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Her fears were to be confirmed later that morning.

There were grey clouds and stinging gusts of wind at the beach. Janice was sitting on the blanket, watching Ivy at the shoreline pitching shells into the boiling surf, when a sudden strong gust blew a speck of sand into her eye causing it to water furiously. Her hand felt its way to her tote bag for Kleenex, and after groping about and finding none, she looked down and discovered she was rummaging about in Ivy’s tote bag by accident.

She came upon the train schedule almost at once - a printed leaflet offered by the New York, New Haven and Hartford, listing train arrivals and departures between New York and Westport. The pain in her eye forgotten, Janice hurriedly continued to go through the tote bag, darting surreptitious glances at Ivy still at the water’s edge with her back turned, and drew out the blue satin hand-painted purse. She found the ten-dollar bill in a plastic folder tucked between two pictures, one of Janice and one of Bill.

An aura of doom closed around her as she conveyed both money and train schedule to her own purse, bringing a darkening pall to the lemon-bright day.

Janice knew that her daughter had taken both items from her purse, by her own conscious act or as the unconscious instrument of Audrey Rose’s desperate need to return to the city.

There was a way to find out, and when Ivy came walking towards her, her face ivory-pale, her eyes downcast, introspective, Janice casually asked, ‘Shall we go home, darling?’

‘To the hotel?’

‘No, to the city, to Daddy.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to?’

‘No, not now, please!’ she cried in a burst of passion that was obviously sincere. ‘I must go back to school. There are so many things happening right now that I can’t miss. Tomorrow’s the crowning, and afterwards there’ll be a party in the rec room. It’s all we’ve talked about for weeks! Please, Mom, don’t take me back!’

She had slowly descended to her knees, bringing her tearful, beseeching face to close proximity to Janice’s.

‘Okay, okay,’ Janice soothed, reaching out to wipe a tear from the pale and worried face. ‘Of course, you can stay.’

Gazing into the blue eyes that met hers so candidly, the serious, yet tender mouth, she could feel no doubt at all about who the thief had been - and why.

*

Janice arrived in Grand Central Station on the seven five and quickly found a cab outside the loading ramp on Vanderbilt Avenue.

Having bought a late-edition Post in the station, she scanned the headlines, finding, in the rising and falling light of street-lamps and shopwindows, nothing of interest on the front page.

The story, however, filled page three, continued on pages thirty-seven and eight, and was replete with sketches covering the highlights of the morning’s mayhem.

A small box in the centre of the page told of James Beardsley Hancock’s heart attack and contained a quotation from Dr John Whiting, a cardiologist in the intensive care unit at Roosevelt Hospital. ‘His condition is critical, but he seems to be holding his own. The next twelve hours will tell.’

Entering the lobby of Des Artistes, Janice had the feeling of having been away for months. Mario’s greeting was effusive, as was Dominick’s as they rode up the elevator. There was a flush of victory in the air, the kind of jubilant delirium that follows a war’s end.

She even found Bill sparkling, flushed with the day’s success and in a celebrating mood, which was totally unexpected. She had prepared herself for a sullen and quarrelsome evening and was, instead, greeted with festive gaiety and lingering kisses. After her trials of the past twenty-four hours this was precisely what she needed.

The bridge table had been lovingly set for two before the fireplace, crackling and sputtering and exuding a pine-scented warmth. A magnum of Taittinger was icing frostily in the bucket. Large red apples, a wheel of Brie, and a crispy cold roast duck in foil tray garnished with minted greens awaited their appetites. Janice was overcome.

‘How lovely,’ she said.

Bill grinned and twirled the bottle in its bucket. He seemed sober, which meant he had slept since they talked. He was dressed in pyjamas and robe and was gazing at her longingly.

‘Hurry down,’ he said, with a meaning that didn’t escape her.

Bill timed it so that the cork popped as Janice, fresh and scented and in filmy, flowing peignoir, descended the staircase.

The first toast was to success.

‘Pel Simmons called,’ he told her, chuckling. ‘The old boy was really fractured by the day’s events - couldn’t stop laughing - kept congratulating me over and over, as if I’d had anything to do with it. Good to hear, though,’ he added, draining his glass. ‘Restores the faith.’

He topped off their glasses. The second toast was to health -theirs and Ivy’s.

We’ve all been through a hell of a lot,’ he said, his expression hardening, ‘too damn much. But it’ll be over soon. The seven o’clock news had Hancock sinking fast, poor old guy.’

The tragic face he affected failed to camouflage the note of exultation in his voice.

‘The defence is scrambling for cover. Velie tells me two lawyers spent the afternoon down at the hospital trying to con the doctors into allowing them to set up a deposition, but Hancock’s on “critical,” and chances are they never will.’ Bill grinned. ‘Desperation time.’

He refilled his own glass.

‘It will be over, you know,’ he assured Janice. ‘All we have to do now is sit tight and keep our cool. Mack’s run out of time and people. Velie said that Hoover rejected his last expert witness - you know the one, that woman on the talk shows - the witch.’ Bill laughed. ‘Can’t say I blame the nut. Probably the best decision he’s made so far. With their luck she’d probably put a hex on the court - turn Langley into a goddamn bat - he’s half bats already—’

Janice maintained a careful noncommittal smile that she hoped would conceal her shock at the callousness of his remarks.

‘By this time tomorrow it’ll all be over but the shouting,’ he went on thickly, putting down his glass and approaching her. ‘And when it finally is, there’s a hell of a lot of making up I’m gonna have to do to you. I know what I’ve been, Janice. And what I haven’t been.’

Janice felt herself stiffen in his arms as he kissed her, and she tried to repress it, tried to relax, but failed. Bill either didn’t sense it or didn’t care.

They made love on the rug, unsatisfactorily, then ate in silence and went to bed.

Bill fell asleep before Janice.

At three o’clock in the afternoon of that same day Brice Mack, laden down with hat, overcoat, and bulging briefcase, left the interviewing room and began to walk down the long Spartan corridors towards the elevators. His gait was sluggish as his head was aching, and the glaring fluorescents, reflecting hot and bright off the enamelled walls hurt his eyes. His underclothing clung damply to his skin, and his face felt clammy and feverish.

He was suffering all the usual symptoms of another claustrophobic bout with Hoover; only this time, instead of dissipating, the symptoms seemed to linger and to escalate. He smiled wanly and reflected on what his blood pressure must be at this moment and decided he wouldn’t care to know.

The meeting had been a normal one - predictable and totally bizarre. He knew in advance there would be no way to make his client understand the direness of their situation, that they were down to the wire and would lose the case unless they acted with boldness and daring.

‘You don’t seem to understand,’ insisted Mack anxiously. ‘There’s nobody left. By the time Professor Ahmanson finds a replacement for Hancock, it’ll be too late - unless we bring in Marion Worthman as a stopgap. I can keep her going for days.’

Hoover’s eyes narrowed to cynical slits, minutely studying the perspiring attorney.

‘Don’t worry so much, lawyer,’ he said imperiously, then added cryptically, ‘this case won’t be won by Mrs Worthman’s presence, nor will it be lost by her absence. Whether you believe it or not, the verdict is already in. It was written long before you entered the case.’

The remark had literally flabbergasted Brice Mack. For a moment he thought he would burst out laughing. It could not be said that life till now with Elliot Hoover had been entirely logical or sane, but this - this was pure, unadulterated, looney-bin talk.

‘I wouldn’t know about that, Mr Hoover,’ Mack had replied. ‘I don’t try my cases with a crystal ball. I’m forced to rely on the plain, ordinary, everyday methods prescribed by Sir William Blackstone.’

Hoover was neither impressed nor offended by the remark and, seeming to dismiss it entirely, hunched forward across the table with an arch smile and softly confided to Mack, ‘A great man once said, “Coincidence, traced back far enough, becomes the inevitable.” What happened today, for example, the gross and shameful degradation of a saint; the sudden illness of a key witness - these were not simply arbitrary occurrences, but necessary steps in a larger and infinitely complex movement of events that will inevitably lead to a predetermined conclusion, the nature of which will ultimately be revealed to us in its own good time. There is nothing you or I can do to alter its course. It is clear to me now that the case you so carefully planned and structured was always doomed to fail. In other words, you have tried to manipulate the unmanipulatable. Goaded on by personal ambition, you have tinkered with the workings of a force far beyond the scope of your knowledge and have been soundly repudiated. There is no further need for you to ponder, plan, or toil in my behalf. All matters will attend to themselves, so just sit back and relax. The machine purrs smoothly under its own management. Even now, as we sit and chat, forces are aligning themselves to feed its forward momentum and bring about those events and those people who will bear witness to my innocence and render justice in my behalf.’

A wacky, though comforting philosophy, Mack reflected while waiting for the elevator to arrive. Yes, a comforting philosophy until one pinned it down to just who ‘those people’ were. It sure as hell wouldn’t be the Templetons, even allowing Hoover’s boy scout faith in the basic honesty and integrity of Janice Templeton. Nor would his salvation descend on him like a bolt of lightning from a smiling sky. The attorney found himself chuckling. Miracles yet! If such things were possible, who’d need lawyers? Sit back and relax, he’d said. Sure, in the poorhouse, because they’d all be out of jobs.

While at the time these thoughts were simply an exercise in frustration, they would remain in the lawyer’s memory the rest of his life, for just as one elevator arrived, so did a second one, discharging Reggie Brennigan. Later Mack would puzzle deeply over the coincidence of the two cars arriving at precisely the same time and of the detective stepping out of one just as he stepped into the other, each failing to see the other until Mack turned and caught a fleeting glimpse of frayed coat collar, stained and battered hat, and thick red neck through the closing slit of his elevator door. Later he would ponder over the split-second decision to thrust his arm through the narrowing breach.

‘Ah! There you are, me boy.’ The old cop exuded a stale, winey breath into Mack’s face.

‘Where the hell’ve you been?’ the lawyer grumbled in distaste and nausea.

‘Places,’ wheezed Brennigan with a sly grin, and tapped his coat pocket significantly. Then, pointing towards the men’s room at the end of the corridor, he added, ‘Shall we step into the presidential suite?’ His pale and watery eyes attempted a twinkle and failed.

A few minutes later Mack found himself inside a toilet booth behind a locked door, reluctantly sitting on the commode with his trousers lowered, all at Brennigan’s insistence, ‘for the sake of appearances, you know…’ The detective occupied the adjoining booth, sitting similarly, and only after carefully judging that the coast was clear, did he slip his find to Brice Mack through the space at the bottom of the separating wall.

The several dozen photo blow-ups were of such poor quality that the lawyer could hardly make them out in the poorly lit stall. They were photographs of documents, to be sure, written in a quick, scratchy hand that, under the best of circumstances, would have been difficult to read. Riffling through the batch, Mack paused at one and felt his heart skip a beat. It was a photograph of a manila file folder with the name ‘Templeton’ printed boldly across the tab.

During the next five minutes, the lawyer, having forced his perceptions beyond the limit of their powers, was able to wring enough data out of the documents to convince him that herein lay the bulwark of his case: the much-needed missing element.

His face was hot and flushed, and his voice cracked when finally he spoke to Brennigan.

‘Is this stuff legitimate?’

The detective chortled hollowly back through the wall separating them.

‘Is a pig’s pussy pork?’

‘Jesus! Where’d you find it?’

‘Where it’s been sitting these seven years - in the file room of the Park East Psychiatric Clinic on One Hundred Sixth Street and Fifth Avenue.’

‘Jesus!’ The excitement in Brice Mack’s voice was beyond restraint. ‘How the hell did you get in? I mean … how’d you get these photos?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘No,’ the lawyer said quickly, and heard Brennigan laugh, and then heard a small slurping sound as the detective swallowed something from a bottle. ‘Did you talk to this Dr Vas-sar?’

‘No, she’s dead. I spoke with a doctor named Perez, a young talkative spic who used to assist her. Knows all about the case.’

‘Jesus—’ was all Mack could say.

At this point, someone came into the men’s room and noisily entered a stall at the far end. During the five minutes of enforced silence, Brice Mack’s emotions ran the gamut from delirious enthusiasm to numbing despondency. After the interloper had flushed, washed, combed, whistled a strain from ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone,’ and left, the lawyer unloaded his despair on to the old cop.

‘We’ll never be able to get this into the evidence. It’s a privileged communication.’

A soft, wheezing laugh which, at first, the lawyer mistook for a strained and flaccid fart preceded the appearance at the base of the wall of still another batch of documents, which, incredibly, turned out to be a Xeroxed copy of a 1040 form for the year 1967 - the joint return of William P. and Janice Templeton.