The Memory of Eva Ryker (10 page)

“Ryker had other ideas. He'd been bitten by the health bug. Dandelion tea and nutmeg outlets and sitz baths. Eva went to Switzerland then stayed under lock and key at Baden-Baden for six months. They got her flying on at least a half-even keel.

“When she turned twenty-one, Eva flew Daddy's coop and took up residence in Vienna. Then Naples and Lisbon and Paris. She made the rounds through the continent, living a very fast and physical life on her old man's financial cushion. Plenty of sleek lovers. Parties and pot and the hard stuff. An abortion in Rome that went sour. She climbed out on the fifth-story ledge of Celio Hospital, clawing the police who grabbed her through an open window. The fascists permanently banished her from Italy. But Eva outlived Mussolini. She came back after the war. Italy, Portugal, Greece. Daddy's money and men kept scraping her off the pavement. But Ryker had lost heart in Eva. A bad little bitch dog he could never housebreak.”

Jerry fumbled for a cigar and chomped on the stub. Puffing it to life, he spit wet tobacco leaves into a coaster perched on the sofa's arm.

“Big Daddy had his own problems. Like everyone else, he was scared shitless by the Crash. In thirty-eight, Ryker went to Switzerland to visit Eva. He never came back. An army of very expensive accountants and lawyers played musical chairs with Ryker's holdings, and when the band stopped playing, his assets were cozy and safe in numbered Swiss accounts. In no time he moved into the Château de Montreux outside Geneva. It seemed to suit him. The feudal baron and all. In June nineteen forty, he went for a morning dip in a stream running through the estate. Three days later he woke up gasping for air. Doctors in the ambulance had to cut open his throat, and even then he was nearly gone when they got to a hospital. He had the partial use of one leg and could leave his iron lung at least four to five hours a day. Many polio survivors made do with a lot less.”

He blew smoke into a mushroom over his head. “Ryker went back to his château. He's never been out since.”

Silence. The red cigar ash glared like a third eye. “So you're going to interview the Big Bad Ryker?”

“As soon as I can swing it.”

“That could be never.”

“I'd quit. Besides, Ryker must know that he has to come out of his burrow. I also want to talk to Eva. Do you have any idea where she is?”

“Spain, France, Denmark, who knows?” He threw up his hands. “The exploits of an aging fucked-out heiress aren't going to boost anyone's circulation. Even if her old man is making headlines.”

Jerry grinned and licked his lips. I suddenly felt very ill.

“Thanks for the information.” I handed him five hundred dollars and made for the door. “If you find out where Eva's living, let me know.”

With a shallow wheeze he heaved up from the chair and unlatched the door. “Norman, you're becoming painfully righteous in your old age. Pretty soon you'll be writing thousand-page epics about the dignity of man. Then God help us.”

“Jerry, answer me one question.”

“Yeah?”

“When was the last time you felt compassion for anyone?”

“Back before you were born, Norman. But I can understand your interest in Eva Ryker. After all, you do have things in common.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, emotional problems. Traumas in the past. Things that haunt you all your life.”

I stood still for a few moments, debating whether to loosen some of his teeth.

“Is this a shakedown?” I fought to keep my voice steady. “You'd be quite disappointed, Jerry. I wouldn't give you a dime.”

I elbowed him out of my way. Walking down the corridor, I heard his parting words. “Give my love to Janice!”

My legs didn't break their stride. They carried me down the stairs and out into the street.

10

January 25, 1962

Jan lay waiting at Orly with more gloomy tidings. It was getting to be an unpleasant habit.

“Okay, dear, what is it?”

Keeping both eyes on the traffic, she reached behind the seat and pulled out the morning edition of
L'Express
. “It's on page three.”

MASTERSON RESIGNS TITANIC POST

GENEVA
(
AP
) Harold Masterson, the Canadian director of William Ryker's
Titanic
salvage project, announced his resignation effective today.

“The resignation of Mr. Masterson is for purely personal reasons,” stated Michael Rogers, chief aide to Mr. Ryker. “All of us are very sorry to see him leave.”

Masterson's dismissal comes at an unusual time, following his announcement four days ago of a lost film found aboard the
Titanic
, which was to have been released to the public.

Rogers claimed that the film, contrary to Masterson's press releases, had “deteriorated beyond any visual interpretation.” He refused to say if a print would be released to the press.

In Halifax Masterson declined any comment on his resignation.

I folded the paper and glumly watched raindrops bouncing off the hood like tiny Ping-Pong balls. “You know, Jan, writing this story reminds me of knitting a sweater.” My fingers fiddled with invisible needles. “Here I am, finishing the sleeves. Meanwhile, someone else is unraveling yarn at the waist. I could spend the rest of my life trying to tie loose ends.”

She smiled ruefully. “What do you think of the article?”

“Isn't it obvious? You can be sure a professional man like Masterson knew the film hadn't ‘deteriorated beyond any visual interpretation.' Ryker saw something very special on that old roll of film. Something that would make him fire a top man and risk a stink in the papers rather than show it to anyone else.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Step One will be Mike Rogers.”

“The temperamental artist routine?”

“In spades. A thalamic fit that'll widen his stomach ulcer.”

“I don't think Mike has one.”

“Then it's time he started.”

I made for the phone as soon as we got home. After running the secretary gauntlet, I got him on the line.

“Norman, am I glad to hear from you!” he said blithely. “I've got some terrific news.”

“You've got some questions to answer first.”

“Just listen to me, Norman. I've just come back from Switzerland,” he said breathlessly, as if he'd arrived on foot. “Mr. Ryker wants to talk with you!” I was a good little boy being let into the candy factory. “As soon as possible. Is tomorrow afternoon okay?”

The village of Veyrier, right on the Swiss-French frontier, is a sleepy nursery-neat town with only one special distinction. The residents can, and do, boast that one of world's richest men lives just outside their hamlet.

Only the twelfth richest, to be precise. But definitely not a poor relation.

The big house itself sits propped-at the edge of a cliff which plummets down to the road leading between Veyrier and Annemasse. If nothing else, Ryker possesses his cherished seclusion.

Stitched on the side of the house is a low Spanish-tiled garage. Both sliding doors were left open, revealing a Mercedes pickup and a hulking Silver Phantom limousine. I felt like a minnow suckling up to a whale as I parked my rented Fiat by the Rolls.

A beauty. A '59 with a black, obsidian-shiny finish. Maybe not as much character as my Silver Wraith, but not nearly as long in the tooth. If Ryker wanted to swap, I wouldn't complain.

I looked across the courtyard at the château veiled by the thin snowfall.

Beautiful bad taste. Bell towers in Moorish baroque. Prisoner of Zenda balconies. Gothic arches over the main entrance. Big second- and third-story windows framed in shiny art deco chrome.

I rapped the knocker on the teak double doors that looked ready to withstand a Norman siege. The door was answered by a middle-aged woman with blunt features and longish brown hair tied in a bun.

“Mr. Hall?”

“Yes.”

“I am Fräulein Lisl Slote, Mr. Ryker's personal nurse.” A calloused handshake.

At closer inspection I saw liver spots on her hands and a faint web of wrinkles crisscrossing her face like Martian Canals. Yet her body was as taut as a trapeze artist's under the white uniform.

Her shoulders straightened under my appraisal. “How old do you think I am?”

“I hadn't really thought about it.” My eyes widened innocently. “Perhaps forty …”

“I am sixty-five years old!” She thrust out her grapefruit breasts. “What do you think of that?”

“Remarkable,” I muttered. It was her life's pride. My-name-is-Fräulein-Slote-How-Old-Do-You-Think-I-Am?

She pointed one arm at the long sweeping staircase. “Come with me, please.”

Peering down vacant corridors, I glimpsed gloomy rooms trailing into infinity.

“This place seems pretty big for just you and Mr. Ryker.”

“We are not alone. The château has a staff of twenty-five. Mr. Rogers also keeps him company on his visits from Paris. A most capable young man. He's also a pupil of mine.”

“How's that?”

“A naturopath. Building the body nature's way. Mr. Rogers is most anxious to avoid the spreading of middle age.” She looked disapprovingly at my waistline.

At the end of the stairs she turned left, marching down a passageway lined with gloomy Rembrandts and Klees. A very mixed bag. Suitable for the studied hodgepodge of the château.

I decided to play a hunch. “Fräulein Slote, did you ever work at Baden-Baden?”

Her little eyes widened. “Yes, before the war. Why do you ask?”

“Was Eva Ryker also one of your disciples?”

She stared straight ahead. “Years ago. I have not seen Eva in some time.” Jabbing a hand at the door at the end of the corridor, she said, “You must be brief. Mr. Ryker should return to his iron lung within the hour. Understand?”

I nodded, stepping through and easing the latch shut behind me.

The room was bright sterile white. The sun blazed through a skylight in the roof. Huge slanting windows looked down on Veyrier, tiny in the distance. In the center of the circular room, a hospital bed sat tilted in a semireclining position. The famous iron lung lay on a gurney against the back wall. Sun lamps aimed at the bed. They made the room stiflingly hot.

Loosening my tie, I walked around the end of the bed. Naked except for sunglasses, William Ryker was a burned red lobster. Surrounded by olive green sheets, his gnarled body looked like a strip of bacon floating in a bowl of pea soup.

“Mr. Ryker?”

He stirred, reaching for his glasses. His face contained enough wrinkles to hold a three-day rain, but the eyes were pale gray and cold.

“You're Norman Hall?” A raspy voice, slow and measured.

“That's right.”

One pipe stem arm rose in greeting. I gently squeezed his hand, afraid to break bones.

“I've looked forward to meeting you, young man. I said to myself after your last novel, ‘That man has style.' I couldn't have been more pleased when you decided to write about the
Titanic
.”

“Mr. Ryker, you paid a good deal of money to have me write this story. I'd like to know why.”

“I don't quite follow, son.”

“I'm referring to the half million dollars passing between you and Geoffrey Proctor.”

Silence. He put the sunglasses back on. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not a hell of a lot.”

“In any event, I would like an answer.”

“I think it's clear enough. I like your work and I wanted you on this story.”

“A half million's a lot of money.”

“Well, the money's relative. Hell, I had an aunt who spent ten thousand dollars putting braces on an old cat. She was a lot like me. You get to be my age and you decide to let money satisfy your whims. Once you're an old man, everyone expects you to act a little … peculiar.” Ryker's hand patted the sheets. “One thing I should tell you right off. I'm flying out to the
Savonarola
in two weeks to inspect the salvage site.”

“Is that with your doctor's blessing?”

“If I took my doctor's advice seriously, I'd need three nurses just to take a leak.” Ryker coughed shortly. “Chet Kingswood—he's the new director of the project—is going to brief reporters aboard the
Savonarola
on February twelfth. You're invited.”

“Thanks. I'll be there.”

“Two reporters have already been picked to go down in one of the bathyscaphs to see the
Titanic
. You're one of them.” A brief smile. “No claustrophobia, I hope.”

“We'll find out,” I said, feeling my body warm up in an adrenalin flush. “Who's the other reporter?”

“Your photographer chum, Burke Sheffield.”

“How am I going to get aboard the
Savonarola
”? Or does the half million include transportation to and from ship and continental breakfast?”

“Mike Rogers can iron out the details.” Ryker's wrist shook feebly in dismissal.

I turned and looked out the windows. Far below, a passenger train glided on toy tracks toward Geneva.

“I'd like to know why you fired Harold Masterson.”

The thin lips sourly smiled. “He drinks.”

“Was this a recent vice of his?”

“I don't really know.”

“You should have. Before you hired him.”

The white hair fringing his bald skull rustled against the pillowcase as he spoke. “Contrary to what Mike Rogers may have told you, I'm not God. I make occasional mistakes. Masterson was one of them.”

“Apparently. Did you see the film he gave you?”

“It was blank. Just random blotches. Nothing you could make out.”

“Yes, that's what the newspapers said. It's odd, though. Masterson seemed to think otherwise.”

“Mr. Masterson had a vivid imagination. Plus a hunger for grabbing headlines. Those two traits made a nasty combination. You might say he was riding for a fall.”