Noel Hynd - The Sandler Inquiry

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.