The Memory of Eva Ryker (11 page)

Next to the iron lung sat a white straight-back chair. I dragged it next to the bed.

“Mr. Ryker, why did you start this salvage operation?”

“Scientific interest. And publicity value.”

“Does Eva have anything to do with your exploration of the
Titanic?
”

“I prefer not to discuss Eva's problems. They're much too personal and they have nothing to do with your story.”

“What about Mrs. Ryker? Isn't there an element of vengeance involved?”

“I don't follow you.”

“Pardon my saying so, but the
Titanic
is your wife's tomb. Perhaps you have a natural grudge. The
Titanic
as an enemy. To be carved up, dissected, and conquered.”

“A very colorful idea, Mr. Hall.”

“Whatever your reasons, people are bound to assume that you have a morbid interest in the ship.”

“People may assume what they wish.” His eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners.

“Mr. Ryker, did you hear about John McFarland?”

“I sure did. That unfortunate man in Australia.”

“Did you know him?”

“Who?” His brow furrowed. “McFarland? Of course not.”

“He was a steward aboard the
Titanic
.”

“So I've heard. But I'm sorry to disappoint you. As interested as I am in the
Titanic
, I don't keep tabs on every living survivor.”

“He's not living anymore.”

“Don't belabor the obvious, Mr. Hall. Are you suggesting some connection between this McFarland and myself?”

“Not suggesting. Merely curious. John McFarland's territory as a steward extended from B-eighty-four to B-seventy on the
Titanic
's, portside. According to Mr. Masterson, that's where your bathyscaphs recovered the famous blank film. I interview the cagey Mr. McFarland with little success. That same day he's rather disgustingly murdered.” I spread my hands. “Death is so permanent. I find it most distressing.”

“You have an unfortunate taste for melodrama, Mr. Hall.”

“Life
is
melodramatic. Or haven't you been reading the headlines for the past twenty years?”

Ryker lay prone on the green sheets. One finger pushed a button, lowering the bed. “You must forgive me, Mr. Hall, but I find all this conversation very tiring.” His skeletal chest rose and fell. “I'm sure you understand …”

“Of course. But there is one more thing. Do you have any idea where your daughter is living?”

The sun lamps glinted in white-hot dots on Ryker's dark glasses. “A waste of time, Mr. Hall. Eva remembers nothing about the
Titanic
. She becomes terribly disturbed when people attempt to pry into her childhood.”

“I can accept rejection. But I'd prefer it to come directly from your daughter.”

Ryker tilted his head back, black lenses facing the ceiling. “I don't know where Eva is. We haven't talked in three months.” He tabbed another button. “Lisl will show you the way out. Good-bye, Mr. Hall. I certainly enjoyed our little talk.” His lips parted in a rictus grin. “Remember, we have a date in two weeks.”

“Well,” Jan asked. “What was he like?”

We were sitting at a booth at Le Béarn. I pursued an errant bite of fondue bourguignonne.

“He tried very hard to keep me from finding out. An endless variety of masks, and he shuffles through them very quickly as the occasion demands.” I pushed my plate away. “Every time I think of plowing through Ryker's endless snow job, I get depressed.”

We let the conversation drift to other matters until we were in the car, driving back to the Hotel Richemond. Braking at a signal, I glanced at Jan.

“Did you bring along the
Titanic
's deck plan?”

“I think so.”

“I want to take a peek at it before we turn in.”

Jan searched through her suitcase while I latched the door. “Eureka,” she said.

I spread the map on the bed like a third bed sheet. “Come here a minute.”

“There's John McFarland's territory,” I pointed. “Portside B deck, cabins eighty-four through seventy.” My fingers waggled at the folder. “Do we have the passenger list somewhere in there?”

Jan fished and hauled it in. My forefinger scanned through the names. “Albert and Martha Klein were booked in B-seventy-eight. It's well within John McFarland's territory. I want to put names in these other cabins. You read them off.”

Jan gave the page a blurry once-over. “Just don't rush me.”

Twenty minutes later, each cabin in John McFarland's territory was attached to a name. Jan surveyed my handiwork.

“It's fascinating, I'll admit. But are any of these people connected with Ryker?”

“Not directly,” I said. “Clair and Eva Ryker stayed over here.” My thumb squashed the cabins. “B-fifty-three and B-fifty-five, the starboard promenade suites. Right next door is B-fifty-seven, the cabin of James Martin, Clair and Eva's bodyguard. None of them came within John McFarland's territory.”

I straightened, studying the map. “No, the only connection I can see is that damn movie being found in McFarland's bailiwick.”

“Exactly where was the movie discovered?”

“Masterson never mentioned the exact location to reporters. And I doubt if Ryker or Mike Rogers will enlighten us.”

Her hand rested on my shoulder. “Maybe we're splitting nonexistent hairs, Norman. Ryker says the film is blank.”

“Janice, you remind me of a cop directing traffic through a labyrinth.” I packed up the map and put it away for the night. “If the film is really blank, then McFarland's death, Masterson's resignation, almost every aspect of this blasted story is meaningless.”

The ringing phone interrupted our conversation. The hotel operator relayed a message from our Paris answering service. We had received an important long-distance call from a Mr. Jerry Blaine in Los Angeles. KL-5-7160.

“You don't seriously plan on talking to that man,” Jan said.

“There's no other way of finding out what he wants.”

“You can't call now, Norman. In L. A. it's about … “Her eyes glazed as she skipped through time zones. “… five in the morning.”

I laughed and kept on dialing.

“What's so funny?”

“You. Worrying about waking up Jerry Blaine.” The operator came on the line and I gave her the number. “Besides, I don't think he ever sleeps.”

My hunch was right.

“Norm!” He managed to put four syllables into my name. “Thanks for calling! Say, I hope you're not sore about our last meeting.”

“I've recovered nicely, thanks.”

“Norm, I have a proposition.”

“Name your fee, Jerry.”

“Five hundred bucks for the whereabouts of Eva Ryker.”

“I'm listening.”

“Not so fast, Norm. What about the money?”

“Enough games, Jerry. You know very well I won't cheat you. So talk.”

Silence. “All right. She's living in Madrid. Number 1402 Calle de Alcala. Apartment 510.”

Jan watched me as I hung up. “And the Big News is …”

“Eva Ryker's in Spain.” I rose from the bed, opened the closet door and hung up my coat. “I'll need to hop a plane tomorrow for Madrid. Do you mind staying here?”

“Doing what?”

“For one thing, you can start sniffing around and finding out what the people in Veyrier know about Ryker and his staff. The people who do business with him.”

She gave me a lopsided salute. “It shall be done.”

“One more thing. Check with the city hall here in Geneva and in Veyrier. See if they have any blueprints and floor plans of the Château de Montreux.”

11

January 28, 1962

Every Sunday afternoon in Madrid twenty thousand people gather together for ritual murder.

I was a reluctant member of the herd squeezed in the stands of the Plaza del Toros. Shading my eyes from the sun, I squinted down at the ring. The bullfight was about to begin.

Behind me a chorus of bugles blew in a great groaning fanfare. Forty thousand vocal cords roared as the six matadors starring in the day's events strutted out into the ring.

One voice outshouted the rest. Or so it seemed. I focused my Nikon's 135-mm telephoto lens on the source of the noise, three rows in front of me.

The blurred image sharpened into a plump, sloppy brunette slurping beer. “
Olé!
” she yelled, suds spilling over her mouth. “
Toro! Toro!
”

With an immense gravelly laugh, she slapped the backs of her two young “gentlemen callers.”

Eva Ryker had been easy to find. Unfortunately, she was equally easy to lose. I'd spent most of the afternoon following her Ferrari convertible in my anonymous rented Alfa-Romeo sedan.

My stomach began a dull ache when I saw her park near the Plaza del Toros. I hate bullfights.

But Eva was a regular aficionado. She excitedly watched the banderilleros and picadors parade into the ring. “
Ole! Bravo!
” She planted a foamy kiss on one of her companions.

Time had done a hack job on Eva Ryker. The jaw line, once ruthless and crisp, must have sagged a decade ago. Curves had turned to mounds and her long hair, wrapped up on top of her head, was dreadful in its Clairol blackness.

But the eyes, deep blue and troubled, were still good, even when glazed by too much beer. Implanted in twin craters of crow's-feet, they belonged to a girl of twenty. They would taunt her—a reminder of what she'd lost.

Leaning forward, she watched the banderilleros scamper around the bull, flinging darts into the animal's shoulders. I saw red streaks drip down the bull's black sweaty flanks and tried to ignore the bad taste in my mouth.

“
Olé!
” Eva shrieked as a dart poked a new trickling hole in the bull's back. “
Bravo! Bravo!
”

The bullring turned mellow orange as the sun eased westward. Through the Nikon's view finder I watched stale brown blood splashing on the sand. Dull and weary, the eyes of the bull stared stupidly at the advancing matador. He charged and ran, sweeping past the scarlet cape.

The matador's passes grew slower. With a jabbing flourish, he plunged the sword into black flesh. The animal lost control of its bowels in a last dying reflex as the corpse sagged into a steaming heap at the matador's feet.

Bugles screamed along with the crowd. Hats flew into the air. Crying with delight, Eva Ryker bear-hugged her boy friends.

I endured five more events. The sunlit side of the Plaza del Toros was a dull crimson when the men came into the ring to clean up the offal. I craned my head over the crowd to watch the long black hair of Eva Ryker work its way to the exit.

By the time I caught up with her, she was already getting in the Ferrari.

“Excuse me, Miss Ryker. Could I talk with you for a moment?”

Her eyes slid up to mine. “What for?”

Eva's boys puffed their pectorals. “Piss off, man.” A thick Italian accent. “The lady doesn't want to be bothered.”

I held out my hand to Eva. “My name's Norman Hall.”

The eyes flickered with mild interest. “The Big Novelist? My, my. Don't tell me you're doing research on a new book.”

“A sequel to
Blood and Sand
. You've got the Linda Darnell part.”

“Shucks.” Eva didn't smile. “I've always thought of myself as the Rita Hayworth type.”

“Could be. But I do want to talk.” I pointed in the car. “Preferably without the company of Romulus and Remus.”

No one spoke. Then she shrugged. “Okay.” She opened the far door. “Both of you. Out.”

“But Eva …” they sputtered.

“Take a cab.” She passed a hundred-peseta note. “Meet me at the apartment.”

They looked unhappy but went. She patted the adjacent bucket seat. “Get in.”

I walked around the back of the car, canting my head at the departing pair. “Nice boys. Are you buying or leasing?”

“Installment plans,” Eva said blankly as I slid into the seat. “I'm disappointed, Mr. Hall.”

“How's that?”

“You don't look like the coarse type.”

“Implying that I am.”

“I don't like leering wisecracks about my sex life.”

“Sorry. But I do find my curiosity aroused by the bizarre.”

Eva didn't answer. She savagely gunned out of the parking slot. My stomach slammed back in the seat as we hit the street at sixty miles an hour.

With a huge laugh she squealed a left against a honking stream of traffic.

“How did you manage to find me, Mr. Hall?”

I braced myself as we took a corner. “Don't be modest, Eva. You're a fixture of this town.”

Her smile was laconic. “Then you didn't talk to Daddy?”

“I did. He said he didn't know where you were. I thought he was lying then. I'm sure of it now.”

“Oh? How come?”

“We're sitting in it.” I patted the dash. “New Ferraris don't grow on trees. A present from Daddy, most likely.”

“So you've tracked me down.” She made a face, spinning the car onto the Avenida Generalissimo. “What's the big deal?”

I had to yell above the roaring engine. “It has to do with the
Titanic!
”

“I'll tell you all about it!” she yelled back. “It sunk!”

“You were a survivor, Eva. There are things you could tell me.”

The Ferrari parked at the foot of her apartment building. “Here's the place.” She looked over at me. “And to answer your question—no, Mr. Hall. I was only ten at the time.”

She switched off the engine. The hood popped as it cooled in the darkness.

“I gather you don't share your father's enthusiasm for the
Titanic
.”

“Daddy and I share as little as possible.”

“… ‘she said frostily, lips pursed in long-accustomed tightness.'” My fingers made typing motions.