It was well past four o'clock on Friday afternoon. The young woman in the camel's-hair overcoat tried the front door to the Zenger and Daniels offices. The door was locked.
She looked at the dark walnut door. She knocked again at the door and tried the knob. Again, no response. The door was unyielding. Yet she knew she was in the proper place-she could smell the stale odor imparted days ago by the smoke. Besides, the newspapers had mentioned Zenger and Daniels and that was the name on the door.
She noticed a doorbell to the left of the entrance, a feature of an older New York office building. She pressed it. Several seconds passed. She was just about to turn to leave when the door abruptly opened and a man spoke.
"Yes?"
She was almost startled. The man before her wore no tie. His hands were dirty, his hair disheveled, and his sleeves rolled beyond the elbows. His clothing suggested maintenance rather than the practice of law.
"I wasn't sure anyone was in" she said.
"I… I don't have an appointment but I wanted to see someone' "Anyone in particular?" he asked.
She glanced at the names on the door.
"William Ward Daniels," she said.
"If he's available."
He smiled slightly.
"You're a bit late for him, he said.
"He died a year ago."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. She seemed taken aback, searching for the next words but not finding them immediately.
"I'm his son," said Thomas.
"Maybe I can help you She thought for a moment.
"Perhaps you can'" she said. She looked him up and down, wondering what to make of his attire. It was the last Friday in January. Thomas had been packing what was salvageable in cartons and storage crates. On Monday the landlord would be bringing in construction men to rebuild the entire suite.
After today, the offices would be made habitable for new tenants.
Zenger and Daniels would exist only as a memory.
Thomas looked at himself and suddenly realized her apprehension.
"I've, uh, been moving things. Don't mind my appearance.
What did you want to see my father about?"
"Could we discuss it inside?" she asked. She hesitated again, then added,
"I understand your office had something to do with the Sandler estate."
He looked at her carefully, almost in disbelief She was well-spoken, nicely dressed, and she possessed a face that might brighten a magazine cover.
"Of course," he said.
"Come in."
He held the door open and she followed.
She was apparently struck by the condition of the office. Blackened walls, packing crates, the scent of smoke even stronger now.
Blackened furniture had been shoved against sooted walls.
"I should explain" he said. He did, about the fire.
"Your offices are relocating?" she asked.
"In a sense," he said. He led her to the one room in the suite that was presentable and functional. He removed two crates of papers from the top of his desk. He avoided mention of his intention to leave the practice of law. He'd listen to her and guide her on to someone else who might be able to help.
She sat down in a hard-backed wooden chair near his desk, attempting to sit comfortably on what was essentially a rigid and uncomfortable chair.
"I don't know whether you'll be able to assist me or not" she said.
She glanced around and began to sense the moribund state of the office.
He was now aware of her slight English accent.
"You might not even believe me. And you might be too busy moving."
"It doesn't take much space to listen to a problem," he said.
"I suppose not," she said. She eyed him carefully, deciding whether or not to go on. But he did sound sincere. And this was the firm mentioned in the newspapers.
"I read last week that a woman named Victoria Sandler had died" she said. "The article stated that this firm once handled the Sandler family's business' "At one time," he said. Thomas mentally pictured Andrea, who'd written the Times article which other newspapers had picked up.
"Victoria had a brother. Arthur Sandler. Born in 1899."
"That's right' he said. He began to wonder where this might lead and whether or not it would be worthwhile to be led. He studied her.
The English accent was more noticeable now. She was well spoken Educated. Her clothing conservative, yet flattering to her lithe figure. A navy-blue suit hemmed below the knee. A light-blue print blouse and a carefully knotted pale-blue scarf The camel'shair coat was now across her lap as she sat with her ankles slightly crossed.
"How much do you know about Arthur Sandler?" she asked.
"Not an awful lot. It was my father and Mr. Zenger who knew him personally. Before his death, that is. 1954, wasn't it?"
"No," she said.
"It wasn't' "Wasn't what?" '1954. The newspapers said that he was a murder victim. Some sort of street execution."
"That's right" -"That's not right. He was alive past 1954. Well past 1954." She spoke calmly and methodically.
He leaned back in the chair. He folded his arms and looked at her in a new light. He wondered if she might not be better served at Bellevue than his office.
"How do you know?" he asked.
"It's a long story."
"I'm sure it is' "I'm prepared to tell it if you're willing to listen."
He made no comment. He only looked at her, trying to assess her grip on reality.
"He wasn't killed in 1954. I don't know who was, but it wasn't he."
"You've seen him since?"
"At his 'death' in 1954" she said.
"And then again in 1964 "Uh huh," he said.
"That's very nice. Did you come here to warn me?"
She looked up from her lap into his eyes. Her blue eyes, formerly soft and warm, were now sharp and intense, wide with emotion, almost with fear.
"I'm not a crazy lady," she said.
"I didn't come here to be patronized." She paused.
"Arthur Sandler was my father."
He considered the assertion for only a second.
"I see. Was he married to your mother?"
"Of course. During the war."
"War?"
"World War Two."
"Arthur Sandler was never married" he said.
"And when he died in 1954 it was established legally that he had no children, legitimate or otherwise. His estate went in its entirety to Victoria, who-" She tossed a folded paper from her purse onto his desk.
.-was the sole inheritor," he finished. He picked up the paper.
"What's this?"
"I assume you can read." He opened it and examined it. She spoke as he read.
"It's my birth certificate. I was born at Exeter in England in 1945.
See for yourself." The document had the appearance of what she claimed.
"The marriage was a secret," she added.
"A hell of a secret. His own sister didn't know about it."
"Victoria didn't know about anything. She didn't even know what year she was in."
"Uh huh" he said.
Studiously, she drew back her head and looked at him.
"Skeptical, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid so, Miss… or Mrs… "McAdam. Leslie McAdam. And if it' matters, I'm unmarried "What you're here to claim is that you're an heiress to the Sandler estate. Or at least part of it. Correct?"
"All I want is what's due to me," she said.
"I can have this certificate checked," he said.
"We both know that.
But by itself it won't be enough. Can you prove who you are? Can you prove who your parents were? Can you prove they were married?" He paused for a moment, trying to be tactful.
"What you're embarking on will take years in the courts. It's bound to be challenged by hundreds of other people, some with verifiable claims, others who are merely crackpots. It will be difficult enough to convince an attorney-including myself-to take on a case like this.
Then it will be twenty times more difficult to convince a court that your claim is justified-" "I know."
He said nothing. She understood the skepticism evident within the silence.
Leslie spoke.
"I have spent my life being brutalized by the facts surrounding my birth. I'm not afraid of Arthur Sandler anymore.
Whether he's dead or alive. I only want what I deserve' ' With perfect composure she unpacked a riboned group of letters from her purse.
She laid them on the desk in front of him.
"Letters, Mr. Daniels. From my father to my mother. 1942 to 1944. You may look through them now. Eventually you may have the handwriting verified. But at no time do these letters leave my possession' He glanced at the letters. Then, with interest, he fingered the stack, examining the browned envelopes, the return address and the old postmarks over British wartime stamps. If Leslie McAdam was an act, he began to concede, she was a good one. And if she was not an act, he wondered.
"There's more " she said. He looked up.
From her purse she pulled a small aged black book.
"The frayed leather cover and gold-edged pages were well worn. Thomas recognized the book for what it was even before he saw HoLy BI] amp;LF embossed in gold on the binding.
"Open it to the inside front cover," she said. And she handed him the Bible.
Thomas took the book with his right hand. His eyes left Leslie.
He examined the Bible with genuine interest, opening it as she had instructed. He could in no way stifle the deep chill he suddenly felt when he read what was before him.
Bound into the Bible's front cover was a marriage certificate.
Enscrolled, embellished, and fully notarized, it was dated October 20, 1944, Arthur Sandler of New York and Elizabeth Ann Chatsworth of Tiverton, bound in holy matrimony at St. George's Chapel in the Devon township of North Fenwick. The names of two witnesses were signed to the certificate. A third signature appeared at bottom, to the far right. The signature was that of Jonathan Phillip Moore, D.D." the pastor.
Thomas examined the document for almost a full minute. Then, with increasing intrigue, he glanced through the Bible. He noted the Roman numerals on the title page.
ANNO DOMINI MCMXLII, it said. Printed in Great Britain, 1942.
He looked up at her. His skepticism was diminished, but not dismissed.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"You're probably wondering why I didn't come forward in 1954" she said.
"It crossed my mind-' he said.
Leslie McAdam pus@ed back the light-brown hair which almost touched her shoulders. She pushed the hair behind her ears, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. She reached to the at her throat, untied it, and pulled it away with one graceful motion.
"Lean forward, Mr. Daniels. The light here is not the best She looked directly at him and opened the collar of her blouse.
She exposed the bare white flesh of her throat, the area formerly covered by the pale-blue scarf. She craned her head slightly to allow him a clear view of her neck.
Thomas could see a long thin line of reddish-pink scar tissue which circled the midpoint of her throat. It was readily visible against her delicate skin.
"Piano wire, Mr. Daniels," she said.
"It can make rather a mess of a nine-year-old girl's skin."
Thomas looked at her without speaking.
"It's something else my father gave me," she said.
"My best memory of him. 1954. Alive enough in that year to attempt to garrotte mee."
She let Thomas gaze at her damaged throat. He could envision the razor-sharp wire digging into her flesh, savaging the jugular vein and unleashing a red torrent of blood. He no longer wondered if she was telling the truth. He wondered why she was alive.
She let the collar fall into place again, gently retied the scarf, and modestly rebuttoned her blouse. She hadn't lost her composure in the slightest. Thomas was able to regain his.
Several seconds passed. She looked to the birth certificate, the Bible, and the timeworn letters on his desk. She did not exude patience. Nor did she appear to be a woman who'd be in any way swayed from her appointed mission. She was again conscious of the faint, stale smell of smoke as she broke the silence.
"I'm here to collect my inheritance, Mr. Daniels" she said.
"And I'm afraid you're the only one who can help me."
"Why me?"
"Because of your father. And his relationship to my father."
"There are other attorneys in New York," he said.
"Men much better than I."
She was already shaking her head, shaking it with a definitiveness and a finality which did not suggest-it stated. The decision was made. To look at her one saw delicacy and perhaps what might be mistaken for a feminine form of tenderness. But within there was a spirit as resistant as an anvil, as insistent as a hammer.
"You see," she began,
"I'm a scholar and an artist. I have the inquisitive temperament of one, the creative instincts of the other.
But I'm also the daughter of a vicious man. Arthur Sandler. I have some of his blood, too. I know how to hate."
"I hope you also know how to explain," he said.
"I'm not following this. I'm sorry." And, seeking now to keep an emotional and intellectual distance between them, he tried to tell her of his decision to leave the practice of law.
She interrupted.
"I'm here to ask you to fulfill two roles" she said.
"Attorney and detective."
"Neither suits me ' "Don't be too certain. People's marks in life have a way of finding them" "Do they?"
"That's what I've always observed. What is it that Camus said?A man gets the face he deserves'? I've always thought a man or woman also gets the mother he or she deserves' ' He shook his head.
"Very, very wrong" he said.
"I've spent the last eight years resisting this profession. Want to know the truth?
I've been burned out here. Want to know the real truth? Secretly I'm happy about it!"
"Happy?"
"It's my out. These files, these records which my father and Adolph Zenger spent a lifetime building. They're nothing now.
Nothing. Wiped out." An elusive smile crossed his face.
"It's like a clean slate" he said.
"It's like being liberated. You see, I can do what I want with my life. It doesn't include practicing law or playing detective' "What does it include?"
"I'll decide" he said.
"Eventually. You know what? I looked in the mirror this morning and I looked younger than I have for years. As if a burden had lifted. It has been "Don't be too sure," she said.
"Of what?"
"That it's lifted."
"Your tone of voice," he said.
"It sounds like either a threat or a warning. Which is it?"
"Neither, really. But one's fate often comes looking for him, not the other way around. That's what I've always found. You didn't happen upon a fire. It found you."
He gave her a look which mixed suspicion with intrigue, a look which seemed to ask a deeper explanation of who she was, what she wanted, and from where she'd materialized.
"You seem to know a lot," he said, feeling very much on the defensive now. "I know arson when I see it" she said.
"Or smell it." She smiled.
His own smile was gone.
"I'm sure you have a theory," he said.
"Of course. That's why I'm here."
"I hate theories" he said.
"I like facts. That's why I hate law. Law deals with permutations of truth and misrepresentations. Obscuring of facts " "You want facts, do you?" she said.
"I'll give you facts. I'll tell you a story which has a direct bearing on why I'm here. And why you had a fire."
"All right," he said, easing back in his chair.
"I'd love to hear it."