpathia?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any idea which way they went?”

  “No. There were thousands of people, you remember. And the rain …”

  “… yes, I know.” Ryker watched the front yard for a long moment, then bolted upright. “Carrie! That’s quite enough for today. You can take her in.”

  McFarland smiled awkwardly as Ryker settled back down. “How is Eva doing, sir?”

  “She’s … on the mend.” He followed Eva’s halting progress inside and out of sight. “Well, Mr. McFarland, you’re a brave and resourceful man.”

  “Mainly I was scared, Mr. Ryker. Sometimes sheer fright can keep you going.”

  “I was speaking in a larger sense.” He fingered the china cup on the glass tabletop. “It’s most fortunate that Dr. Stevens already told me of Eva’s condition. I’ve had several days to absorb the shock, as it were. If you had come and told your story cold …” Ryker raised his eyes. “Did you know in ancient times, if a king received disastrous news, he would order the messenger of evil tidings beheaded?”

  McFarland smiled uncomfortably. Really?”

  “Oh yes. Mercifully we live in a civilized world. I’m deeply grateful that you confided in me.” He pulled his checkbook from an inner coat pocket. “If not for you, Eva wouldn’t be alive today.”

  McFarland watched Ryker’s scribbling pen, then blinked at the check for ten thousand dollars.

  “Really, Mr. Ryker, I had …”

  “… of course not. But I feel obliged to offer it. And I’d be honored if you’d accept.”

  The steward stammered his thanks, folding the check in his wallet. Ryker stood and shook his hand.

  “If there’s ever anything else, you let me know.”

  “… and he did.” The Old Man chortled. “In 1920, ’26, ’35, and ’49. Hell, the money didn’t matter. Didn’t add up more than fifty, seventy-five thousand over the years. It was the dues I paid to have my daughter alive, pure and simple.”

  “Yes, I know. The complicated part was figuring how you made use of McFarland’s knowledge that Albert and Martha Klein were alive.” I picked up a second Identikit sketch and showed it to Ryker. “How about this man? Do you recognize him?”

  “Yes, I think so,” he drawled carefully. “A crewman aboard the Savonarola, isn’t he?”

  “That and much more.” I passed the drawing to Tom. “As Inspector Bramel can tell you, his name is Alfredo Petacchi and he’s a suspected enforcer who’s been seen with organized crime figures on both sides of the Atlantic during the past twenty-five years.”

  “Norman,” Mike blustered, “I’m sure my client …”

  “It’s late in the day,” I said to Ryker. “Can’t we cut through the crap?”

  The weathered hands wearily gripped the bars of his wheelchair. “He wasn’t aboard the Savonarola by my choice,” he finally said. “Petacchi serves as a representative of … interested investors.”

  “The Scalisi Family?”

  He nodded.

  “Among others, I suppose.”

  “I never asked.” A hint of a smile. “You learn not to after a while.”

  “And I suppose you closed your eyes when Petacchi decided to sabotage our helicopter.”

  “No!” His forehead clotted red. “I know nothing about that! For all you or anyone knows, it could’ve been a dreadful accident.”

  “One man knows,” Tom snapped. “Is Petacchi still aboard your ship?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure. He comes and goes.” Ryker turned to Mike. “Rogers, have you checked?”

  “Not lately.” He examined an imaginary grease spot on his tie. “There are a lot of people on the Savonarola.”

  “And the facts just slip through your mind like a sieve. Right, counselor?” More scribbling on Tom’s note pad. “We’ll send out a bulletin, Norman. See if we can turn him up.”

  Eva leaned forward and placed a hand on Ryker’s arm. “Father, how could you get involved with a man like that?”

  He wiped his eyes. “I did it for you, darling.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When McFarland told me both of them were still alive, I hired the best detectives in the country. Name your price, I said, but find them.”

  He laughed bitterly. “But for once, my money didn’t help. A year went by. Two. Five. Nothing.” His fists tightened. “You have no idea how … impotent I felt. The bastards bled me white with nothing in return.

  “But the search made a big splash. In 1933 a representative from the Scalisi Family came to see me. I never learned his name. The family had heard of my problem. They had ‘contacts’ not open to me which might prove helpful.” He snorted at the memory. “Those were the little man’s exact words. ‘Contacts.’ An open invitation to join the sewer rats of this world. I said, ‘How much?’

  “A fateful question as it turned out. I paid dearly, but more empty years passed. You went to Switzerland, Eva, for treatments with Fraulein Slote and I followed you abroad in ’38. I turned my back on the whole stinking country.” He braced both skinny arms on the wheelchair. “And then this.”

  He looked up at me. “You’re right, Hall, about things evening out in the end. Six months later, as I lay in that iron lung, I got a call. A young punk named Alfredo Petacchi—cheap strong-arm stuff working the rackets for the Scalisi Family in Miami and St. Pete—had found them in their produce store. Prosperous little shopkeeping bastards. Petacchi and his friends were keeping a close eye on them.”

  “At least that much of Martha Klein’s story was true,” I said.

  “The voice on the phone asked me what I wanted next. If I liked, a ‘final deal’ could be arranged immediately.”

  “Father, no.” Her head shook. “Please, no.”

  “Mr. Ryker, as your attorney …”

  “Shut up, Rogers.” The afternoon sun lit up the crevices in his face. “I’m an old man. My doctor tells me I’ll be dead in a year. Why should I care who knows? What are you going to do? Throw me in jail? Unplug my iron lung? I paid Petacchi’s price. He was most anxious to please me and his family bosses. Unfortunately, he was sloppy. The Kleins got wind and took off. But he followed them to Hawaii. They were fat and careless with middle age. He got the man first. Then the woman. And it was finished.”

&nbs
p; Ryker’s chin rested on his chest. No one spoke. I looked down at my hands and watched them tremble.

  “You old bastard.” I grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. “You’ve always known, haven’t you? That I found both of them.”

  The gray eyes were unwavering. “Son, you’re a bit slow on the uptake. Of course I knew. Why do you think I had Geoffrey Proctor hire you?”

  Jan must have seen something very ugly in my face for she stood and drew us apart.

  Proctor spoke up. “Norman, I want you to know …”

  “Later, Geoffrey. Much later.” My voice wavered as I perched on the edge of the desk. “This whole damn story has been some sort of joke to you, hasn’t it? See Norman Run! Like a squirrel on his treadmill, going nowhere fast.”

  Ryker pursed his lips. “Maybe in the beginning. I’ve been following your career for a long time, son. Not many people could emerge from disgrace and pick up the pieces like you did after the war.” His head drooped at a melancholy angle. “And, I must confess, I’ve always felt some sense of responsibility for your unpleasant experience in Honolulu.”

  “My God! Was all this supposed to be my reward?”

  “No! Oh, no, no,” he yammered. “You don’t understand! It was never supposed to happen this way. You were to write about the Titanic, nothing else. That and the salvage project. The story was going to be the perfect publicity for the diamonds, when they were discovered.” Greed slow-boiled to the surface. “Five million dollars on the market; that’s what they were worth even in 1912. And now? How much would people pay to own jewels snatched from the depths of the Titanic? That’s all it was—a simple business venture. How’d I know you’d go charging off in all directions, tracking down the Kleins? You weren’t even supposed to know they’d ever been on the Titanic!”

  I felt the pulse pounding through my throat, but I tried to keep calm. “Ryker, you were a little too subtle for your own good. She told me, you see. Martha Klein told me in Honolulu. Why, I’m not sure. But I’ve always known.”

  Ryker seemed to shrivel within his skin. I’d seen that look before; in fact, I’d shared it myself. When the best laid plans go very wrong very fast.