Noel Hynd - The Sandler Inquiry

Even if an intruder had gotten this far with a weapon, he'd not be able to get a shot off at McAdam without being torn apart immediately afterward. The Alsatians were still facing Thomas. He shuddered slightly.

"Talk," said McAdam.

"I wanted to talk about your foster daughter."

"I thought of her as my daughter," McAdam countered.

"Your daughter then " said Thomas.

"And I didn't come to tell you anything as much as to ask you a few questions " "I've never seen you before in my life," he said.

"What makes you think I'd give you the time of day?"

"If she's your' daughter as you phrase it, I'd think you'd want to help her."

"Help her?" he snapped. His face was a very belligerent scowl.

"Does that sound so strange?"

"It's beginning to."

"Why?"

"Daniels" chafed McAdam.

"You are in my home. I'll ask the bloody questions!" He glared at the younger man.

"Why are you here?"

"Your daughter is in New York at this moment. She is trying to collect a multimillion dollar inheritance which may justifiably belong to her."

McAdam continued to glare for a few moments. Then his hands closed before him and he rubbed his palms together. His gray eyes softened slightly.

"You don't say?"

"You sound as if that's impossible."

"I want to hear more" "Your daughter happens to be the biological daughter of a wealthy American. Arthur Sandler. A man who is legally dead, but-" "I know who he is' McAdam said sharply.

"I know you do. and I know all about you, also. Retired from British Secret Service. Wounded in Suez, vacationing in Majorca when Leslie killed the Italian" "Who told you all that?"

"Leslie, of course."

"Leslie," he muttered.

"Certainly," he added coldly

"You see her often, do you?"

"She's my client. I'm representing her in her claim against the Sandler estate."

"Ah. I see," he said.

"Money. You bloody Yanks Thomas felt himself starting to boil. He looked at the dogs and thought better of it.

"I'm here because she told me her story. Who she is, how she came to live with you, how she went to Canada. I want you to confirm it or deny it."

"Proceed," said McAdam cautiously.

Thomas began, repeating Leslie's story point by point as well as he could remember. Then, barely breaking stride, he launched into an explanation of Arthur Sandler, of Sandler's fortune and Sandler's participation in Allied intelligence work. Thomas concluded with an explanation of how a young woman claiming to be Leslie presented herself in New York with full documentation and asked Thomas to represent her. He omitted any mention of the fire.

McAdam listened intently, but his reaction to a ten minute summation baffled Thomas. There was very definitely something unsaid in the air, some central and crucial detail still missing from the picture.

"You say you're a barrister?" was all McAdam would say.

"I've explained all that."

McAdam eyed him coyly.

"So you have," said McAdam.

"And against my better judgment, I'm beginning to believe you. You're not a lunatic, I can see that. You may be here in all good faith."

"What about the story I just told you?"

"Substantially correct. As far as the details of Leslie's past are concerned, your story is wholly factual. How's that?"

"What's not correct?"

"Have you been to London recently?"

"What?"

"I said, have you been to London recently."

"I just came from London. You know that."

"I think you should make another trip. I think you'd enjoy it."

"Cut the riddles."

"I'm offering you Arthur Sandler. Do you want him or not?"

The proposition seemed so tidy and easy that Thomas was immediately suspicious. Why an unexplained giveaway after initial hostility?

"Well?" pressed McAdam.

"Yes or no?"

"Why don't you explain for a change?"

"Oh, it's very simple, Danielsi" scoffed McAdam.

"I suspect you are a New York lawyer. You look like one. And I think you very well may have a client going by the name of Leslie McAdam.-And I think," he concluded, 'that a return journey to London would be of enormous interest to you." He almost smiled.

"Do you sense my meaning? I'm going to send you to someone."

"Who?"

"A man named Whiteside. Peter Whiteside" Thomas frowned, trying to recall.

"Yes," McAdam answered to the unspoken question,

"I'm sure your Leslie mentioned him. Her Majesty's Secret Service.

Peter Whiteside placed Leslie with my late wife and me."

"Of course" said Thomas, remembering.

McAdam reached to a pad of paper on his desk. He scribbled a name and address on the paper and slid it across the desk.

The dogs lifted their heads quickly as Thomas rose. McAdam spoke to the animals soothingly. Thomas was allowed to step gingerly past them and retrieve the paper. He glanced at it quickly, saw a London address he didn't recognize, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.

"Does he?"

McAdam's hand rose, the flat of his thick palm extended rudely toward Thomas.

"Absolutely not!" he snapped, shaking his head.

"I can't tell you another thing!"

There was silence. McAdam got to his feet, struggling slightly on the bad leg.

"Your questions will be answered in London as best they can be. Now, sir. He motioned to the door with his head.

Thomas remained seated, contemplating the man before him.

"One final question" he said quickly.

"It has nothing to do with Leslie."

McAdam eyed the younger man in silence.

Thomas spoke.

"Was it worth it? I'm just curious."

"Was what worth it?" McAdam asked defensively, "Your career," said Thomas.

"Here you are, a man in his final years. You hobble around from a twenty-year-old wound, you live alone with no one close to you, and you're so damned scared that someone's going to come and get you that you surround yourself with a brick wall and attack dogs. This is where all the "For Queen and Country' stuff has gotten you. I was just wondering.

Was it worthwhile?"

"Daniels," he replied without changing his expression, you have fifteen seconds to be out of my sight. Thirty to be off my property.

After that, I unleash the dogs " Thomas was on his feet instantly. The heads of the dogs were upraised and the alert eyes and ears were pointed in his direction.

In twenty-two seconds Thomas was on the sidewalk outside the iron gate, closing the latch firmly behind him.

British Airways Flight 012 from Geneva to London touched down on Runway 7 at two thirty, London time. The day was brisk and damp, but clear. Thomas enjoyed the long walk from the debarkation ramp to Immigration.

Thomas waited for his suitcase to reappear on the round conveyor belt bringing baggage in from the airplane. Then, with his bag in his hand, he waited for several minutes in the non-Commonwealth line through passport control. It was not until he handed his passport to the young uniformed immigration officer that Thomas sensed something amiss.

The young man studied the passport for a moment.

"Your name?" he asked, loud enough to be heard by others nearby. He'd asked no one else that question.

"Thomas Daniels."

"Place and date of birth, sir." The young man's eyes glanced almost imperceptibly to the left.

"New York City. October 14, 1943." Now Thomas was aware of a thick, pudgy man in civilian clothes moving casually toward him.

The man was bearded, wore a bowler and an overcoat, and had a round, moon-shaped face on top of a thick ursine body. Two uniformed policemen walked behind him, cautiously and slowly, each looking every bit of six and a quarter feet tall. A show of force, obvious yet not excessive.

The young clerk whacked Thomas's passport with an inked stamp.