'Uh huh' he said.
Studiously, she drew back her head and looked at him.
'Skeptical, aren't you?'
'I'm afraid so, Miss… or Mrs… 'McAdam. Leslie McAdam. And if it' matters, I'm unmarried 'What you're here to claim is that you're an heiress to the Sandler estate. Or at least part of it. Correct?'
'All I want is what's due to me,' she said.
'I can have this certificate checked,' he said.
'We both know that.
But by itself it won't be enough. Can you prove who you are? Can you prove who your parents were? Can you prove they were married?' He paused for a moment, trying to be tactful.
'What you're embarking on will take years in the courts. It's bound to be challenged by hundreds of other people, some with verifiable claims, others who are merely crackpots. It will be difficult enough to convince an attorney-including myself-to take on a case like this.
Then it will be twenty times more difficult to convince a court that your claim is justified-' 'I know.'
He said nothing. She understood the skepticism evident within the silence.
Leslie spoke.
'I have spent my life being brutalized by the facts surrounding my birth. I'm not afraid of Arthur Sandler anymore.
Whether he's dead or alive. I only want what I deserve' ' With perfect composure she unpacked a riboned group of letters from her purse.
She laid them on the desk in front of him.
'Letters, Mr. Daniels. From my father to my mother. 1942 to 1944. You may look through them now. Eventually you may have the handwriting verified. But at no time do these letters leave my possession' He glanced at the letters. Then, with interest, he fingered the stack, examining the browned envelopes, the return address and the old postmarks over British wartime stamps. If Leslie McAdam was an act, he began to concede, she was a good one. And if she was not an act, he wondered.
'There's more ' she said. He looked up.
From her purse she pulled a small aged black book.
'The frayed leather cover and gold-edged pages were well worn. Thomas recognized the book for what it was even before he saw HoLy BI] amp;LF embossed in gold on the binding.
'Open it to the inside front cover,' she said. And she handed him the Bible.
Thomas took the book with his right hand. His eyes left Leslie.
He examined the Bible with genuine interest, opening it as she had instructed. He could in no way stifle the deep chill he suddenly felt when he read what was before him.
Bound into the Bible's front cover was a marriage certificate.
Enscrolled, embellished, and fully notarized, it was dated October 20, 1944, Arthur Sandler of New York and Elizabeth Ann Chatsworth of Tiverton, bound in holy matrimony at St. George's Chapel in the Devon township of North Fenwick. The names of two witnesses were signed to the certificate. A third signature appeared at bottom, to the far right. The signature was that of Jonathan Phillip Moore, D.D.' the pastor.
Thomas examined the document for almost a full minute. Then, with increasing intrigue, he glanced through the Bible. He noted the Roman numerals on the title page.
ANNO DOMINI MCMXLII, it said. Printed in Great Britain, 1942.
He looked up at her. His skepticism was diminished, but not dismissed.
'Anything else?' he asked.
'You're probably wondering why I didn't come forward in 1954' she said.
'It crossed my mind-' he said.
Leslie McAdam pus@ed back the light-brown hair which almost touched her shoulders. She pushed the hair behind her ears, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. She reached to the at her throat, untied it, and pulled it away with one graceful motion.
'Lean forward, Mr. Daniels. The light here is not the best She looked directly at him and opened the collar of her blouse.
She exposed the bare white flesh of her throat, the area formerly covered by the pale-blue scarf. She craned her head slightly to allow him a clear view of her neck.
Thomas could see a long thin line of reddish-pink scar tissue which circled the midpoint of her throat. It was readily visible against her delicate skin.
'Piano wire, Mr. Daniels,' she said.
'It can make rather a mess of a nine-year-old girl's skin.'
Thomas looked at her without speaking.
'It's something else my father gave me,' she said.
'My best memory of him. 1954. Alive enough in that year to attempt to garrotte mee.'
She let Thomas gaze at her damaged throat. He could envision the razor-sharp wire digging into her flesh, savaging the jugular vein and unleashing a red torrent of blood. He no longer wondered if she was telling the truth. He wondered why she was alive.
She let the collar fall into place again, gently retied the scarf, and modestly rebuttoned her blouse. She hadn't lost her composure in the slightest. Thomas was able to regain his.
Several seconds passed. She looked to the birth certificate, the Bible, and the timeworn letters on his desk. She did not exude patience. Nor did she appear to be a woman who'd be in any way swayed from her appointed mission. She was again conscious of the faint, stale smell of smoke as she broke the silence.
'I'm here to collect my inheritance, Mr. Daniels' she said.
'And I'm afraid you're the only one who can help me.'
'Why me?'
'Because of your father. And his relationship to my father.'
'There are other attorneys in New York,' he said.
'Men much better than I.'
She was already shaking her head, shaking it with a definitiveness and a finality which did not suggest-it stated. The decision was made. To look at her one saw delicacy and perhaps what might be mistaken for a feminine form of tenderness. But within there was a spirit as resistant as an anvil, as insistent as a hammer.
'You see,' she began,
'I'm a scholar and an artist. I have the inquisitive temperament of one, the creative instincts of the other.
But I'm also the daughter of a vicious man. Arthur Sandler. I have some of his blood, too. I know how to hate.'
'I hope you also know how to explain,' he said.
'I'm not following this. I'm sorry.' And, seeking now to keep an emotional and intellectual distance between them, he tried to tell her of his decision to leave the practice of law.
She interrupted.
'I'm here to ask you to fulfill two roles' she said.
'Attorney and detective.'
'Neither suits me ' 'Don't be too certain. People's marks in life have a way of finding them' 'Do they?'
'That's what I've always observed. What is it that Camus said?A man gets the face he deserves'? I've always thought a man or woman also gets the mother he or she deserves' ' He shook his head.
'Very, very wrong' he said.
'I've spent the last eight years resisting this profession. Want to know the truth?
I've been burned out here. Want to know the real truth? Secretly I'm happy about it!'
'Happy?'
'It's my out. These files, these records which my father and Adolph Zenger spent a lifetime building. They're nothing now.
Nothing. Wiped out.' An elusive smile crossed his face.
'It's like a clean slate' he said.
