The Memory of Eva Ryker (12 page)

Her eyes appraised me. “Is that a taste of your style, God forbid?”

“No. Just winging it.”

“How very incisive. Is that supposed to peel me down to the marrow?”

“Only if you feel like it. You were discussing your father.”

“Oh, yes. Daddy.” She ran her hands through her hair, peering up at the sky. “Have you ever raised pets, Mr. Hall?”

“Mostly cats,” I said. “Hamsters, way back.”

Eva didn't seem to have heard. “When I was a little girl we lived in a big house in Newport, and on the grounds, way in back near the boundary line, was a low swampy gully where I used to play …”

“Was this after the
Titanic?
”

“Of course!” Her eyebrows furrowed crossly. “Let me tell my story, will you? Anyway, in this gully in back of our house I found a baby crocodile. I don't know how it got there.” She batted aside the question with her hand. “Or maybe it was an alligator. I can never tell which is which. Anyhow, I would pick up this little croc and watch it scamper through the grass. He wasn't much more than four or five inches long, and he was
so
cute! He had bright yellow eyes and a wiggly tail and sort of jaunty, grinning jaws. Of course, if you got your fingers near, he'd snap, cracking his little teeth. But he was small and harmless.”

She frowned, losing herself in the ancient childhood litany. “I played with that baby crocodile all summer, pulling his tail and watching it snap at twigs. Every day his bite got a little stronger.

“One morning, I ran my hand along its back and it turned and bit me. Really hard.” Eva flinched at the memory. “Later, the doctors had to take twelve stitches. I can still remember looking into the eyes of that croc as it licked my flesh out of its teeth with a pale pink tongue. The eyes weren't friendly anymore. They were wide and greedy for another bite, deciding what place to strike next. I ran screaming across the yard into the house. I suppose the servants found the crocodile or alligator or whatever it was and had it …”

Eva's body tensed, halting her descent over the unforeseen precipice. “Later, of course, I realized that the crocodile hadn't changed,” she said with wintry composure. “Merely grown. I simply hadn't recognized him for what he was.”

Her hands drooped off the wheel. “No doubt you found my father charming.”

“In a heavy-handed way.”

“Really?” She straightened in genuine surprise. “He used to be quite subtle. His victims were still smiling when he dragged them under the mud.”

“You said ‘victims,' Eva. Who were they?”

Her lips puckered defiantly. “For a start, my mother was Victim Number One.”

“How so?”

“Mother was unlucky enough to be the primary object of my father's affection. He used to call her his little ‘pet.'” Eva recoiled at the word. “Daddy kept her groomed and well-fed and cozy in the doghouse. He also found her useful for warming up his bed on cold nights. But Daddy grew tired of sleeping with his pet and sent it to other beds. Mostly belonging to his business partners, where she would do the most good.”

“And your mother obeyed?”

“Oh yes. She was well-trained. You see, she loved Daddy helplessly, and besides, he had a nasty habit of violence when he was crossed.”

“That's quite a story, Eva. How'd you come across it?”

“It wasn't just a story,” she blinked defensively. “I was there and I saw it happening all around me.”

“You weren't more than eight or nine at the time.” I rested my arm on the back of the driver's seat. “As I remember it, at that age, I still believed babies were grown by Mr. and Mrs. Cabbage Head out in their vegetable patch.”

She shied away from my arm. “I was very unsheltered.”

“Downright precocious, I'd say.”

Eva didn't respond. A radio played from a third-story window.
Volare … O-O-O-Oh
.

“Don't patronize me, Mr. Hall. In spite of what you may have heard, I'm not a child. I didn't know about my mother and father until much later,” she muttered coolly. “I simply put things together I'd seen for years.”

“All right, Eva. But all your woolgathering about your mother seems rather pointless. After all, she's been gone for fifty years.”

“So she's gone
now!
” Eva turned on me with narrow eyes. “She was alive
then!
”

“I don't believe I'll have room in my story for the Parable of the Crocodile and Dog.” I went on, sensing her stiffness. “You have much more in common with your father than you realize. Both of you like to kick those sleeping dogs just to hear them growl.”

“Certain things you can't forget. But the
Titanic
isn't one of them. God knows why Daddy wants to dig around down there.” She scowled in little-girl petulance. “It was the ship that killed my mother. I never want to think of it again.”

“Eva, I've read all the accounts of the sinking and I've never figured out what happened to your mother. She was a first-class passenger who had first crack at the lifeboats. Why'd she stay behind?”

She fumbled for the door handle. “I'm sorry, Mr. Hall, but it's getting very late. I'm going inside. You're not invited because I have nothing more to say.”

I climbed out onto the sidewalk, then leaned down into the cockpit. “Eva, too many people are interested in you. Or your past, to be precise. Three of your fellow passengers have been killed. That's a fact, not something you can wash away with cheap beer. And whoever killed them might not be as obliging about your lack of memory as I am.”

Eva faced me, harshly pale under the street lights. Without another word, she jumped from her car and ran into the apartment building. She didn't look back.

I hailed a taxi to get back to my car at the bullring. Leaning back in the old mohair cushions, I watched street lights streak past the windows, remembering that last glimpse of Eva Ryker.

I'd seen something I hadn't noticed before. Eva had a faint but long scar over her right eye.

Another crocodile bite, no doubt.

12

January 29, 1962

Jan was waiting for me at Geneva Airport. On our way to the Hotel Richemond I filled her in on Eva Ryker.

“She and her daddy sound like quite a pair.”

“Yes indeed.” I swung the Fiat around a slowpoking Saab sedan. “A rather frightening woman. There's too much churning beneath the hood.” I blinked absently. “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“I take it you haven't read the papers.”

I felt new knots in my stomach. “Not another bombshell. I can't take any more.”

“Just a little one. Ryker released the
Titanic
film.”

“The hell you say!” The Fiat swerved on the pavement.

“The film was blank. Just like Mike Rogers told the press.”

“Surprise, surprise. I guess it's taken that long for Mike to find some old thirty-five millimeter film stock, expose it to light, age it convincingly, then make duplicates for release.”

“That'll be hard to prove, Norman.”

“I'm not about to try.” I glanced away from the road. “Did you turn up anything new on Ryker?”

“You might say so.” Jan had her canary-swallowing look. “I've got a working blueprint of the Château de Montreux, for starters.”

“Seriously?”

“I paid a visit to Clement and Versoix, the contractors in Geneva who helped renovate the château when Ryker moved in. One of their draftsmen, a Mr. Besançon, was very cooperative. For a few francs.”

“Exactly how many?”

“Two hundred fifty thousand.”

I made a rude noise. “You were had, Janice.”

“So you had to dish out some money. You've still got the blueprint.” She passed a large folded sheet to me. “Take a look”

“Later, dear.” I handed it back. “I'd rather stay on the road. What about Ryker's staff?”

“I don't get you.”

“Butlers. Maids. Bodyguards,” I said impatiently, wheeling onto the rue de Granges. “They must have some time off. And they must spend some of it in Veyrier.”

“I don't know. I don't think …” Jan snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute! Does Ryker own a black Rolls limousine?”

“A Phantom V,” I nodded. “Why?”

“I saw it parked in the village. In front of a tavern. The chauffeur comes into Veyrier on errands.”

“Do you remember the name of the tavern?”

“No, but I can show you where it is.”

“Jan,” I said, kissing her full on the mouth. “You've just answered my prayers.”

Her eyes were wary. “What were you praying for?”

“A way to visit the château. Without an invitation.”

“There's the place,” Jan pointed later that evening.

Some fifty yards down the street yellow light spilled from a glass-paned door onto muddy snowdrifts and a line of parked cars.

A zippy accordion polka played behind the door. Swinging in the wind, the gold letters of a wood sign flashed at me in the yellow light.

“THE EICHOF,”
I read, pointing at the cars hugging the curb. “The place looks packed.”

“Maybe there's a parking spot down the street.”

We went down a half block before discovering a car taking its lion's share of room. Sandwiched between two Volkswagens, Ryker's Phantom V sat in huffy silence. Stray snow-flakes perched like shy pigeons on the black sheet metal.

I braked the Fiat, listening to the exhaust echo between the buildings.

“This is where I get out. Think you'll have any problems driving?”

“No. Why should I?” Jan wouldn't meet my gaze.

I reached for the leather briefcase lying between the front seats. “Do you remember where to meet me?”

“On the road to Annemasse,” she recited, “about a quarter mile past the château's entrance gate, at the soft-shoulder turnout. I'll be there at eleven-thirty and stay until two. If you're not there by then, I'll cross the border into France and call Tom Bramel as soon as I can.”

“Fine.” I tried to kiss her good-bye but she wasn't cooperating. “Come now, Janice, you can do better than that.”

Her eyes grew grave. “I'm not sure you're worth it.”

“At least wish me luck.”

She squeezed my hand. “Just be sure you're there by two.”

She rolled up the window. Gears ground and the Fiat moved on into the darkness, its tail lights shining through the exhaust to form a swaying red cloud that disappeared around a corner.

For the moment, at least, the street was empty. Casually, like a man who knows exactly what he is doing, I walked to the Rolls and stashed my briefcase behind the left rear tire.

People were packed into the Eichof like transistors in a Japanese radio. Dodging a snow-tanned young lady who possessed a rather improbable chest, I tried to spot Ryker's chauffeur.

My eyes scanned along the bar, then skidded to a stop. It had to be him. He was too good to be true. About thirty-five, with an Alan Shepard crew cut and a pale freckled face.

Seconds later I saw my chance. A short man next to the chauffeur moved away, blazing an anxious trail to the men's room. I squeezed between two tables and grabbed the spot.

My man glanced incuriously at me. I smiled politely. “Hello.”

“Hi.” He turned his back, rapping the counter top and beckoning the bartender in very mangled French.

I noticed his chauffeur cap lying under his right elbow like a squashed animal. As he shifted his weight on the bar stool, he unwittingly moved the cap down the counter toward me.

“Excuse me.” I held the cap up to him. “You don't want to lose this.”

“Thanks,” he nodded, smiling briefly.

I jabbed my forefinger at him. “Bet you drive that big Rolls out there!”

“Yep.”

“Man, I always wanted one of those buggies.”

“It gets you around.”

“I'll say! Hey, you sound like a Yankee!”

His jaw stiffened. “American, yes. But not Yankee. Huntsville. The name's Jim Culhane.”

“I might've known!” I pumped his hand. “Jack Warnick. From Charlotte.”

“Nice place,” he grunted.

“Well,” I yelled above the roar of the crowd, “what brings you over here? From the States, I mean. Whoever owns that Rolls must have a lot of dough.”

“It belongs to Mr. Ryker.” He drained the last drop from the shot glass. “He lives up in the mountains not far from here.”

“Must be a pretty easy job.” My left hand eased toward his right coat pocket.

“It pays well enough,” he shrugged, shifting on the stool. My hand brushed against the pocket. Empty. This wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.

“Sure,” I drawled expansively. “Just look at the people in this bar.” The chauffeur turned around. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, my right hand delving in his left coat pocket, “the people here are prosperous enough, but they've still got to beat their brains out for everything they get.” The pocket was empty. “So you come over here and make real easy money just because you're an American. I wouldn't knock it, Jim.”

He toyed with his glass. “There just isn't a hell of a lot to do.”

“Can't have everything.” My hand reached for the edge of his right front pocket.

“Guess so.” He raised his arm, looking down the counter. “Hey, Armand! Another double!”

My fingers, probing his pocket, felt the cold brass of his key chain. The bartender came up to us with the double scotch. The shot glass slid in front of the chauffeur as his keys slid from his pocket into mine.

Culhane caught the eye of the bartender. “Let's have a beer for my friend here, too.” His hand went for his right front pocket.

“No, no! Allow me!” Before he could protest, I passed a ten-franc note to Armand, who nodded and slipped unobtrusively away.