to so many potential interpretations. And both stories, the De Septio story and the Sandler story, had been almost side by side within the same day's newspaper. November 12, 1954. But with no apparent link.
On that crisp day in November, some twenty-one years before Thomas Daniels sat in a grim quiet newspaper archive piecing together forgotten events, a man thought to be Arthur Sandler -who, like De Septio had been a counterfeiter in his day-had been gunned down on a fashionable Manhattan side street.
On the day thereafter, De Septio had been issued from Washington, D.C. a pardon exonerating him from all crimes past and present, thus ending his problems with the local Assistant U.S. Attorney.
And even more cryptic, noted Thomas Daniels, was what followed.
Nothing. A gap which 'tended to the present.
After the thirteenth of November, 1954, Vincent De Septio was never seen or heard from again.
Without question, the Vincent De Septio affair was the major case before Zenger and Daniels that year, perhaps their most important case in the 1950s. But Thomas would never have drawn the De Septio connection-at all had it not been for one word, one forever-unproven charge which drifted like a phantom through the accounts of the case.
Counterfeiting.
Chapter 21
An eskimo, Thomas thought to himself. She must think I'm a God-damned eskimo.
He shivered against the railing to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. His back was to the massive brutal skyline of Manhattan and he looked both ways, waiting for her. Waiting for Leslie at eight P.M. that next evening. And the winter wind, sweeping across the unprotected Promenade, was freezing him.
Each time he breathed, the cold breath he drew in almost hurt his lungs. And the flesh of his face was stinging-actually stinging from the cold. He looked up and down the Promenade again, seeing only one isolated stroller and another man crazy enough to walk his dog in such weather. Thomas envied the dog its fur coat.
What was wrong? The note he'd received had given this location, the Promenade just off Pineapple Street, at eight P.M. Where was she? What had happened? Yes, he admitted, he was worried about her. Worried about her physical safety. He began to walk up and down the Promenade again, four hundred yards down and back, just to move around and keep warm. Keep warm and think.
The man with the dog, a German shepherd, passed him, white clouds of frosty breath appearing before the man's face and the dos paws. Holy Christ, it was cold out there!
He'd like to build a fire, Thomas thought. Yes, that was it. He agreed with himself, a nice big raging log fire in a six-foot fireplace.
And he'd curl up in front of it with with…
Well, yes. With Leslie.
He'd surprised himself. Leslie? It used to be Andrea, the prime candidate for accompaniment at a cozy fireside He couldn't stand the wind in his face anymore. He turned and started walking the other way, up the Promenade now, with the wind at his back and with his gloved hands clenched into fists and shoved uncomfortably into his pockets.
Leslie? Well, yes, damn it! Of course he cared about her.
Personally.
How could he not? Bad, bad, bad, he told himself, shivering and now convinced he would freeze to death out there overlooking the cargo docks and the mouth of the East River.
Bad, real bad. First thing his father ever taught him: Don't get personally involved with a client. It blinds you, Tom. Might just as well gouge your own eyes out. You stop seeing.
His head was down against the cold and he continued to walk.
Then he saw feet. He raised his head quickly and saw a figure fifteen feet in front of him.
And then all worry about her safety or his own personal involvement with her vanished.
'Leslie' he said.
'I'm sorry. I'm late.' She was clad in a dirk coat, and the fair and lovely face was masked partially by a wool scarf.
'it happens' he shrugged. He didn't mind the cold so much for a few moments. His instinct was to go to her and embrace her. But he refrained. She was, after all, a client.
'You weren't worried, were you?' she asked.
'I figured you'd turn up. I just put my mind to waiting' He moved the final few steps next to her. They began to walk, following the railing and with Manhattan at their sides. Manhattan's lights glittered.
'I could have picked a warmer place,' she conceded.
'You couldn't have picked a colder one.'
'You've never been to Quebec in February,' she said. They were walking close by each' other side now.
'You win. I haven't,' he said, turning to look at the woman within the shrouding scarf and bulky coat.
'This is a business meeting,' he said.
'Would a warming arm around your shoulders offend you?'
She looked at him and laughed, one of those rare times when he'd seen her smile.
'My God' she said.
'Don't be silly. No arm offered at all is what would of fen me.' Her British intonation disappeared into a faint, short laugh and his arm around her shoulders held her tightly.
'I discovered something important, I think he said. He could still feel her shivering. She said nothing so he continued.
'Vincent De Septio:' he offered.
'Who?'
'Vinnie the Parrot?' he persisted.
'The name means nothing?'
She shook her head and looked at him. She reached to her scarf and rearranged it slightly.
'Who is he?' she asked.
'I wish I knew.' He paused for a moment, then began.
'I've found a lot on your father. Yes, he was a spy, just as you say.
But everything he did also seemed to advance his own position monetarily.
You know about the currency speculations. Chances are he was into counterfeiting, also.'
'I wouldn't doubt it'' she said calmly.
'De Septio was a much younger man. Chances are he could still be alive. He was in the same rackets as your father.'
'You're sure?'
'Yes,' he said firmly.
'But that's about all I know. That and the fact that my father successfully defended him several times.'
'Your father and my father,' she noted wryly.
'Strange how the two of them continue to crop up together. What's the French phrase,
'For a good cat, a good rat'?' She paused for a moment.
'Thomas,' she asked, 'tell me honestly. How well did you know your father?'
'How well did I know my own father?' he asked with incredulity.
'Yes 'I knew him well,' he said with a tone of exasperation, as if the answer were so self-evident that it hadn't deserved being asked.
'Very well? His beliefs? Do you think you knew his innermost thoughts?'
His face twisted into a scowl. She knew she'd have to retreat slightly.
'What kind of grilling is this?' he asked.
'It's important' she said.
'Everything is your father this, my father that. First it was the link between us and the will. Now it's the link between De Septio and us.
