The Sandler Inquiry

by Noel Hynd

"We all know that."

  A telephone rang and Hammond conducted a brief conversation which culminated in his smiling. Something about the trash having been picked up completely. Couldn't be the city sanitation men, Thomas thought. And then Hammond repeated something further about dropping the last bag of it under the Williamsburg Bridge.

  And letting it float. The call ended.

  Hammond turned back to Thomas.

  "You want to know why?" he asked.

  "Yes "Good. I'm ready to educate you And with Leslie's help, he did.

  It had begun as many things do with money, Hammond intoned. Not his money, not the Treasury's money, not anybody's money. Counterfeit money.

  "Printed in Germany during the war.

  Nazi counterfeits'" he elucidated, pronouncing it Nat-Z, 'of British pounds."

  So far, so familiar, thought Thomas. But as Daniels listened intently, the story swerved resolutely into darker regions.

  "It was our man who was helping with the printing' said Hammond.

  "A man who was an agent for us. You know the name.

  Sandler."

  "Of course" said Thomas.

  "Recruited by-" "My father."

  Hammond glanced to Leslie, whose eyes told him to skip ahead, far ahead. Thomas knew the basics.

  "After the war, in the late forties," Hammond said, 'the counterfeits of the pounds picked up again. It was a crackerjack effort. The counterfeiter was bleaching one-pound notes, turning the paper back into pulp, re-cutting it and then re engraving higher denominations on the same Goddamned paper. Soon it had increased from a brief flurry to an avalanche. The British were pretty sore about it "Can you blame them?" asked Thomas, trying to weigh the story at its face value.

  "No," said Hammond. He raised his head, sipped the bitter coffee, and shook his head.

  "Don't forget, I wasn't in this case till recently. Don't blame me for past history."

  "I wouldn't think of it."

  Leslie settled into an armchair, folded her arms, leaned back, and listened. She was thinking of her girlhood, and how the circumstances of her life had led her to this room with these men.

  "The English were tactful about it at first. Course, they had to be"

  Hammond smirked.

  "We won their Goddamned war for them."

  Leslie shot him a withering glare and Hammond continued quickly before he could be interrupted.

  "They asked us for Sandler. We wouldn't give him to them." -Why?"

  "The United States does not turn over its agents'" said Hammond, pride and jingoism in his voice.

  "Not to enemies, not to allies. We just don't do it. No matter what the agent has done" He let the point hang in the air, then disclaimed,

  "And besides, we didn't know that it was Sandler. Sandler left this country as agood engraver, not a great one. What's there to prove to us that he's flawless upon his return?"

  "What was there to prove that he wasn't?"

  "Lawyers " muttered Hammond, looking at the younger man with distaste.

  "We assume innocence in this country, don't we?"

  "Some of us do. Continue" said Thomas. He looked at the Treasury agent and felt a surge of dislike welling within him. Not so much for the man, but rather for imperious attitudes, his representation of his department as flawless. It didn't become a man who was showing his years, slowing down, tiring, and frankly, slipping.

  Hammond went on.

  "For the next few years the British grew noisier and noisier about the Sandler matter. They claimed there were far too many pounds in circulation, so many that it endangered the exchange ability of their money. They attributed it to Sandler. In 1954 they got tired of complaining. They went out and killed him" "Or tried to," said Thomas.

  Hammond studied Thomas.

  "Someone was killed' uttered Hammond.

  "And Sandler disappeared. The bogus pounds stopped. You could draw any of several conclusions. We chose to believe that Sandler had been murdered, some sort of vendetta from the war."

  "Still believe that?" asked Thomas, glancing at Sandler's self-proclaimed daughter. She was eyeing both men carefully, as if serving as a judge in a debate.

  "No." admitted Hammond.

  "A few years ago the assault began on the dollars Same assault, same technique. We investigated. The British had claimed all along that Sandler was still alive. He'd been trying-he motioned to Leslie-'to kill his daughter, they said. So we started looking for him, too' "

  Leslie chimed in.

  "Convenient timing," she said.

  "Whiteside was forced into retirement. I lost my protection from the British government. I needed-' Her voice tailed off.

  "A new protector?" suggested Thomas.

  She replied with a nod.

  "I wanted to study. I wanted to live a normal life, either in an academic career or as an artist. I couldn't do it looking over my shoulder."

  "So you agreed to help the Americans find Sandler," Thomas said, his best cross-examining voice, of course.

  "Better than that' she said, her eyes blazing with hatred.

  "I wanted that man dead Her voice hit the final word heavily.

  "I know how that sounds… Call it a crime of passion. Or call it self defense a preemptive strike against the man trying to murder me'

  Somehow, Thomas understood. When the man who'd tried to kill him had gone over the stern of the steamship, Thomas had been sickened. He'd thrown up from the sight; but he'd shed no tears.

  Simple physics: for an action, a reaction; for brutality, vengeance.

  "A woman artist who packs a gun and a knife " reflected Thomas aloud.

  "Fabulous. Wait till the New York Women's Collective hears about ' "That brings us back to your father," Hammond interrupted.

  Thomas initially thought the Treasury agent was addressing Leslie. He wasn't. That left Thomas.

  "My father?"

  "Yes' Hammond said.

  "The great patriot. Our favorite flag waver in the legal community. A member of Intelligence during World War Two' "What about him?" Thomas's voice was defensive. -well, quite a bit about him. He'd been a recruiter for our side, you see. He regularly lured some of his criminal clients, such as Sandler, into compromising legal positions, then put the shitty end of the stick to them. Told them jail was inevitable… unless they agreed to conduct intelligence work for us."

  "I know how that all worked."

  Hammond was pleased. That saved explaining.

  "Coffee's cold' he noted, setting his cup aside. He looked to Leslie, waiting for her to volunteer to reheat it for him. She sat tight. He sighed. What was wrong with women these days? Uppity ideas. Silently, Hammond suffered deeply.

  "I'm afraid your father drew a zero on this one' said Hammond "Couldn't help us at all. Not at all. Said he thought Sandler was dead. Said we had to be barking up the wrong tree if we were looking for him.

  Yet," he said with rising eyebrows and an open gesture of both hands, 'we knew we had to be looking for Sandler. There was no one else. Your father didn't want to help."

  Thomas's question was so obvious that he knew the answer as soon as he asked.

  "Why didn't you open Sandler's grave? See whether he was dead or not?"

  "Impossible' Hammond puffed on a freshly lit cigarette. The smell of the smoke annoyed Thomas.

  "Sandler was cremated. According to his wishes. Ever try to check the dental charts of ashes?"

  A few particles from the tip of his cigarette flicked onto the floor.

  He toed them into the carpet, then grinned sheepishly.

  "Not those ashes" he said.

  Thomas felt his eyes becoming drearil@"tired. He rubbed them for a moment with his thumb and forefinger and looked back up at Leslie and Hammond, odd allies in an odder struggle.

  "So now," asked Thomas, "everyone conceded that Sandler is alive?"

  "Yes' said Hammond.

  "And we've traced the route of the counterfeits. A Romanian film company smuggles them in
and out of the country in cans which are supposed to contain undeveloped exposed film. They finance U.S. intelligence work this way. Several of their employees are Russian KGB operatives. That's who tried to kill you " "We've tended to them" said Leslie.

  "An eye for an eye. Spies are jailed. Killers are killed..

  "And Jacobus?" Thomas asked, still with in credulousness in his voice, wanting to disbelieve but unable to.

  "A KGB man, waiting for his proper chance to eliminate you. He was in with the two others who tried and failed."

  Jacobus, thought Daniels, turning over the name in his mind, and envisioning the perennially cranky custodian. He recalled how surprised Jacobus had been when Thomas arrived safely on the night of the fire. Thomas shook his head.

  "I find it incredible" he muttered.

  "Don't" said Leslie.

  "Who do you think set the fire." She let him consider it for a moment, then concluded jauntily.

  "Your dear custodian was the only one in the building. Of course he set it."

  "What was he trying to cover up in the file?"

  "Nothing. He was trying to lure you into the street' Hammond said.

  "Where your muscular neck could be perforated," mused Leslie, the expert on throat and the severing thereof Confused, he looked back and forth between the two of them.

  "But the Sandler file?" he asked.

  "It was gone' Hammond looked at Leslie and the two of them shared a wide conspiratorial grin.

  "You're a poor record keeper," she admitted. We took it."

  "Your office was burglarized about a year ago," Hammond said.

  "Right after your father died. The next day, in fact." He chuckled.

  "For an Ivy League boy you ain't got all the smarts," he mocked. aWe took six of your files. You never noticed."

  Thomas studied Hammond closely, trying to discern whatever truth or untruth was behind the mass eyes and words. Daniels's eyes moved a quarter inch and looked at Leslie.

  She spoke, reading his questioning thoughts.

  "It's true' she said.

  "I suppose we can't make you believe it, but-' "Why didn't they try to rob my files?" Thomas asked.

  Hammond answered.

  "They probably, did," he said.

  "Jacobus was akin to the keeper at the gates. The' watchman. He had keys to all the offices" Hammond said. He ran his hand across his chin.

  "I suppose he went into your father's files, looked around, and didn't see what he wanted. That made them think that you had hidden everything.

  They figured that in time you could be pressed and would reveal where the files were. But then Victoria Sandler died.

  People would be going into that old mansion eventually. They had to act in a hurry. You had to be silenced, just in case. They couldn't study you any longer."

  "Study me?" Thomas felt a distaste in his stomach, a sense of having been on the plate of a microscope without knowing it. Christ, how much of his private life had been prowled into? All of it?

  "Of course," said Hammond.

  "We've studied you, too." He glanced at Leslie.

  "Essentially, that was her endeavor. Get as close to you as possible.

  Get inside you. Get into your brain. Find out how much you knew7 "About what, damn it!" roared Thomas.

  "Would you come out and say it. What were you trying to find out?"

  "How closely you worked with your father," said Leslie bluntly.

  "How much of his business you knew. How much of his work you were planning to continue' "His legal work?"

  Hammond grimaced, as if Thomas were a slow learner. Leslie sighed.

  Thomas's eyebrows were slanted downward in an angry frown, looking from one face to the other.

  "Call it his illegal work" said Hammond flatly.

  "The espionage."

  "I never knew a damned thing about it'" he said sharply.

  "Not until"-he raised his hand and pointed rudely-'this fraud appeared in my offices and began to educate me."

  "Evidently," muttered Hammond.

  "I'm not a fraud" she answered. Thomas looked at her with anger and was about to pursue the point when Hammond spoke.

  "In any event" Hammond said, 'we're forced for the sake of expediency to assume you had no knowledge of your father's activities.

  Miss McAdam here is convinced that you ire innocent of any espionage activities."

  "Innocent?" repeated Thomas. A bizarre terminology, he thought, from one of the bastards who'd send you out to do the spying.

  "What the hell are you implying?"

  "I myself," said Hammond, standing, still rubbing a hand across his unshaven grayish chin,

  "I have my doubts about you. But there's no case against you, anyway."

  He seemed to weigh his next words in advance.

  "That's why we're taking you in with us" he concluded.

  "You might have a certain insight. You might want to help us help ourselves… to let us know your name is clear. Get my meaning?"

  "No, I don't!" snapped Thomas angrily.

  "In what? Where are we going?"

  Leslie smiled as Hammond explained with icy politeness.

  "Why, into the Sandler mansion'" he said.

  "We've broken a wall beneath the streets. We're all set to go exploring." He let the words sink in, disbelief all over Thomas's face.

  "You would like to join us tonight, wouldn't you? Now that we've made it safe for you to step out the door?"

  Thomas leaned back in his chair and felt the scratchy beard growing on his own face.

  "Why are you breaking down walls?" Thomas asked.

  "What's the?" matter with the front door "We don't wish to be seen" said Hammond icily.

  "By anyone."

  Thomas looked at Hammond, then glanced back to-Leslie.

  "The three of us? Tonight?" he asked.

  "More, if necessary," Hammond allowed.

  "I wouldn't miss it for anything' Daniels said.

  "It will allow me to answer several of my own questions."

  Chapter 33

  "I had a set of electric trains when I was a boy," Thomas said reflectively at seven minutes past two the following morning.

  "And I ran them more efficiently than these trains' The three of them, Thomas, Leslie, and Paul Hammond, stood on the downtown express platform at the Eighty-sixth, and Lexington subway station.

  The platform was not crowded, though not deserted either. A handful of early-morning stragglers waited for their late ride home.

  Thomas stood by the edge of the platform. He looked to his left, northward, into the black mouth of the underground train tunnel.

  In the distance he saw two headlights, gleaming like the eyes of an animal in the dark. A train was approaching.

  "You're missing the point," said Hammond, large bags under the Treasury agenes eyes.

  "We're not waiting for a train to arrive. We're waiting for one to leave."

  "I'd almost forgotten' Thomas muttered. He, too, was tired. He considered the Christmas day when he was eight years old, the year his father had presented him with a four-hundred-dollar set of electric trains. An elaborate setup, it had been, three engines, passenger trains, yards and yards of track, two freight trains, mountains, cities, freight depots. Then what had William Ward Daniels done?

  With his usual sensitivity, he'd prompted his son to invite in the poorest kids in the neighborhood, the better for them to see what their own parents could never afford. Better for Thomas to realize that he had so much, and the others had so little.

  He saw a uniformed transit patrolman and turned away, afraid that any police officer might recognize him.

  Leslie studied her surroundings, particularly the graffitied walls and defaced billboards.

  "What a mess" she mumbled.

  "Are all stations like this?"

  "This one's cleaner than most "Thomas explained. She looked at him and was surprised to see Ke wasn't smiling.

  The train arrived. T
hey remained on the rear of the platform.

  They waited until the subway doors had slid shut and all passengers had either embarked or disembarked. Hammond tensely studied the surroundings. The transit officer was gone. Their platform was vacant and only a bent-over black woman with a shopping bag was on the opposite side on the uptown platform.

  "Okay, now!" said Hammond tersely in a loud whisper.

  "Follow me! and don't touch the third rail or you're finished '

  Kneeling quickly on the edge of the platform, Hammond eased himself down onto the tracks. He turned and extended a hand to Leslie, who followed. Thomas slid off the platform at the same moment and let himself drop between the rails.

  "Hurry! Hurry!"

  Hammond urged.

  With Hammond leading, they jogged northward as fast as they could, just short of breaking into a run. First one block, then a second. Hammond was obviously winded already. Leslie kept pace well while Thomas, anxious as well as excited, was starting to lose wind, also.

  Two headlights appeared ahead of them, several blocks off.

  "Duck in here I " Hammond instructed quickly. They stepped from the rails into a side booth, designed to protect workers on a track as a train passed through.

  They waited, out of sight.

  "That one's early, damn it," snorted Hammond, panting slightly.

  "With the cutbacks they're only supposed to be traveling twelve minutes apart at this hour."

  "Maybe the last one was late" Leslie suggested.

  Hammond shrugged. The train passed. Thomas watched it disappear toward the illuminated Eighty-sixth Street station. Hammond then urged them on a final block of tracks. Then they cut through a side corridor and slid upward through a small crawl space under Eighty-ninth Street for at least fifty yards.

  The passage was unspeakably dirty and sooty. Hammond led the way with a flashlight he'd produced from his coat. The smell was foul and suggested stale urine.

  "Don't mind the stench" said Hammond.

  "We're above the sewer.

  Not in it."

  "I'm grateful for the small amenities:' Thomas retorted. He glanced at Leslie, who, slid in front of him, between the two men.

  "No place to bring a lady," Thomas chided. No time at all to joke;

  Thomas was concealing his claustrophobia. All four walls were just inches from him on each side. He felt as if the walls would suddenly spring in on him in the shadows and darkness, gripping him and holding him. Apparently, it didn't bother Leslie. Compared with having your throat cut, he reasoned, it wasn't much, after all.