The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  I nodded. “Murder threats seem to be Ryker’s standard expression of disaffection.”

  Masterson studied his folded hands. “After that call, I cleared the hell out, but quick! I knew I’d jumped into the frying pan. The first thing I did was mail my copy of the film to a post office box in New York. It was my high card in this mess.”

  “How many copies exist?”

  “Three that I know of. One to Ryker. And two for me. All sixteen millimeter reduction prints.”

  “What happened to the original neg?”

  “Gone.” He shrugged helplessly. “DeLuxe did their best, but the celluloid was fifty years old, after all. It jammed in the printer and crumbled into a million banjo picks.”

  He stooped under the coffee table and pulled out a film can from the bottom magazine rack. “There it is. One of three prints in the world. Assuming Ryker kept his.”

  “I’m sure of it. He never throws anything away.”

  Masterson held the can up to me. “I want you to have it. As insurance.” He beckoned us with a finger. “The projector’s set up in the bedroom.”

  Even at high noon the room brooded under clotted ivy vines snaking across the windows. Ruth drew the drapes and subdued the sunlight to a thin gray rumor. She and Jan settled on the king-sized bed facing the home movie screen while Harold fiddled with an old Bell & Howell.

  I craned over his shoulder. “Anything I can do?”

  “Nope.” Film chattered through the gate. “We’re rolling.”

  Masterson clicked on the lamp and a blurry number 9 flickered past, followed by a sharper 8 and 7 as he focused the image.

  6

  5

  4

  3

  2

  1

  A blotchy black and white image appeared of the English countryside seen from a moving vehicle. A wood windowsill wobbled in and out of the picture. A flashing railroad crossing sign.

  “The boat train,” Harold said, leaning toward the screen. “It left London for Southampton dock on April 10, 1912. Astor, Guggenheim; all the cream of the Titanic’s passenger list were on board. Whoever our cameraman was, he had money.”

  The movie cut to a cat’s cradle of train tracks writhing outside the window.

  “Terminus Station. Southampton.”

  A complex of sheds, gantries, quays, cranes, and warehouses glided past. The train eased to a stop and the camera trained on three plumes of smoke puffing from tall funnels jutting up from behind the dock.

  A cut to rough wood planking. A pan up a wall of black metal to the bow of the ship, proudly inscribed TITANIC.

  The rattling projector made the only sound in the bedroom.

  The camera panned to the right, revealing the entire looming length of the ship, finally stopping at the gangplanks.

  A tall brunette in her mid-thirties, with amused, provocative features, held the hand of a little girl as they walked toward the gangplank. The lady wore an elegant hat and long dress of another time. Turning to the camera, the girl laughed and waved.

  The scene switched to the Boat Deck aboard the Titanic. Rigging ran from the four towering funnels down to the white lifeboats. The camera made a restless sweep of the railing.

  A shot down to the dock far below. Men and women jubilantly waved caps and scarves. The little figures began slowly shifting within the frame.

  “They’re off.”

  The film, momentarily absorbed with Southampton’s passing scenery, cut back to the Boat Deck.

  Long funnel shadows slanted across the lifeboats. A rather pert girl in her late teens or early twenties leaned against the railing and watched the teetering horizon. She wore a cap and a heavy coat.

  Cut to the little girl standing nearby, wrapped up for cold gusty weather. The same child we’d seen before.

  The attractive woman reappeared from the side of the frame as she bent down to turn up the collar of the little girl’s coat. She then glanced up and gave the photographer an odd and secret smile. Standing, she led the little girl by the hand to pose beside the teenager. All three grinned and waved awkwardly.

  The hand-held camera unsteadily followed the teenage girl as she walked in front of the other two, tapping the shoulder of a passerby. She pointed at the camera, and I gathered she wanted the man to hold it so the photographer could get in the picture.

  Cut to four people standing by the railing.

  On the left, the thirtyish brunette. Next to her, the cute teenager, who pulled off her cap, shaking long blond hair. To her right, the little girl, now being held piggyback on the shoulders of a new face—a straight-spined young beefcake in his mid twenties. Scrubbed, square-jawed, and white of teeth. Hair either dark blond or red. Pure, humorous eyes. Caressing the knees of the girl straddling his shoulders, he mouthed unheard instructions into the lens and out from the screen to us.

  The foursome frayed into a scratchy mess, then vanished like an uncertain vision. Trailing leader clicked through the projector.

  “That’s it,” Masterson said.

  “Like hell it is!” I lunged around him and reversed the machine. The final scene reappeared, then froze as I turned the switch to ‘single frame.’

  “Well, Jan?” I felt a rising bristle of excitement. “What do you make of it?”

  She looked uncertain. “It’s your show, Norman.”

  “Okay.” I walked in front of the screen. The four faces swam over my forehead as I shaded my eyes against the beam. “Can you crank it up, Harold? That’s fine.” I pointed over my shoulder. “Now, let’s start with the older woman on the left. Harold, I’m afraid you’ve skimped on your homework. That’s Clair, Ryker’s wife. And that little girl is Eva.” I pointed at the grainy little face. “No scar above the right eye, but it’s her, all right.”

  I turned to Jan. “Now, the other two. A worthy challenge. Any ideas?”

  “Is this Twenty Questions, Norman?”

  “I’ll give you a hint. Think they’d look good atop a wedding cake?”

  Insight flashed into her eyes. “Mima Heinley!”

  “Right.” I stared at the two faces fifty years in the past. “Their neighbors didn’t exaggerate. Albert and Martha were a beautiful couple.”

  18

  April 30, 1962

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Tom Bramel.

  I switched off the movie projector and the image of the Rykers and Kleins faded from the wall of his Scotland Yard office. “They match Mima Heinley’s description. According to Masterson, the film was discovered on B Deck in the area of their cabin. And although I can’t prove it, I’m sure both William and Eva Ryker could verify their identities. If you believe Masterson—and I do—Ryker is prepared to commit murder rather than let anyone see that film.”

  “You’re swinging pretty wild, Norman.”

  “I haven’t mentioned the most important thing. I’ll testify, under oath if need be, that the young girl in that movie is the same Martha Klein I met in Honolulu.”

  “… twenty years ago.” Tom pressed his hands together, peering through the finger-steeple, then put both palms face-down on the desk. “I don’t doubt your sincerity, Norman, but we’d be relying entirely on your memory.”

  “Goddamit, Tom! That’s unfair and you know it.”

  “Sorry, Norman. I’m trying to grab on to facts, and there are damn few of them.”

  “The Kleins had to have passports to board the Titanic. That would give us the pictures we need.”

  “Which probably went down along with the ship.”

  “But wouldn’t the State Department have some sort of record?” I asked.

  Tom tugged thoughtfully at his chin. “Could be. I don’t know if they keep photo files that far back, but it’s worth a try.” He scribbled on his memo pad. “While we’re at it, we’ll check any files from the British Inquiry of the sinking, as well as records from the Board of Trade. Between all of them, something will turn up.”

  A thought then occurred to me. “Tom, we�
��ve neglected the most obvious answer. Mima Heinley. I can have blow-up stills made from the movie. She and her husband are the only two people alive who are willing and able to identify the Kleins.”

  “It may not be that simple, Norman. The film’s pretty grainy. And it’ll look worse, not better, as a print.” Finding an errant match stick, he scuffed it to life on his shoe and puffed at the pipe. “By the way, what’s the second favor?”

  “Need there be one?”

  “You have an unsated look, Norman.”

  “All right, Tom. It’s really quite simple.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “No, no,” I said. “The mouth’s too wide. Smaller. And turned down at the corners.”

  “More like this?” Sergeant Rand, the operator of the Identikit machine, peered at me through the darkness of the little room just down from Tom Bramel’s office.

  Up on the wall screen the mouth disappeared and the Identikit projected a new one below the eyes and nose.

  “That’s better. But the hair’s too curly. Wavy, not kinky. Parted well up on the left side of the head. And longish sideburns.”

  As Sergeant Rand pushed the necessary buttons, Tom leaned across the battered table. “Anything else, Norman?”

  I studied the face on the wall. A little sketchy, but the best I could muster from the images in my head. A passable facsimile of Burke’s tail, the crewman with the smooth white hands that hadn’t seen a day’s hard work.

  “No,” I said, “that’s about all I can add.”

  With one sweeping stroke Sergeant Rand pulled the Polaroid tab from the Identikit machine, counted off sixty seconds on his watch, peeled the finished print from the back door, and passed it to Bramel.

  “Fine. Get that on the drum and off to Paris, will you please?”

  Tom sighed mildly once Rand left the room. “Well, we shall see. Interpol may be feeling diligent today.” He stood. “Meanwhile, lunch calls.”

  We spent the best part of two hours at a groaning buffet at Mirabelle’s. Loosening my belt, I watched Tom polish his plate and began to wonder if I was feeding a tapeworm.

  Tom checked back with the Yard while I paid the bill and dispensed tribute to all outstretched palms. But he said nothing to me until we returned to his car.

  “Paris came through with your picture, Norman.”

  I held onto the seat as we roared past the Hilton and wheeled around Hyde Park Corner. “Already? I hardly expected …”

  “… yes, I know.” Tom kept both eyes on the road. “This one was easy.”

  He passed me the top page of the report when we returned to the office. “That your man?”

  It certainly was. In both full and profile positions shot by the Rome police.

  “Alfredo Petacchi.” Tom read aloud from the dossier, a forefinger underlining vital statistics. “Born June 18, 1915, in Palermo. Married to Maria Scalisi, daughter of Carlo Scalisi, April 24, 1935.” He scratched the back of his head. “Curiouser and Curiouser. Have you heard of the Scalisi family, Norman?”

  “Not just ‘a family,’ I gather. The Family?”

  “Precisely.”

  Alfredo Petacchi glared at us from the surface of the photo as we peered into the details of his life. Arrested for armed assault in Corleone, 1947. Dismissed for lack of evidence. Held on suspicion of homicide in Milan, 1952. Acquitted. Suspected in Trieste gang slaying, 1957. Never indicted. Believed to be an enforcer and important lieutenant for the Scalisi family and its interests in both Sicily and New York state. Investigated by the Kefauver Commission, but no definite evidence on which to base prosecution.

  Tom released the folder and wiped his fingers on the blotter. “Like I said, this one was easy.” He studied the photo once again. “And you say this man was crewing aboard the Savonarola?”

  “Ostensibly.”

  His head shook. “Ryker runs a tight ship, doesn’t he?”

  The ringing phone cut in on our thoughts. A long-distance Paris call from Jan.

  “Jerry Blaine called this morning,” she explained. “I still can’t believe it, but I agreed to wire him money.”

  “Now what?”

  “Eva Ryker slit her wrists last night. The doctors in Madrid don’t think she’ll make it.”

  19

  May 1, 1962

  Madrid’s Hospital de Clinicas sits quietly on the Paseo de las Delicias. From any window facing northeast, patients have a pleasing view of the Botanical Gardens, the zoo, and the Buen Retiro Park.

  I turned away from a fourth-story window and looked down at Eva Ryker. Except for the slight up-and-down sighing of the sheets covering her, she could have been dead. The white bandages taped around her wrists closely matched the color of her skin.

  Eva’s eyes opened without any demure fluttering and began their survey of the room. The dilated pupils swiveled my way.

  “What the …” A broken smile. “It’s you.”

  “How do you feel?”

  Eva blinked dully at the bed. “God. How did I get here?”

  I took one wrist and held it up for her to see. She crouched down in the covers at the sight of the bandages.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I heard you were in trouble.”

  “From who? Daddy?”

  My head shook.

  “Mike Rogers, then?” She laughed feebly. “Mr. Clean’s been around, you know. Tidying up. He came last night to pay his respects. Kicked him the hell out. And you’re about to get the same boot.” She fumbled for the room buzzer.

  “Don’t, Eva.” I took it from her hands. “I want to talk.”

  “What about?” she sneered. “My precarious teetering between life and death?”

  “And your strange brand of good fortune. Your landlord found you in time, lying on the bathroom floor. And you’ve got nice run-of-the-mill O-type blood, which the hospital has sitting around in gallon jugs. That’s why you’re here with catheters up your twat, swapping bon mots with me.”

  “Jesus, Hall.” Her lids blinked desperately in an effort to blot the seeping moisture. “You really are a son of a bitch.”

  “Possibly.” I handed her a Kleenex. “But I may also be the only friend you’ve got. Not that Daddy and Company aren’t useful. Your hospital bills are paid off. Mike also stuffed green down the throats of your greasy young studs and other survivors of your recent bash. But even Daddy’s money couldn’t buy off the landlord. You’ve been tossed out.” I spread my hands. “La Dolce Vita is all gone.”

  Eva’s lips pressed tight. “Get fucked, Hall.”

  “Act your age. What are you going to do when you get out? Sure, the Ferrari’s gassed up and Mike left some cash, but what then?”

  “Just what are you proposing?”

  “Something more than what you’ve got.”

  “How very righteous! And you’ve cast yourself in the role of Holy Father!”

  “By necessity, Eva. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” I reached out a finger and gently touched her forehead. “You see, locked up in your skull is a memory. Fifty years ago you threw away the key.”

  “Shut up!”

  I grabbed her arms and shook them before her eyes. “That’s the reason for this! And it’s why you’ve tried to turn your entire life into a pile of shit!”

  She turned from my grasp and clamped both hands over her ears. “Leave me alone! God damn …”

  “I can help …”

  “No!” she screamed hysterically. “Just get out! Get the hell out of my life!”

  She bent double as the dam broke. I found myself sitting on the bed, stroking her hair. Murmuring guilty words of comfort. Wiping the eyes of a face stretched like pulled taffy under the weight of tears. Let it all out, Eva. It’s all for the best. Catharsis, courtesy of Norman the Good.

  I held her hand in mine and tried to ignore any lingering taint of treachery.

  Five days later I watched Eva Ryker walk toward her Ferrari parked in the hospital lot.
She already had the key in hand before jumping in. The engine turned over. And over and over and over.

  I knocked on the door and held up the distributor cap for her to see. “This joins us at the hip.”

  Leaning against the car, I waited for her string of swearing to end. “Are you through?”

  “… you miserable bastard. I’m …”

  “That’s enough, Eva. You’re going to at least pretend to be a civilized human being, or you’re not going anywhere.”

  She slow-boiled in a dormant state. “Just what do you have in mind?”

  I bent inside the car and snatched the keys from the ignition. “Move over.”

  Walking to the front of the Ferrari, I installed the cap. A quick slam of the hood and I slipped in the driver’s seat. The engine caught with typical Italian shrieking and propelled us out of the parking lot onto the Paseo de las Delicias.

  Eva slumped down in the bucket seat. “Okay, Hall. I consider myself kidnapped. What next?”

  “Oh, don’t fret, Eva. Just a little spin down to Balerma. I’ve rented a beach house there.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s over three hundred miles away!”

  “Quite right.” I smiled, dodging a produce truck as we crossed the bridge over the Manzanares River. “Nothing so therapeutic as a change of scenery.”

  “Oh really?” She folded her arms tight across her chest. “And what if I decide not to play along with this farce?”

  “I don’t think you’d leave your car.” My thumb pointed backward. “And all your clothes are in the trunk. Not many alternatives, I should think.”

  Her frown cracked a little. “Don’t expect me to sleep with you.”

  I accelerated around a Fiat sedan, then throttled down to cruising speed. “Believe me, my dear, I have no designs on your virginal white flesh.”

  Eva cinched her seat belt tight as the Ferrari sped south, away from Madrid.

  Spain was up to technicolor-travelogue standards during the long drive south to the Mediterranean. The shadow of the Ferrari grew longer and longer on the road as I pushed at a steady hundred twenty kilos through Getafe and Pinto and Aranjuez and Ocana and Madridejos and Puerto Lapiz.

  Headlights flashed on as the orange glow faded in the west and the big Italian engine boomed out the stretch through Manzanares and Valdepeñas and La Carolina.