The Memory of Eva Ryker (26 page)

Not a muscle moved in the old man's face.

“The diamond operation was a highly profitable sideline to your ‘conventional' business interests. For a few years, at any rate. But trouble was brewing that would bring about the collapse of the pipeline and your personal fall from grace.” I circled the British Isles on the map. “Right here. London, and your two contacts who transported smuggled stones from the Dover-Calais ferry.”

With a sigh I settled back on the corner of my desk. “Who were they? Well, you hired them in New York City in June 1909 under the names Steven and Julie Herrick. One of their many aliases. A young couple of unknown origins struggling on the West Side. In bad times Julie played a hooker to keep them both eating. Later, her husband became a leader in a minor-league protection racket specializing in small store owners near the Bowery. Two tough fish rapidly outgrowing their little pond. But all that changed when they met one of your trusted employees. A Mr. Martin Brockway.”

“That's a lie!”

Mike drawled scornfully, “I resent you trying to implicate …”

“Your boss
is
involved, right up to his scrawny little neck. Martin Brockway was a predecessor of yours, Mike. One of an illustrious line of brownnosers stretching back to the turn of the century.”

Ryker hunched low in his wheelchair. “All right. Brockway did work for me. I fired him because he was incompetent.”

“No doubt. His biggest mistake was recruiting Steven and Julie Herrick. In later years, as Brockway became trapped in … uncomfortable events, he found himself pensioned off and relegated to nonperson status. And so he Told All to his wife. Sarah Brockway is still alive, as I'm sure you know. Retired in Flagstaff, Arizona. Jan and I went to see her this past July. She's exhaustively well-informed about the whole affair.”

I stood and paced in front of Ryker. “Steven and Julie Herrick happily settled into their assignment in London. Once a month they shepherded a packet of smuggled stones from the ferry to another unknown contact at the Southampton docks. The pipeline flowed smoothly for nearly two years. It took that long before the Herricks decided to nibble off some of the cheese for themselves.

“Who made the first move?” I chuckled sadly. “Knowing a little about them, I'd say it was the girl. As you know, Mr. Ryker, there was a great deal more to Steven and Julie Herrick than met the eye. More than the cunning resourcefulness you and Brockway sensed. A terrifying moral blankness. I have no real idea what caused it. One can bandy about words like ‘psychopath' without doing them justice. I can't dispute their intellect. They were smart enough to know they couldn't simply snatch a shipment and run.” I raised an eyebrow at Ryker. “I doubt if they would've lived long enough to spend their loot. No, their plan was a good deal more labyrinthine than that. And it all revolved around the fact that your wife and daughter were about to leave England on the biggest ship in the world.”

I tossed a paper to Mike. “That's the tentative passenger list of the R.M.S.
Titanic
, the same list reprinted in the London
Times
on April eighth. And here is the final roster, compiled after the
Titanic
's departure at Queenstown.”

I pointed out the circled names on both lists. “You can see that a Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Carmichael canceled at the last moment—to be replaced by a Mr. and Mrs. Jason Eddington.”

I hefted a bulky dust-encrusted book up off the blotter. “You might be curious as to the identity of these two couples. The Carmichaels were easy. They're listed right here,” I said, opening the book to where a marker lay and passing the volume to him, “in the
Who Was Who: 1898-1915
.”

Mike read the entry:

CARMICHAEL, Ralph Eubank, b. June 17, 1875. d. May 14, 1942. Board member of Monsanto and Union Carbide 1926–1941. Married Esther Townsend July 12, 1892. Son Phillip born June 23, 1893. Phillip Carmichael graduated Munich University with honors on June 19, 1912.

I smiled at Jan. “My wife called Mrs. Carmichael, who's now living in Philadelphia, to find out why she canceled their booking. According to her, she and her husband were staying at the Dorchester in London when they received a telegram on April 9, 1912, from the Munich police. Phillip, their son, had been killed in an automobile accident. Would they please come to make the necessary arrangements?

“They dropped everything and rushed to Munich. The police, naturally, had never heard of Phillip Carmichael. No one had sent the telegram. The Telefunken wireless office was checked; no such message left Munich. The telegram, everyone concluded, must have been a forgery. Phillip was located on the Munich campus, in perfect health and thoroughly baffled.”

I frowned sternly. “No harm done, of course, except for the near-breakdown it caused Mrs. Carmichael. The originator of the prank, if you'd like to call it that, was never found. But the net result was that the Carmichaels lost their booking on the
Titanic
, which was quickly taken by Jason and Lisa Eddington.”

I handed a facsimile sheet to Mike. “These are duplicate passport photos of the Eddingtons; American passports—allegedly, anyway—which were photographed for the files of the British Foreign Office.”

Mike carefully examined the pictures, then gave them to Ryker.

Wrinkles around the old man's mouth deepened as he stared at the handsome blond couple, losing himself in the faded black and white images.

“Let me see, Father.”

“No!” He snatched them away.

“I'm all grown up. You don't have to shelter me.”

Ryker bent forward and thrust the pictures into my hands. “Some things you never outgrow.”

Passing the pictures to Tom Bramel, I said, “Mr. Ryker, I understand your instincts. But Eva's right. It's unnecessary.”

“That's for me to judge!”

I let the issue pass, not wanting to provoke him so early in the day. “Well, it's not hard to imagine how the Herricks …” I smiled apologetically, taking the photos from Geoffrey, “pardon me, ‘the Eddingtons,' sent the phony telegram to the Carmichaels. The passport copies you saw were forgeries. If they had contacts who could fix that for them, then the forgery of a simple telegram was no problem. And the Carmichaels, being socially prominent, were sadly vulnerable.”

Taking off my coat and rolling up my shirt sleeves, I faced the model of the
Titanic
. My hands grasped the bow and stern, pulling off the A Deck, Promenade, and Boat Decks. The bridge, the four smokestacks, and the entire superstructure came with them. I put the model section of the floor behind Tom Bramel's chair. B Deck was exposed like the guts of a great dissected fish.

“Now,” I huffed, standing up, “there's B-76, the Eddingtons' cabin. On portside, as you can see, Mr. Ryker. Across on the starboard side is cabin B-57, belonging to James Martin, the bodyguard of your wife and daughter. And right next door are cabins B-53 and B-55, forming the starboard promenade suite.” I glanced up at Eva. “That's where you and your mother stayed.”

Her feet stirred uneasily, as if poised for flight.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Our stage is set.” Bending down by her chair, I held Eva's hand. “I think it's time to hear your tape.”

23

She walked to the window and watched the salvia and lobelia shivering in our front flower boxes.

“It'll be the first time, you know, without Dr. Sanford's help.” She smiled feebly. “A triple somersault, with no safety net.”

“Eva,” I said, “if you're not ready …”

Her head shook. “No, Norman. Don't be ‘kind.' I've had fifty years of understanding. What I need is a firm push.”

Ryker snapped at me. “Perhaps you'd like to explain what the hell you're talking about?”

I stood by the second recorder and recounted our visit to Japan.

“God damn you! You had no right without my permission!”

“Your daughter's not an infant. She asked for help and I took her to the person I thought would do the most good. The tape you're about to hear was recorded during a session with Eva under deep hypnosis. You'll hear both Dr. Sanford and myself on the recording. I should also mention that it was edited from seven hours down to one to cut out the chaff.”

Silence as the leader hissed through the tape heads. Then a low undertone of three people breathing in a small room.

“All right, Eva,” Margaret said. “Just relax on the couch and keep your eyes closed. I'm going to ask some questions. How old are you?”

“Sixty-one.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“For two days. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Both Norman and I are here. You don't have to worry. I want you to go back. Think back to the past. It's your fortieth birthday. What do you see?”

“It was the first anniversary of my annulment. A year of total freedom!”

“What are you doing, Eva?”

“Drinking!” She giggled shrilly. “Drinking and drinking and drinking. A Gay Annulmentee. I ran off with a gardener. Daddy was
very
angry!”

I watched Eva as the recorder spun between us. Her face was ancient and unreachable.

Dr. Sanford broke in. “We're going back a long way now. But don't be afraid. I'll be with you. You're floating in a black void. No light. No sound. Nothing. Your body feels like gossamer. It's dissolving, vanishing like dew on the morning grass. Floating, spinning. You're ageless. A hundred. Five. Both and neither. You can rove back in time like skimming through back pages in a book. Do you understand?”

Soft and languid, the reply came. “Yes.”

“You're flipping through those pages, Eva. A page at a time. You're fifty-nine. Now fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Let's flip the pages faster, Eva. Fifty. Forty-two. Thirty-nine. Twenty-seven. Twenty-one …”

Whimpers of protest.

“What's wrong, Eva?”

“Don't hurt me!” It was a young woman's cry. “Tell them to go away! I want out of here! Talk to my father; he'll get me out of this place! Tell the doctor! I tell you, I cut her by accident! She shouldn't have scared me that way! Talk to my Daddy!”

The look Ryker gave me was as dark and brooding as a black abscess.

“Eva,” Margaret said, “no one's going to hurt you. Forget about the hospital. We're going back some more. Seventeen. Fifteen.”

“No.” The voice was hesitant at first, then firm. “NO!”

“Don't be afraid,” I blurted out. “I'm with you.”

Hysterical sobbing. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I want my Mommy!”

“Your mother's with you,” she said, gentle, yet insistent. “She's standing next to you.”

“No!”

“Yes, Eva,” she whispered. “She's standing next to you, holding your hand. You're ten years old. It's early in the morning and you and your mother are on a long platform. A railroad platform. You're at a train station in London. You're boarding the train. The boat train. People are all around you. Big locomotives are puffing. You're holding very tight to your mother's hand.”

The little-girl voice was peevish. “Where're we going, Mommy? I'm tired of waiting! Why can't we go on the train? You promised we could see the train! You promised! You promised! You promised! You …”

Clair Ryker sighed, leading her ten-year-old daughter by the hand. “I know I promised, dear.”

Eva gazed curiously around London's Waterloo Station, watching the train screeching to a stop on Platform eleven. Her nose wrinkled at the oil-coal-sour milk-horse chip smell of the place. All these stations looked alike, she thought glumly. She hadn't really seen one new thing this spring.

But, for the first time this year, she'd found some excitement in traveling. Curiosity, anyway. Not everyone got to sail on the first voyage of the biggest ship in the world!

Eva peered down the platform. Porters wheeled trolleys past the elegantly attired crowd loitering by the train. She turned up to her mother.

“Where's Georgia and J.H.?”

Clair frowned wearily. “I don't want to tell you again, Eva. Our maid's name is Miss Ferrell. And it's ‘Mr. Martin,' not ‘J.H.?”

“That's what you call him!”

“True enough. But a ten-year-old girl doesn't call a forty-year-old man ‘J.H.' Mr. Martin went ahead to the ship. Daddy had some business for him. Miss Ferrell went along to make sure our cabin is ready for …”

Eva wasn't listening. Walking behind a young man handling a Pathé movie camera, she watched him crank and pan across the expanse of the station.

“Hey, mister!” She pulled his coattails. “You wanna take our picture?”

“Eva!” Clair snapped. “Stop it, that's …”

“Oh, that's all right.” The man bent down and flashed a toothy smile. “What's your name, honey?”

Eva raised her eyebrows and lowered her lids, imitating her mother's expression at formal gatherings. “Miss Eva Clifton Ryker.”

He solemnly offered his hand. “Mr. Jason Eddington. Pleased to meet you.”

“You must excuse her,” Clair moaned ruefully. “My daughter has all the makings of a perfect snob.”

“That's quite all right,” he laughed, running a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Maybe that's what the world needs; a little class.”

Eva frowned, watching Eddington give her mother that strange look. So many men looked at her that way. And, for the briefest second, she saw her mother return the glance. Eva's grip on her mother's hand tightened.

“Jason! There you are!” Down the platform, a pretty young blonde rushed up to Eddington. Huge fawn eyes blinked curiously at Eva and Clair.

“Mrs. Ryker,” said Jason, taking the girl by the arm, “may I present Lisa, my wife.”

Introductions and explanations were duly exchanged. Jason and Lisa, it turned out, were taking the boat train to Southampton for a honeymoon journey on the
Titanic
. Under Eva's prodding, they were persuaded to share the Rykers' private pullman compartment.