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.

"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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sengers. 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 b.u.t.ton for the top floor.

Thomas pushed the b.u.t.ton 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 pa.s.sed 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.