The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  William Ryker looked very ill.

  My words came slowly. “It’s not hard to imagine how Martha Klein drew Catherine Maurois into her confidence. Some kind words, along with a big tip.

  “‘Oh, my dear, it’s so refreshing to receive real service these days! You’ve been simply priceless. What is your manager’s name? I’ll certainly pass a good word on to him!’

  “Once Catherine Maurois gave Martha that information, her remaining time on this earth could be measured in minutes. All she had to do was turn her back on the bereaved widow. Just long enough for Martha to blow her spine into little pieces with a silenced twenty-five.

  “Then a call down to the manager, Mr. Pendergast, with a voice disguised through a handkerchief. Followed by a second call to her beloved Albert, wherever he was hiding at the time. Would he please come and help ‘tidy up’? ”

  I struggled to speak, ignoring the foul taste in my mouth. “The police had to be able to identify the body solely on the basis of fingerprints. Of course, Catherine Maurois’ prints were all over Room 307, since she tended it day in and day out. That simplified the task. All they had to do was wipe Martha Klein’s passport clean, then press it into the hands of the dead woman. Maybe some extra items for good measure—luggage handles, cosmetics, watchbands. Also, they had to remember to scrub clean the belongings of Albert Klein. The police might never check them against the prints of Brian Winter, but the Kleins hadn’t lived so long by taking chances.

  “So. One more thing to do before slipping out through the side entrance of the Moana Hotel. One of them peeled off a rubber sheet on the mattress, while the other took their dress carrier from the closet. Then they rolled Catherine Maurois onto the sheet.” I heard my voice going thin and reedy. “Grabbing the sharp knives … maybe the same ones that sliced artichokes and salami in their St. Petersburg store … Albert was always strong, but we shouldn’t forget Martha’s resourcefulness …”

  “… Norman,” said Eva, “this isn’t necessary …”

  “… they worked swiftly but carefully, almost like surgeons. Nothing could splash beyond the sheet, you see. Swing and chop and dice until Catherine Maurois was a jigsaw puzzle no one could ever put together …”

  “Stop it,” my wife pleaded quietly.

  “… then roll the sheet over the remains, like folding a tortilla …” I chuckled wildly. “Finally, one at each end, they eased the mess they made into the dress carrier and hung it in the closet. Such a surprise for the person who finds it! What juicy headlines!”

  Something in my face must have told everyone in the den not to offer lame words of understanding. I poured myself another whiskey, took a generous slug, then sat and waited until I could continue.

  Tom’s voice blessedly filled the void. “This July Norman and I were granted an exhumation order on the Honolulu grave of Albert Klein’ …”

  “… Martha really planned ahead,” I explained dully. “She had all the arrangements laid out with a local undertaker. That body had to be planted in the ground before the wrong people, such as Fred and Mima Heinley, could come pay their respects.”

  “Naturally,” Tom said, “we couldn’t get any fingerprints from a twenty-year-old corpse. But, by a stroke of luck, Margaret Kerans is still alive. At the time, she was still keeping vigil for her father. Mrs. Kerans helped us in every way she could, even though she must’ve known where our investigation would lead. Through her, we obtained the medical records of her father at the Physicians and Surgeons Hospital in Glendale. Brian Winter had a left clavicle broken in two places during the Battle of the Somme. Those hairline cracks still show on the skeleton of ‘Albert Klein.’”

  He stopped, waiting for me to pick up the trail of the story.

  “I didn’t enjoy severing those last threads of hope, any more than I liked telling Catherine Maurois’ daughter the facts she knew but never wanted to hear. But it was especially hard for Mrs. Kerans. You see, she had been clinging to a single mystifying lead. The FBI head discovered that Brian Winter had boarded Pan Am Clipper Flight 702, leaving Honolulu on the evening of December 6, 1941, for Los Angeles. Strangely, he was now in the company of a Mrs. Edith Winter.

  “Mrs. Kerans was distraught. The poor girl actually thought her father had met and married a woman in a whirlwind Hawaiian courtship. But Mr. and Mrs. Winter stepped off that plane in L.A. and simply evaporated. Neither the FBI nor private detectives ever picked up the scent.”

  Against my will I found myself smiling. “You know, Albert and Martha—I refuse to call them ‘Brian and Edith’—had one of the narrowest getaways on record. History was always snipping at their heels. First the Titanic, then Pearl Harbor. The Pan Am Clipper that lifted off the Honolulu runway on Saturday night passed within spitting distance of Admiral Nagumo’s fleet, cruising off Oahu. Ten hours later they would’ve been sealed tight on the island. I doubt very much if they could’ve pulled off their shell game with corpses under the military curfew.

  “But Alfredo Petacchi was left behind, just as I was, to sift through the rubble of red tape and ‘official inquiries.’ Of course, he and his men were completely baffled. He had followed the Kleins to Hawaii for one reason, and now someone had seemingly beaten him to the punch. He was, I’m sure, suspicious as hell, but the HPD did make what seemed like a definite ID of the bodies. So Petacchi accepted the kindness of fate with good grace. Naturally he embroidered on the truth when he reported back to you, Mr. Ryker. I’m sure it must have been an unusual experience for him—boasting of two murders he never committed.”

  Ryker wouldn’t reply, but his body tightened like a coiled watch spring.

  “So Petacchi got his reward,” I sighed, “which effectively sealed the lid on the whole affair for another twenty years. Albert and Martha bubbled up into polite society on the mainland with new names and backgrounds. To this day I still don’t know where they went and who they became. I don’t suppose it’s terribly important. They didn’t emerge into the foreground until this January, when the Marianas and Neptune discovered the Titanic and the Ryker name was plastered once again on the front pages. I’d give a good deal to have seen their faces when they learned about the project and that I was going to write the background story. Old Home Week, you might say.”

  Pacing in front of the desk, I said, “Al and Martha certainly didn’t waste any time. That same day the story broke, I was deluged by reporters over the phone, only some of whom I personally know. I was able to give most of them the cheerful brush-off, but one man—ostensibly from AP—wouldn’t drop it, so I offhandedly told him I was going to St. Petersburg for an interview.

  “The wrong reply to the wrong person at the wrong time. I can’t prove it, but I’m sure that Albert Klein was on the other end of the line. No other explanation makes sense. He was the only person to know that my flying to St. Pete meant a meeting with the Heinleys. That in itself might not seem threatening to Al and Martha, but I certainly bore watching.”

  I held up three papers to Ryker. “These are passenger lists of three flights I took in January. Delta from Idlewild to St. Petersburg, National from St. Pete back to New York, and a Pan Am from New York to Adelaide, Australia, via Honolulu. Looking down all these lists, we come across a name in common. Besides mine, that is. ‘Mr. Walter Shirer.’ I could dismiss the coincidence on two flights, but not three.

  “Albert Klein didn’t have to worry about being recognized, since I’ve never met the man. Theoretically, I suppose I might’ve spotted the same elderly gentleman on all three trips, but I have no memory for faces of fellow travelers unless someone is sitting in the next seat. Sometimes not even then.

  “‘Walter Shirer’ must’ve checked with the charter company in Adelaide to know I was scheduled to fly to Coober Pedy. Albert has always been enterprising. He took a plane to Mabel Creek, then hired a Land Rover to pay John McFarland a visit. I suppose he imagined himself having settled a grudge with McFarland by blowing his skull off. It’s hard to anticipate a mind like
that. He must’ve worried about what McFarland might tell me. Perhaps he was even a little frightened.”

  I turned to Ryker. “That’s the last known whereabouts of Albert Klein. Tom and I have beaten the bush, but they’re keeping well hidden. Waiting for another crack at those diamonds. Just like you, Mr. Ryker. Persisting in the old shopworn follies right to the end.”

  His lips drew back. “You miserable bastard. Do you have the slightest idea what you’ve done?”

  “To you? Yes, I think so.”

  “I had them. They were mine.” A faint tremor shook his face. “Every night I prayed. Until the early hours of the morning. ‘Give them to me,’ I asked. What was the sin? Wasn’t I justified?

  “Then He answered my prayers. After more than twenty years. It was worth it. All the hell. They were going to pay. And I could die a happy man …”

  His voice faded as he sat staring at his memories. The poor maligned father. The gods had frowned upon him.

  I stood and watched the spinning tape reels, wondering if I would ever have the stomach to play the recording again.

  “You know, Mr. Ryker, there’s a way to get them back.”

  September 25, 1962

  HALIFAX (AP) Over $5 million worth of uncut diamonds were recovered today from the R.M.S. Titanic by the bathyscaph Marianas in what may be the most important salvage find in recorded history.

  Debeers’ Diamond Experts in London, when informed of the discovery, hesitated to make any appraisal without seeing the stones, but estimate that the gems’ background alone will raise the price five to ten times over their original value.

  According to the captain of the Marianas, Phillip Toffler, the bathyscaph found the diamonds in a glass apothecary jar deep within the remnants of the Titanic’s B Deck cabins.

  After the stones were returned to the research ship Savonarola, the news was relayed to industrialist-in-exile William A. Ryker, backer of the project, who expressed surprise and delight at the discovery.

  “Of course, we had no idea such a thing was aboard the Titanic,” Ryker said. “There’s no written record of these diamonds by any of the authorities on the sinking. We may have uncovered a rich historical vein, as well as a financial one.”

  The diamonds are being flown by helicopter to Halifax, where they will be transferred for shipment to London. Once there, experts from Boucheron will appraise the stones, cut them, and eventually arrange for their auction.

  According to a Boucheron spokesman, the diamonds will be on public display for the next two weeks in their London headquarters.

  The diamond find of the century sat surrounded by purple velvet and glass. It was a star attraction, beyond any doubt, but a star attraction in a refined and very British mode.

  No sticky-fingered kids pressed noses against the glass. No tourists snapped flash pictures. The red ropes around the display and the impassive, hulking security guard discouraged such vulgar rubbernecking. But the elegant crowd circulating through Boucheron was definitely curious.

  After a quick perusal of the routine merchandise—Fabergé eggs and emerald necklaces—the gentlemen and ladies stationed themselves in front of the case. Gazing at the rather ugly uncut stones beneath the glass, they would read the accompanying plaque:

  These diamonds, of unknown origin, were recovered from the R.M.S. Titanic on September 25, 1962, by the bathyscaph Marianas, belonging to the Ryker International Corporation.

  Owned by William A. Ryker, the diamonds are believed to originate from South Africa. Estimates on their uncut value begin at 2 million pounds. Considering their historical value, the diamonds are currently appraised at anywhere from 20 to 30 million pounds.

  Boucheron wishes to express thanks to William A. Ryker for allowing the public display of the collection while they are here for cutting, a final appraisal, and auction.

  Finished with the reading, the public would eye the diamonds with cool hunger, then meander out the door.

  I watched this ritual from a television monitor in the security office. Four days of eyestrain was all I had to show for standing guard at this damn tube.

  I was still feeling sorry for myself when I glanced at the screen and saw that my waiting was over.

  An obliging gentleman-customer held the door for her. Martha used a cane and hobbled painfully.

  My fingers jabbed the videotape machine’s “Record” button as I leaned forward. The camera, hidden high in the corner, followed her wandering around the display. I zoomed in on her face.

  There she was, sweet and grandmotherly. I found myself grinning. She was too good to be true.

  Martha moseyed around Boucheron, giving her just-passing-through smile to the clerks. I squinted at the picture tube as she discreetly appraised the case and the guard. In a few casual glances she fixed the location of all exits in her mind. Martha Klein blinked thoughtfully at the photo cells rimming the diamonds. She even stared into my eyes, searching for hidden cameras. I felt nape hairs bristling on my neck.

  Her face registered polite awe at the sight of the diamonds. Long moments passed. She seemed to be satisfied, and turned to go.

  I grabbed the microphone of the transceiver at my side. “This is Norman. She’s here. She’s leaving just now.”

  My words were beamed to the unmarked patrol car parked across from Boucheron’s front entrance.

  “Relax, Norman,” said Tom. “We see her. A woman in a beige suit, walking with a cane.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re on her.” Sergeant Rand’s voice briskly rattled the speaker. “Just stay there. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “Yeah. Do that.”

  They both laughed, cutting me off.

  I must have converted five pounds of fat to sweat before they called back.

  “Yes, this is Hall. Go ahead.”

  Tom’s voice was tense. “We’ve found both of them, Norman—702, London Arms Apartments.”

  33

  Prowling through Soho at one in the morning, when the fog’s as thick as boiled Kleenex, does wonders for the nervous system.

  Fidgeting in the front seat of an ancient Daimler patrol car, I watched the hood plow into walls of eiderdown and prayed this night errand wouldn’t blow up in our faces.

  The orange parking lights, oversized and blazing as in all European cars, picked out macabre images which scuttled into the shadows like hermit crabs. Gothic iron fences with arrowhead crowns crept by our flanks. A sycamore, pitifully naked except for a coat of smog. Cobblestone gutters and cigarette butts. Three Teddies woven out of gray blankness who closed ranks and insolently watched our passing.

  The car swept past Old Compton Street, pushing deeper into Soho. Tom, Rand, and Sergeant Morley, our driver, all had that same look I’d seen on veteran GI’s at Messina and Anzio—a sweaty-palmed expectancy.

  “I must be certifiable,” Tom moaned lowly, “being sweet-talked into this lunacy.”

  “You’ll get ulcers yet,” I chided. “Didn’t I promise to stay out of everyone’s way?”

  “Norman, you’re a professional meddler. Don’t try looking guileless and obliging; it’s too late in the game.”

  “Sir?” Morley broke into the conversation. “Is this our turn ahead?”

  Tom squinted through the windshield. “No, the next one down. Left turn. The apartment’s on the right.”

  The Daimler slithered around the corner and sighed past fire hydrants and the spattering of lighted windows which formed a crazy-quilt pattern in the fog.

  Tom pointed across the street. “Here’s the place.”

  We rocked gently to a stop.

  He leaned forward, murmuring gravely into my left ear. “If I ordered you to wait here with Morley, would you stay put?”

  “I hope the question’s hypothetical. You know very well what this means to me.”

  “That’s not what I asked, Norman.”

  “Then I can only shrug and make no promises. You wouldn’t want me roaming around alone. The streets
aren’t safe at this hour.”

  Tom uttered a weary monosyllable. “‘Dogged’ is the word that describes you, Norman. And ‘relentless.’ Like tidal erosion and the coming of the next ice age.” Easing open the door, his lips bent in a frigid smile. “Come along, my friend. Just be damn sure you stay behind both Sergeant Rand and myself. ‘Bringing up the rear,’ it’s called.”

  “An honored position, .Tom. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  “That’s my fervent wish,” he muttered as we got out of the car.

  The Daimler’s doors shut with a muted thump. A freighter despondently lowed from the Thames. Piccadilly Square distantly grumbled, even at this hour, with omnibuses and taxis. A cricket preened its legs, then shut up. No eyes peered from lighted windows. None that could be seen, anyway.

  Across dank cobblestones we approached the apartment building. Room 702 on the seventh floor. No lights.

  A pale yellow glow filtered sickly through frosted panes unimaginatively etched LONDON ARMS APTS. Empty milk bottles sprawled on seven grimy steps leading from the sidewalk.

  I shut the front door behind me. Wood steps painted a cheap light green curved up and out of sight. An elevator also yawned open. The apartment smelled of human hair and boiled cabbage.

  Sergeant Rand seemed oblivious to the squalor, his face flushed with the sweet smell of pursuit. “Do we take the lift?”

  Tom nodded. He punched the button as I slipped through the doors.

  Two … three … four … five … six … seven.

  The doors clattered open like old boiler plates, revealing a gray corridor, finger-smudged and muggy with gas heat.

  Numbers ran to the right. 706 … 704 … 702. A corner apartment.

  Tom’s knuckles rapped the door. “Police. Open up, please.”

  Silence. He knocked again.

  “Open up, Klein.”

  No answer.

  Sergeant Rand and Tom backed up two paces, then hit the door with one blow.

  The architect of the London Arms must have been in cahoots with the local gentry. The door was the only sound part of the building.