Part 45 (1/2)
Strange, he thought, how she constantly turned each question, putting him back on the defensive. He would have expected it from another attorney or an investigator of some sort. But not from a scholar and aspiring artist.
”My father never talked to me about Arthur Sandler,” Thomas answered, jostled again from behind by a large balding man jockeying for position near the painting. Thomas took Leslie's arm and led her to a less crowded section.
”Never at all?” Her eyes were sharply probing.
He considered it briefly and seriously.
”No” he said, searching his memory.
”Other clients from time to time. But never Arthur Sandler.”
”I see” she said thoughtfully, as if his words had been meaningful.
They'began to examine other paintings, more absorbed in their discussion now than in what they viewed. He tried a different line of questioning. Every once in a while he would look at her, want to believe her, and see the tombstone in the London churchyard.
”What about the British government?” he asked casually.
”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 a.s.semblage. Thomas was conscious of no one in particular other than the man with the cigar who'd b.u.mped 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.