The Memory of Eva Ryker (5 page)

The press had a few words to say about young Eva Ryker being reunited with her father in New York. One clipping mentioned the girl as suffering a “horrendous emotional strain”—hardly a profound analysis—and quoted Mr. Ryker offering “thanks to the Almighty” for the safety of his daughter.

After two days of reading, I knew a hell of a lot about a ship but virtually nothing about the man who wanted to explore it.

I tried to get the littered papers into a rough order, then rose from my armchair and stretched the kinks from my back. One leg had gone to sleep and I limped painfully into the living room.

Jan had her feet up on the couch, listening to John Coltrane on the stereo.

“Have you had it for today?” she asked.

“I've had it period. Fini.”

“Good. I thought your eyes were about to fall out of your skull.”

“They may yet.” I moved her legs and sat beside her. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Nearly three. Like a sandwich?”

“I'll make it.” I headed for the kitchen. “You want one, too?”

“Anything but tuna. Liverwurst is fine.”

“Okay. While you're waiting, call up Mike. Tell him I want to see him tomorrow morning.”

“What about?”

“His employer. And his lack of accessibility.”

Jan tucked the receiver under her chin, fumbling with the dial. “Shall I tell him that?”

“I think it can remain an unspoken understanding between us.”

The Paris office of the Ryker Corporation is on the avenue d'Iéna.

A pretty brunette receptionist discreetly sniffed out my identity and led me up a sweeping staircase to a solid and unlabeled oak door. Her name was Solange and she had worked here for three years. No, she had never met Mr. Ryker. She tapped once at the door and politely motioned me in.

Mike's office was slick with Danish modern and wrought iron, which went strangely with the old-fashioned high windows of the room.

“Come in! Come in!” He grinned, pointing at a chair. “Like a drink?”

“Not this early, thanks.”

Settling behind the desk, he looked momentarily uncomfortable, as if he had been reading a book and couldn't find his place. “I guess Jan told you about Masterson.”

I nodded.

“Norm, I wish I could get you two together sooner, but he's simply swamped right now.” Rogers went to a wall map of the world and jabbed his finger at a point off Nova Scotia. “That's where the
Titanic
went down. Latitude forty-one degrees, six minutes North; longitude fifty degrees, fourteen minutes West. Masterson is there supervising the dive of the bathyscaphs. But he'll be glad to meet with you in Halifax.” Mike flipped through his desk calendar. “January twenty-third, to be exact.”

Mike must have read my opaque expression, for he unbent a bit. “Norman, you'll have the opportunity to dig deep, and we'll take the time to give you what you need.”

Leaning forward, I spread my hands on the desk. “That's just what I want to see you about.”

His face was affable and expansive. “I'm listening.”

“I want to talk with your boss, Mike. It's that simple.”

“I wish it
were
that simple, Norm.”

I'd heard those words and that tone of voice before. I was ten and Dad was explaining where babies came from.

“… Mr. Ryker's physician called me yesterday and said he was definitely improving,” Mike was saying. “But he's simply not well enough to see anyone right now.”

“Have you heard from the doctor today?”

“No, but …”

“Mr. Ryker could do a lot of recovering in twenty-four hours. Why don't you call and find out?”

His head shook. “I don't think that's wise, Norm. Dr. Bertrand said he should be getting plenty of rest.”

“Sound advice,” I said flatly. “If I were eighty-five, I think I'd be getting a lot of rest, too.”

“I can appreciate your point of view, Norm …”

“Really? Then I suppose you know that this story of mine isn't worth a damn unless I can talk with your Mr. Ryker. He has to supply the ‘why' for the salvage operation. A cold business proposition? Idle curiosity? A senile obsession with the past? Readers will want to know. And Ryker is the only man with the answer.”

Mike grinned uneasily. “You sound like a reporter from the
National Enquirer
.”

“Sorry, Mike, but the whole story is loaded with pulp. Strain it out and you won't have a hell of a lot left.”

Mike rose from his chair, fumbling for a smoke. Once he found the pack of L&Ms, he offered me one.

“No thanks.”

Lighting a cigarette, he dropped the match in the ashtray. He walked to the window and watched the traffic hooting down the avenue. Sucking half the cigarette into his lungs, he blew the smoke against the glass. His face tightened against the cloud of tar and nicotine. When he turned back to me, his eyes looked red and defenseless.

“Norm, I don't know what to tell you. I certainly can't place Mr. Ryker's health in jeopardy. You want a definite time for an interview and I just can't do it. Not without Dr. Bertrand's okay.”

I decided to make it easy for him. “Mike, who is Mr. Ryker's business manager?”

His eyebrows raised. “I don't know exactly what you mean. I perform most of the administrative and legal work.”

“But who makes the big decisions? You know, when to buy, when to sell, all of that.”

He smiled at my simplification. “Why, Mr. Ryker, of course.”

“Even now?”

“Yes. The Ryker Corporation is primarily a holding company for Mr. Ryker's assets. It's not like he was president of General Motors. The work involved isn't severe.”

“Glad to hear it.” I stood and reached for my coat. “Now all you have to do is wait until your boss has one of his lucid spells. Then, instead of pondering a new tax dodge, you simply say that a modest, hardworking reporter wants to talk with him.”

His face clouded. “Norman …”

“Tell him I won't take any more time than I have to. All I want to know is his favorite color and his most embarrassing moment.”

Mike's anger dissipated. With a short barking laugh he spread his hands. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Fine,” I said lightly, one hand on the doorknob. “Don't take too long.”

Tom Bramel phoned early that same evening with news of the FBI file on its way by special delivery.

“Norman,” he said quietly. “You should have told me about Honolulu.”

Was the voice a little sullen? It was hard to tell over the phone.

“I wasn't trying to cover up, Tom. Just postponing the inevitable, I guess. I couldn't stomach going to your office, spilling my guts over some ghastly skeleton in my closet.”

“An unusual choice of words, Norman.” Tom's laugh was chill. “Were you speaking literally or figuratively?”

What I had said came back to me and I flinched. I suddenly felt the blood slapping under my feet as I groped through the closet of Room 307.

“Let's drop it, Tom.” My fingers were tight around the receiver. “Would you like some searing psychological insight into my behavior? I've spent good money on analysis and I can offer you multiple choice between Freudian, Gestalt, and Behavioral versions.”

“Shut up, Norman. Please. I didn't call to pass judgment. Maybe it was less painful for you to lie to me, but it wasn't necessary. All right?”

“Okay, Tom. Sorry.”

He seemed relieved to hear the ragged edge leave my voice. “I don't want you to be too disappointed over the file. There's not much in it you don't already know. Neither the police nor the FBI ever found any suspects. Their only lead was Catherine Maurois, the maid at the Moana who vanished. She must have left the islands, but no one ever caught up with her. By now she's been declared legally dead.”

“I know the case is unsolved. I'm more interested in the Klein background before they came to Hawaii. Martha Klein told me she and her husband lived in St. Petersburg, Florida. Any relatives? Neighbors? Friends?”

“Hang on.” Papers softly rustled. “Here's something. After the murders, the FBI talked to the neighbors of the Kleins, a Fred and Mima Heinley.”

“Wait a minute.” I grabbed a pen and had Tom spell the names, jotting them on a back cover of
Paris Match
. “What did they have to say?”

“It couldn't have been anything useful, Norman. The FBI agent on the case didn't even quote them in his summary.”

“Does it give their address?”

“Their 1941 address. Not much use now, I wouldn't think.”

“Tom, I know it's a big favor to ask, but do you think you could trace their current address?”

“Norman …”

“You've already got the file. A request for follow-up information wouldn't be suspicious …”

“Norman …”

“God knows you don't want Hoover and the Yard on your tail, but …”

“Norman!”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Did it ever occur to you to try a phone book?”

Tom's idea was easier said than done.

Jan and I spent most of the following morning combing through libraries. The Bibliothèque Nationale was the logical starting point.

Phone directories? Yes, monsieur, this way. St. Petersburg, Florida? Silver pince-nez glinted blankly. A search and a shrug. Perhaps the Bibliothèque Mazarine, monsieur.

The Mazarine was another dry well. But we finally hit pay-dirt at the Bibliothèque Forney. The phone book was dated 1959, but it would have to do.

I spread the book flat on the table and scanned the H's. There it was: H
EINLEY, FRED
2121 Gulf Blvd. West KL5-9421.

When we got home, Jan pointed at the phone. “You or me?”

I pondered for a moment. “Go ahead.”

“What exactly am I going to say, Norman?”

“Ask them if they'll consent to an interview.”

“I know that. When?”

“As soon as I can hop a plane.”

She shook her hands unhopefully. “We'll give it a try. The poor people might be dead for all you know.”

Jan is a pessimist. Mr. and Mrs. Heinley were alive and eager to meet a reporter from
World
magazine. Yes, Tuesday morning was fine. The Bahia-Belle Cabañas. Just check at the manager's office.

While Jan and I were pawing through phone books at the Bibliothèque Forney, the bathyscaph
Marianas
sighted the
Titanic
.

The story filled the tube Sunday night. Blotchy photos showed a few patches of crumbly metal peering out of the gloom. Interviews featured Captain James Nicholson and Commander Phillip Toffler of the
Marianas
, who testified that the ship was laying on its starboard side and was in amazingly good condition.

Mike Rogers then flashed on the screen, looking tan and scrubbed. He told the story of Mr. William Ryker and his wonderful salvage operation. Scientific treasure trove. Historical bonanza and so on.

Harold Masterson appeared, hesitantly offering words to a reporter's microphone. He was in his late fifties. Paunchy but tidy, with bulbous, kindly features.

Yes, he said, new pictures would immediately be released. Sweat glared on his forehead. Of course, reporters would be welcome aboard the
Savonarola
at the wreckage site. As a matter of fact, the popular novelist and journalist Norman Hall is currently working on a feature story on the
Titanic
and its rediscovery to be published by
World
magazine in April.

Jan looked pale as she turned from the television. “Norman, do you realize what this means?”

“Afraid so.” I pointed at the phone. “Brace yourself.”

The first call came through in twenty seconds.
Paris Match
. Then
Der Spiegel. Punch
. Manchester
Guardian
. AP and UPI and Reuters stringers. I sat by the phone for the next two hours.

Yes, that's right, I'm currently researching background material. Well, I guess I got the assignment because Geoffrey Proctor and William Ryker thought I'd do a good job. No, I don't think I should talk about my salary. Yes, there are many people I'm going to interview. Obviously, Mr. Ryker and his staff. No, I can't say who my other contacts are.

At least that's what I told most of them. One AP man kept bearing down on me like a used car salesman, and to get rid of him I mentioned that I was leaving Monday morning for an interview in St. Petersburg, Florida.

6

January 16, 1962

The Bahia-Belle Cabañas were on Treasure Island, across Boca Ciega Bay, connected with the main part of the city by a causeway. I crept along Gulf Boulevard West in my rented Buick until I spotted the sign.

Each of the twenty-four tidy little bungalows resembled miniaturized tract houses, assembled in a horseshoe facing the beach, like spare pieces from some giant Monopoly board.

The sand beyond the cabanas had the color and texture of newsprint. Modest waves lapped politely on the beach. My eyes ached from the glare of the Gulf stretching to the horizon.

A sign over one unit proclaimed
OFFICE
in flickering pink neon. Opening the screen door, I rang the bell perched on top of the receptionist's counter.

Behind the counter lay an open doorway, and I could hear someone making getting-up noises. I studied the fading Caribbean watercolors on the pale green walls, unraveling my tie in an effort to combat the superheated stuffiness of the room.

A woman finally appeared, surveying me with bulging jumping-bean eyes. Thyroid, I thought, fighting to keep my eyes from widening in response.

“Yes? May I help you?” She was thin and very old, but her polite smile seemed to contain some genuine warmth. “I'm afraid we don't have any vacancies. Unless you have a reservation.”

“Mrs. Heinley?”

She nodded and I introduced myself.