The Memory of Eva Ryker (30 page)

Light from the lamp cast long shadows across Lisa's face, hiding her eyes. “I haven't seen him since … since …”

Tears crept down her cheeks as she lay her head on his chest, the drops streaking on the silk lapels of his evening jacket.

“Ssh. Ssh,” he whispered, stroking her long blond hair. “Come on. What you need is a drink.”

Martin led her into the bedroom. He quickly grabbed a decanter of scotch and poured her two fingers' worth.

Pale blue eyes stared doubtfully at the amber liquid.

“Go on. Drink it. It won't kill you.”

She smiled away her tears and swirled the scotch down. “I'm … I'm sorry I acted so silly.”

He laughed indulgently, turning around and throwing his jacket on one of the beds. As he began unknotting his tie, Lisa opened her purse. Her hand reached for the lamp switch. A click and all was black, except for the stars twinkling through the porthole.

Martin frowned in puzzlement, then grinned, tossed his tie on the bed and turned to her. “Lisa, darling …”

A surprised little sigh bubbled over his lips as a knife stabbed him between navel and groin. Lisa thrust until the blade scraped against his spine.

He had no time for pain. A femoral artery ruptured, rushing red over her white gloves. He sagged like a puppet with cut strings.

Lisa released the knife still in his stomach and stood, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she peeled off the gloves. Red and white, they flashed out of the porthole.

She swung the glass shut, then went to the bed and plucked a monogrammed handkerchief from Martin's coat, dabbing away leftover tears on her cheeks. She walked to the door and listened for any sound. Nothing. She pocketed the handkerchief and walked out of cabin B-57.

Next door were cabins B-55, 53, and 51, which formed the Rykers' suite. Lisa loitered in the corridor until a steward passed by, pushing a dinner tray toward the kitchen, then knocked on the door of B-51.

A curt and sleepy Georgia Ferrell answered.

“What do you want, Mrs. Eddington?”

“Is Clair here?” Lisa slurred nastily. From the corner of her eye she could see the steward fiddling with the tray, working busily at not listening.

“No.” She started to close the door. “It's late. Please go …”

“That whore and my husband are in there! Let me in!” She struggled past Georgia and slammed the door behind her. “Where are they!” she yelled, searching frantically around the dark and vacant parlor.

“… Mrs. Eddington …”

“… don't lie to me! They're here! Tell …”

“… Eva is next door. You'll wake her …”

“… tell me, goddam you!” Lisa shook her by the shoulders, then stopped, spotting the private promenade. “They're out here! Hiding!”

Georgia followed her outside, hands fluttering. They stood at the railing, framed by the stars.

“You've hidden them! You've taken them away!” Her hair blew beserk in the wind.

“You're upset, Mrs. Eddington. Go back to your cabin and get some sleep. Please.”

The madness slowly left her eyes. Chin trembling, she managed to smile and kiss Georgia on the cheek. “You're right. I'm so sorry. You must think me a terrible fool.”

She smiled in understanding, turning to look out at the Atlantic. “No need to explain …”

Lisa slashed both her hands across Georgia's neck, toppling her over the railing. The robe and pajamas flashed down into the night. A single splash seventy feet below was immediately lost in the
Titanic
's churning wake.

Lisa turned her attention to the rattan furniture on the promenade. She tipped one chair on its side. Her hand shut the glass door as she stepped back into the parlor. A settee toppled. A table jostled. A vase crushed on the carpet; white porcelain and red roses ground under her heel. But quietly! Not to disturb Eva.

She surveyed her work. Satisfied, she took Martin's monogrammed handkerchief, dropped it near the door leading to the promenade, and left the cabin. The steward was still shuffling dishes in the corridor. Lisa turned back to the black interior of the suite.

“Thank you so much, Miss Ferrell,” she said warmly, wiping her tears. “You must forgive me. I'm … I'm very, very sorry. Good night.”

Lisa closed the door behind her and headed down the corridor—a woman with a destination—giving the steward a haven't-you-got-something-better-to-do look. He vanished guiltily into the kitchen.

As he disappeared, Lisa walked down the hallway to the elevators and rode down to the purser's office on C Deck.

“Excuse me,” she said to the assistant on duty, “I'm retiring for the night. Would you please send this up to the wireless office?” She passed him a half sheet of onionskin paper.

“Yes, of course.” The assistant nodded graciously.

“Thank you. Good night.”

Her message snuffled up the pneumatic tube from the purser's office and clinked into the “Incoming” basket in the wireless room as she returned to the starboard corridor of B Deck. A glance both left and right. Totally vacant.

Smiling, she reopened the door of B-51, and eased herself back into the parlor. Lisa didn't make a sound as she tiptoed through the interconnecting cabins to B-55, where Eva Ryker slept.

26

“… of course, we have no way of knowing the exact strategy Jason Eddington used to maneuver Clair Ryker into his cabin.” I sighed, wiping my face with a handkerchief. “From what we know of their relationship, she didn't need much persuasion. And, of all the things that may have happened in B-seventy-six, all we can say for certain is that Clair came to a very bad end. As we'll hear, the tape testifies to that.

“The fate of James Martin and Georgia Ferrell is even more mysterious. J.H. simply vanishes from the scene. None of the survivors remember seeing him when the passengers were mustered to the lifeboats early on the morning of April fifteenth. But the almost offhand comments Jason and Lisa later made to Eva very strongly suggest that he joined Clair in the rubbish heap. More waste material in the Eddingtons' Grand Plan.”

Scowling, I tugged at my chin. “I suppose Lisa did the actual work. Her very public purchase of a knife as a gift to Martin was more than mere coincidence. And, from studying a timetable of those last few hours before the
Titanic
struck the iceberg, I think we can safely assume that she also handled the murder of Georgia Ferrell.

“Our evidence is a little more concrete in the case of the Ryker maid. Several weeks after the sinking, the
MacKay-Bennett
, a cable-laying ship out of Halifax, picked up about two hundred bodies. She was among them.” I stared at Ryker. “It must have taken a very discriminating eye to pick her out of the anonymous pile.”

He folded and refolded his hands in a gesture of helpless and ancient grief. They were pitifully white, with gnarled blue veins snaking between the liver spots.

“Have you ever been to Halifax, Mr. Hall, to see their graves?”

“Last April,” I replied.

“I used to take the train up every month. Row upon row. At one time I thought she was there. Hiding. Clair hid from me frequently, you know. After a while I gave up the search and never went back.”

Ryker's lips creased tight like an old wound. “To answer your question, Mr. Hall, yes, I did meet the
MacKay-Bennett
when it returned to Halifax. No Clair, of course; but there was Georgia Ferrell. I made the necessary arrangements at Fairview Cemetery. The headstone and all. And before the burial I had a pathologist look at the remains. She was definitely killed by a sharp blow that snapped her neck.” One hand flapped impatiently. “The old fool didn't want to commit himself, but both he and I knew it was no accident.”

I settled behind my desk. “Even with the scattered facts we have, I think they can be welded with some strong hunches to reconstruct the Eddingtons' plan. To do that, of course, you first have to imagine what would have happened had the
Titanic
never met with an iceberg on its maiden voyage.”

Leaning back in my chair, I scratched my head. “It doesn't take any deductive feat to know that Jason Eddington had to get rid of Clair Ryker's body. Yet we know that he hid it under the bed, thanks to Eva's discovery a few hours later.”

She impassively absorbed my words, her face as blank as an Easter Island statue.

“In my opinion, the bed was a temporary hiding place,” I continued. “It was no simple matter to shove a carcass out the porthole. Though it was terribly cold that night, passengers were still up and around. Jason and Lisa would have to wait until the early hours of the morning before dumping Clair. In the meantime, the body had to stay out of sight. Under the bed was as good a place as any.

“On April fifteenth, the morning after the murders, a steward would have discovered Martin's body in his cabin. The calls would immediately go out to Captain Smith, Dr. O'Loughlin; the whole ship in an uproar.

“The same steward would run next door to the Ryker suite with the news and discover that Clair and Eva, along with their maid, are missing. There are obvious signs of a struggle. Perhaps, as an added refinement, the steward or one of the investigating officers would discover an object—a tie clasp or cigarette lighter—establishing Martin's presence in the room.

“At this point Jason and Lisa come on the scene, Eva with them. They tell Purser McElroy that she banged on their door late last night, in shock and screaming something about J.H. and her mother having a fight.

“The captain questions Eva—uselessly. She would appear to be in shock, partly in bafflement and partly because Jason and Lisa would've kept her doped up. With Eva unable to tell the truth, the officers aboard the
Titanic
would have little choice but to buy the Eddingtons' story. I can hear Captain Smith talking to both of them.

“‘I understand you had a very serious fight with Clair Ryker last night.'

“‘That's right,' Lisa would say, ‘but I went to her cabin later to apologize. I acted like such a fool!'

“The captain would check with the Rykers' steward, who'd corroborate her statement. Captain Smith then would show Lisa the murder weapon. Let's assume for the moment it was a knife.

“‘Of course, I recognize it,' she'd reluctantly answer. ‘I bought it for Mr. Martin as a present from the gift shop here on board ship.'

“Captain Smith would check with the clerk at the gift shop, who'd agree with Lisa. Eva herself saw Lisa buy the knife, but she would be in no position to testify. With such limited information Captain Smith would reach the pat, but inevitable, conclusion.

“Someone, probably Purser McElroy, who kept his nose to the deck, would whisper old rumors. All about James Martin being one of Clair Ryker's ex-lovers. The fight with the Eddingtons would have brought things to a head. Late that night, they would speculate, Martin went next door to talk with Clair. They fought. First words, then fists. Eva overheard and ran to the Eddingtons' cabin. Martin went berserk and killed Clair. In panic, he murdered Georgia Ferrell as a witness and tossed both their bodies overboard.

“Back in his cabin, Martin realized what he'd done. He took the easy way out; or the hard way, depending how you look at it; disemboweling himself with the knife Lisa had given him.”

I shrugged. “It would have suited Captain Smith, at least for the time being. Being a stickler for discretion, he'd keep the press out of the affair. The only people he'd notify would be the widowed Mr. Ryker and the police in New York, who'd meet the
Titanic
at docking.

“Somewhere along the line Jason would offer to take care of Eva and make sure she'd get to her father safely. As Jason might've said, she really had no one to turn to.

“And so the
Titanic
would wire the sad news to you, Mr. Ryker. But what the officers on board wouldn't know was that you were already informed.”

I held the cipher up for the Old Man to see. “You know the key, I believe. Like to translate?”

“Son, you can go to hell.”

I passed the deciphered message to him. Pale eyes blinked over the lines.

WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER STOP IF YOU WANT HER ALIVE BE AT SINGER BUILDING LOBBY NOON AFTER TITANIC DOCKS NEW YORK WITH LATEST SHIPMENT STOP NO TRICKS STOP

Ryker read the message as if contemplating an old enemy.

My voice was soft. “The ‘latest shipment' refers to the diamonds, of course.”

Oblivious to Mike's warning grimace, his lips slowly moved. “Yes.”

I put the paper on my blotter. “The Cape Race Wireless Station has a record of the message, since they saved their logs for the Senate inquest of the sinking. It was transmitted from the
Titanic
five minutes before she struck ice. The destination was Pittsburgh, where, to gather from newspaper accounts, you were staying to wrap up a purchase of new coal holdings. The Eddingtons kept pretty close tabs on you. Closer than the tabs you had on them.”