by Noel Hynd
Thomas returned to New York the same evening. When he unlocked and pushed open the door to his apartment the white envelope was immediately conspicuous. "I Thomas turned on the light, closed the door behind him, and tossed his travel case onto a table. He picked up the envelope and tore it open.
From it he pulled a yellow ticket. Second Promenade, the ticket said, Madison Square Garden. Hockey. Rangers vs. Boston Bruins. February eight. Sunday evening.
It made no immediate sense. Then he unfolded a small piece of plain white paper that accompanied the ticket. It read: Mr. Daniels, Please be there. And don't tell anyone.
Leslie McAdam Thomas searched for a further explanation and found none.
He crumpled the note and dropped it into a wastebasket. He walked to a bookcase that was so crowded that each shelf held two rows of books, front and back, mostly paperback. He withdrew a novel, third from the left on the middle shelf, inserted the ticket in the book, and returned the book to its place.
A few minutes later he was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of black coffee steaming in front of him, and visions of the cryptic Adolph Zenger dancing before him. Zenger was a sneak if ever a sneak had walked the earth. But had the retired attorney at least been forthright with his trusted partner's only son?
Thomas wondered.
The telephone rang.
He took his coffee with him, sat in an armchair in the living room, and took the call on the fourth ring.
"Find out anything?" a female voice asked.
For a split second he envisioned Leslie. But the voice was familiar.
He felt a small tremor of disappointment as he recognized the caller.
Andrea Parker.
"Let's say that I'm in hot pursuit of the facts" he said.
"This Sandler mess is a can of worms. Walter Mitty's secret life was gossip-column stuff compared to this' ' "I'm onto a good story, in other words," she said.
"Of course. Otherwise you wouldn't be calling so often" "Don't be mean, Tom" she countered softly.
"I've done some homework for you, too. Did you see Zenger?"
"Yes, "Any help?"
"Some. He had some of the answers, but not all of them." He sipped the black coffee and listened to a guarded silence on the other end.
"This whole thing recalls a lesson I learned in law school, working on a claims adjustment case."
"A what?" she asked.
"A woman came to me and said she'd been sitting in her parked car when a truck had bumped into her hard from behind. She was claiming damages to her car, plus personal damages for whiplash.
She gave me her whole story. Then I talked to the driver of the truck.
He said he'd been double-parked and so had the woman.
Only she had released her brake and rolled back into him. Then I found two witnesses, a shop owner and a pedestrian. They told two other stories with even different details. Four different stories, none of them the same, all of them slightly suspect one way or another.
Know how I got down to the truth?"
"How?"
"I sat them all down together and wrote down the few points in the story upon which none would argue. With a little pressing and a few concessions here and there, I came out with a composite story.
That became the new 'truth' in the case. And that's what I finally went into court with." He sipped the coffee again. 'The Sandler case is the same thing all over again, on a greater scale. You hear stories, the stories conflict. You check and double-check, you distill a composite truth from them. And that becomes the factual basis that you must work with ' "What did Zenger say?" Andrea asked,
"Specifically."
"He said my client's a fake."
"Do you think she is?"
"I'm trying to be compassionate," he said, "as well as a realist."
"Evasive answer, counselor," she chided.
"So far, I believe her." He thought for a moment.
"She has those documents. They look strong. Damned strong. If I went to England, say, and got more corroborating evidence for her…
Well, she'd be in an even stronger position."
"Before you take any trips there's more you ought to know."
"Go ahead " "With the help of some of our financial editors at the paper we've put together quite a bit on our favorite family.
Interlocking corporations. Phantom ownerships. Trusts. Holding companies and such."
"In chemicals?"
"Chemicals and real estate. But that's not the point. It's mostly an odd assortment of smaller companies owned by slightly larger companies, equally strange. A merry-go-round of ownership, and no one can find where it started to spin."
"In other words," he said, 'no one can find out where the money came from to start with. Sounds familiar."
"Right" she said.
"And none of the companies do anything except hold wealth that seems to accumulate ' She paused for a moment. Thomas tried to conjure up an image of Arthur Sandler, the enigma at the center of the case.
Sandler's finances were like the master himself, invisible but very much alive.
"What do you think it's all worth?" she asked.
"Zenger guessed twelve million. Tops."
"Try again."
"More?"
"We're figuring it conservatively and we've got it up to fifty million.
That's five zero. And it's still growing. The more you trace, the more you find. It simply doesn't end' "Jesus " he said with a low whistle and now, suddenly, an uneasy fearful feeling.
"You could finance a small country with money like that."
"You said it, I didn't There was a pause on both ends of the line.
When she spoke again there was uncharacteristic concern in her voice.
"Tom?"
"What?"
"You know you might consider dropping it. The whole thing's starting to look a lot kinkier than anyone realized."
"I should just drop it?" he scoffed.
"Maybe a different approach would be better. A newspaper expose which then tosses it at the feet of the justice Department. it's just a suggestion."
He could feel a headache begin.
"It's not quite that easy after someone has fried your office," he said.
He pondered it. She, too, was thoughtful on the other end.
"You have no idea whom you're dealing with," she said.
"None at all. If only you could take some sort of precaution…"
"Do you have any police contacts through the paper?"
"What sort of police contacts?"
"Someone on the force who could check fingerprints. On the sly."
She thought.
"I don't know anyone. Wait! I know someone who does "Who?"
Another reporter, she explained, a man named Augie Reid. He was an older journalist who now worked Albany for the paper but who over the years had developed friends within the New York State Police. It was worth a shot, she suggested, to try him.
"The girl gave me a photograph," Thomas said, 'of her father. If I give it to you first thing tomorrow morning will Reid see what he can do with it?"
"He'll do anything," she said, seeming confident.
"He loves me."
He changed the subject.
"What's happened about that mugging murder in front of my building?"
"What normally happens about muggings?" she answered.
"Nothing. Why?"
"I got a note from some detective today. They're talking to everyone in the building. They want to see me." He shrugged.
"The guy didn't even live in our building."
He could hear distant traffic in the background, and Mrs. Ryan's discordant piano was playing upstairs. Andrea continued to speak.
"You didn't tell me the end of the first story," she said.
"Which?"
"The automobile claims case. What finally happened?"
"I lost it," he said.
"The woman who came to me was lying completely."
/>
The afternoon of the next day Thomas walked down Third Avenue to the Nineteenth Precinct. He asked for Detective Aram Shassad by name and was shown through a large squad room cluttered with desks, chairs, and patrolmen in uniform. Then he was guided upstairs to where Shassad sat alone in the small space he shared with Hearn.
"I'm Thomas Daniels," said Thomas, offering his hand.
"I received a note saying you wanted to see me."
"Seventy-third Street?" asked the harried Shassad.
"Yes, "Of course. Sit down."
"I don't know how much I'll be able to help you Thomas said.
"I didn't know the victim."
"We're talking to everyone" said Shassad.
"Formality really."
"I understand. I'm an attorney-, "I see" said Shassad.
"Single? No wife?,? Thomas nodded.
At that time Patrick Hearn entered the cubicle, drew up a chair and sat at his own desk. Shassad introduced his partner brusquely to Daniels.
He also sought to dispel the inner dislike and distrust he had of lawyers. Lawyers and judges, to Shassad, were the people who kept the felons on the street.
Shassad briefly outlined the problem with which the police were posed.
A homicide had been committed in front of Daniels's building. Was Thomas home that night or at that hour, they asked, and had he seen or heard anything at all unusual? They omitted mentioning that they had linked the dead man with a woman, and that the victim had stepped from Daniels's building just prior to being murdered.
"To tell you the truth" said Thomas routinely,
"I left the building in the middle of the night' Hearn's attention perked, as did Shassad's.
"Why did you do that?" asked Hearn politely.
Thomas explained about the fire in his office.
"Do you know what time it was?"
Thomas thought for a moment.
"Yes, I should be able to recall exactly. Let me think." He pondered it for a moment then answered assuredly.
"Three forty-five."
Hearn and Shassad recognized the almost pinpoint time of the slaying.
But they refused to even exchange a glance.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure," said Thomas, 'almost to the minute."
"Why?" -The night janitor at my office building. Kind of a cantankerous old character. He wanted to know exactly when I'd be going out the door or when I'd be there. He had the fire department there. I guess he wanted to know."
"So you think you left at three forty-five?" asked Hearn casually.
Shassad was making notes.
"I know I did."
"But you didn't see anything in front of the building?" asked Shassad.
According to Minnie Yankovich, two men had been lurking there for half an hour.
"No" said Thomas.
"But I wouldn't have. I left by the back exit. It comes out on the avenue."
"Why'd you do that?"
"I was going to my car on Seventy-fourth Street. It's a shortcut."
"And you heard nothing?"
Thomas started to say no. But then he stopped in mid-sentence.
"Come to think of it. he began, having dismissed the incident in the travail of that particular night.
"Yes?"
"I heard someone come out of the apartment below me. Three c "A man or a woman?"
"I couldn't tell. I heard the voices of each. And frankly, I had other things on my mind. Hell, my office-' "Did one of them go downstairs?"
Thomas I thought.
"Yes. There were footsteps. I waited till they were gone." He eyed both cops.
"You know how it is. Middle of the night. You avoid strangers on staircases."
"Of course," nodded Hearn sympathetically.
"You never saw him? Or her?" pressed Shassad.
"No," answered Daniels flatly.
"Did you think it unusual that someone would be leaving that apartment at that hour?"
Thomas shrugged.
"No he said.
"What's the nice way to put it?
She has a lot of male visitors."
"Oh, I see," said Hearn.
"She's popular, in other words."
"You could call it that."
"Do you know her very well yourself?" asked Shassad.
"No," said Thomas tersely.
"Nor do I want to."
The interview finished amiably several minutes later. Hearn politely walked Thomas downstairs to the main entrance of the station house.
Then Hearn rejoined his partner upstairs.
"What did you think?" Hearn asked.
"Intriguing, that one-," said Shassad.
"He's either lying or he actually heard the victim walking downstairs prior to getting carved."
"Not only that'" noted Hearn, 'but he practically put himself at the crime scene at the minute the stabbing took place. Think he was telling the truth?"
"Some of the truth" said Shassad.
"I already know a little about him from others in the building. Know who his father was? William Ward Daniels."
"The shyster mouthpiece?" Hearn, like his partner, had little love for those who returned felons intact to the street.
"The same," said Shassad.
"That doesn't speak too well for the integrity running through the family. And do you know what else?"
Hearn asked what.
"Our friend Daniels has a girl who spends nights there. Some girl who works for a paper or something. No big deal, except maybe she was there that night with Ryder, not expecting Daniels to come home. Daniels shows up unexpectedly and drives Ryder out, out into the hands of two goons he has waiting for him ' "In other words, Daniels sets up Ryder to be killed. And Daniels's girl is the girl Ryder was screwing' "Well," shrugged Shassad, "it may be farfetched, but it's a workable theory. And Christ knows, the son of William Ward Daniels would probably know every kind of goon in the city-, "So?" asked Hearn.
"We watch Daniels?" The question was rhetorical. He nodded in thought.
"We've got no one else to watch yet. Maybe he'll lead us to his girl.
Then we might get something out of her." Shassad smiled faintly Chapter 9 Thomas arrived at Madison Square Garden at seven fifteen, fifteen minutes before game time, walked quickly among the scalpers and loitering boisterous teenagers on Seventh Avenue, and was in his seat by seven twenty.
She wasn't there yet. The seat next to his was empty On the ice there were no players. The goals were being adjusted and the ice was being smoothed. He watched the minutes tick off on the electronic clocks at each end of the rink. Seven twenty-eight. Seven thirty. He wondered whether she'd be there.
The teams began to skate out onto the ice. The crowd roared.
There was an inattentive hum as the recorded voice of Robert Merrill sang America the Beautiful.
Thomas was still looking around, more nervously now.
As the referee dropped the puck all eyes went to the ice. Thomas glanced down to the game as the puck was shot into the Rangers'end.
Then he was aware of people standing to one side of him, allowing someone to enter the row. He turned his head quickly. Leslie.
She stepped past him and sat down.
"Welcome," he said.
"Thanks." She was slightly out of breath, still wearing her heavy overcoat. She quickly unbuttoned the front buttons. He raised his hand to help her with the coat. She motioned his hand away.
"You haven't missed anything," he offered.
She motioned indignantly toward the ice, toward the Ranger end.
"They were damned fools to trade Ratelle and Park' she said.
"I didn't know you liked hockey."
"I don't. I hate it?"
"Then… "We're here because it would be difficult to follow me," she said.
"I bought the tickets from a scalper a week ago. If anyone followed me or you here, I'd hope the difficulty posed by the ticket takers would cause him, or them, to lose me."
There was a roar as a Ranger shot hit a goalpost and flew back in front of the net. A rebound shot was deflected by the goaltender's stick and a third shot flew wide by a foot. The crowd was howling and Thomas turned to watch the play.
She spoke loudly, to be heard.
"I didn't come here to watch grown men play a boys' game. What about the will?"
The puck flew out of bounds. Play stopped. The crowd quieted.
He looked her in the eye.
"I don't have it," he admitted.
"Not yet" She stared at him coldly.
"Why?"
He thought quickly
"It's taking time he said.
"My father kept important records very secretively. There yier-e file references which only he could understand. I've got to go through everything to locate it" She dicht appear pleased.
"Then we're at a standstill," she said impatiently.
"No" The play moved back to center ice,
"I'm building a case for you. I'm looking for witnesses" "What are you talking about?"
"I talked to Adolph Zenger, my father's former-' "I know who he is.
What did he say?"
"He told me the story of your father's background. The family. The activity during the war, or at least leading up to the war." He paused.
She was nervously glancing around, looking down into the aisles through the crowd. He continued,
"In a roundabout way, he confirmed a lot. it's slow, but it's progress' ' She looked back to him, her eyes wide and extremely angry now.
"Do you trust him?" she snapped.
"Who?"
"Zenger! Who else are we talking about?"
"I think so," he said.
"Who could he have talked to?" she snapped.
"About me?"
"He never talks to anyone anymore. And we talked in total confidence."
"Well someone" she said angrily, pronouncing each syllable at a time, 'has a big mouth. We're followed' She motioned to the walkway down below them. Standing at least forty feet apart were two men, neither of whom was watching the hockey game. They were looking away from the ice, back up into the spectators. Directly toward Leslie and Thomas.
"The one on the left," she said, acting as if she hadn't seen them yet, 'has a camera."
Thomas watched the man from the corner of his eye. The man indeed had a small concealed camera in his palm. It was aimed up toward the two of them.
"How," she asked him bitterly, 'does a thing like that happen?"