The Memory of Eva Ryker (3 page)

Hall's successes continued in the 1950s.
The Web He Wove
, concerned with a Supreme Court judge caught in a McCarthyite smear campaign, won the National Book Award and topped the bestseller list for seven months.

With the collaboration of his wife, Janice Steiner, Hall has written several popular nonfiction works, notably
Opening in Theaters and Drive-Ins Near You
, a survey of the American film industry, as well as successful biographies of D. W. Griffith, Field Marshall Montgomery, and Pierre Laval. Hall is a frequent contributor of fiction to
Playboy
and the
Saturday Evening Post
, and of nonfiction to
Life, Look
, the
New Yorker
, and
Punch
.

Hall has one son by a previous marriage. He and his wife live in the village of Fourqueux, just outside Paris.

Last night I dreamed about Martha Klein.

It doesn't happen very often. Not anymore. There was a time, during the Inquest, when sleep was a personal enemy I fought every night.

Of course, that was years ago. Between then and now is the War, a divorce, remarriage, and my work. All of which makes a pretty fair padding to absorb the jolt of old memories. But, once in a while, the nightmares still come back.

Lying face down in bed, I listened to my pulse slow to a normal idle. My hand patted the crumpled percale. Jan was up early.

Sleeping late is one of the pastimes my wife and I usually share. I turned on my side and burrowed my head in the pillow.

The phone rang and Jan's footsteps thumped across the living room floor in response. My ears caught the phrase “We'll be there” before she hung up.

The footsteps came my way. A fist nudged me in the ribs.

“Wake up.”

“Go away. I gave at the office.”

“Come on, Norman.” She tabbed off the electric blanket. “Time to leave the womb.”

“The last thing I need in the morning is paperback Freud.” I snuggled into the covers. “By the way, where is ‘there?'”

“Huh?”

“As in ‘we'll be there.' On the phone.”

“The Rotunde. We're meeting Geoffrey Proctor for lunch.”

I braved one eye outside the border of the electric blanket and saw she wasn't kidding. Every time we meet a publisher Janice wears one of her no-bullshit tailored suits. The kind Adrian designed for Joan Crawford. Dark green this time.

“You win.” I flopped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. “What's Geoffrey want?”

“An article from you, apparently. For
World
magazine.”

“God forbid.” Hot water steamed over my razor as I leaned into the mirror, counting the broken veins in my eyes.

Jan leaned against the door. “You want any breakfast?”

“Just coffee.” I took a second look in the mirror. “A quiet prayer wouldn't hurt either.”

She nodded in agreement and headed for the kitchen.

After showering, I rummaged through my closet. What suit? The black? God, no. Combined with Jan's outfit we'd look like embalmers. I compromised on the gray with the red tie.

I sat at the dining room table as Jan poured the coffee. “Well, how do I look?”

She threw out the paper filter from the Chemex decanter, then glanced over the kitchen counter. “Dissipated. A little decadent. Byronic darkness in the eyes. Like Papa or, no … I've got it!” She snapped her fingers. “Scott Fitzgerald in
Beloved Infidel
.”

“Jesus.” I sipped the coffee and added more cream.

“Don't worry. Geoffrey likes the look of shaggy genius.”

“I'll try to be suitably unruly.” I finished the coffee and rinsed the cup. “You about ready?”

Jan headed for the bathroom. “In a minute.”

‘In a minute' turned out to be ten. She was still fiddling with her face as the Silver Wraith convertible crunched across the gravel forecourt and snoozed down the tree-lined road leading toward the Autoroute.

“Norman, either I am misreading your sleepy Oscar Levant expression …”

“… Or?”

“… You're looking very lukewarm over the prospect of going back to work.”

“My dear, I will eat a fattening lunch and listen to Geoffrey Proctor's hard sell. And then we shall see. In the meantime, we play it cool and dumb …”

“… ‘an unappreciated fine art.' Yes, I know.”

“And please remember.” I glanced over my shoulder, then launched the Rolls up the Autoroute ramp. “We don't turn anything down until he's paid the check.”

We arrived at the Rotunde by eleven-thirty, but Geoffrey had still beaten us to the draw. I spotted him at a window table as we waited for the concierge to seat the people ahead of us.

The dining room was packed with worshipers of the French belly religion. A waiter wove between the tables with a brandy-induced inferno perched on a silver platter. I couldn't quite identify the delicacy behind all the flames, but it looked something like the Golden Calf from
The Ten Commandments
.

Jan was amused by my expression. “Just like Mother used to make?”

“Yeah. I have a sudden urge for a cheeseburger and fries.”

The concierge's distant smile changed to an eager grin when I pointed Geoffrey out. Yes, of course! Mr. Proctor told me to expect you. Right this way!

Geoffrey's antenna picked us up before we got to the table. He advanced on me with teeth smiling and hands outstretched.

“Jesus Christ, Norman! How long has it been?”

“Three years, Jeff. Good to see you.” His palm was tight and dry. Geoffrey Proctor is silvery and tan, like those fiftyish men who age gracefully in
Esquire
ads.

I helped Jan in her chair and half-listened to her and Geoffrey's bright and brittle words of greeting.

“How's business?” I asked.

“Up and down.” He made a stoic face. “
Sports Today
is booming. So is
Woman
and
Motor Life. World
is in a bit of a rut, but we're going into some fantastic new picture and story ideas.”

I heard the bell tinkle but I resisted any Pavlovian drooling. “And Proctor-World stock is up, too. I'm sure Old Charlie would be pleased.”

“Dad never disapproved of profits.”

“Yep. Occasionally nepotism bears fruit.”

Turning to Jan, he made a hissing noise through his teeth. “And I thought it was
females
who are supposed to be castrators.”

“You know Norman,” she said. “Bitchy on an empty stomach.”

He glanced at both of us. “We could go ahead and order, but I've got someone with me. He should be back from the gent's room in a minute. Name's Mike Rogers. A real sharp kid.”

“One of your execs?” Jan asked.

“Wish he was.” Geoffrey leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Norman, I have the article of a lifetime waiting for someone with your talent. Not that you need the money. I've seen the figures on
The Death Watch Beetle
. Fantastic! God knows where you get your ideas.”

“Quite simple. All my books are wet dreams set to prose.”

He blinked. “I believe it. I wish I could ejaculate so profitably.”

I peered over Geoffrey's shoulder. “Your boy's arrived, I think.”

He got up and made introductions. Mike Rogers was thirty-plus. Short, stocky, and energetic. Light brown, expertly cropped curly hair. Candid eyes. Open smile. An ail-American face just starting its slow slide into middle age. A very likable package.

Rogers kept within his shell while Geoffrey talked pleasantries. De Gaulle and Paris traffic and Reeperbahn sex parlors and Liz and Dick at Torre Astura. Fortunately, Jan and I are adept at verbal handball. I knew he would eventually get to the point.

We ordered from menus the size of an auto windshield. I remember Geoffrey slicing meat when he decided to talk business.

“Norman, this April will mark the fiftieth anniversary of the sinking of the
Titanic. World
is going to do a special story for our April issue. I think you're the man to write it.”

“
The Titanic
? You mean with the iceberg and Clifton Webb going down singing ‘Nearer My God to Thee?'”

Rogers spoke up for the first time. “Actually, Mr. Hall, the ship's band played the Episcopal hymn ‘Autumn' in those last minutes.” He grinned apologetically at his own expertise.

Geoffrey eyed my dubious expression. “Doesn't the subject appeal?”

“I'm not sure. I don't know much about ships. Why don't you contact someone like … well, like Walter Lord, that man who wrote
A Night to Remember?
”

“We've decided on a new approach, Norman. New angles someone like you can provide.”

“A rehash with zing, right?”

Geoffrey's cheeks puffed in exasperation. “Mike, you tell him. He wears me out.”

Mike Rogers smiled disarmingly, scratching the back of his ear. No doubt he'd seen plenty of Gary Cooper movies. “Mr. Hall, other people also think you're the best man for the job.”

“Really? Who else?”

“First, I should fully explain my presence here. I'm an attorney and special representative for Mr. William Ryker. Have you heard of him?”

I turned to Jan. She shook her head and I followed suit.

“No reason why you should, really. Mr. Ryker hasn't exactly been a headline maker in many years. But he has been and still is vitally involved in American business. Oil, insurance, railroads. Not as solvent now that the IRS has acquired teeth. But … very comfortable. Mr. Ryker is currently retired in Veyrier, near Geneva.”

I was amused by his mixture of PR lingo and carefully manicured candor. “A beautiful place. I've been there.”

Rogers took his dessert fork and began tracing arabesques on the tablecloth. “Although confined much of his time to an iron lung, at eighty-five he's still very active. And he has a personal interest in the
Titanic
.” A solemn frown. “His wife sailed on the ship. She wasn't among the rescued.”

Geoffrey patted his lips. “Mrs. Ryker's bodyguard and maid were lost, too. The only survivor was her daughter, Eva.”

Jan reached for the last of her Mouton Rothschild. “Really? How old was she?”

Rogers cast an ambiguous look at Geoffrey. “Nine or ten. I don't remember exactly.”

“Is she still alive?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I'm sure you can understand Mr. Ryker's strong interest in the
Titanic
tragedy.”

It sounded a bit morbid to me. “In what ways does your Mr. Ryker express this hobby of his?”

Rogers' face flushed. I had fed him the perfect straight line. “As it happens, he has the resources to indulge this particular hobby. Along with the National Geographic Society and the Navy Department. Have you heard of the bathyscaph
Trieste
and its exploration of the Marianas Trench off the Philippines?”

“The deepest spot in the ocean, isn't it?”

“Over thirty-five thousand feet. Anyway, the Navy was so pleased with the success of the
Trieste
that it decided to build two sister ships, the
Marianas
and
Neptune
. They're being loaned to the Geographic Society, which is matching the funds provided by Mr. Ryker. He recently purchased an Italian-built oceanographic research ship, the
Savonarola
, which will serve as a surface and supply vessel for the two bathyscaphs on their first assignment off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Twelve thousand feet, which is a milk run really.”

He spread both hands flat on the table. “You see, the
Marianas
and
Neptune
will be searching for the wreckage of the
Titanic
.”

“You're kidding.”

“Mr. Ryker seldom makes jokes as expensive as this one,” Rogers primly said. “He wants to salvage any cargo that remains.”

I felt Geoffrey's eyes on me, watching my reaction.

“All right,” I said. “You've made your pitch and I
am
impressed.” I turned to Rogers. “Exactly what does Ryker expect to find?”

He pulled judiciously at his face. “Well, Mr. Hall, first the wreckage has to be located. But whether the ship is still intact …” He threw up his hands. “We'll just have to see. The bathyscaphs are both equipped with remote manipulators—the experts call them ‘Waldos'—for working under the extreme pressure with underwater lights, cameras, torches—that sort of thing. They can cut through the hull if necessary so that we can explore the interior. Of course, most anything the Waldos turn up will be of interest to the National Geographic people. And there may be objects of financial value, too. Art objects, jewelry.… The passengers of the
Titanic
were collectively worth over two hundred fifty million dollars.”

Jan glanced at me over her wine glass and raised an eyebrow. I nodded.

Geoffrey intercepted our exchange. “It's settled then?”

“Yes,” I said. “She's got me hooked.”

“‘She?'”

“The
Titanic
. Or does a ship cease to be a ‘she' after it sinks?”

Mike Rogers grinned, leaning back in his chair. “An interesting point to ponder. You'll have to ask Harold Masterson, the man in charge of the salvage operation. He's in Halifax now, and I'm certain you'll want to talk to him.” He stretched his hand to me. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Hall. Mr. Ryker will be very pleased.”

“Now that I'm on your payroll, you can afford to call me Norman.”

“Don't be silly,” Geoffrey said. “You're not Ryker's employee. Or even mine, strictly speaking. We want you to have a free hand in the story. I know it'll be good. Just make sure it's on time.”

I shrugged agreement. “One thing. Jan will be doing a lot of background research …”

“… as well as all-around dirty work,” she said.

“… so I think she should share the by-line with me.”