“Yes?”
“Do you have any keepsakes of your mother’s? Things that you packed away soon after her disappearance. Glasses. Silverware. Jewelry. Items few other people would’ve handled.”
“You have an unexpected morbid streak, Mr. Hall.”
“I can see how it might seem that way. But please indulge me this once. It could be very important.”
The eyes studied me for traces of deceit.
“My husband won’t be home until six,” she finally said. “I have Mother’s things in the garage.”
Claudine wafted me in her pink Coupe de Ville to Waimanalo Bay, where the Henry Jarmon residence sat like a steel and glass jukebox washed ashore. I reluctantly turned my attention from the impossible blue sky and matching ocean as she slapped the remote control on the Caddie’s dash and berthed us in the four-car garage.
She climbed out of the car. “If I recall, the box is over here.” Her fingertips pointed up at a cabinet high above a gleaming walnut workbench festooned with shiny Black and Decker tools. “You’ll need a ladder.”
She held the aluminum legs and made meaningless coaching noises as I grappled with an old pineapple crate filled with dusty relics of her humble past.
I settled the crate on the cement floor and carefully picked through the clutter. Clothes and shoes wouldn’t do. Nor did dishes and silverware look promising. I finally picked a bud vase of smooth green glass. Wrapping a handkerchief around the stem, I held it up to the light.
“Was that your mother’s?”
She smiled wistfully. “We bought it on a trip to Maui in 1937.”
“Did you use it after the war?”
“Once I found myself alone, I tried to use as few of Mother’s things as possible.”
“I’d like to borrow this vase, if I may.”
“What in the world for?”
“I can’t tell you that right now. Please trust me. I’ll ship it back to you undamaged within two weeks.”
Claudine examined my face for any clues. What she saw apparently satisfied her.
“All right, Mr. Hall. Take it with my compliments. Someday, I hope, you will tell me what the hell this is all about?”
I gently folded the vase in the handkerchief and slipped it in my coat pocket. “You’ll be among the first to know.”
Rain without end was turning St. Petersburg into a swamp with delusions of grandeur as I plodded through sandy mud toward the Bahia-Belle Cabanas and pounded on Fred and Mima Heinley’s front door.
They still kept the thermostat at barbecue level, but today I welcomed the warmth. Fred pumped my hand as I found myself shaking like a sodden spaniel.
“I tell you,” he beamed, “you could have knocked Mima and me over with a feather when we got your call. You sure picked a hell of a day to come.” Fred pointed at the storm doors nailed over the windows. “This is about as bad as you can get without being caught smack dab in a hurricane. You’ll be lucky to catch a plane home.”
Mima rushed in from the kitchen to rescue me with a cup of hot chocolate. “Here, drink this. It’ll take out the chill.”
“Thanks, but I won’t keep you two long …”
“Nonsense!” she said. “You’re staying for dinner.”
“Well, I appreciate it, but right now I have a couple of things I want to get out of the way.” I stood on tiptoe and rapped my knuckles on their attic door. “If you’ve got your ladder and flashlight, I need to get up here again.”
Fred and Mima braced the frame as I did a repeat performance of my act three days earlier in Claudine Jarmon’s garage. Spreading the spoons and books and shoe trees and ashtrays on an open newspaper, I was struck with the similarity of this junk with the dusty flotsam of Catherine Maurois. Not that it could be anything but coincidence.
“There’s a favor I need to ask you both. May I take this crate home with me? I promise I’ll return it in a few weeks.”
“Of course,” Mima said, “but what is this all about, Mr. Hall?”
I felt I owed them some sort of explanation. “It may help me find who killed Albert and Martha.”
They couldn’t think of adequate words as I folded the top of the cardboard box and stood, slapping my hands.
“Now, I have something to show you.” I pulled out a slightly damp manila envelope from the coat’s inner pocket. “First of all, I’d like you both to look at this.” I passed them an unlabeled photo of Albert and Martha Klein, the Negro couple who boarded the Titanic at Southampton. “Have you ever seen these people before?”
Mima and Fred handed the picture back and forth between them. “Never.” Her face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Who are they?”
“I wish I knew.” My fingers slipped the second photo out of the envelope. “How about this one, Mima?”
She squinted hesitantly, holding the 5 x 7 in both hands. Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Where did you get this, Mr. Hall?”
“I’m sorry, Mima, I can’t tell you. I’d be breaking a promise.”
She wasn’t overly concerned with the origins of the picture. “Honey, look at this. It’s Al and Martha.”
Fred gently took it from her hands, holding it by the edges. “It’s wonderful.” He swallowed. “It’s just like I remember them.”
“It’s not too sharp, I’m afraid.” The custom lab in Paris had been lucky to get a halfway decent print from Masterson’s 16-mm movie. “You can have it if you like.”
She picked up the photo and rested it in both of her hands like an infant child. “You have no idea how we appreciate this. It’s the only picture of Al and Martha we’ve ever had.” Mima chuckled, wiping her eyes. She looked again at the photo, and I watched the question form on her lips.
“By the way, who are these other people?” Her finger pointed them out. “The woman and the little girl.”
“I think they were friends of theirs. Aboard the Titanic.”
“Friends.” She took obscure pleasure in my words. “Yes, Al and Martha made friends wherever they went.” Still smiling, she rose from the sofa and laid the picture flat against the wall behind Fred’s chair, amid the grim Puritan faces of relatives gone by. “What do you think, honey? We’ll get a silver frame and put it right here.”
The picture seemed to bring a little joy into both their lives and I was grateful for that. But I also owed Fred and Mima a great deal. They had provided the first proof positive identification of the young couple accompanying Eva and Clair in the Masterson film.
I made one last pit stop in London before jetting home. Two errands weighed heavily on my mind. One was a visit to Frank Aylmer, my attorney. I gave him a hulking sealed envelope containing photocopies of every document I possessed dealing with the Rykers and Kleins, with instructions that it be opened upon my death.
That afternoon I dropped by to see Tom at the Yard. He zeroed in on my wavelength as we shook hands.
“Yes, Norman, I know. You’re chomping at the bit over that Pan Am list. I haven’t heard anything from the FBI. Legwork like that can’t be rushed.”
“I’m sure you’re doing all you can, Tom. That wasn’t my immediate concern.”
He sagged into his chair. “Lord, what now?”
“I don’t like to impose, but this one favor could make or break my whole career. Yours, too, for that matter.”
“Have mercy, Norman. Out with it.”
I breathed deep and took the plunge. “How do we go about having Albert Klein exhumed?”
Four months later, on September 12, 1962, I mailed the following letter:
Mr. Norman Hall
Post Office Box 2344
Fourqueux, France
Mr. William Alfred Ryker
Le Château de Montreux
c/o Post Office Box 1865
Veyrier, Switzerland
Dear Mr. Ryker:
You are invited to my home at 11 A.M. on September 20, 1962, for the purpose of discussing the contents of an upcoming article written by Janice Steiner
and myself which will appear in the Christmas issue of World magazine. Geoffrey Proctor will be present, as will your daughter. Our topic of conversation will include your salvaging operation of the R.M.S. Titanic and the murders of Albert Klein, Martha Klein, and John MacFarland.
If, for reasons of ill health, you are unable to attend, I will gladly make new arrangements. However, if your absence is due to nonmedical reasons, I must inform you that Assistant Commissioner Thomas Bramel of New Scotland Yard will also be present. At this time he plans to be at my house out of personal curiosity. But, if you choose not to meet with me, you may become a prime object of Commissioner Bramel’s official scrutiny.
I also wish to remind you that any of the information to be confidentially discussed can just as easily be released en masse to the press.
Since I relish neither of these drastic possibilities, and I’m sure we’re as one in agreement on this issue, I shall look forward to seeing you on September 20.
Sincerely,
Norman Hall
P.S. Bring a lawyer
PART II
The Puzzle
22
September 20, 1962
“He’s coming.”
I joined Eva Ryker at my living room window. Far down the road a Rolls Royce radiator glinted imperiously in the morning sunlight.
“Eleven o’clock.” I glanced at my watch. “Right on time.”
“I haven’t seen him in three years,” Eva said as we watched the limousine’s approach. “It won’t be easy, will it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry, Norman.” Her smile was laced with sadness. “You don’t have to play nanny.”
The big black Rolls Royce swung into my driveway, gravel popping under the weight of its tires. Ryker’s wrinkled face peered suspiciously through the tinted glass.
Jan came in from the den. “Should Tom and Geoffrey come out?”
“No.” I made for the door. “You’ll do fine.”
My wife and Fräulein Slote had worked out the logistics of Ryker’s visit. In an emergency his medical supplies and iron lung lay waiting at a clinic in Fourqueux, not five minutes away.
Jan and I moved furniture to clear a path into my den as Mike Rogers, Fräulein Slote, and Jim Culhane wrangled the Old Man into his wheelchair. Ryker paid no mind to Tom or Geoffrey as we wheeled him to the other side of my desk. He was preoccupied with the sight of his daughter.
“Hello, Eva.” The voice was light and cracked.
“Father.” Her fingers twisted tightly together. “You’re looking … tired.”
“I hope you aren’t taking Mr. Hall’s charades too serious.”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
Mike diplomatically sat between them. Ryker glared at the two tape recorders, the big Mercator world map pinned against the west wall, and, most of all, the four-foot model of the Titanic in the center of the room.
“What is this?” he growled. “A goddam floor show?”
I perched on the edge of the desk as Jan shut the door. Each of the six watchful faces waited to hear what Norman hath wrought.
My thumb punched on one of the recorders. “Merely for the record, Mike.”
I thoughtfully stood over the Titanic model. “Well,” I said slowly. “Where to start? It’s a long story. And it’s taken a long time to track down. Over nine months. Even now I can only guess at some of the fine print. But, in many ways, all the puzzle pieces fit around this man.”
Picking up an Identikit sketch from my desk, I showed it to Ryker. “Do you know him?”
He was defenseless with momentary surprise. “I’m not sure.”
“Yes, you are. I ate lunch with him aboard the Savonarola. He introduced himself as Alvin Spears and claimed to be an expert in remote manipulative hardware. But when I asked him about ‘Waldos,’ he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.” I passed the picture to Tom. “Even in my ignorance I’ve read enough science fiction to know ‘Waldos’ are named after devices described in an old story by Robert Heinlein. There and then I made a vow to check up on this man so blissfully ignorant of his stock in trade.”
Tom Bramel cleared his throat and held up the sketch. “We ran this through Interpol and came up with a positive make. ‘Alvin Spears’ is actually George Van Treese, a highly reputable appraiser and cutter of diamonds. Although clean himself, Mr. Van Treese has occasionally placed his services at the disposal of some very questionable clients.”
“Which brings us to a fascinating question,” I said. “What is a diamond expert doing on board the Savonarola?”
Ryker’s mouth opened, then smiled. “No comment.”
“Well, in the absence of any contradicting statement, I can only assume the obvious. Mr. Van Treese was hired in the anticipation that diamonds would be recovered from the Titanic.”
He showed his Great Stone Face. “Assume anything you want.”
Mike flared impatiently. “Stop baiting my client, Norman.”
“Let me finish. Then we’ll see who’s baiting whom.”
I walked toward the map. “Where did the diamonds come from? Fortunately, the De Beers Central Selling Organization, which markets about eighty percent of the world’s diamond production, had some very useful information on both present and past smuggling syndicates. One particularly interesting operation ran from 1905 until 1912. After the pipeline collapsed, De Beers security was able to trace its roots.”
My index finger pointed at South Africa. “It began here. The Premier diamond mine, newly opened in 1903. Leaving by ship at Capetown, the smuggled stones proceeded to Dar es Salaam.” I pointed at the East African coast. “A transfer to Mogadiscio. Then through the Red Sea to Cairo. A short trip to Beirut. Then to Istanbul. On the Orient Express through Sofia, Belgrade, and Venice. Through Switzerland and on to Paris. Calais and across the channel to London. Put on a ship at Southampton, the diamonds reached the end of the pipeline in New York, where they mixed and became undistinguishable from the legitimate market.
“The De Beers Organization had no idea who ran the operation. So Jan and I did some checking. From Capetown to London the only ships transporting the stones were ratty little tramps belonging to the Quelimane Shipping Company, which was owned entirely by a front company called the Southwest Africa Corporation. Every share of Southwest Africa stock was owned by you, Mr. Ryker.”
Not a muscle moved in the old man’s face.
“The diamond operation was a highly profitable sideline to your ‘conventional’ business interests. For a few years, at any rate. But trouble was brewing that would bring about the collapse of the pipeline and your personal fall from grace.” I circled the British Isles on the map. “Right here. London, and your two contacts who transported smuggled stones from the Dover-Calais ferry.”
With a sigh I settled back on the corner of my desk. “Who were they? Well, you hired them in New York City in June 1909 under the names Steven and Julie Herrick. One of their many aliases. A young couple of unknown origins struggling on the West Side. In bad times Julie played a hooker to keep them both eating. Later, her husband became a leader in a minor-league protection racket specializing in small store owners near the Bowery. Two tough fish rapidly outgrowing their little pond. But all that changed when they met one of your trusted employees. A Mr. Martin Brockway.”
“That’s a lie!”
Mike drawled scornfully, “I resent you trying to implicate …”
“Your boss is involved, right up to his scrawny little neck. Martin Brockway was a predecessor of yours, Mike. One of an illustrious line of brownnosers stretching back to the turn of the century.”
Ryker hunched low in his wheelchair. “All right. Brockway did work for me. I fired him because he was incompetent.”
“No doubt. His biggest mistake was recruiting Steven and Julie Herrick. In later years, as Brockway became trapped in … uncomfortable events, he found himself pensioned off and relegated to nonperson status. And so he Told A
ll to his wife. Sarah Brockway is still alive, as I’m sure you know. Retired in Flagstaff, Arizona. Jan and I went to see her this past July. She’s exhaustively well-informed about the whole affair.”
I stood and paced in front of Ryker. “Steven and Julie Herrick happily settled into their assignment in London. Once a month they shepherded a packet of smuggled stones from the ferry to another unknown contact at the Southampton docks. The pipeline flowed smoothly for nearly two years. It took that long before the Herricks decided to nibble off some of the cheese for themselves.
“Who made the first move?” I chuckled sadly. “Knowing a little about them, I’d say it was the girl. As you know, Mr. Ryker, there was a great deal more to Steven and Julie Herrick than met the eye. More than the cunning resourcefulness you and Brockway sensed. A terrifying moral blankness. I have no real idea what caused it. One can bandy about words like ‘psychopath’ without doing them justice. I can’t dispute their intellect. They were smart enough to know they couldn’t simply snatch a shipment and run.” I raised an eyebrow at Ryker. “I doubt if they would’ve lived long enough to spend their loot. No, their plan was a good deal more labyrinthine than that. And it all revolved around the fact that your wife and daughter were about to leave England on the biggest ship in the world.”
I tossed a paper to Mike. “That’s the tentative passenger list of the R.M.S. Titanic, the same list reprinted in the London Times on April eighth. And here is the final roster, compiled after the Titanic’s departure at Queenstown.”
I pointed out the circled names on both lists. “You can see that a Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Carmichael canceled at the last moment—to be replaced by a Mr. and Mrs. Jason Eddington.”
I hefted a bulky dust-encrusted book up off the blotter. “You might be curious as to the identity of these two couples. The Carmichaels were easy. They’re listed right here,” I said, opening the book to where a marker lay and passing the volume to him, “in the Who Was Who: 1898-1915.”
Mike read the entry:
CARMICHAEL, Ralph Eubank, b. June 17, 1875. d. May 14, 1942. Board member of Monsanto and Union Carbide 1926–1941. Married Esther Townsend July 12, 1892. Son Phillip born June 23, 1893. Phillip Carmichael graduated Munich University with honors on June 19, 1912.
The Memory of Eva Ryker Page 19