The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  “Okay, Mr. Hall. But I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

  “Neither do I. Don’t try to pump anybody. Just play dumb and keep your eyes open.”

  He canted his head at the approaching flagman. “You two go ahead. I’ve got things to wind up here.”

  Burke and I hustled onto the deck, then hunched low beneath the rotor blades, following the flagman to a narrow flight of stairs on the edge of the helipad. The stairs led down below decks and into the blessed world of steam heat. Our anonymous flagman chose to remain unknown, but introduced us to a Commander Eric Brazier.

  “Naval Liaison Officer for the salvage operation,” he explained. Tight dry palm, white hair, pink healthy face. He dismissed the flagman with a snappy salute, then led us down the corridor.

  “Have you gentlemen had breakfast?”

  Burke shook his head. “Not before flying.”

  “A precautionary measure,” I explained.

  “Then I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.” He pointed at another stairway. “The galley’s down here.”

  Between forkfuls of eggs Benedict I nodded greetings and shook hands with crewmen who drifted in and out of the galley. Mostly French and Italians who manned equipment on board the Savonarola and the bathyscaphs.

  I was pouring myself a second cup of coffee when the Commander bent low over my ear. “Here’s someone you may not have met, Mr. Hall.”

  Facing the new arrival, I smiled softly at Brazier. “Introductions are not necessary, Commander. We’re old friends.”

  Mike Rogers’ face was an interesting study in conflicting emotions.

  “You’re looking good, Norm,” he finally said. “The sea air seems to suit you.”

  “That remains to be seen.” I nodded over my right shoulder. “Mike, I’d like you to meet Burke Sheffield.”

  They shook hands. Burke put lots of elbow grease into his grip. “Nice to meet you, fella!” he boomed in a deep butch basso profundo.

  Mike aimed his grin at Commander Brazier. “Perhaps you would like to show Mr. Sheffield around the Savonarola, Eric.”

  “Certainly!” he said, picking up the cue. “Come along, Mr. Sheffield. There’s a lot to see and not much time to waste.”

  Burke nodded and followed Commander Brazier, lenses and meters swinging from his shoulders like captured booty.

  “Okay, Mike. What’s up?”

  “Mr. Ryker wants you to join him for breakfast.”

  “You should have told me earlier.” I pointed at my empty plate.

  “Mr. Ryker hates to eat alone. You can sit and watch him chew.”

  Acknowledging surrender, I held out my arm. “Lead the way.”

  Mike exchanged casual salutes with the crewman in the corridor as he led me past hissing steam pipes and locked cargo bays into a tiny walnut-paneled elevator.

  “You mentioned breakfast. Would I happen to be the main course?”

  Mike refused to be provoked. “Mr. Ryker is hardly a cannibal.”

  “Even beyond the three-mile limit?”

  The elevator stopped. I let him lead the way down a corridor with wine-colored Wilton underfoot and unmarked mahogany doors on both sides.

  Mike rapped his knuckles on a portside door.

  “Please wait here.” He moved on down the passageway.

  I heard the door click open and turned away from the departing figure of Mike Rogers to stare into the stony black-and-blue face of Lisl Slote.

  In actual fact her face was a welter of multicolored bruises and contusions. A terrific shiner just beginning to fade into the sickly saffron shade of stale rice pudding. Lots of little red scars and a line of stitches on her forehead.

  Fräulein Slote was not an attractive woman, and I had done a pretty fair job of making the rest of her life even uglier. Her one good eye roved over my face, filing the image for future reference.

  “Come.” She beckoned with a swing of her arm.

  From the far corner of the cabin, William Ryker returned my gaze—a little old mummy propped on a couch and encased in a gray, single-breasted suit.

  “Don’t stand there gawking!” He pushed aside his breakfast tray. “Come in and sit down!”

  I obeyed but kept the Fräulein visible in the corner of my eye as she slammed the door shut.

  Ryker certainly set out to sea in class. Except for the portholes, the cabin could pass for one of the more comfortable suites at the Plaza.

  “Very nice,” I said. “Whose cabin is this?”

  “The whole ship is mine, Mr. Hall. Therefore the cabin also belongs to me.”

  Craning my neck, I peeked through the half-open door leading to the bedroom. Only there was no bed—just Ryker’s iron lung.

  “There’s nothing in there to interest you,” he said flatly. “You remember the old song, Me and My Shadow? Well, here I am and there it is.”

  I settled into a chair opposite the couch, mindful of the Fräulein’s watchful glare.

  Ryker sensed my discomfort. “My dear, Mr. Hall and I have private business to discuss. I’ll call if I need you.”

  The door slammed shut and I listened to her footsteps clomp down the corridor into silence.

  Ryker didn’t speak. The pale gray eyes appraised me like a federal inspector grading a suspicious piece of beef.

  “Well, Mr. Ryker, you’re looking rather well.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’m eighty-five years old and I look like hell. I will look a little worse each day until I finally die.”

  “I was speaking in relative terms. A change of scenery sometimes helps. Wipes away the mental barnacles.”

  “Perhaps. You certainly seem to be stimulated lately. Scurrying from Spain to Switzerland to New York.” His fingers toyed with the weave on the armrest. “I want to know what you said to Geoffrey Proctor.”

  “I was very straightforward. Geoffrey can’t take prolonged exposure to candor. He shrivels up. Like Judy Garland throwing water on Margaret Hamilton.”

  He digested my words without a change of expression. “Mr. Proctor tried to give you some sound advice. You should have taken it.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be more persuasive.”

  “I hope so,” he said lightly, “but to be honest, I’m not too optimistic. You see, I’ve run across plenty of fellows like you in my time. Young men on a Mission.” His lips lingered distastefully over the word. “A Crusade to expose the Truth. All very righteous.” Ryker shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “I won’t try to appeal to your common sense since you haven’t any. So I will make a simple statement. You will resign from this story.”

  “… or else?”

  “The Swiss police will be notified concerning your burglary of my house.” His cheeks quivered indignantly. “Fräulein Slote got a clear view of you that night.”

  “Just before she fired off a shot to kill.”

  “You were the intruder, Mr. Hall. The Fräulein was simply safeguarding my property and welfare.”

  “She charged into that room with gun barrels blazing. Don’t ever work late in that office without letting her know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “However trigger-happy the Fräulein may be, she has excellent eyesight. She’ll be only too glad to sign a statement and pick you out of a lineup.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But the whole thing is academic, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had no intention of reporting me to the police. You still don’t.”

  “You’re a fool, son. Don’t confuse me with that Ivy League twit, Geoffrey Proctor.”

  I didn’t answer. Ryker’s eyes were clear and scornful.

  “Let me show you something.” I dug into my coat pocket and passed a folded slip of paper to him. “Maybe this will clear the air.”

  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 Marconigram and hi
s face changed. No longer merely a dried up old man, but something gaunt and haunted, like survivors of Belsen and Auschwitz. But more than that. A look of unforgiving vengeance. I began to know how Pandora felt when she first pried open the lid.

  His hands twisted the paper. The words came haltingly through clenched yellow teeth.

  “Mr. Hall, I won’t waste time asking how you got this message. There is just one thing I want to make clear. This will never be published or made public in any way. Do you understand?”

  “There are a couple of things you should understand as well.”

  “Such as?”

  “Number one, the cipher you hold in your hand is a copy. One of several. The others have been slipped into sealed envelopes and sent to my attorney, Frank Aylmer, and several other lawyers connected with my business affairs. They all have instructions to send these envelopes to prominent daily newspapers, accompanied by my admittedly incomplete but highly interesting research into your past. These instructions will be put into effect upon my death, whether caused by an act of God or …” I shrugged lightly. “Whatever.”

  Staring with feigned calmness into Ryker’s eyes, I could see that he had swallowed the bait. For the time being anyway. Hopefully I would have enough time once I got back to Halifax to turn an inspired line of bull into a real ace in the hole.

  Ryker smiled indulgently. “If I recall, your brave words came under the heading of ‘number one.’ That implies a number two to follow.”

  “Oh, yes. Number two is that I don’t intend to publish the cipher since I don’t know enough about it. Hopefully you can fill some of the gaps.”

  I pulled another copy of the cipher from my coat pocket and spread it flat on the coffee table between us.

  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

  “Now, as you’ll see, I can piece together a very compelling story by using a little woolgathering based on the facts contained in this message.”

  Ryker said nothing. Rubbing my hands together, I bent over the paper.

  “As you know, the destination and departure points of the Marconigram are missing, but we can assume the message was sent to you. The kidnapped daughter referred to in the message is Eva. Whoever wrote the ransom note sent it by wireless before April fourteenth, the night the ship hit the iceberg. Naturally, the kidnappers fully expected the ship to safely make its maiden crossing. They set up the ransom for the noon after the Titanic’s docking since they were on the ship along with your daughter.”

  A wave smacked the porthole. Gray foam drooled down the glass.

  “Eva was traveling on board ship with her mother and Georgia Ferrell, your wife’s maid, as well as a bodyguard, James Martin. They all had to be eliminated before a kidnapping could take place. Which accounts for none of them being among the rescued.”

  I turned away from the porthole, stretching the knots out of my shoulders and back. “The Big Question is—who were the kidnappers? Total strangers? Unknown desperados? I don’t think so. The kidnap note was sent to you in enciphered form. Of course, the message could hardly be sent by the Titanic’s wireless operators any other way. But how did the kidnappers know you’d be able to decode it?” I waved a disparaging hand. “My wife and I puzzled it out, given plenty of time, a little brains, and a lot of luck. But the kidnappers couldn’t gamble that you would simply stumble across the code. Logical conclusion: the cipher was something already worked out between you and the kidnappers.”

  Blood clotted in Ryker’s face. “You filthy …”

  “No, no! I don’t mean that you were directly involved in your daughter’s abduction. But it’s reasonable to assume that you knew these kidnappers. They had used this cipher before. For what, I wonder?

  “Of course, the big clue is that ‘latest shipment’ you were to have brought to the Singer Building after the Titanic reached New York. ‘Latest shipment,’” I lingered over the words, tasting their flavor. “A tantalizingly vague phrase. What was the latest shipment? Bullion? Possible, but too heavy. Narcotics, perhaps?”

  Ryker’s eyes were red and unseeing. He swallowed hard but said nothing.

  I smiled gently. “In a way, I suppose it’s all pointless. The kidnappers had an unlucky break, didn’t they? By the time you got the ransom note, their bodies were probably under two miles of Atlantic …”

  Ryker’s face twisted painfully.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he growled. “Leave me alone.”

  “It’s very strange,” I whispered, half to myself. “However much tragedy the Titanic sinking brought to thousands of people, it probably saved your daughter’s life. I imagine you’ve wondered why Eva was spared.”

  “Don’t be dense, young man. Of course I have. I’ve had fifty years of wondering.”

  “And how does she feel?”

  “Eva doesn’t remember.” He slipped back into his iron mask. “What little peace that child has had comes from forgetting about the Titanic.” The voice dropped to a reedy moan. “And if you or any other man threaten her state of mind by repeating the contents of that cipher, I swear to God I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  “I can understand your feelings, Mr. Ryker. But it was very long ago.”

  “‘Long ago,’ you say!” Ryker struggled for breath. “It was yesterday! Do you understand? Yesterday! My daughter and I …” He tightened the lid on the past and looked me in the eye. “No, Mr. Hall. You have written a lot of detective fiction and you have started to believe your own books. In real life men with secrets damn well keep their mouths shut.”

  “Only for so long, Mr. Ryker. The tight-lipped men die, but willing listeners are always around.”

  “Spoken like a true phrase maker,” he laughed bitterly. “You’ve helped me make up my mind.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m going down with you to see the Titanic.”

  Mike Rogers leaned against the starboard railing under the helipad, bundled in a heroic parka, tossing Fritos into the icy sea.

  “Chumming for sharks?” I asked.

  He spun around, then laughed self-consciously, crumpling the bag in his fist. “Sea gulls.”

  I craned my neck up at the swooping birds bickering among themselves. “Mike, I’ve got some questions.”

  He pitched another corn chip into the water. “I may not be able to answer.”

  “The subject is noncontroversial. Right up your alley. Your boss’ crazy submarine jaunt.”

  “Oh. That. I never pry into Mr. Ryker’s personal affairs.”

  “Very noble. But what do his doctors say?”

  “They did a lot of yelling, naturally. But, when you get to be that age, what will the doctors let you do?”

  “It’s still a bad decision on his part.”

  “That may be. But I can’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  “Quite true, Mike. However, the field of journalism is built upon the divine right to be meddlesome. Readers tend to yawn at unerring good taste.”

  The gulls brayed impatiently. Mike flung the Frito bag overboard. “Suppose I told you to shove your readers’ questions up your ass.”

  “I would be mildly offended. And slightly awestruck. A very indiscreet choice of words for someone with PR ambitions. Be sure and check with your boss before putting me on the Shit List.”

  His face whitened. “What are you …”

  “Ryker and I have reached a mutual understanding. Or armed truce. You might be wise to follow suit.”

  “I didn’t …”

  “… know. Of course not. But I’m more worried about Ryker’s health than your occasional lapses of tact.”

  “It’s his life to risk, Norm.”

  “Suppose he has a seizure down there? Even if it was minor, he could be very dead by the time we’d make it back to the surface.”

  “I’ve discussed the risks
with Mr. Ryker. But he won’t back down. If something happens, you’ll just have to wing it.”

  “Inspirational, Mike. Much thanks.”

  Just past noon I settled down to a corner table in the galley by a fastidious gentleman named Alvin Spears. He wasn’t exactly eager to talk about his work, but finally confided that he was an engineering consultant for the remote manipulative tools used by the bathyscaphs.

  “Tell me,” I asked, “are there any special problems using waldos under such extreme pressure?”

  Spears blinked dully at me. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  I spent the next five minutes explaining how remote-control tools got their nickname. But he had never heard of the term before, which, to put it mildly, seemed very odd.

  Before I could pursue the matter any further, Burke joined me at the table, watching me down the last of my salmon.

  I folded my napkin on the table. “Want to go for a walk?”

  “Sounds fine.” He jumped up to lead the way.

  Alvin Spears nodded to acknowledge my words of farewell and kept on chewing.

  Turning my collar against the wind, I let Burke lead me by the elbow as we walked along the deck.

  “Norman,” he whispered in my ear. “I know you think I’m totally paranoid, but we’re being watched. I mean one particular man. My personal shadow.”

  “Maybe he’s a … friend. Perhaps your reputation precedes you.”

  Burke’s eyes narrowed. “Very shabby, Norman. Actually, he’s not my type. Very ethnic, warty and swarthy, with matching five o’clock shadow. He’s been milling about in the corner of my eye for the last two hours.”

  I glanced along the deck. “Well? Where’s he now?”

  Burke patted the guardrail. “Just stay put. He’ll show up.”

  I’m glad I didn’t bet. I would have lost. He appeared within five minutes. Nodding brusquely, he swept past us, stopping to pick up an empty cigarette carton left on deck.

  “Any comments, Norman?”

  “Only the obvious ones. That he’s keeping tabs on you. Me too, most likely. Probably one of Ryker’s men. But you never know. The Navy can be so damn touchy on a project like this. He could be working for Brazier.”