The Memory of Eva Ryker (39 page)

She gently felt for the pulse in his throat. The eyes had no more expression than two pieces of carved soap.

Satisfied, Martha Klein grabbed Winter by the lapels and flung his head against the windshield.

Glass flew—delicate snowflake patterns crackling through the pane. The fissures radiated back to a red dripping center.

She dropped the body and picked up a glass sliver. Carefully inspecting herself in the mirror, she gave her face and arms a few strategically placed cuts.

Martha let the sliver tinkle to the floor. Except for the metallic pinging of heat dissipating under the hood, there was silence.

She left the car and started walking down the highway toward Honolulu. Martha cast a wary eye on the big gray clouds boiling over the mountain crests, but she plodded confidently onward. Rain or no rain, a car was going to show. She had her story all prepared. It was only a matter of time.

32

“… as usual, Albert and Martha chose their victim with exquisite care,” I said. “Brian Winter was recently widowed, unattached, and unknown in Hawaii. Of course, he also bore a rough physical resemblance to Albert Klein.

“No doubt, he found them charming. As you know, Eva, they could turn good cheer on and off at will. It was child's play to sweep Winter into a fast vacation friendship. And, in a carefree moment, very simple to snatch up his passport. The Kleins always had a talent for forgeries. In the privacy of their hotel room they merely airbrushed out the signature and pertinent information on Brian Winter and substituted Albert Klein's. Soon after, they slipped something into Winter's food or drink before he took a nice Sunday drive with Martha.

“The bitch.” I smiled bitterly. “That bitch with the trickling tears and the voice crackling with shell-shocked grief. I can still hear her. ‘My husband did not have a heart attack. He was murdered; poisoned. You've got to find them, officer. You've got to find whoever did it.'

“So the ambulance came and took the body away and, lo and behold, the doctors diagnosed nicotine sulfate poisoning.”

I stared up at the ceiling, then sighed and rubbed my eyes. “And I bought it. At least the part that mattered. I was twenty years old and
so
damned worldly. Martha Klein was filed under ‘Distraught but Harmless.' I still believed it when I went to pick her up at the Moana Hotel, where she and Albert had finished disposing of yet another newly acquired friend.”

Reaching into my desk drawer, I pulled out a green glass bud vase wrapped in a clear plastic bag. “This belonged to a maid at the Moana Hotel named Catherine Maurois, who was HPD's prime suspect in the murder of Martha Klein. She called in sick to her manager and went home early in the afternoon of November thirtieth, a few hours before I discovered the … corpse in Room 307.” My finger shook as I set the vase on the blotter. “No one ever saw her again. She followed Brian Winter into limbo. But I was lucky enough to get this vase from her daughter. Tom and his people at the Yard were able to lift some good latent prints.”

Tom cleared his throat. “There are prints belonging to a half dozen different people on that vase. But at least two—a right thumb and little finger—match those in the HPD and FBI file. The Late Great Martha Klein, needless to say.”

William Ryker looked very ill.

My words came slowly. “It's not hard to imagine how Martha Klein drew Catherine Maurois into her confidence. Some kind words, along with a big tip.

“‘Oh, my dear, it's so refreshing to receive real service these days! You've been simply priceless. What is your manager's name? I'll certainly pass a good word on to him!'

“Once Catherine Maurois gave Martha that information, her remaining time on this earth could be measured in minutes. All she had to do was turn her back on the bereaved widow. Just long enough for Martha to blow her spine into little pieces with a silenced twenty-five.

“Then a call down to the manager, Mr. Pendergast, with a voice disguised through a handkerchief. Followed by a second call to her beloved Albert, wherever he was hiding at the time. Would he please come and help ‘tidy up'? ”

I struggled to speak, ignoring the foul taste in my mouth. “The police had to be able to identify the body solely on the basis of fingerprints. Of course, Catherine Maurois' prints were all over Room 307, since she tended it day in and day out. That simplified the task. All they had to do was wipe Martha Klein's passport clean, then press it into the hands of the dead woman. Maybe some extra items for good measure—luggage handles, cosmetics, watchbands. Also, they had to remember to scrub clean the belongings of Albert Klein. The police might never check them against the prints of Brian Winter, but the Kleins hadn't lived so long by taking chances.

“So. One more thing to do before slipping out through the side entrance of the Moana Hotel. One of them peeled off a rubber sheet on the mattress, while the other took their dress carrier from the closet. Then they rolled Catherine Maurois onto the sheet.” I heard my voice going thin and reedy. “Grabbing the sharp knives … maybe the same ones that sliced artichokes and salami in their St. Petersburg store … Albert was always strong, but we shouldn't forget Martha's resourcefulness …”

“… Norman,” said Eva, “this isn't necessary …”

“… they worked swiftly but carefully, almost like surgeons. Nothing could splash beyond the sheet, you see. Swing and chop and dice until Catherine Maurois was a jigsaw puzzle no one could ever put together …”

“Stop it,” my wife pleaded quietly.

“… then roll the sheet over the remains, like folding a tortilla …” I chuckled wildly. “Finally, one at each end, they eased the mess they made into the dress carrier and hung it in the closet. Such a surprise for the person who finds it! What juicy headlines!”

Something in my face must have told everyone in the den not to offer lame words of understanding. I poured myself another whiskey, took a generous slug, then sat and waited until I could continue.

Tom's voice blessedly filled the void. “This July Norman and I were granted an exhumation order on the Honolulu grave of Albert Klein' …”

“… Martha really planned ahead,” I explained dully. “She had all the arrangements laid out with a local undertaker. That body had to be planted in the ground before the wrong people, such as Fred and Mima Heinley, could come pay their respects.”

“Naturally,” Tom said, “we couldn't get any fingerprints from a twenty-year-old corpse. But, by a stroke of luck, Margaret Kerans is still alive. At the time, she was still keeping vigil for her father. Mrs. Kerans helped us in every way she could, even though she must've known where our investigation would lead. Through her, we obtained the medical records of her father at the Physicians and Surgeons Hospital in Glendale. Brian Winter had a left clavicle broken in two places during the Battle of the Somme. Those hairline cracks still show on the skeleton of ‘Albert Klein.'”

He stopped, waiting for me to pick up the trail of the story.

“I didn't enjoy severing those last threads of hope, any more than I liked telling Catherine Maurois' daughter the facts she knew but never wanted to hear. But it was especially hard for Mrs. Kerans. You see, she had been clinging to a single mystifying lead. The FBI head discovered that Brian Winter had boarded Pan Am Clipper Flight 702, leaving Honolulu on the evening of December 6, 1941, for Los Angeles. Strangely, he was now in the company of a Mrs. Edith Winter.

“Mrs. Kerans was distraught. The poor girl actually thought her father had met and married a woman in a whirlwind Hawaiian courtship. But Mr. and Mrs. Winter stepped off that plane in L.A. and simply evaporated. Neither the FBI nor private detectives ever picked up the scent.”

Against my will I found myself smiling. “You know, Albert and Martha—I refuse to call them ‘Brian and Edith'—had one of the narrowest getaways on record. History was always snipping at their heels. First the
Titanic
, then Pearl Harbor. The Pan Am Clipper that lifted off the Honolulu runway on Saturday night passed within spitting distance of Admiral Nagumo's fleet, cruising off Oahu. Ten hours later they would've been sealed tight on the island. I doubt very much if they could've pulled off their shell game with corpses under the military curfew.

“But Alfredo Petacchi
was
left behind, just as I was, to sift through the rubble of red tape and ‘official inquiries.' Of course, he and his men were completely baffled. He had followed the Kleins to Hawaii for one reason, and now someone had seemingly beaten him to the punch. He was, I'm sure, suspicious as hell, but the HPD
did
make what seemed like a definite ID of the bodies. So Petacchi accepted the kindness of fate with good grace. Naturally he embroidered on the truth when he reported back to you, Mr. Ryker. I'm sure it must have been an unusual experience for him—boasting of two murders he never committed.”

Ryker wouldn't reply, but his body tightened like a coiled watch spring.

“So Petacchi got his reward,” I sighed, “which effectively sealed the lid on the whole affair for another twenty years. Albert and Martha bubbled up into polite society on the mainland with new names and backgrounds. To this day I still don't know where they went and who they became. I don't suppose it's terribly important. They didn't emerge into the foreground until this January, when the
Marianas
and
Neptune
discovered the
Titanic
and the Ryker name was plastered once again on the front pages. I'd give a good deal to have seen their faces when they learned about the project and that I was going to write the background story. Old Home Week, you might say.”

Pacing in front of the desk, I said, “Al and Martha certainly didn't waste any time. That same day the story broke, I was deluged by reporters over the phone, only some of whom I personally know. I was able to give most of them the cheerful brush-off, but one man—ostensibly from AP—wouldn't drop it, so I offhandedly told him I was going to St. Petersburg for an interview.

“The wrong reply to the wrong person at the wrong time. I can't prove it, but I'm sure that Albert Klein was on the other end of the line. No other explanation makes sense. He was the only person to know that my flying to St. Pete meant a meeting with the Heinleys. That in itself might not seem threatening to Al and Martha, but I certainly bore watching.”

I held up three papers to Ryker. “These are passenger lists of three flights I took in January. Delta from Idlewild to St. Petersburg, National from St. Pete back to New York, and a Pan Am from New York to Adelaide, Australia, via Honolulu. Looking down all these lists, we come across a name in common. Besides mine, that is. ‘Mr. Walter Shirer.' I could dismiss the coincidence on two flights, but not three.

“Albert Klein didn't have to worry about being recognized, since I've never met the man. Theoretically, I suppose I might've spotted the same elderly gentleman on all three trips, but I have no memory for faces of fellow travelers unless someone is sitting in the next seat. Sometimes not even then.

“‘Walter Shirer' must've checked with the charter company in Adelaide to know I was scheduled to fly to Coober Pedy. Albert has always been enterprising. He took a plane to Mabel Creek, then hired a Land Rover to pay John McFarland a visit. I suppose he imagined himself having settled a grudge with McFarland by blowing his skull off. It's hard to anticipate a mind like that. He must've worried about what McFarland might tell me. Perhaps he was even a little frightened.”

I turned to Ryker. “That's the last known whereabouts of Albert Klein. Tom and I have beaten the bush, but they're keeping well hidden. Waiting for another crack at those diamonds. Just like you, Mr. Ryker. Persisting in the old shopworn follies right to the end.”

His lips drew back. “You miserable bastard. Do you have the slightest idea what you've done?”

“To you? Yes, I think so.”

“I had them. They were mine.” A faint tremor shook his face. “Every night I prayed. Until the early hours of the morning. ‘Give them to me,' I asked. What was the sin? Wasn't I justified?

“Then He answered my prayers. After more than twenty years. It was worth it. All the hell. They were going to pay. And I could die a happy man …”

His voice faded as he sat staring at his memories. The poor maligned father. The gods had frowned upon him.

I stood and watched the spinning tape reels, wondering if I would ever have the stomach to play the recording again.

“You know, Mr. Ryker, there's a way to get them back.”

September 25, 1962

HALIFAX
(
AP
) Over $5 million worth of uncut diamonds were recovered today from the R.M.S.
Titanic
by the bathyscaph
Marianas
in what may be the most important salvage find in recorded history.

Debeers' Diamond Experts in London, when informed of the discovery, hesitated to make any appraisal without seeing the stones, but estimate that the gems' background alone will raise the price five to ten times over their original value.

According to the captain of the
Marianas
, Phillip Toffler, the bathyscaph found the diamonds in a glass apothecary jar deep within the remnants of the
Titanic
's B Deck cabins.

After the stones were returned to the research ship
Savonarola
, the news was relayed to industrialist-in-exile William A. Ryker, backer of the project, who expressed surprise and delight at the discovery.

“Of course, we had no idea such a thing was aboard the
Titanic
,” Ryker said. “There's no written record of these diamonds by any of the authorities on the sinking. We may have uncovered a rich historical vein, as well as a financial one.”

The diamonds are being flown by helicopter to Halifax, where they will be transferred for shipment to London. Once there, experts from Boucheron will appraise the stones, cut them, and eventually arrange for their auction.