'Leslie 'You certainly took steps to protect her. But why after all those years did Sandler feel that he had to come back and kill a wife and daughter? That makes no sense, either.'
'Vaguely, it does,' said Whiteside.
'But only when considered from a certain angle, and conceding that with Sandler one isn't always dealing with a rational man' 'Can you elaborate?' asked Thomas.
'This is merely speculation, but maybe we never knew the full story of the post marital breakup. Perhaps there was a good reason why Sandler never returned to her after the war. Thus he could have been infuriated that she'd claim part of his 'estate' after he was 'dead.' '
'Maybe,' said Thomas.
'But why wait so long?'
'She initiated the contact,' Whiteside said. His hands were busily working a small Canary Islands cigar out of a compact gold case.
He took the cigar in his lips, lit it, and was enshrouded by a mild white cloud of smoke as he continued to talk.
'Perhaps Sandler had believed her to be long lost and forgotten. Or perhaps he thought she'd been killed during the war. Maybe he doubted that the daughter was his.' Whiteside shrugged.
'I don't know,' he said.
'And from my standpoint, it's not all that important.'
'Not to you, maybe. But there's something big that's still missing.'
'Granted.'
'He loved Elizabeth Chatsworth enough during the war to want to provide for her in the case of his death. Then suddenly after the war he's totally oblivious to her. British and American intelligence knew he was a spy and helped cover him up. Right?' Whiteside nodded absently.
'Then this same man wants to come back and kill his wife and daughter nine years later.' Thomas was shaking his head.
'There are large pieces of this missing' he concluded.
Whiteside managed a pained smile.
'Larger than you imagine he said.
'Particularly in view of this woman who has come to you in New York Thomas frowned.
'Meaning what?'
Whiteside rubbed his hands together gently, then flicked a small tip of ashes into an ashtray. He stood.
'Come along,' he said.
'We're going for a ride. I want to show you something' Thomas stood and let Whiteside lead him to the door.
'Should I bother to ask where we're going?' he asked.
'This should be of interest to you,' he said.
'I'm taking you to see Leslie McAdam.'
The car was still at the curb in front of the stone townhouse. The tall, austere Whiteside stepped from the building first and immediately the driver slipped back into the car. The Rover began moving through congested London traffic. A few minutes later the windshield wipers were turned on and silently kept a fine rain from obstructing the driver's view.
Twenty minutes later the Rover eased to a stop in a subdued neighborhood bordering Earl's Court and Kensington. Whiteside and Thomas stepped from the car. They were on a quiet street with little traffic, trees, clean sidewalks, and a small church.
'The Chapel of St. Michael the Redeemer,' said Whiteside.
'Peaceful, I suppose, though I've never much cared for Presbyterians' '
The driver remained with the car.
'Come with me,' said Whiteside to Thomas.
They walked through a side door to the small, modest neighborhood church. The rector saw Whiteside and the two men exchanged nods. No word was spoken. Thomas reasoned that the church might have a small group of Anglo-Scottish parishioners. But he was only guessing.
They walked through the chapel, up the aisle, and then past the altar.
Whiteside led Thomas out another side door which led into an old churchyard with weather-worn tombstones, a few ornate but most of them modest. The headstones marked the resting places of humble working people from the neighborhood. There was a steady cold drizzle now.
'I was always very fond of Leslie McAdam' Whiteside said in a moment of unconcealed candor.
'A frightened little girl most of her life ' He looked at Thomas as the rain fell on his angular face and dripped down to his beige Aquascutum raincoat. He wore no hat.
Whiteside's hair was matted and soaked.
'Man to man, old boy,' he said,
'I guess I saw in her the daughter I would always have liked to have had. Are you married?'
'Divorced.'
'I see', he answered, as if suddenly enlightened. He added as an afterthought,
'I was never of the temperament to marry.' His smile was wry.
'A bit of a public-school vice, you understand.' He motioned to a modern tombstone in the newest section of the churchyard.
'Here we are,' he said.
Thomas looked down and stood absolutely motionless as he read the inscription in gothic letters: LESLIE McADAm 1945-1974 He stared at the stone disbelievingly, then lifted his gaze back to the older man.
Whiteside was studying his reaction, conscious that he'd just thrown his trump card. Several moments more passed before Thomas spoke.
'What's this supposed to mean?' he asked.
'It means that a man with counterfeit money also has a counterfeit daughter,' said Whiteside. The rain continued to fall on his face. His expression was twisted in confusion also.
'Albeit'' he added, 'as usual Arthur Sandler's counterfeit is, well, perfect.'
'Perfect?'
'The story you told George McAdam in Switzerland. It damned well made poor old George's blood go cold. The story was perfect.
Not a word out of place. Every detail. Things that only Leslie would have known. Your girl in New York. She knows them all. I'll be bloody well struck dumb before I can figure out how that's possible. ' Thomas looked down at the headstone again, at the wet grass growing around it and the long convex mound of earth upon the grave.
'How do I know that there's anything really under there?' he asked.
'You don't. But I do. And I'd have no reason to waste time lying to you. Would you like to see the coroner's report? I could arrange it for you. It's a fitting day for it.'
'Are you sure you buried the right girl?'
'Yes' he said flatly.
'May of 1974. The real Leslie McAdam is dead.'
Thomas squinted slightly from the rain.
'Sandler?' he asked.
'We think so. She was in London visiting and about to return to Canada. She was staying in a flat in Bloomsbury. Protected by the Foreign Office, yet. Found with her throat slashed one morning.
Shall I go on?'
'Only if you want to' said Thomas.
'Well,' huffed Whiteside, pulling his overcoat closer as the drizzle thickened, 'from our point of view there's an awful lot still at stake.
There's the murder of this girl and a still-unsolved murder of her mother from 1954. Unfinished business you might call it, not of the highest priority but important nevertheless ' As Whiteside spoke, Thomas was silent. He pictured Leslie McAdam in New York. Someone-if not everyone-was lying mightily.
Whiteside continued.
