'Labour,' she said.
'Unfortunately, I support the Liberals.'
'That's not what I mean, as I'm sure you know.'
'Sorry,' she apologized.
'I don't mean to be flippant. But what's the question?'
'Your foster father,' he said.
'Or that man you said you knew in British Intelligence. What's his name?'
'Peter Whiteside?'
'Yes' he said. They were walking in the general direction of an elevator which led upstairs. They politely edged their way through the assemblage. Thomas was conscious of no one in particular other than the man with the cigar who'd bumped him once before.
The man was now waving a checkbook at the gallery's manager and loudly trying to bargain on a price.
'McAdam and Whiteside. What help would they be?'
'None at all' she said.
'They're both dead. Shah we go upstairs?'
'Dead?'
'Dead,' she repeated.
'It's a condition that sets in as soon as the heart stops.'
'You never told me Whiteside was dead She looked at him curiously.
'You never asked)' she countered, frowning.
'Why? Why is it important?'
He shook his head.
'Dead since when?' he demanded.
They stood by the elevator and waited. All three of them were dead, Leslie. and the two others, depending on whom one asked.
Funny thing was, they all looked healthy. He studied her carefully, just as he'd study a witness on the stand, trying to discern not just whether she was lying.
'Dead how? And why?'
'My God, you're persistent)' she said, irritated.
'I thought we could relax and look at a few paintings.'
'You hired me. Remember?'
'Sorry,' she said. He saw that she twisted her hands nervously for just a moment. Then she seemed to catch herself. She held her handbag, covering her anxiety.
'It's an unpleasant subject,' she said.
'They were the only two men I could trust. I'll explain.'
'Please' he said.
The elevator arrived, returning from upstairs with six aboard. It was a small elevator, the sort one finds added into narrow older buildings.
Two steel doors opened, sliding each way from the center, to disgorge the passengers. Thomas and Leslie waited for the six to step out, then boarded the elevator themselves. They were followed by two meaty businessmen who pushed past them within the small elevator and stood behind them. Leslie eyed them nervously. One man carried a brown woolen scarf in his thick hands. The other leaned across and pushed the button for the top floor.
Thomas pushed the button for three. The door closed. Thomas looked at Leslie and she exchanged a glance with him, one that said they'd continue their discussion outside the elevator. Thomas gave a slight nod and the elevator passed the second floor.
The elevator rattled as part of its standard operating procedure.
Then it jerked to a hesitant halt at three. The steel doors jolted open quickly. Thomas allowed Leslie to step out first.
Thomas stepped out of the elevator. Then at the same instant that he heard the doors start to close, the brown scarf suddenly looped downward over his head.
It caught him around the throat and yanked him backward toward the elevator.
He gagged and fell against the closed door of the elevator, his hands and fingers digging at his throat.'
The scarf, tight as a hangman's noose around his neck, was still being held from within the elevator, but was also being clutched within the steel doors. The elevator began to rise.
He kicked and banged. Leslie whirled, gasping. The scarf was pulling him upward. In five more seconds his neck would be crushed. He flailed with his feet, but it was no use. He was being lifted off the ground. He could sense his death.
From the corners of his bulging eyes he could see Leslie, frozen where she stood.
She didn't scream. She didn't panic.
What the hell's she doing? he thought. Standing! Watching! She drew me here for this!
Suddenly she bolted toward him, tearing open her purse.
He saw something flash in her hand, and he saw it was a blade.
Her hand went to his throat and the knife dug -not into his flesh, but behind him. The blade practically knicked his ear, and he could hear it bite at the steel door.
She slashed. Once. Twice. A third time and he was falling, awkwardly pinning an ankle beneath him.
He gasped and coughed violently. She'd cut the scarf, slashing him free. His throat felt as if it had been run over by a truck. Her hand was on his back, making sure he could breathe. Tears were on his cheeks. His eyes, which had felt as if they were going to explode out of his head, were flooding.
He could later remember his first thought. Not of fear, not of perverse exhilaration at having been nearly killed. It was fury.
Those two men. He wanted to grab her knife and charge after them, using the stairs to corner them on the floor above.
He tried to rise.
'Easy, easy,' she said, holding him. He still tried to stand. But his legs were rubbery and he couldn't get up. He continued to cough, almost retching with each convulsion of his windpipe. She clicked the knife closed with one hand and shoved it into a coat pocket with remarkable dexterity. No one else had seen it.
No one, in fact, had seen anything.
'Yes' she said, almost in a whisper.
'You're all right Her voice was as soft as the hand on his shoulder.
'Let them go. They failed.
Don't go after them' He was still coughing. A horrified crowd was gathering, asking what had happened. A man in a dark suit, in charge of the floor, pushed his way through and asked if he could help.
Leslie explained.
'His scarf caught in the elevator,' she said.
'It's all right now.'
There were gasps, mostly from women.
'Careless' Thomas heard a man's voice mutter.
'Ought to be more careful.' Thomas tried to rise. His legs were still unsteady and disobedient. He continued to cough violently and uncontrollably. And the one voice which he continued to hear was Leslie's, close by his ear, in a protective English whisper, repeating soothingly,
'It's all right now; take your time. Wait till you can breathe comfortably and for God's sake don't say anything.'
He was happy he could still breathe. Talking could wait.
Chapter 17
