by Noel Hynd
He turned to the woman in his apartment.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Really want to know?" He smiled.
"Sure" "A girl friend;' he said.
"I'm glad I didn't say anything," she said.
"I might have made her jealous."
He smiled weakly and searched uneasily for the proper words.
"Look" he said, groping.
"This is all getting very much out of control " He paused.
"If I've betrayed your trust, I'm sorry. But I've been trying to put things together on this case as best I can under the circumstances." He hesitated.
"Maybe that's not very good.
Maybe what you need is a bigger firm with more power to represent you.
Why don't we both think things over for a day or two?
Then you can decide whether or not you wish to continue with me.
And vice versa."
She peered at him. He had the distinct impression of being transparent.
"You're trying to get out of the case. Aren't you?" she said.
He wanted to say 'no. But so far, lies hadn't been successful.
"Maybe," he said, wondering how his father might have played the hand.
"All right," she said.
"You think about it. And I'll think about it.
But… you won't have to go very far to find me."
"What do you mean' "I'm not leaving here' tonight' she said politely.
"There's no way I'm stepping out on the street"' "What are you talking about?"
"I can't take the chance that your police friends have found where I was staying. Not in the dark anyway. So' she said casually, "I didn't think you'd mind if I installed myself in your study. The sofa looks comfortable"
"The final word'in lawyer-client relationships," he mumbled. But then, uneasily, he was convinced he had to agree.
The sound of the bedroom door opening made him turn over on his mattress. He was instantly awake. The light in the room was dim but there was no doubt what he was hearing.
He suddenly felt sweaty. He tried to think of something to take in his hand as a weapon. But there was nothing.
The door opened fully. He sat up quickly. In the dimness he saw her hands. They were empty.
"I'm sorry," she said very softly.
"I couldn't sleep Relieved, he leaned back against the headboard.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
. She moved forward. There was light from the other room now.
She moved to the edge of his bed and sat down. She looked at him.
Her manner was totally different now, as if she were a different woman.
No longer the toughened woman used to defending herself Now she was nine-year-old Leslie, defenseless and threatened.
"I'm worried," she said.
"What about?"
"You, "Me?" He was baffled.
"Why?"
"You're hesitating" she said.
"I'm afraid you're going to drop my case."
"Jesus," he thought to himself. Here he was half scared of her.
And now she was upset that she'd be dropped as a client.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I've trusted you this far. I've trusted you with my story, with my claim, practically with my life. I was speaking rashly before. I was upset" Her hands were folded in her lap.
The thin nightgown, one of Andrea's, clung snugly to her legs and body.
"I don't want to start all over with someone else," she said.
"I want you to continue."
She sat sideways to him. He could see the nightgown's low neckline.
Her face in the soft light was even more delicate and alluring than it was by day. He knew he was being manipulated. She established eye-to-eye contact, but he broke away from it, looking down her trim arms to where the hands and fingers were folded in her lap.
"That telephone call earlier," she said.
"It concerned me, didn't it?"
He didn't speak.
"The truth," she said evenly.
"Yes ' "You don't trust me anymore, do you?" she asked.
"You think there's something wrong."
"I took your case for two reasons," he said softly.
"One, I needed money. Two, I believed you. I believe in simple justice under the law, you see" His smile was pained.
"You appeared with a credible, interesting Story. You had been wronged. You had documented proof and a certain amount of apparent sincerity. I felt you deserved your day in court."
"But something has changed she observed.
"Why are your fingerprints in Washington?"
For a moment her eyes were angry. But they softened quickly.
She calmed herself. Her body was motionless. The question hung in the air.
"How long have you been checking on me?" she asked.
"From the start?"
"I do background on all my clients' he said.
"You believe in simple justice and 'the honor of the individual" she said, mocking slightly.
"But with a security probe tossed in For good measure" "I'd feel a lot better if you'd answer my question" "Beneath it all, you're as cynical as the next man." She looked away.
"But you do deserve an answer."
"I'm waiting" Again there was a pause.
"My father," she said.
"I'm afraid nothing's obvious ' "Arthur Sandler was a spy. You've confirmed that for yourself.
He's still alive and he still knows the proper people in United States intelligence. He doesn't want me alive," she said bitterly "Of course my fingerprints are on file somewhere. And if you've been good enough to trigger that central computer, it's only a matter of time before my father comes looking for me again' "If you're claiming his estate, it's only a matter of time anyway."
"True," she said. She fell silent, reflective.
"Consider Arthur Sandler. For every minute of his life that you've been able to account for already, he's wielded power. Every day, from every angle.
In whatever identity he has now, he knows I'm the one person who might give him away. Do you need any further explanation of why my fingerprints would be on file?"
Gently, with a certain defensiveness, she was resting her case, leaving her story open to his judgment. She waited for a reply.
"What I need" he said slowly, 'are photocopies of your documents. Your birth certificate. The marriage certificate. May I?"
She broke into the first natural, calm smile he'd seen from her.
"All right," she said, and nodded enthusiastically.
"I'm going to disappear for a few days. I want to build a case for you. Will you be able to take care of yourself for a week?"
"I've taken care of myself for over twenty years" she said.
Her self-assurance was back. Theyd reached an understanding.
She looked at him for a moment, then, in her excitement, leaned toward him. She embraced him as a friend would, then slowly she felt his strong arms around her shoulders. Her own arms responded in the same manner. She pulled away from him slightly.
"I'm glad we finally trust each other," she said.
"It was lonely in the next room " Understanding, yet mystified, he watched her as she stood up for a moment. Gracefully she reached to the front of the nightgown.
The light was dim, but he could see every bit of her perfectly. She slid the two short sleeves away from her arms. He was almost speechless.
"Leslie…?" he stammered.
"It's my decision. Don't say no."
The thin gown slipped away, sliding to the floor. She stood before him, slim, delicate. He was no longer conscious of the scar across her throat. His eyes were elsewhere as she moved onto the bed.
He hesitated.
"I thought…?"
"I changed my mind " she said spiritedly with her gentle British accent.
"Now. No more discussion."
As his anxious arms reached for her, her own hands, the hands that h
ad left the fingerprints on the photograph, reached to him and formed an embrace.
Part Three
Chapter 11
Thomas Daniels arrived at London International, otherwise known as Heathrow, at nine PM." London time. He rented a car, stayed overnight in nearby Windsor, and the next morning drove southwest.
North Fenwick, where Arthur Sandlerthad married Elizabeth Chatsworth a third of a century earlier, was a quiet rural township of four hundred inhabitants. Much of the twentieth century, other than electricity, telephones, and automobiles, had been resisted. The air was clean, though damp and very cold that time of year. Houses were stone and had thatched roofs. Smoke from peat or wood rose from most chimneys. The atmosphere was rural without being provincial.
The brown-stone church by the town hall dated from the fifteen hundreds.
The church, St. George's Chapel, was open. Thomas parked his car on the village green and walked into the church. The interior was barely warmer than the outside. The pews were dimly lit, as the stained glass allowed only modest amounts of light to filter across the old wooden pews, the -center aisle and its same floor, and the deep plum-colored cushions on the wooden benches. There was one hymnal per row.
But before even approaching the aisles or the pews, Thomas Daniels was struck dramatically by a large marble catafalque to the rear left corner of the worship hall. He approached it, as its contours resembled that of a human body.
He stood before it. There he looked upon a marble tomb, that of the chapel's founder, a sixteenth-century cleric named George Lorrick.
Within were the remains of Lorrick, bones turned to dust over four centuries' repose. And along the top of the tomb, according to the custom of the day, was the likeness of the minister wrought in heavy iron. Head to toe, cap to boot, the iron image of the minister.
Along the side, beneath the man's name, were his earthly dates: 1470-1545.
Thomas gazed into the metal image of the face, wondering whether the death mask did the man justice; whether or not the image of the rural parson revealed or concealed anything of the soul of the man sealed within. The graven image told only what the man had looked like on the exterior. It said nothing of the man behind the facade. A side notation was more helpful. Lorrick had founded the chapel, it said, in 1501. Stone after stone, by hand. In 1847 he'd been canonized.
Thomas moved on. He looked around both curiously and anxiously: curious whether he'd happen upon the pastor, and anxious as he looked forty feet ahead of him to the altar. There Leslie Me Adam parents had been married, the barmaid and the spy, during a dark hour of the Second World War. Thomas walked slowly and inquisitively up the narrow center aisle until he stood where Arthur Sandler and Elizabeth Chatsworth must have. He looked around the chapel from that spot. Receiving no special inspiration, he turned and walked again toward the two heavy front doors.
In the vestibule he stopped, examining plaques on the wall. A pair of plaques remembered the sons of North Fenwick who'd fallen in the world wars. Another, smaller and older, plaque bore two lonely names, a pair of long-forgotten souls who'd died for a long-forgotten cause under the command of Lord Kitchener. Transvaal. 1901.
Thomas turned and examined the opposite wall. There, engraved on stone, was part of what he'd been seeking. A listing of rectors of the chapel. From 1501 to the present.
His eyes stopped on Jonathan Phillip Moore 1937-1949. A small cross by the name indicated that Reverend Moore, whose name appeared on the wedding certificate shown to Thomas by Leslie, had died while still the rector of that small parish. Another man had served from 1949 to 1957.
Another from 1957 to 1968, and still another, Moore's third successor, from 1968.
Thomas went next door to the town hall. An old woman with grayish-white hair, a wrinkled face, yellowed teeth, and two heavy wool sweaters allowed Thomas to examine the town records, the official entries of births, deaths, and weddings.
Thomas turned to 1944. He sat at a long table and felt the old woman watching him from across the small town clerk's office.
Thomas ignored her as best he could. He was on the page that included October in the heavy, leather-bound ledger. He ran quickly down the page with his finger.
Then he froze. Simply noted, no more than a single line, was: MARRIED -ARTHUR EDWARD SANDLER, New York, United States ELIZABETH ANN CHATS WORTH Tiverton, Devon. October twenty, ten A.M. Thomas examined the page of the book. Without question it was the original page. The entry was legitimate, Thomas looked up and found the old woman watching him.
"Where would I find deaths?" he asked.
"Deaths?" She nodded toward him with a rasping voice.
"Same ledger."
"But by specific names?"
She looked at him strangely.
"What names?"
Thomas removed from his pocket a photograph of Leslie's parents' marriage certificate. He read the names of the two witnesses. After a cross-reference procedure in which the olct woman consulted a different town ledger, Thomas learned that both of the other witnesses to the marriage were also deceased. The most recent had died in 1953.
That evening Thomas drove back toward Exeter, Leslie's alleged birthplace. The town clerk's office was closed by the time he arrived.
He stayed overnight at a small hotel and examined the town's registry of births that next morning. As expected, a baby named Leslie Sandler had been born at Altingham Hospital. July 30, 1945. A strange urge fell upon Thomas. He wished he'd asked her more about her girlhood in Exeter. He would have liked to visit her old neighborhood, see her former home, if it still stood, or perhaps the pub where Elizabeth Chatsworth had toiled during the war. But he hadn't asked.
He returned to London by car. He was trying to piece together a life that had been spent in the shadows. Or was it two lives, actually?
George McAdam, Leslie's foster father, could piece together some integral pieces of the puzzle if he could be found. If he was still alive.
It was worth a try.
From his hotel in London, Thomas contacted an international operator.
He was connected to directory assistance for Switzerland.
He first tried Vevey, the town Leslie had described. No George McAdam listed there. Then, using a map in front of him, he tried the larger cities in French Switzerland -Montreux, Lausanne, Geneva -and then the smaller towns surrounding Vevey.
It took fifteen minutes. Finally at 16, rue de Paudax in Lutry – the same small wine-producing town east of Lausanne on the Lake of Geneva where Leslie had met her would-be assassin while working in a boat basin has uncovered a possibility. A listing for a "G. McAdam." Thomas obtained the number and asked that the call be placed.
He waited, quickly rehearsing his lines. Care had to be taken. McAdam was the only living man Thomas knew of who could confirm Leslie's story.
He heard the telephone ringing. Twice. Three times. Four, then five.
Thomas cursed quietly.
Then the unmistakable voice of an Englishman answered on the other end.
Thomas was almost tongue-tied for a moment.
"George McAdam?" asked Thomas.
The voice snapped,
"Who's this?"
"You don't know me, sir, my name is Thomas Daniels. I'm an attorney from New York City." Silence on the other end.
"I'm a friend of Leslie's" he tried.
There was a painfully long silence. Then McAdam replied quietly,
"What do you want?"
"I need to speak with you. About your foster daughter. There's a legal proceeding in the United States involving-" "I don't want to hear it," said McAdam coldly Thomas groped for the proper response, but McAdam spoke next.
"If you're trying to make money off my daughter," the voice said bitterly,
"I'll have no part of it "I'm trying to help her. I represent her."
Represent' The voice was sardonic, bemused, scoffing.
"It's a matter of utmost importance" Thomas insisted.
"Not
so much for me. But for her."
"For her?" the voice said. There was definite sarcasm, a mocking tone to McAdam's voice, as if he both disbelieved and distrusted.
"Poor Leslie" he said. Thomas began to speak, but McAdam interrupted sharply, asking where the call was originating.
"London."
There was silence as McAdam seemed to be thinking.
"I won't talk about it 'he repeated. Thomas was prepared to argue, but McAdam continued.
"I suppose, whoever you are, there's not much you can do to me now. I won't talk about it, not on the telephone. Are you coming to Switzerland?"
"I can ' "You have my address, I assume," he said bitterly.
"I do " "Be here day after tomorrow at ten A.M. If you have something to talk about, I'll see you then."
Thomas was about to thank McAdam, but the other end went dead. McAdam had put down his receiver.
Slowly Thomas hung up his telephone. He was exultant in finding McAdam. But his overwhelming feeling was one of uneasiness, of suspicion. McAdam wasn't doing him a favor. McAdam was trying to discover what Thomas was doing. There'd been something important unsaid in that brief conversation. Whatever it was, it was worth a flight to Switzerland to discover.
Chapter 12
Sixteen, rue de Paudax was a moderately sized stucco villa behind a large white brick fence and a large black iron gate. The rue de Paudax crisscrossed a large hill on the northern side of the Lake of Geneva. Had houses of similar size and design not been on the southern side of the rue, Thomas would have been afforded a fine view of the Lake itself and the French Alps on the opposite shore behind Evian.
Thomas stopped at Number 16. He examined the house and the iron bars of the gate. There was no name anywhere identifying the resident. The mail slot in the fence was unmarked. There was no bell to ring, perhaps a strong hint that the resident did not wish to be disturbed by outsiders. Perfect anonymity, thought Thomas, for a Swiss businessman or an Englishman who doesn't wish to be found.
Thomas examined the iron gate, fumbled with the interior of the latch, and forced an inside handle upward. The latch clicked grudgingly. The gate opened.
Thomas continued along a flagstone path toward the villa. He was halfway between the gate and the front door when he first heard the snarling dogs.
