DESMOND BAGLEY

Windfall

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Collins 1981

Copyright © Brockhurst Publications 1981

Cover layout design Richard Augustus © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Desmond Bagley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780008211356

Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008211363

Version: 2017-07-05

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Windfall

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

WINDFALL

To JAN HEMSING and an unknown number of Kenyan cats

ONE

It is difficult to know when this business began. Certainly it was not with Ben Hardin. But possibly it began when Jomo Kenyatta instructed the Kenyan delegation to the United Nations to lead a move to expel South Africa from the UN. That was on the 25th of October, 1974, and it was probably soon thereafter that the South Africans decided they had to do something about it.

Max Stafford himself dated his involvement to the first day back at the London office after an exhaustive, and exhausting, trip around Europe—Paris, Frankfurt, Hamburg, Amsterdam, Milan. Three years earlier he had decided that since his clients were multinational he, perforce, would also have to go multinational. It had been a hard slog setting up the European offices but now Stafford Security Consultants, as well as sporting the tag ‘Ltd’ after the company name, had added ‘SA’, ‘GmbH’, ‘SpA’ and a couple of other assortments of initials. Stafford was now looking with a speculative eye across the Atlantic in the hope of adding ‘Inc’.

He paused in the ante-room of his office. ‘Is Mr Ellis around?’

Joyce, his secretary, said, ‘I saw him five minutes ago. Did you have a good trip?’

‘Wearing, but good.’ He put a small package on her desk. ‘Your favourite man-bait from Paris; Canal something-or-other. I’ll be in Mr Ellis’s office until further notice.’

Joyce squeaked. ‘Thanks, Mr Stafford.’

Jack Ellis ran the United Kingdom operation. He was young, but coming along nicely, and ran a taut ship. Stafford had promoted him to the position when he had made the decision to move into Europe. It had been risky using so young a man in a top post where he would have to negotiate with some of the stuffier and elderly Chairmen of companies, but it had worked out and Stafford had never regretted it.

They talked for a while about the European trip and then Ellis looked at his watch. ‘Bernstein will be here any minute.’ He gestured to a side table on which lay several fat files. ‘Have you read the reports?’

Stafford grimaced. ‘Not in detail.’ Having determined to expand he had gone the whole hog and commissioned an independent company to do a world-wide investigation into possibilities. It was costing a lot but he thought it would be worthwhile in the long run. However, he liked to deal with people rather than paper and he wanted to match the man against the words he had written. He said, ‘We’ll go over it once lightly with Bernstein.’

Two hours later he was satisfied. Bernstein, an American, was acute and sensible; he had both feet firmly planted on the ground and was not a man to indulge in impossible blue sky speculation. Stafford thought he could trust his written reports.

Bernstein tossed a file aside. ‘So much for Australasia. Now we come to Africa.’ He picked up another file. ‘The problem in general with Africa is political instability.’

Stafford said, ‘Stick to the English-speaking countries. We’re not ready to go into francophone Africa.’ He paused. ‘Not yet.’

Bernstein nodded. ‘That means the ex-British colonies. South Africa, of course, is the big one.’ They discussed South Africa for some time and Bernstein made some interesting suggestions. Then he said, ‘Next is Zimbabwe. It’s just attained independence with a black government. Nobody knows which way it’s going to go right now and I wouldn’t recommend it for you. Tanzania is out; the country is virtually bankrupt and there’s no free enterprise. The same goes for Uganda. Now, Kenya is different.’

‘How?’ asked Ellis.

Bernstein turned several pages. ‘It has a mixed economy, very much like Britain. The government is moderate and there is less corruption than is usual in Africa. The Western banks think highly of Kenya and there’s a lot of money going into the country to build up the infrastructure—modernization of the road system, for instance.’ He looked up. ‘Of course, you’d have competition—Securicor is already established there.’

Securicor was Stafford’s biggest competitor in Britain. He smiled and said, ‘I can get along with that.’ Then he frowned. ‘But is Kenya really stable? What about that Mau—Mau business some years ago?’

‘That was quite a while ago,’ said Bernstein. ‘When the British were still there. Anyway, there are a lot of misconceptions about the Mau-Mau insurrection. It was blown up in the Western press as a rebellion against the British and even the black Kenyans have done some rewriting of history because they like to think of that period as when they got rid of the British oppressor. The fact remains that in the seven years of the Mau-Mau rebellion only thirty-eight whites were killed. If it was a rebellion against the British it was goddamn inefficient.’

‘You surprise me,’ said Ellis. ‘Then what was it all about?’

Bernstein tented his fingers. ‘Everyone knew the British would be giving up jurisdiction over Kenya—the tide of history was running against the British Empire. The Mau-Mau insurrection was a private fight among black Kenyans, mainly along tribal lines, to figure out who’d be on top when the British abdicated. A lot of people died and the few whites were killed mainly because they happened to be caught in the middle—in the wrong place at the wrong time. When it was all over, the British knew who was going to hold the reins of government. Jomo Kenyatta was intelligent, educated and had all the qualifications to be the leader of a country, including the prime qualification.’

‘What was that?’ asked Ellis.

Bernstein smiled. ‘He’d served time in a British jail,’ he said dryly. ‘Kenyatta proved to be surprisingly moderate. He didn’t go hog-wild like some of the other African leaders. He encouraged the whites to stay because he knew he needed their skills, and he built up the trade of the country. A while ago there was considerable speculation as to what would happen when he died. People expected another civil war on the lines of the Mau-Mau but, surprisingly, the transition was orderly in the democratic manner and Moi became President. Tribalism is officially discouraged and, yes, I’d say Kenya is a stable country.’ He flicked the pages he held. ‘It’s all here in detail.’

‘All right,’ said Stafford. ‘What’s next?’

‘Now we turn to Nigeria.’

The discussion continued for another hour and then Stafford checked the time. ‘We’ll have to call a halt now. I have a luncheon appointment.’ He looked with some distaste at the foot-thick stack of papers on the desk. ‘It’ll take some time to get through that lot. Thanks for your help, Mr Bernstein; you’ve been very efficient.’

‘Anything you can’t figure out, come right back at me,’ said Bernstein.

‘I think we’ll give Africa a miss,’ said Stafford thoughtfully. ‘My inclination is to set up in the States and then, perhaps, in Australia. But I’m lunching with a South African. Perhaps he’ll change my mind.’

Stafford’s appointment was with Alix and Dirk Hendriks. He had met Alix a few years earlier when she had been Alix Aarvik, the daughter of an English mother and a Norwegian father who had been killed during the war. It was in the course of a professional investigation and, one thing leading to another, he had gone to North Africa to return to Britain with a bullet wound in the shoulder and a sizeable fortune for Alix Aarvik. His divorce was ratified about that time and he had contemplated marrying Alix, but there was not that spark between them and he had not pursued the idea although they remained good friends.

Since then she had married Dirk Hendriks. Stafford did not think a great deal of Hendriks. He distrusted the super—ficial veneer of charm and suspected that Hendriks had married Alix for her money. Certainly Hendriks did not appear to be gainfully employed. Still, Stafford was honest enough to admit to himself that his dislike of Hendriks might be motivated by an all-too-human dog in the manger attitude. Alix was expecting a baby.

Over lunch Alix complained that she did not see enough of him. ‘You suddenly dropped out of my life.’

‘For men must work,’ said Stafford lightly, not worrying too much that his remark was a direct dig at Dirk Hendriks. ‘I’ve been scurrying around Europe, making the fortunes of a couple of airlines.’

‘Still intent on expansion, I see.’

‘As long as people have secrets to protect there’ll be work for people like me. I’m thinking of moving into the States.’ He leaned back to let a waiter remove a plate. ‘A chap this morning recommended that we expand our activities into South Africa. What do you think about that, Dirk?’

Hendriks laughed. ‘Plenty of secrets in South Africa. It’s not a bad idea.’

Stafford shook his head. ‘I’ve decided to keep out of Africa altogether. There’s plenty of scope in other directions and the Dark Continent doesn’t appeal to me.’

He was to remember that remark with bitterness in the not too distant future.

TWO

Three thousand miles away Ben Hardin knew nothing about Max Stafford and Kenya was the last thing on his mind. And he was in total ignorance of the fact that, in more senses than one, he was the man in the middle. True, he had been in Kenya back in 1974, but it was in another job and in quite a different connection. Yet he was the unwitting key which unlocked the door to reveal the whole damn mess.

It was one of those hot, sticky days in late July when New York fries. Hardin had taken time off to visit his favourite bar to sink a couple of welcome cold beers and, when he got back to the office, Jack Richardson at the next desk said, ‘Gunnarsson has been asking for you.’

‘Oh; what does he want?’

Richardson shrugged. ‘He didn’t say.’

Hardin paused in the act of taking off his jacket and put it back on. ‘When does he want to see me?’

‘Yesterday,’ said Richardson dryly. ‘He sounded mad.’

‘Then I guess I’d better see the old bastard,’ said Hardin sourly.

Gunnarsson greeted him with, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Checking a contact on the Myerson case,’ said Hardin inventively, making a mental note to record the visit in the Myerson file. Gunnarsson sometimes checked back.

Gunnarsson put his hands flat on the desk and glowered at him. He was a burly, square man who looked as though he had been hacked out of a block of granite and in spite of the heat he wore his coat. Rumour had it that Gunnarsson lacked sweat glands. He said, ‘You can forget that, Ben; I’m taking you off the case. I have something else for you.’

‘Okay,’ said Hardin.

Gunnarsson tossed a thin file across the desk. ‘Let’s get this straight. You clear this one and you get a bonus. You crap on it and you get canned. We’ve been carrying you long enough.’

Hardin looked at him levelly. ‘You make yourself clear. How important is this one?’

Gunnarsson flapped his hand. ‘I wouldn’t know. A Limey lawyer wants an answer. You’re to find out what happened to a South African called Adriaan Hendriks who came to the States some time in the 1930s. Find out all about him, especially whether he married and had kids. Find them too.’

‘That’s going to take some legwork,’ said Hardin thoughtfully. ‘Who can I use?’

‘No one; you use your own damn legs.’ Gunnarsson was blunt, if you can’t clear us a pisswilly job like this then I’ll know you’re no use to Gunnarsson Associates. Now you’ll do it this way. You take your car and you go on the road and you find what happened to this guy. And you do it yourself. If you have to leave New York I don’t want you going near any of the regional offices.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s the way I want it. And I’m the boss. Now get going.’

So Hardin went away and, as he laid the file on his desk, he thought glumly that he had just received an ultimatum. He sat down, opened the file, and found the reason for its lack of bulk. It contained a single sheet of computer print-out which told him nothing that Gunnarsson had not already told him; that a man called Adriaan Hendriks was believed to have entered the United States in the late thirties. The port of entry was not even recorded.

‘Jesus wept!’ said Hardin.

Ben Hardin wished, for perhaps the thousandth time, or it could have been the ten thousandth, that he was in another line of work. Every morning when he woke up in whatever crummy motel room it happened to be it was the thought that came into his mind: ‘I wish I was doing something else.’ And that was followed by the automatic: ‘Goddamn that bastard, Gunnarsson,’ and by the equally automatic first cigarette of the day which made him cough.

And every morning when he was confronted by breakfast, invariably the junk food of the interstate highways, the same thought came into his mind. And when he knocked on a door, any door, to ask the questions, the thought was fleetingly at the back of his mind. As with the Frenchman who said that everything reminded him of sex so everything reminded Hardin of the cruel condition of his life, and it had made him an irritable and cynical man.

On the occasion of the latest reiteration of his wish he was beset by water. The rain poured from the sky, not in drops but in a steady sheet. It swirled along the gutters a foot or more deep because the drains were unable to cope, and Hardin had the impression that his car was in imminent danger of being swept away. Trapped in the metal box of the car he could only wait until the downpour ceased. He was certainly not going to get out because he would be soaked to the skin and damn near drowned in ten seconds flat.

And this was happening in California—in Los Angeles, the City of the Angels. No more angels, he thought; the birds will all have drowned. He visualized a crowd of angels sitting on a dark cloud, their wings bedraggled, and managed a tired grin. They said that what California did today New York would do tomorrow. If that was true someone in New York should be building a goddamn Ark. He wondered if there was a Mr Noah in the New York telephone book.

While he waited he looked back on the last few weeks. The first and obvious step had been to check with the Immigration and Naturalization Service. He found that the 1930s had been a lean decade for immigrants—there were a mere 528,431 fortunate people admitted into the country. McDowell, the immigration officer he checked with, observed dryly that Hardin was lucky—in the 1920s the crop had been over four million. Hardin doubted his luck.

‘South Africa,’ said McDowell. ‘That won’t be too bad. Not many South Africans emigrate.’

A check through the files proved him right—but there was no one called Adriaan Hendriks.

‘They change their names,’ said McDowell some time later. ‘Sometimes to Americanize the spelling. There’s a guy here called Adrian Hendrix…’ He spelled it out. ‘Would that be the guy you want? He entered the country in New Orleans.’

‘That’s my man,’ said Hardin with satisfaction.

The search so far had taken two weeks.

Further searches revealed that Hendrix had taken out naturalization papers eight years later in Clarksville, Tennessee. More to the point he had married there. Establishing these simple facts took another three weeks and a fair amount of mileage.

Adrian Hendrix had married the daughter of a grain and feed merchant and seemed in a fair way to prosper had it not been for his one fault. On the death of his father-in-law in 1950 he proceeded to drink away the profits of the business he had inherited and died therefrom but not before he sired a son, Henry Hendrix.

Hardin looked at his notebook bleakly. The substitution of the son for the father had not made his task any easier. He had reported to Gunnarsson only to be told abruptly to find young Hendrix and to stop belly-aching, and there followed further weeks of searching because Henry Hendrix had become a drop-out—an undocumented man—after leaving high school, but a combination of legwork, persistence and luck had brought Hardin to the San Fernando Valley in California where he was marooned in his car.

It was nearly three-quarters of an hour before the rain eased off and he decided to take a chance and get out. He swore as he put his foot into six inches of water and then squelched across the street towards the neat white house. He sheltered on the porch, shaking the wetness from his coat, then pressed the bell and heard chimes.

Presently the door opened cautiously, held by a chain, and an eye and a nose appeared at the narrow opening. ‘I’m looking for Henry Hendrix,’ Hardin said, and flipped open a notebook. ‘I’m told he lives here.’

‘No one by that name here.’ The door began to close.

Hardin said quickly, ‘This is 82, Thorndale?’

‘Yeah, but my name’s Parker. No one called Hendrix here.’

‘How long have you lived here, Mr Parker?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Hardin extracted a card from his wallet and poked it at the three-inch crack in the doorway. ‘My name is Hardin.’

The card was taken in two fingers and vanished. Parker said, ‘Gunnarsson Associates. You a private dick?’

‘I guess you could call me that,’ said Hardin tiredly.

‘This Hendrix in trouble?’

‘Not that I know of, Mr Parker. Could be the other way round, from what I hear. Could be good news for Hendrix.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Parker. ‘We’ve lived here eight months.’

‘Who did you buy the house from?’

‘Didn’t buy,’ said Parker. ‘We rent. The owner’s an old biddy who lives in Pasadena.’

‘And you don’t know the name of the previous tenant? He left no forwarding address?’ There was not much hope in Hardin’s voice.

‘Nope.’ Parker paused. ‘Course, my wife might know. She did all the renting business.’

‘Would it be possible to ask her?’

‘I guess so. Wait a minute.’ The door closed leaving Hardin looking at a peeling wooden panel. He heard a murmur of voices from inside the house and presently the door opened again and a woman peered at him then disappeared. He heard her say, ‘Take the chain off the door, Pete.’

‘Hell, Milly; you know what they told us about LA.’

‘Take the chain off,’ said Milly firmly. ‘What kind of a life is it living behind bolts and bars?’

The door closed, there was a rattle, and then it opened wide. ‘Come on in,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘It ain’t fit for a dog being out today.’

Thankfully Hardin stepped over the threshold. Parker was a burly man of about forty-five with a closed, tight face, but Milly Parker smiled at Hardin. ‘You want to know about the Hendersons, Mr Hardin?’

Hardin repressed the sinking feeling. ‘Hendrix, Mrs Parker.’

‘Could have sworn it was Henderson. But come into the living room and sit down.’

Hardin shook his head. ‘I’m wet; don’t want to mess up your furniture. Besides, I won’t take up too much of your time. You think the previous tenant was called Henderson?’

‘That’s what I thought. I could have been wrong.’ She laughed merrily, ‘I often am.’

‘Was there a forwarding address?’

‘I guess so; there was a piece of paper,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ll look in the bureau.’ She went away.

Hardin looked at Parker and tried to make light conversation. ‘Get this kind of weather often?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Parker briefly. ‘Haven’t been here long.’

Hardin heard drawers open in the next room and there was the rustle of papers. ‘The way I hear it this is supposed to be the Sunshine State. Or is that Florida?’

Parker grunted. ‘Rains both places; but you wouldn’t know to hear the Chambers of Commerce tell it.’

Mrs Parker came back. ‘Can’t find it,’ she announced, ‘It was just a little bitty piece of paper.’ She frowned. ‘Seems I recollect an address. I know it was off Ventura Boulevard; perhaps in Sherman Oaks or, maybe, Encino.’

Hardin winced; Ventura Boulevard was a hundred miles long. Parker said abruptly, ‘Didn’t you give the paper to that other guy?’

‘What other guy?’ asked Hardin.

‘Why, yes; I think I did,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘Now I think of it. A nice young man. He was looking for Henderson, too.’

Hardin sighed. ‘Hendrix,’ he said. ‘Who was this young man?’

‘Didn’t bother to ask,’ said Parker. ‘But he was a foreigner—not American. He had a funny accent like I’ve never heard before.’

Hardin questioned them further but got nothing more, then said, ‘Well, could I have the address of the owner of the house. She might know.’ He got the address and also the address of the local realtor who had negotiated the rental. He looked at his watch and found it was late. ‘Looks like the day’s shot. Know of a good motel around here?’

‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘Go south until you hit Riverside, then turn west. There are a couple along there before you hit the turning to Laurel Canyon.’

He thanked them and left, hearing the door slam behind him and the rattle of the chain. It was still raining; not so hard as before but still enough to drench him before he reached the shelter of his car. He was wet and gloomy as he drove away.

His motel room was standard issue and dry. He took off his wet suit and hung it over the bath, regarded it critically, and decided it needed pressing. He wondered if Gunnarsson would stand for that on the expense account. Then he took off his shirt, hung it next to the suit, and padded into the bedroom in his underwear. He sat at the table, opened his briefcase, and took out a sheaf of papers which he spread out and regarded dispiritedly. His shoulders sagged and he looked exactly what he was—a failure. A man pushing fifty-five-with a pot belly, his once muscular body now running to fat, his brains turning to mush, and the damned dandruff was making his hair fall out. Every time he looked at his comb he was disgusted.

Ben Hardin once had such high hopes. He had majored in languages at the University of Illinois and when he had been approached by the recruiter he had been flattered. Although the approach had been subtle he was not fooled; the campus was rife with rumours about the recruiters and everyone knew what they were recruiting for. And so he had fallen for the flattery and responded to the appeals to his patriotism because this was the height of the Cold War and everyone knew the Reds were the enemy.

So they had taken him and taught him to shoot—handgun, rifle, machine-gun—taught him unarmed combat, how to hold his liquor and how to make others drunk. They told him of drops and cut-outs, of codes and cyphers, how to operate a radio and many other more esoteric things. Then he had reported to Langley as a fully fledged member of the CIA only to be told bluntly that he knew nothing and was the lowest of the low on the totem pole.

In the years that followed he gained in experience. He worked in Australia, England, Germany and East Africa. Sometimes he found himself working inside his own country which he found strange because the continental United States was supposed to be the stamping ground of the FBI and off-limits to the CIA. But he obeyed orders and did what he was told and eventually found that more than half his work was in the United States.

Then came Watergate and everything broke loose. The Company sprang more holes than a sieve and everyone rushed to plug up the leaks, but there seemed to be more informers than loyal Company men. Newspaper pages looked like extracts from the CIA files, and the shit began to fly. There were violent upheavals as the top brass defended themselves against the politicians, director followed director, each one publicly dedicated to cleaning house, and heads duly rolled, Hardin’s among them.

He had been genuinely shocked at what had happened to the Company and to himself. In his view he had been a loyal servant of his country and now his country had turned against him. He was in despair, and it was then that Gunnarsson approached him. They met by appointment in a Washington bar which claimed to sell every brand of beer made in the world. He arrived early and, while waiting for Gunnarsson, ordered a bottle of Swan for which he had developed a taste in Australia.

When Gunnarsson arrived they talked for a while of how the country was going to hell in a handcart and of the current situation at Langley. Then Gunnarsson said, ‘What are you going to do now, Ben?’

Hardin shrugged. ‘What’s to do? I’m a trained agent, that’s all. Not many skills for civilian life.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Gunnarsson earnestly. ‘Look, Fletcher and I are setting up shop in New York.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Same racket, but in civilian form. The big corporations are no different than countries. Why, some of the internationals are bigger than goddamn countries, and they’ve all got secrets to protect—and secrets to find. My God, Ben; the field’s wide open but we’ve got to get in fast before some of the other guys who were canned from Langley have the same idea. We wait too long the competition could be fierce. If this Watergate bullshit goes on much longer retired spooks will be a drug on the market.’

Hardin took a swig of beer. ‘You want me in?’

‘Yeah. I’m getting together a few guys, all hand picked, and you are one of them—if you want in. With our experience we ought to clean up.’ He grinned. ‘Our experience and the pipelines we’ve still got into Langley.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Hardin.

‘Only thing is it’ll take dough,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘How much can you chip in?’

Money and Hardin bore a curious relationship. A dollar bill and Hardin were separated by some form of anti-glue—they never could get together. He had tried; God, how he had tried. But his bets never came off, his investments failed, and Hardin was the centre of a circle surrounded by dollar bills moving away by some sort of centrifugal force. He had once been married and the marriage had failed as much by his inability to keep money as by the strain imposed by his work. The alimony payments now due each quarter merely added to the centrifugal force.

Now he shook his head. ‘Not a thin dime,’ he said. ‘I’m broke and getting broker. Annette’s cheque is due Tuesday and I don’t know how I’m going to meet that.’

Gunnarsson looked disappointed. ‘As bad as that?’

‘Worse,’ said Hardin glumly. ‘I’ve got to get a job fast and I have to sweet talk Annette. Those two things are holding my whole attention.’

‘Gee, Ben; I was hoping you’d be with us. There’s nobody I’d rather have along, and Fletcher agrees with me. Only the other day he was talking about how ingeniously you shafted that guy in Dar-es-Salaam.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Okay, you don’t have money, but maybe something can be worked out. It won’t be as sweet a deal as if you came in as a partner but it’ll be better than anything else you can get. And we still want you along because we think you’re a good guy and you know the business.’

So a deal had been worked out and Hardin went to work for Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc not as a partner but as an employee with a reasonable salary. At first he was happy, but over the years things began to go wrong. Gunnarsson became increasingly hard-nosed and the so-called partnership fell apart. Fletcher was squeezed out and Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc became Gunnarsson Associates. Gunnarsson was the ramrod and let no one forget it.

And Hardin himself lost his drive and initiative. No longer buoyed by patriotism he became increasingly dissatisfied with the work he was doing which in his view fulfilled no more elevating a function than to increase the dividends of shareholders and buttress the positions of corporate fatcats. And he was uneasy because a lot of it was down-right illegal.

He fell down on a couple of jobs and Gunnarsson turned frosty and from then on he noted that he had been down-graded as a field agent and was relegated to the minor investigations about which no one gave a damn. Like the Hendrix case.

Hardin lay on the bed in the motel and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. Come on, Hardin, he thought. You’ve nearly got a Hendrix—you’re nearly there, man. Think of the bonus Gunnarsson will pay you. Think of Annette’s alimony.

He smiled wryly as he remembered that Parker had referred to him as a ‘private dick’. Parker had been reading too many mysteries. Natural enough, though; wasn’t this Chandler country; Philip Marlowe country; ‘down these mean streets a man must go’ country? Come on, you imitation Marlowe, he said to himself. Get off your ass and do something.

He swung his legs sideways, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone. From what he had gathered the owner of the Parker house operated from her home in Pasadena, and it was still not too late in the evening to talk to her. He checked the number in his notebook and dialled. After a few buzzes a voice said in his ear, ‘The White residence.’

The White House! He suppressed an inane chuckle, and said, ‘Mrs White?’

‘It is she speaking.’

‘My name is Hardin, and I represent Gunnarsson Associates of New York. I understand you own a house in North Hollywood.’

‘I own several houses in North Hollywood,’ she said. ‘To which do you refer?’

‘It would be 82, Thorndale; at present rented by Mr Parker.’

‘Yes, I own that property, but it is rented to Mrs Parker.’

‘I see; but I have no interest in the Parkers, Mrs White. I am interested in a previous tenant, a man called Hendrix, Henry Hendrix.’

‘Oh, him!’ There was a sudden sharpness to Mrs White’s voice. ‘What is your business, Mr Hardin?’

‘I’m a private investigator.’

‘A private eye,’ said Mrs White, confirming his theory that he was in mystery readers’ country. ‘Very interesting, I must say. What do you want him for? Nothing trivial, I hope.’

He explored the nuances of her voice, and said, ‘I can’t tell you, Mrs White. I just find them; what happens to them is out of my hands.’

‘Well, I hope that young man gets his comeuppance,’ she said bitterly. ‘He wrecked that house. It took me thirty-five hundred dollars to repair the damage done by him and his friends.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Hardin, injecting sincerity into his voice. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He—Hendrix, I mean—rented the house and agreed to abide by all the conditions. What I didn’t know was that he was leader of what they call a commune. You know; those young people who go around with dirty feet and the men wearing head bands.’ Hardin smiled. ‘Mrs Parker tells me the place still stinks of marijuana. And the filth they left there you wouldn’t believe.’

‘And when did they leave?’

‘They didn’t leave, they were thrown out,’ said Mrs White triumphantly, ‘I had to call the Sheriff’s Department.’

‘But when was this?’

‘Must be nine…no, ten months ago.’

‘Any idea where they went?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t care. For all I care they could go drown, only it would dirty up the ocean.’

‘You say Hendrix was the leader of the commune?’

‘He paid the rent.’ Mrs White paused. ‘But no; I don’t reckon he was the leader. I think they used him as a front man because he was cleanest. The leader was a man they called Biggie. Big man—tall as a skyscraper and wide as a barn door.’

Hardin made a note. ‘Do you know his name—his last name?’

‘No; they just called him Biggie. He had long blond hair,’ she said. ‘Hadn’t been washed for months. Kept it out of his eyes with one of those head bands. Shaggy beard. He walked around with his shirt open to the waist. Disgusting! Oh, and he wore something funny round his neck.’

‘What sort of funny?’

‘A cross. Not a decent Christian cross but a funny cross with a loop at the top. It looked like gold and he wore it on a chain. You couldn’t help but notice it the way he wore his shirt open.’

‘Were there any women in the commune, Mrs White?’

‘There were. A lot of brazen hussies. But I didn’t have any truck with them. But I’ll tell you something, Mr Hardin. There were so many of those folks in that little house they must have slept head-to-foot. I don’t think there could have been a virgin among them, and I don’t think they were married, either.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Hardin.

‘Orgies!’ said Mrs White, relishing the word. ‘We found a lot of incense sticks in the house and some funny statues, and they weren’t made in the way God made man. I knew then I was right to get rid of that man. Could have been another Charles Manson. You heard of him back East?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of Charles Manson.’ Hardin closed his notebook. ‘Thank you for your information, Mrs White; you’ve been very co-operative.’

‘Are you going to put those folks in jail where they belong?’

‘I’m a private investigator, Mrs White; but if I find evidence of wrongdoing I’ll pass the information on to the authorities. Thanks for your help.’

He put down the telephone, lit another cigarette, and lay back on the bed. Incense sticks and strange statues! And the funny cross with the loop at the top was probably an Egyptian ankh. He shook his head. God, the things the kids were up to these days.

He wondered briefly who else was looking for Hendrix and then closed his eyes.

THREE

Hardin walked out of his room next morning into a day that was rainwashed and crisp. He put his bags into his car and drove to the front of the motel. As he got out he looked in astonishment towards the north. There, stretched across the horizon, was a range of mountains with snow-capped peaks rising to a height of maybe 10,000 feet. They had not been there the previous day and they looked like a theatrical backdrop.

‘Hollywood!’ he muttered, as he went into the inside for breakfast.

Later, as he was tucking his credit card back into his wallet, he said, ‘What are those mountains over there?’

The woman behind the desk did not raise her head. ‘What mountains?’ she asked in an uninterested way.

‘That range of mountains with snow on the top.’

She looked up. ‘Are you kidding, mister? There are no mountains out there.’

He said irritably, ‘Goddamn it! They’re practically on your doorstep. I’m not kidding.’

‘This I’ve got to see.’ She came from behind the desk and accompanied him to the door where she stopped and gasped. ‘Jesus, those are the San Gabriels! I haven’t seen them in ten years.’

‘Now who’s kidding who?’ asked Hardin. ‘How could you miss a thing like that?’

Her eyes were shining. ‘Musta been the rain,’ she said. ‘Washed all the smog outa the air. Mister, take a good look; you ain’t likely to see a sight like that for a long time.’

‘Nuts!’ said Hardin shaking his head, and walked towards his car.

As he drove downtown he pondered on the peculiarities of Los Angeles. Any community that could lose a range of mountains 10,000 feet high and 40 miles long was definitely out of whack. Hardin disliked Los Angeles and would not visit it for pleasure. He did not like the urban sprawl, so featureless and monotonous that any section of the city was like any other section. He did not like the nutty architecture; for his money it was a waste of time to drive down to Anaheim to visit Disneyland—you could see Disneyland anywhere in LA. And he did not like the Los Angeles version of the much lauded Californian climate. The smog veiled the sun and set up irritation is his mucous membranes. If it did not rain, bush fires raged over the hills burning out whole tracts of houses. When it rained you got a year’s supply inside twelve hours and mud slides pushed houses into the sea at Malibu. And any day now the San Andreas Fault was expected to crack and rip the whole tacky place apart. Who would voluntarily live in such a hell of a city?

Answer: five million nuts. Which brought his mind back smartly to Hendrix, Biggie and the commune. To hell with Gunnarsson; he would go see Charlie Wainwright.

The Los Angeles office of Gunnarsson Associates was on Hollywood Boulevard at the corner of Highland, near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. His card got him in to see Charlie Wainwright, boss of the West Coast region, who said, ‘Hi, Ben; what are you doing over here?’

‘Slumming,’ said Hardin as he sat down. ‘You don’t think I’d come here if I had a choice?’

‘Still the same old grouch.’ Wainwright waved his hand to the window. ‘What’s wrong with this? It’s a beautiful day.’

‘Yeah; and the last for ten years,’ said Hardin. ‘I had that on authority. I’ll give you a tip, Charlie. You can get a hell of a view of the San Gabriels today from the top of Mullholland Drive. But don’t wait too long; they’ll be gone by tomorrow.’

‘Maybe I’ll take a drive up there.’ Wainwright leaned back in his chair. ‘What can we do for you, Ben?’

‘Have you got a pipeline into the Sheriff’s office?’

‘That depends on what you want to come down it,’ said Wainwright cautiously.

Hardin decided not to mention Hendrix. ‘I’m looking for a guy called Biggie. Seems he’s mixed up in a commune. They were busted by sheriff’s deputies about ten months ago over in North Hollywood.’

‘Not the LAPD?’ queried Wainwright. ‘Don’t they have jurisdiction in North Hollywood?’

Hardin was sure Mrs White had not mentioned the Los Angeles Police Department, but he checked his notebook. ‘No; my informant referred to the Sheriff’s Department.’

‘So what do you want?’

Hardin looked at Wainwright in silence for a moment before saying patiently, ‘I want Biggie.’

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.’ Wainwright thought a while. ‘Might take a little time.’

‘Not too long, I hope.’ Hardin stood up. ‘And do me a favour, Charlie; you haven’t seen me. I haven’t been here. Especially if Gunnarsson wants to know. He’s playing this one close to his chest.’

‘How are you getting on with the old bastard?’

‘Not bad,’ said Hardin noncommittally.

Two hours later he was in a coffee shop across from City Hall waiting for a deputy from the Sheriff’s Department. Wainwright had said, ‘Better not see him in his office—might compromise him. You don’t have an investigator’s licence for this state. What’s Gunnarsson up to, Ben? He’s not done this before. These things are usually handled by the local office.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t like me,’ said Hardin feelingly, thinking of the miles of interstate highways he had driven.

He was about to order another coffee when a shadow fell across the table. ‘You the guy looking for Olaf Hamsun?’

Hardin looked up and saw a tall, lean man in uniform. ‘Who?’

‘Also known as Biggie,’ said the deputy. ‘Big blond Scandahoovian—monster size.’

‘That’s the guy.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Ben Hardin. Coffee?’ At the deputy’s nod he held up two fingers to a passing waitress.

The deputy sat opposite. ‘Jack Sawyer. What do you want with Biggie?’

‘Nothing at all. But he’s running with Henry Hendrix, and I want to visit with Hank.’

‘Hendrix,’ said Sawyer ruminatively. ‘Youngish—say, twenty-six or twenty-seven; height about five ten; small scar above left eyebrow.’

‘That’s probably my boy.’

‘What do you want with him?’

‘Just to establish that he’s his father’s son, and then report back to New York.’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘Some British lawyer according to my boss. That’s all I know; Gunnarsson doesn’t confide in me. Operates on need to know.’

‘Just like all the other ex-CIA cloak and dagger boys,’ said Sawyer scornfully. He looked at Hardin carefully. ‘You were a Company man, too, weren’t you?’

‘Don’t hold it against me,’ said Hardin, forcing a grin.

‘Even if I don’t that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And you don’t have an investigator’s licence good in California. If I didn’t owe Charlie Wainwright a couple I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t like you guys and I never have.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ said Hardin. ‘What’s eating you?’

‘I’ll tell you.’ Sawyer leaned forward. ‘Last year we busted a gang smuggling cocaine from Mexico. Turned out that half of them were bastards from the CIA. They claimed we’d wrecked one of their best Mexican operations. We said they were breaking the law of the United States and we were going to jail them. But do you think we could? Those sons of bitches are walking around free as air right now.’

Hardin said, ‘You can’t blame that on me.’

‘I guess not,’ said Sawyer tiredly. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you where to find Biggie.’ He stuck out his forefinger. ‘But step out of line one inch and I’ll nail your hide to the barn door, even if it’s for spitting on the sidewalk.’

‘Thanks,’ said Hardin ironically.

‘You’ll find the gang down at Playa del Rey. If they’re not there try Santa Monica, down near the Bristol Pier. There’s a greasy spoon called Bernie’s where they hang out.’

Hardin wrote in his notebook. ‘Does Hendrix have a record? Or Hamsun?’

‘Hamsun’s been busted for peddling pot. He had a fraction under an ounce on him, so it didn’t come to much. Nothing on Hendrix; at least, not here.’

‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ said Hardin, putting away his notebook. ‘When you cracked down on the commune in North Hollywood you found some funny things in the house, I hear. Statues of some kind, and not the kind a good, Christian woman would like.’

‘The good, Christian woman being Mrs White,’ said Sawyer ironically. ‘The old witch. There’s nothing to it, Hardin. It’s just that the kids tried their hand at pottery; reckoned they could sell the stuff at the Farmer’s Market and make a few dollars. That pottery kiln did most of the damage to the house when it blew up.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all,’ said Sawyer, and laughed. ‘Turned out they weren’t very good at sculpting. They didn’t know enough anatomy; least, not the kind you need for sculpting.’ He became philosophical. ‘They’re not a bad crowd of kids, not as things are these days. Sure, they smoke pot, but who doesn’t? I bet my own kids do when I’m not around. They’re just mostly beach bums, and that’s not illegal yet.’

‘Sure,’ said Hardin. He had a sudden thought. ‘Does Biggie still wear the ankh?’

‘The what?’

‘The ankh.’ He sketched it on the back of the menu.

‘Yeah, he still wears that thing. Didn’t know it had a name. It should be valuable. It’s big and looks as though it’s solid gold. But it would take some real crazy guy to rip it off Biggie.’

Hardin spent two days at Playa del Rey and drew a blank, so he went up the coast to Santa Monica. He found Bernie’s and had a cup of coffee, steering clear of the hamburgers. The place stank of rancid oil and he judged the level of hygiene was good for a jail sentence. The coffee was lousy, too, and there was lipstick on his cup.

He questioned the harassed waitress intermittently as she passed and repassed his table and again drew a blank. Yes, she knew Biggie but had not seen him for some time. No, she didn’t know anyone called Hendrix. Hardin pushed aside the unfinished coffee and left.

For another two days he roamed the Santa Monica water front, questioning the kids—the beach bums and surfing freaks—and made little progress. Biggie was well known but no one had seen him around. Hendrix was less known and no one had seen him, either. Hardin looked gloomily at the offshore oil rigs which periodically sprang leaks to poison the fish and kill the seabirds, and he cursed Gunnarsson.

On the evening of the second day he checked again at Bernie’s. As he stared distastefully at the grease floating on the surface of his coffee a girl sidled up next to him. ‘You the guy looking for Biggie?’

He turned his head. Her long uncombed hair was a dirty blonde and her make-up had been applied sloppily so that she looked like a kid who had just used the contents of her mother’s dressing table for the first time. ‘I’m the guy,’ he said briefly.

‘He don’t like it.’

‘I’m broken hearted.’

She made a face. ‘But he’ll talk to you.’

‘When and where?’

‘Tonight—eight o’clock. There’s an old warehouse on Twenty-seventh Street at Carlyle. He’ll be there.’

‘Look,’ said Hardin, ‘I’m not interested in Biggie, but he has a sidekick called Hendrix—Hank Hendrix. Know him?’

‘Sure.’

‘He’s the guy I want to talk with. Let him be at the warehouse. I don’t give a damn about Biggie.’

The girl shrugged. ‘I’ll pass the word.’

Hardin was at the rendezvous an hour early. The abandoned warehouse was in a depressed area long overdue for urban renewal; the few windows still intact were grimy, and the place looked as though it would collapse if an over-zealous puff of air blew in from the Pacific. He tested a door, found it unlocked, and went inside.

It took only a few minutes to find that the building was empty. He explored thoroughly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous interior, and found a locked door at the back. He unlocked it and returned to his car where he sat with a good view of the front entrance and lit a cigarette.

Biggie and Hendrix showed up halfway through the third cigarette. Biggie was unmistakable; tall and broad he looked like a circus strong man, and there was a glint of gold on his bare chest. Hendrix, who walked next to him, was no light-weight but next to Biggie he looked like a midget. They went into the warehouse and Hardin finished his cigarette before getting out of the car and crossing the road.

He entered the warehouse and found Biggie sitting on a crate. Hendrix was nowhere to be seen. Biggie stood up as he approached, ‘I’m Ben Hardin. You’ll be Olaf Hamsun, right?’

‘Could be,’ conceded Biggie.

‘Where’s Hendrix?’

Biggie ignored the question. ‘You a pig?’ he asked.

Hardin suppressed an insane desire to giggle; the thought of describing himself as a private pig was crazy. Instead, he said mildly, ‘Watch your mouth.’

Biggie shrugged. ‘Just a manner of speaking. No offence meant. What do you want with Hank?’

‘If he wants you to know he’ll tell you. Where is he?’

Biggie jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Back there. But you talk to me.’

‘No way,’ said Hardin decidedly.

‘Suit yourself. Now shut up and listen to me, buster. I don’t like creeps like you asking questions around town. Christ, every Joe I’ve talked to in the last couple days tells me I’m a wanted man. Hurts my reputation, see?’

‘You shouldn’t be hard to find.’

‘I’m not hiding,’ said Biggie. ‘But you and your foreign friend bug me.’

‘I don’t have a foreign friend,’ said Hardin.

‘No? Then how come he’s been asking around, too?’

Hardin frowned. ‘Tell me more,’ he said. ‘How do you know he’s foreign?’

‘His accent, dummy.’

‘I told you to watch your mouth,’ said Hardin sharply. He thought for a moment and remembered that Gunnarsson had mentioned a British lawyer. ‘Could it be a British accent?’

‘You mean like we hear on those longhair programs on TV?’ Biggie shook his head. ‘No; not like that. This guy has a real foreign accent.’ He paused. ‘Could be a Kraut,’ he offered.

‘So you’ve talked with him.’

‘Naw. I had a friend talk with him at Bernie’s. I was in the next booth.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Same as you. He wants to visit with Hank.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Sure. Big guy, well set up; looks like he can handle himself. Short hair, crewcut like a soldier boy.’ Biggie scratched his chest absently, his hand moving the golden ankh aside. ‘Scar on his cheek.’

‘Which side?’

‘Left.’

Hardin pondered. All this was adding up to the classic picture of a German soldier except that ritual duelling was no longer acceptable. ‘How old is he?’

‘Thirty-five—maybe forty. Not more. So you really don’t know the guy.’

‘I don’t give a damn about him and I don’t give a damn about you. All I want is to talk to Hendrix. Go get him.’

‘You don’t give a damn about me, and you don’t listen good.’ Biggie stuck out his forefinger then tapped himself on the chest. ‘The only way to get to Hendrix is through me.’

‘Does he know that?’ asked Hardin. ‘What is he, anyway? Your fancy boy?’

‘Christ, that does it,’ said Biggie, enraged.

‘Oh, shit!’ said Hardin resignedly as Biggie flexed his muscles, ‘I’m not mad at you, Biggie; I don’t want to fight.’

‘Well, I want to fight you.’ Biggie plunged forward.

It was no contest. Hardin was full of frustrations; his anger at Gunnarsson, the weary miles of travel, his sense of personal failure—all these he worked out on Biggie. He had several advantages; one was that Biggie had never learned to fight—he never had to because what idiot would want to tangle with a man who was obviously a meat grinder? The idiot was Hardin who had been trained in unarmed combat by experts. In spite of his age and flabbiness he still knew the chopping places and pressure points, the vulnerable parts of a man’s body, and he used his knowledge mercilessly. It was only by a deliberate act of will that he restrained himself from the final deadly blow that would have killed.

Breathing heavily he bent down and reached for the pulse at the side of Biggie’s neck and sighed with relief as he felt it beating strongly. Then he straightened and turned to see Hendrix watching him.

‘Jesus!’ said Hendrix. He was wide-eyed as he stared at the prostrate Biggie, ‘I didn’t think you could beat him.’

‘I’ve taken a lot of shit on this job,’ said Hardin, and found his voice was shaking. ‘But I wasn’t going to take any from him.’ He bent down and ripped the golden ankh from Biggie’s neck, breaking the chain. ‘And I’ve been insulted by a cop, a cop who told me this couldn’t be done.’ He tossed the golden cross down by Biggie’s side. ‘Now let’s you and me talk.’

Hendrix eyed him warily. ‘What about?’

‘You can start off by telling me your father’s name.’

‘What’s my old man got to do with anything?’ said Hendrix in surprise.

‘His name, sonny,’ said Hardin impatiently.

‘Hendrix, of course. Adrian Hendrix.’

‘Where was he born?’

‘Africa. Some place in South Africa. But he’s dead.’

Hardin took a deep breath. This was the one; this was the right Hendrix. ‘You got brothers? Sisters? Your Mom still alive?’

‘No. What’s this all about?’

Hardin said, ‘I wouldn’t know, but a man in New York called Gunnarsson wants to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a British lawyer wants to know. Maybe you’re inheriting something. What about going to New York with me to find out?’

Hendrix scratched his jaw. ‘Gee, I don’t know. I don’t like the East much.’

‘Expenses paid,’ said Hardin.

Biggie stirred and groaned, and Hendrix looked down at him. ‘I guess Biggie will be hard to live with now,’ he said reflectively. ‘He won’t want anyone around who’s seen him slaughtered like that. Might not be a bad idea to split for a while.’

‘Okay,’ said Hardin, ‘Is there anything you want to take?’

‘Not much,’ said Hendrix, and grinned, ‘I have a good surfboard but that won’t be much use in New York. I’d better take some clothes, though.’

‘I’ll come help you pack,’ said Hardin, and added pointedly, ‘I’ve had a hard time finding you, and I don’t want to lose you now.’

FOUR

Hendrix told Hardin where he lived and, as he drove, Hardin thought about the other man looking for Hendrix. Or other men. The man described by Biggie was hardly likely to be the ‘nice young man’ as described by Mrs Parker. All right then; two or more men. He said, ‘Did Biggie ever say anything about another guy looking for you? Could be a German.’

‘Yeah.’ Hendrix lit a cigarette. ‘He told me. He thought you were together but he wanted to make sure first before…’ He broke off suddenly.

‘Before what?’

Hendrix laughed shortly. ‘Biggie thought there might be some dough in it somewhere. If you and the foreign guy were together, then okay; but if you weren’t he figured he could make a trade.’

‘Sell you off to the highest bidder?’ Hardin grimaced. ‘What did you think of that?’

Hendrix shrugged. ‘Biggie’s all right. It’s just that he was short of dough, that’s all. We’re all short of dough.’

‘All?’

‘The gang.’ He sighed. ‘Things haven’t been the same since we were busted over in the San Fernando Valley.’

‘When you blew up Mrs White’s house?’

Hendrix turned his head sharply. ‘You’ve been getting around.’ He sounded as though he did not like it. ‘But it wasn’t all that much. Just some smoky walls and busted glass.’

Hardin came back to his main problem. ‘The foreigner. Did you ever meet him?’

‘No. Biggie set up a meeting for tonight in case he had something to trade. That’s why he wanted to blow you off fast.’

‘Where’s the meeting?’

‘I don’t know—we didn’t get that far. Man, you sure cooled him.’ He pointed. ‘That’s our place.’

Hardin drew up in front of the dilapidated house. ‘I’ll come in with you.’ He escorted Hendrix to the door and they went in. In the narrow hall they met the girl who had set up the meeting with Biggie. She looked at Hardin with surprise and he thought he detected something of alarm in her eyes.

She turned to Hendrix. ‘Where’s Biggie?’

‘He’ll be along. He…uh…had something to attend to,’ said Hendrix. ‘Come on, Mr Hardin; we’d better make this fast.’

As they climbed the stairs Hardin thought with amusement that Hendrix had every reason for speed. If Biggie came back and found him in the act of packing he would want to know why and Hendrix would not want to tell him. ‘How many in the gang?’ he asked.

‘It varies; there’s six of us now. Have been as many as twelve.’ Hendrix opened the door of a room. ‘This won’t take long.’

It took less time than Hardin would have thought. Hendrix was a nomad and had few possessions, all of which went into a metal-framed backpack. He lifted it effortlessly and then looked regretfully at the surfboard lying against the wall behind the unmade bed. ‘Can’t take that along, I guess. You sure there are dollars in this, Mr Hardin?’

‘No,’ said Hardin honestly. ‘But I can’t think of anything else.’

‘You said a British lawyer. I don’t know any Britishers and I’ve never been out of the States.’ Hendrix shook his head. ‘Still, you said you’ll pay my way so it’s worth a chance.’

They went downstairs and met the blonde girl again. ‘When‘ll Biggie be back?’ she asked.

‘He didn’t say,’ said Hendrix briefly.

She looked at the backpack. ‘You going some place?’

‘Not far.’ Hendrix coughed. ‘Just down to…uh…Mexico, Mr Hardin and me. Got to pick up a package in Tijuana.’

She nodded understandingly. ‘Be careful. Those Customs bastards are real nosy. What is it? Pot or snow?’

‘Snow,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mr Hardin.’ As they got into the car Hendrix forced a smile. ‘No use in letting the world know where we’re going.’

‘Sure,’ said Hardin. ‘No point at all.’ He switched on the ignition and, as he took off the handbrake, something whined like a bee in front of his nose. Hendrix gave a sharp cry, and Hardin shot a glance at him. He had his hand to his shoulder and blood was oozing through his fingers.

Hardin had been shot at before. He took off, burning rubber, and turned the first corner at top speed. Only then did he look in the mirror to check for pursuers. The corner receded behind him and nothing came into sight so he slowed until he was just below the speed limit. Then he said, ‘You all right, Hank?’

‘What the hell!’ said Hendrix, looking unbelievingly at the blood on his hand. ‘What happened?’

‘You were stung by a bee,’ said Hardin. ‘From a silenced gun. Hurt much?’

‘You mean I’ve been shot?’ said Hendrix incredulously. ‘Who’d want to shoot me?’

‘Maybe a guy with a German accent and a scar on his left cheek. Perhaps it’s just as well you and Biggie couldn’t keep that appointment tonight. How do you feel?’

‘Numb,’ said Hendrix. ‘My shoulder feels numb.’

‘The pain comes later.’ Hardin still watched the mirror. Everything behind still seemed normal. But he made a couple of random turns before he said, ‘We’ve got to get you off the streets. Can you hold on for a few more minutes?’

‘I guess so.’

‘There’s Kleenex in the glove compartment. Put a pad of it over the wound.’

Hardin drove on to the Santa Monica Freeway and made the interchange on to the San Diego Freeway heading north. As he drove his mind was busy with speculations. Who had fired the shot? And who was the intended victim? He said, ‘I don’t know of anyone who wants to kill me. How about you, Hank?’

Hendrix was holding the pad of tissues to his shoulder beneath his shirt. His face was pale. ‘Hell, no!’

‘You told the girl back there we were going to Tijuana to pick up a package of cocaine.’

‘Ella? I had to tell her something to put Biggie off.’

‘She didn’t seem surprised. You’ve done that often? The cocaine bit, I mean.’

‘A couple of times,’ Hendrix admitted. ‘But it’s small time stuff.’

‘A man can make enemies that way,’ said Hardin. ‘You might have stepped on someone’s turf. The big boys don’t like that and they don’t forget.’

‘No way,’ said Hendrix. ‘The last time I did it was over a year ago.’ He nursed his shoulder. ‘What the hell are you getting me into, Hardin?’

‘I’m not getting you into anything; I’m doing my best to get you out.’

They were silent for a long time after that, each busy with his thoughts. Hardin changed on to the Ventura Freeway and headed east. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Hendrix.

‘To a motel. But we’ll stop by a drugstore first and pick up some bandages and medication.’

‘Jesus! I need a doctor.’

‘We’ll see about that when you’re under cover and rested.’ Hardin did not add that gunshot wounds had to be reported to the police. He had to think about that.

He pulled into the motel on Riverside Drive where he had stayed before and booked two rooms. The woman behind the desk was the one he had seen before. He said casually, ‘The San Gabriels have vanished again.’

‘Yeah; it’s a damn shame,’ she said, a little forlornly. ‘I bet we don’t see them again for another ten years.’

He smiled. ‘Still, it’s nice to see the air we’re breathing.’

He got Hendrix into his room, examined his shoulder, and was relieved by what he saw. It was a flesh wound and the bullet had missed the bone; however, it had not come out the other side and was still in Hendrix. He said, ‘You’ll live. It’s only a .22—a pee-wee.’

Hendrix grunted. ‘It feels like I’ve been kicked by a horse.’

As he dressed the wound Hardin puzzled over the calibre of the bullet. It could mean one of two things; the gun had been fired either by an amateur or a very good professional. Only a good professional killer would use a .22, a man who could put his bullets where he wanted them. He tied the last knot and adjusted the sling. ‘I have a bottle in my bag,’ he said. ‘I guess we both need a drink.’

He brought the whiskey and some ice and made two drinks, then he departed for his own room, the glass still in his hand. ‘Stick around,’ he said on leaving. ‘Lie low like Brer Rabbit. I won’t be long.’ He wanted to talk to Gunnarsson.

‘Where would I go?’ asked Hendrix plaintively.

On the telephone Gunnarsson was brusque. ‘Make it quick, Ben; I’m busy.’

‘I’ve got young Hendrix,’ said Hardin without preamble. ‘Only trouble is someone just put a bullet in him.’

‘God damn it!’ said Gunnarsson explosively. ‘When?’

‘Less than an hour ago. I’d just picked him up.’

‘How bad is he?’

‘He’s okay, but the slug’s still in him. It’s only a .22 but the wound might go bad. He needs a doctor.’

‘Is he mobile?’

‘Sure,’ said Hardin. ‘He can’t run a four-minute mile but he can move. It’s a flesh wound in the shoulder.’

There was a pause before Gunnarsson said, ‘Who knows about this?’

‘You, me, Hendrix and the guy who shot him,’ said Hardin factually.

‘And who the hell was that?’

‘I don’t know. Someone else is looking for Hendrix; I’ve crossed his tracks a couple of times. A foreign guy—could be German. That’s all I know.’ Hardin sipped his whiskey. ‘What is all this with Hendrix? Is there something I should know that you haven’t told me? I wouldn’t like that.’

‘Ben; it beats me, it really does,’ said Gunnarsson sincerely. ‘Now, look, Ben; no doctor. Get that kid to New York as fast as you can. Come by air. I’ll have a doctor standing by here.’

‘But what about my car?’

‘You’ll get it back,’ said Gunnarsson soothingly. ‘The company will pay for delivery.’

Hardin did not like that idea. The car would be entrusted to some punk kid who would drive too fast, mistreat the engine, forget to check the oil, and most likely end up in a total wreck. ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But I won’t fly from Los Angeles. I think there’s more than one guy looking for Hendrix and the airport might be covered. I’ll drive up to San Francisco and fly from there. You’ll have your boy the day after tomorrow.’

‘Good thinking, Ben,’ said Gunnarsson, and rang off.

They left for San Francisco early next morning. It was over 300 miles but Hardin made good time on Interstate 5 ignoring the 55 mph speed limit like everyone else. He went with the traffic flow, only slowing a little when he had the road to himself. If you stayed inside the speed limit you could get run down, and modern cars were not designed to travel so slowly on good roads.

Hendrix seemed all right although he favoured his wounded shoulder. He had complained about not being seen by a doctor, but shut up when Hardin said, ‘That means getting into a hassle with the law. You want that?’ Apparently not, and neither did Hardin. He had not forgotten what Deputy Sawyer had said about spitting on the sidewalk.

Hendrix had also been naturally curious about why he was being taken to New York. ‘Don’t ask me questions, son,’ Hardin said, ‘because I don’t know the answers. I just do what the man says.’

He was irked himself at not knowing the answers so, when they stopped for gas, he took Hendrix into a Howard Johnson for coffee and doughnuts and did a little pumping of his own. Although he knew the answer he said, ‘Maybe your old man left you a pile.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Hendrix. ‘He died years ago when I was a kid.’ He shook his head. ‘Mom said he was a dead beat, anyway.’

‘You said she was dead too, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Hendrix smiled wryly, ‘I guess you could call me an orphan.’

‘Got any other folks? Uncles, maybe?’

‘No.’ Hendrix paused as he stirred his coffee. ‘Yeah, I have a cousin in England. He wrote to me when I was in high school, said he was coming to the States and would like to meet me. He never did, but he wrote a couple more times. Not lately, though. I guess he’s lost track of me. I’ve been moving around.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Funny thing about that. Same as mine but spelled differently. Dirk Hendriks. H-E-N-D-R-I-K-S.’

‘Your father spelled his name the same way when he was in South Africa,’ said Hardin. ‘Have you got your cousin’s address?’

‘Somewhere in London, that’s all I know. I had it written down but I lost it. You know how it is when you’re moving around.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hardin. ‘Maybe he’s died and left you something. Or maybe he’s just looking for you.’

Hendrix felt his shoulder. ‘Someone sure is,’ he said.

So it was that Hardin saw Gunnarsson sooner than he expected. Hardin and Hendrix took a cab from Kennedy Airport direct to Gunnarsson Associates and he was shown into Gunnarsson’s office fast. Gunnarsson was sitting behind his desk and said abruptly, ‘You’ve got the Hendrix kid?’

‘He’s right there in your outer office. You got a doctor? He’s in pain.’

Gunnarsson laughed. ‘I’ve got something to cure his pain. Are you sure he’s the guy?’

‘He checks out right down the line.’

Gunnarsson frowned. ‘You’re sure.’

‘I’m sure. But you’ll check yourself, of course.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gunnarsson. ‘I’ll check.’ He doodled on a piece of paper. ‘Does the guy have kids?’

‘None that he’ll plead guilty to—he’s not married.’ Hardin was wondering why Gunnarsson did not invite him to sit.

Gunnarsson said, ‘Now tell me how Hendrix got shot.’

So Hardin told it all in detail and they kicked it around for a while. At last he said, ‘I guess I earned that bonus. This case got a mite tough at the end.’

‘What bonus?’

Hardin stared. ‘You said I’d get a bonus if I tracked down any Hendrixes.’

Gunnarsson was blank-faced. ‘That’s not my recollection.’

‘Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ said Hardin softly. ‘My memory isn’t that bad.’

‘Why would I offer you a bonus?’ asked Gunnarsson. ‘You know damned well we’ve been carrying you the last couple of years. Some of the guys have been bending my ear about it; they said they were tired of carrying a passenger.’

‘Which guys?’ demanded Hardin. ‘Name the names.’

‘You’re on the wrong side of the desk to be asking the questions.’

Hardin was trembling. He could not remember when he had been so angry. He said tightly, ‘As you get older you become more of a cheapskate, Gunnarsson.’

‘That I don’t have to take.’ Gunnarsson put his hands flat on the desk. ‘You’re fired. By the time you’ve cleaned out your desk the cashier will have your severance pay ready. Now get the hell out of my office.’ As he picked up the telephone Hardin turned away blindly. The door slammed and Gunnarsson snorted in derision.

Hardin took the elevator to the lobby and crossed the street to the Irish bar where, in the past, he had spent more time than was good for either his liver or his wallet. He sat on a stool and said brusquely, ‘Double bourbon.’

Over the drink he brooded on his fate. Damn Gunnarsson! It had never been Hardin’s style to complain that life was unfair; in his view life was what you made it. Yet now he thought that Gunnarsson had not only been unfair but vindictive. Canned and out on his ear after five minutes’ conversation—the bum’s rush.

He viewed the future glumly. What was a man aged fifty-five with no particular marketable skills to do? He could set up on his own, he supposed; find an office, put some ads in the paper, and sit back and wait for clients—a seedy Sam Spade. Likely he’d have to wait a long time and starve while waiting. More likely he’d end up carrying a gun for Brinks or become a bank guard and get corns on his feet from too much standing.

And his car, goddamn it! He and his car were separated by three thousand miles. He knew that if he went back to Gunnarsson and reminded him of the promise to bring the car back to New York Gunnarsson would laugh in his face.

He ordered another drink and went over the events of the last few weeks. Gunnarsson had promised him a bonus if he cracked the Hendrix case, so why had he reneged on the offer? It wasn’t as though Gunnarsson Associates were broke—the money was rolling in as though there was a pipeline from Fort Knox. There had to be a definite reason.

Come to think of it the Hendrix case had been a funny one right from the beginning. It was not Gunnarsson Associates’ style to send a man freelancing all over the country—not when they had all those regional offices. So why had Gunnarsson handled it that way? And the way he had been fired was too damned fast. Gunnarsson had deliberately needled him, forcing an argument and wanting Hardin to blow his top. Any boss was entitled to fire a man who called him a cheapskate.

Dim suspicions burgeoned in Hardin’s mind.

His musings were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and a voice said, ‘Hi, Ben; I thought you were on the West Coast.’

Hardin turned his head and saw Jack Richardson. ‘I was,’ he said sourly. ‘But how did you know?’

‘I had to call the Los Angeles office this morning. Wainwright said you’d been around. What’s your poison?’

‘Make it bourbon.’ So Wainwright couldn’t keep his big mouth shut after all. Richardson ran the files at Gunnarsson Associates; the records were totally computerized and Richardson knew which buttons to push. Now Hardin regarded him with interest. ‘Jack, did you hear any of the guys in the office beefing about me? Complaining of how I do my work, for instance?’

Richardson looked surprised. ‘Not around me. No more than the usual anyway. Everyone beefs some, you know that.’

‘Yeah.’ Hardin sipped his whiskey. ‘Gunnarsson canned me this morning.’

Richardson whistled. ‘Just like that?’

Hardin snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that. Took him about thirty seconds.’

‘Why?’

‘I called him a cheapskate for one thing.’

‘I’d have liked to have seen his face,’ said Richardson. ‘No wonder he fired you.’

‘I don’t think it was the reason,’ said Hardin, ‘I think it was something else. Could you do me a favour?’

‘I might, depending on what it is. Don’t ask for dough, Ben. I’m broke.’

‘Who isn’t?’ said Hardin feelingly, ‘I’d like you to ask your metal friend across the street for the name and address of the British lawyer who started the Hendrix case.’

‘The Hendrix case,’ repeated Richardson, and frowned. ‘Gunnarsson seems to be keeping that one under wraps. He says he’s handling it personally. I don’t have any information on it so far.’

Hardin found that interesting but he made no comment. ‘But the details of the original letter from England should be in the files.’

‘I guess so,’ said Richardson without enthusiasm. ‘But you know how Gunnarsson is about security. The computer logs every inquiry into any case and Gunnarsson checks the log.’

‘He can’t check every log; he’d be doing nothing else.’

‘Spot checks mostly,’ admitted Richardson. ‘But if he’s handling the Hendrix case personally that’s one log he might very well check. I can’t risk it, Ben. I don’t want to get fired, too.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Hardin in disgust. ‘You know enough about the computer to gimmick a log. You wrote the goddamn programs for the data base.’

‘What’s your interest in this?’

‘I’m damned if I know; I’ve got to do some hard thinking. There’s something wrong somewhere. I feel it in my bones. But, for your information, Gunnarsson isn’t handling the Hendrix case. I’ve been handling it, and I cracked it. Then I get fired. I’d like to figure out why I was fired.’

‘Okay, Ben; I’ll see what I can do,’ said Richardson. ‘But you don’t talk about this. You keep your mouth zipped.’

‘Who would I talk to? When can I have it?’

‘I’ll see what I can do tomorrow. I’ll meet you in here at midday.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Hardin and drained his glass. ‘This one’s on me. Then I’ll go clean out my desk like a good boy.’ He signalled the bartender, ‘I wonder what Gunnarsson’s idea of severance pay is.’

FIVE

Gunnarsson’s idea of severance pay made Hardin madder than ever. He tried to complain but could not get past the acidulated spinster who guarded Gunnarsson’s office, and neither could he get through on the phone. Gunnarsson’s castle was impregnable.

But Richardson came up with the information he needed next day. He gave Hardin an envelope and said, ‘You don’t know where you got it.’

‘Okay.’ Hardin opened the envelope and took out a single piece of paper. ‘This isn’t a computer print-out.’

‘You’re damned right it isn’t,’ said Richardson, if Gunnarsson found a printout with that information floating loose he’d head straight for me. Is it what you want?’

Hardin scanned it. A London inquiry agency, Peacemore, Willis and Franks, requested Gunnarsson Associates to search for any living relatives of Jan-Willem Hendrykxx—Hardin blinked at the spelling—and to pass the word back. Hendrykxx was reputed to have married in South Africa and to have had two sons, one of whom was believed to have emigrated to the United States in the 1930s. There was also the address and telephone number of a lawyer in Jersey.

It told Hardin nothing he did not know already except for the unusual spelling of Hendrix, and the Jersey address confused him until he realized that it referred to the original Jersey in the Channel Islands and not the state of New Jersey. He nodded. ‘This is it.’ There was something more. Peacemore, Willis and Franks was the British end of Gunnarsson Associates, a fact not generally known. It meant that Gunnarsson had been in it right from the start, whatever ‘it’ was. ‘Thanks. It’s worth a drink, Jack.’

If Hardin was mad at Gunnarsson he was also broke. He moved out of his apartment on the East Side and into a rooming house in the Bronx. It cost more in subway and bus fares to get into Manhattan but it was still cheaper. He wired instructions to San Francisco to sell his car and wire the money. He did not expect much but he needed the cash, and a car was a needless luxury in the city.

He carefully maintained his pipelines into the offices of Gunnarsson Associates, mainly through Jack Richardson, although there were a couple of secretaries whom he took to frugal lunches and pumped carefully, trying to get a line on what Gunnarsson was doing in the matter of Hank Hendrix. The answer, apparently, was nothing at all. Worse still, Hendrix had vanished.

‘Maybe Gunnarsson sent him to England,’ Richardson said one day.

‘You can check that,’ said Hardin thoughtfully. ‘There’ll be an expense account for the air fare. Do me a favour.’

‘Goddamn it!’ said Richardson heatedly. ‘You’ll get me fired.’ But he checked and found no record of transatlantic flights since Hendrix had arrived in New York. On his own initiative he checked for any record of medical expenses paid out for the treatment of Hendrix’s wound and, again, found nothing. He was a good friend to Hardin.

‘Gunnarsson is playing this one close,’ commented Hardin. ‘He’s usually damned hot on record keeping. I’m more and more convinced that the bastard’s up to no good. But what the hell is it?’

Richardson had no suggestions.

Probably Hardin would not have pressed on but for a genuine stroke of luck. Nearly a month had passed and he knew he had to get a job. His resentment at Gunnarsson had fuelled him thus far but an eroding bank account was a stronger argument. He had set aside enough for Annette’s next payment and that he would not touch, but his own reserves were melting.

Then he got a wire from Annette. ‘GOT MARRIED THIS MORNING STOP NOW MRS KREISS STOP WISH ME LUCK ANNETTE.’

‘Thank God!’ he said to Richardson. ‘Now some other guy can maintain her.’ Briefly he wondered what sort of a man this stranger, Kreiss, was then put the matter out of his mind. For he was now the master of unexpected wealth and his heart was filled with jubilation. ‘Now I can do it,’ he said.

‘Do what?’ asked Richardson.

‘I’m flying to England.’

‘You’re nuts!’ Richardson protested. ‘Ben, this obsession is doing you no good. What can you do in England?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hardin cheerfully. ‘But I’ll find out when I get there. I haven’t had a vacation in years.’

Before leaving for England he flew to Washington on the shuttle where he renewed acquaintance with some of his old buddies in the Company and armed himself with some British addresses, and he visited the British Embassy where he ran into problems. No one knew much about Jersey.

‘They’re autonomous,’ he was told. ‘They have their own way of doing things. You say you want to know about a will?’

‘That’s right.’

‘In London a copy would be kept in Somerset House,’ said the attaché. ‘But I don’t think that applies to Jersey wills.’ He thought for a moment then his face lightened. ‘I do believe we have someone who would know.’ He picked up a telephone and dialled, then said, ‘Pearson here. Mark, you’re a Jerseyman, aren’t you? Yes I thought so. Would you mind popping in here for a moment?’ Pearson put down the telephone. ‘Mark le Tissier should know about it.’

And Mark le Tissier did. ‘Wills are kept in the Greffe,’ he said.

‘The what?’

‘The Greffe.’ Le Tissier smiled. ‘The Public Records Office. I had the same problem a couple of years ago. They’ll give you a copy.’

‘All I have to do is to go to this place, the Greffe, and ask?’

‘Oh you don’t have to go. Just drop a line to the Greffier. We’ll go into the library and dig out his address.’

So Hardin went back to New York and wrote to Jersey, giving as return address poste restante at the London office of American Express. A few days later he flew and the day he left from Kennedy Airport the rooming house in the Bronx in which he lived burned to the ground though he did not know about it until long after. Still, it could have been chance; there are, after all, whole blocks burned out in the Bronx.

In the employment of Gunnarsson Associates Hardin had learned how to travel light. He freshened up before landing at Heathrow in the early morning and cleared Customs quickly while the rest of the passengers were waiting for their baggage, then took the Underground into London where he registered at an inexpensive hotel near Victora Station. He then walked through St James’s Park towards the Haymarket where he picked up his mail.

He enjoyed the walk. The sun was shining and he felt oddly contented and in a holiday mood as he strolled by the lake. It was true that it had been some years since he had taken a real vacation. Perhaps he had been getting in a rut and the split with Gunnarsson was to be good for him in the long run. He had little money and no prospects but he was happy.

After leaving the American Express office Hardin bought a street plan of London from a news vendor because, although he was no stranger to London, it was many years since he had been there. Then he went into a pub to inspect the single letter he had received. The envelope was bulky and bore Jersey stamps. He ordered a half pint of beer at the bar and took it to a corner table, then opened the envelope.

The will was seven pages long. Jan-Willem Hendrykxx had left £10,000 to Dr Morton, his physician, as a token of esteem for keeping him alive so long, £20,000 to Mr and Mrs Adams, his butler and housekeeper, and various sums of between £1,000 and £4,000 to various members of his staff, which appeared to be large.

Detailed instructions were given for the sale of his real property of which he had a plenitude; a house in Jersey, another in the South of France, yet another in Belgium, and a whole island in the Caribbean. The sums arising from these sales and from the sale of his other possessions were to be added to the main part of his estate. Hendrykxx had evidently been a careful man because the will was up-to-date and he had estimated the current market values of his properties. Thenceforth the terms were expressed in percentages; 85 per cent of his estate was to go to the Ol Njorowa Foundation of Kenya, and 15 per cent to be divided equally among his living descendants.

The name of the executor was given as Harold Farrar of the firm of Farrar, Windsor and Markham, a Jersey law firm. Hardin made a note of the address and the telephone number. His hand trembled a little as he noted the size of the estate.

It was estimated at forty million pounds sterling.

Hardin drank his beer, ordered another, and contemplated what he had discovered. Hank Hendrix and Dirk Hendriks, if he was still around, stood to split £6 million between them. He translated it into more familiar terms. The rate of the dollar to the pound sterling had been volatile of late but had settled at about two to one. That made twelve million bucks to split between two if there were no other heirs and he knew of none, unless Dirk Hendriks had children. That dope-smuggling drop-out, Hank Hendrix, was a multi-millionaire. The main bulk of the fortune might be going to the foundation with the funny name but the residue was not peanuts.

Hardin smiled to himself. No wonder Gunnarsson had been so interested. He always knew the value of a dollar and would not resist the temptation to put himself alongside six million of them in the hope of cutting himself a slice. He had isolated Hendrix and that young man would be no match for Gunnarsson who could charm birds from a tree when he wanted to. Gunnarsson would cook up some kind of deal to guarantee that some of those dollars would stick to his fingers.

So what was the next step? Hardin walked to the corner of the bar where there was a telephone and checked the directory which lay on a shelf next to it. He turned to ‘H’ and found the Hendriks’s; there were more than he expected of that spelling, perhaps fifteen. He ran his fingers down the column and found ‘Hendriks, D.’ On impulse he checked the variant spelling of ‘Hendrykxx’ but found no entry.

He returned to his table and consulted the street map. The address was near Sloane Square and the map of the London Underground gave his route. He patted his jacket over his breast pocket where he had put the will. Then he finished his drink and went on his way.

Coming up from the subway at Sloane Square he discovered himself in what was obviously an upper class section of London comparable to the 70s and 80s of Manhattan’s East Side. He found the street he was looking for, and then the house, and gave a low whistle. If Dirk Hendriks lived in this style he was in no particular need of a few extra millions.

Hardin hesitated, feeling a bit of a fool. He had found what he wanted to know—why Gunnarsson had been so secretive—and there was nothing in it for him. He shrugged and thought that perhaps Hank was in there with his cousin; the place looked big enough to hold an army of Hendrixes. He would like to see the kid again. After saving his life and ministering to his wounds he felt a proprietary interest. He walked up the short flight of steps to the front door and put his finger on the bellpush.

The door was opened by a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. Someone sick? ‘I’d like to see Mr Hendriks—Dirk Hendriks,’ he said.

The young woman looked doubtful. ‘Er…I don’t think he’s here,’ she said. ‘You see, I’m new. I haven’t been here long.’

Hardin said, ‘What about Henry Hendrix?’

She shook her head. ‘There’s no one of the name here,’ she said. ‘I’d know that. Would you like to see Mrs Hendriks? She’s been resting but she’s up now.’

‘Is she sick? I wouldn’t want to disturb her.’

The nurse laughed. ‘She’s just had a baby, Mr…er…’

‘Sorry. Hardin, Ben Hardin.’

She opened the door wider. if you come in I’ll tell her you’re here, Mr Hardin.’

Hardin waited in a spacious hall which showed all the evidences of casual wealth. Presently the nurse came back. ‘Come this way, Mr Hardin.’ She led him up the wide stairs and into a room which had large windows overlooking a small park. ‘Mrs Hendriks; this is Mr Hardin.’ The nurse withdrew.

Mrs Hendriks was a woman in her mid-thirties. She was short and dark, not particularly beautiful but not unattractive, either. She used make-up well. As they shook hands she said, ‘I’m sorry my husband isn’t here, Mr Hardin. You’ve missed him by twenty-four hours. He went to South Africa yesterday. Do you know my husband?’

‘Not personally,’ said Hardin.

‘Then you may not know that he’s a South African.’ She gestured. ‘Please sit down.’

Hardin sat in the easy chair. ‘It’s not your husband I really want to see,’ said Hardin, ‘It’s Han…Henry Hendrix I’d like to visit with.’

‘Henry?’ she said doubtfully.

‘Your husband’s cousin.’

She shook her head, ‘I think you’re mistaken. My husband has no cousin.’

Hardin smiled. ‘You may not know of him. He’s an American and they’ve never met. Least, that’s what Hank told me. That’s how he’s known back home. Hank Hendrix; only the name is spelled different with an “X” at the end.’

‘I see. But I still think you’re mistaken, Mr Hardin. I’m sure my husband would have told me.’

‘They’ve never met. A few letters is all, and those some years ago.’ Hardin was vaguely troubled. ‘Then Hank hasn’t been here?’

‘Of course not.’ She paused. ‘He might have come when I was in confinement. I’ve just had a baby, Mr Hardin, and modern doctors prefer maternity wards.’

‘The nurse told me,’ said Hardin. ‘Congratulations! Boy or girl?’

‘I have a son,’ she said proudly. ‘Thank you, Mr Hardin.’ She reverted to the problem. ‘But Dirk would have told me, I’m sure, if a long-lost cousin had arrived out of the blue.’

‘I’m sure he would have,’ said Hardin sincerely, and his sense of trouble deepened. If Hank had come to England he would have certainly looked Dirk up; all it took was a phone book. Damn it, the Jersey lawyer would have certainly introduced them. Jack Richardson had checked that flight tickets had not been bought, so where in hell was Hank and what game was Gunnarsson playing?

His worry must have shown on his face because Mrs Hendriks said gently, ‘You look troubled, Mr Hardin. Is there anything I can do to help?’

Hardin felt the copy of the will in his pocket. At least that was real. He said, ‘Has Mr Hendriks heard from a lawyer about his grandfather’s will?’

Mrs Hendriks was astonished. ‘His grandfather! My husband’s grandfather died years ago in South Africa. Or, at least, I’ve always assumed so. Dirk has never mentioned him.’

Hardin took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Hendriks; I have something to tell you and it may take a while. It’s like this…’

SIX

Max Stafford was contemplating the tag end of the day and thinking about going home when his telephone rang. It was Joyce, his secretary. ‘Mrs Hendriks is on the line and wants to talk to you.’

‘Put her through.’

There was a click. ‘Max?’

‘Hello, Alix. How is motherhood suiting you?’

‘Great. I’m blooming. Thank you for the christening mug you sent young Max. A very elegant piece of Georgian silver. He’ll drink your health from it on his coming-of-age.’

Stafford smiled. ‘Is it eighteen or twenty-one these days? I’ll be a bit long in the tooth then.’

She laughed. ‘But that’s not why I rang; there’s a proper “Thank you” letter in the post. Max, I need your advice. A man, an American called Hardin, came to me yesterday with a strange story concerning Dirk. Now, Dirk isn’t here—he’s in South Africa. I tried to ring him last night but he seems to be on the move and no one knows exactly where he is. I’d like you to see this man before he goes back to America.’

‘What sort of strange yarn is he spinning?’

‘It’s a bit difficult to explain and I probably wouldn’t get it right. It’s complicated. Please see him, Max.’

Stafford pondered for a moment, ‘Is Dirk in trouble?’

‘Nothing like that. In fact it might be the other way round. Dirk might inherit something according to Hardin, but there’s something odd going on.’

‘How odd?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I can’t get the hang of it.’

‘When is Hardin going back to the States?’

‘Tomorrow or the day after. I don’t think he can afford to stay.’ She hesitated, ‘I would like your advice, Max; you’ve always been wise. Things have been difficult lately. Dirk has been broody for quite a while—ever since I told him I was pregnant. It’s been worrying me. And now this.’

‘This Hardin character isn’t blackmailing you, is he?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ she protested. ‘Can you come to lunch? I’ll see that Hardin is here.’

Stafford thought about it. His in-tray was overflowing and Joyce was a strict secretary. Still, this might be something he could sort out in an hour. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you at twelve-thirty.’

‘Thank you, Max,’ said Alix warmly, ‘I knew I could depend on you.’

Stafford put down the telephone and sat thinking. Presently he became aware that Ellis was standing before him snapping his fingers. ‘Come out of your trance. Got a problem?’

Stafford started. ‘Not me—Alix Hendriks. It seems that Dirk doesn’t relish being a father. He’s whistled off to South Africa and left Alix holding the three-week-old baby which I consider bloody inconsiderate. And now she’s come up against someone who sounds like a con man, and Dirk isn’t around. She wants my advice.’

‘The last time you helped Alix you came to the office with your arm in a sling,’ said Ellis. ‘Watch it, Max.’

‘That kind of lightning doesn’t strike twice,’ said Stafford.

Stafford soon found that the problem presented by Alix was not to be sorted out in an hour. He arrived on time at the house in Belgravia and found Hardin already there, a balding man in his mid-fifties with a pot belly like a football. To Stafford’s eye he looked seedy and rundown. After gravely inspecting and admiring Stafford’s three-week-old namesake the three of them adjourned to the dining room for lunch and Hardin retold his story.

It was three in the afternoon when Stafford held up the sheaf of papers. ‘And this is purported to be the will?’

Hardin’s face reddened, ‘It is the goddamn will. If you don’t believe me you can get your own copy. Hell, I’ll even stand the cost myself.’

‘All right, Mr Hardin; cool down.’

During Hardin’s narrative Stafford had been revising his opinion of the man. If this was a con trick he found it difficult to see the point because there was nothing in it for Hardin. The will was obviously genuine because its source could be so easily checked and the passing of a fake will through the Probate Court was inconceivable. Besides, there was Gunnarsson.

He said, ‘What do you think Gunnarsson has done with Hendrix?’

Hardin shrugged, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Would you call Gunnarsson an ethical man?’

‘Christ, no!’

‘Neither would I,’ said Stafford dryly.

‘You know him?’ said Hardin in surprise.

‘Not personally, but he has caused me a considerable amount of trouble in the past. We happen to be in the same line of business but reverse sides of the coin, as you might say. I run Stafford Security Consultants.’

Hardin was even more surprised. ‘You’re that Stafford? Well I’ll be damned!’

Stafford inspected the will. ‘Old Hendrykxx was either wise or had good advice.’

Alix poured more coffee. ‘Why?’

‘Setting up in the Channel Islands. No death duties, capital gains tax or capital transfer tax. It looks as though Dirk will get about three million quid free and clear. I know quite a bit about that aspect. When we went multinational we began to put our business through the Channel Islands.’ He laid the will on the table. ‘Who do you think shot Hendrix in Los Angeles?’

‘That I don’t know, either,’ said Hardin, ‘I can only guess. There were other guys looking for Hendrix besides me. I told you that.’

‘Who could be German,’ said Stafford. ‘All right, Mr Hardin; why did you come to England?’

‘I was so mad about the way Gunnarsson shafted me that I wanted to do something about it. Call it revenge, if you like. I drew a blank in New York and when I got a few unexpected dollars I came over here.’ Hardin shrugged and pointed at the will. ‘When I saw that, I knew damn well what Gunnarsson was doing, but there’s not a thing I can do about it. But I came here to see Hank and to tell him to watch his step with Gunnarsson and to put a zipper on his wallet.’

Stafford was pensive for a while. At last he said, ‘How long are you staying in England?’

‘I’m leaving tomorrow or maybe the day after. Depends on when I can get a reservation.’ Hardin smiled wryly. ‘I have to get home and go back to earning a living.’

‘I’d like you to stay a little longer. Your expenses will be paid, of course.’ Stafford glanced at Alix, who nodded. He did not know exactly why he wanted Hardin to stay. He just had an obscure feeling that the man would be handy to have around.

‘I don’t mind staying on that basis,’ said Hardin.

Stafford stood up. ‘If you let me have the name of your hotel I’ll be in touch.’

‘I have it,’ said Alix.

‘Then that’s it for the moment. Thank you, Mr Hardin.’ When Hardin had gone Stafford said, ‘May I use your phone?’

Alix looked up from clearing away the coffee cups. ‘Of course. You know where it is.’

Stafford was absent for five minutes. When he came back he said, ‘Jan-Willem Hendrykxx really did exist. I’ve been talking to my man in Jersey who looked him up in the telephone book. His name is still listed. I think Hendrykxx is a Flemish name.’ He picked up the will. ‘That would account for the house in Belgium. I’ve asked my chap to give me a discreet report on the executor of the estate and to find out when and how Hendrykxx died.’

Alix frowned. ‘You don’t suspect anything…? I mean he must have been an old man.’

Stafford smiled. ‘I was trained in military intelligence. You never know when a bit of apparently irrelevant information will fit into the jigsaw.’ He scanned the will. ‘The Ol Njorowa Foundation stands to inherit about thirty-four million pounds. I wonder what it does?’ He sat down. ‘Alix, what’s this with you and Dirk? You sounded a shade drear on the phone this morning.’

She looked unhappy. ‘I can’t make him out, Max. I don’t think fatherhood suits him. We were happy enough until I got in the family way and then he changed.’

‘In what way?’

‘He became moody and abstracted. And now he’s pushed off back to South Africa just when I need him. The baby’s just three weeks old—you’d think he’d stay around, wouldn’t you?’

‘Um,’ said Stafford obscurely. ‘He never mentioned his grandfather at any time?’

‘Not that I can remember.’ She made a sudden gesture as if brushing away an inopportune fly. ‘Oh, Max; this is ridiculous. This man—this Fleming with the funny way of spelling his name—is probably no relation at all. It must be a case of mistaken identity.’

‘I don’t think so. Hardin came straight to this house like a homing pigeon.’ Stafford ticked off points on his fingers. ‘The American, Hank Hendrix, told him that Dirk was his cousin; Hardin saw the instructions to Gunnarsson from Peacemore, Willis and Franks to turn up descendants of Jan-Willem Hendrykxx with the funny name; in doing so Hardin turns up Hank Hendrix. It’s a perfectly logical chain.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Alix. ‘But can you tell me why I’m worried about Dirk inheriting millions?’

‘I think I can,’ he said. ‘You’re worried about a bit that doesn’t seem to fit. The shooting of Hank Hendrix in Los Angeles. And I’ve got one other thing on my mind. Why haven’t the Peacemore mob turned up Dirk? Hardin did it in thirty seconds.’

Curtis, Stafford’s manservant, was mildly surprised at seeing him. ‘The Colonel is back early,’ he observed.

‘Yes, I got sidetracked. It wasn’t worth going back to the office.’

‘Would the Colonel like afternoon tea?’

‘No; but you can bring me a scotch in the study.’

‘As the Colonel wishes,’ said Curtis with a disapproving air which stopped just short of insolence.

Curtis was a combination of butler, valet, chauffeur, handyman and nanny. He was ex-Royal Marines, having joined in 1943 and electing to stay in the service after the war. A 37-year man. At the statutory retiring age of 55 he had been tossed into the strange civilian world of the 1980s, no longer a Colour-Sergeant with authority but just another man-in-the-street. A fish out of water and somewhat baffled by the indiscipline of civilian life. He was a widower, his wife Amy having died five years before of cancer; and his only daughter was married, living in Australia, and about to present him with a third grandchild.

When Stafford had divorced his wife he had stayed at his club before moving into a smaller flat more suitable for a bachelor. It was then that he remembered Curtis whom he had known from the days when he had been a young officer serving with the British Army of the Rhine. One night, in one of the less salubrious quarters of Hamburg, he had found himself in a tight spot from which he had been rescued by a tough, hammer-fisted Marine sergeant. He had never forgotten Curtis and they had kept in touch, and so he acquired Curtis—or did Curtis acquire Stafford? Whichever way it was they suited each other; Curtis finding a congenial niche in a strange world, and Stafford lucky enough to have an efficient, if somewhat military, Jeeves. Curtis’s only fault was that he would persist in addressing Stafford in the third person by his army title.

Stafford looked at the chunky, hard man with something approaching affection. ‘How’s your daughter, Sergeant?’

‘I had a letter this morning. She says she’s well, sir.’

‘What will it be? Boy or girl?’

‘Just so that it has one head and the usual number of arms, legs and fingers. Boy or girl—either will suit me.’

‘Tell me when it comes. We must send a suitable christening present.’

‘Thank you, sir. When would the Colonel like his bath drawn?’

‘At the usual time. Let me have that scotch now.’ Stafford went into his study.

He sat at his desk and thought about Gunnarsson. He had never met Gunnarsson but had sampled his methods through the machinations of Peacemore, Willis and Franks which was the wholly-owned London subsidiary of Gunnarsson Associates, and what he had found he did not like.

It was the work of Stafford Security Consultants to protect the secrets of the organizations which were their clients. A lot of people imagine security to be a matter of patrolling guards and heavy mesh fencing but that is only a part of it. The weakest part of any organization is the people in it, from the boss at the top down to the charwomen who scrub the floors. A Managing Director making an indiscreet remark at his golf club could blow a secret worth millions. A charwoman suborned can find lots of interesting items in waste paper baskets.

It followed that if the firm of Stafford Security Consultants was making a profit out of guarding secrets—and it was making a handsome profit—then others were equally interested in ferreting them out, and the people who employed Gunnarsson Associates were the sort who were not too fussy about the methods used. And that went for the Peacemore mob in the United Kingdom.

Stafford remembered a conversation he had had with Jack Ellis just before he left for the Continent. ‘We’ve had trouble with the Peacemore crowd,’ said Ellis. ‘They penetrated Electronomics just before the merger when Electronomics was taken over. Got right through our defences.’

‘How?’

Jack shrugged. ‘We can guard against everything but stupidity. They got the goods on Pascoe, the General Manager. In bed with a gilded youth. Filthy pictures, the lot. Of course, it was a Peacemore set-up, but I’d have a hell of a job proving it.’

‘In this permissive age homosexuality isn’t the handle it once was,’ observed Stafford.

‘It was a good handle this time. Pascoe’s wife didn’t know he was double-gaited. He has teenage daughters and it would have ruined his marriage so he caved in. After the merger we lost the Electronomics contract, of course. Peacemore got it.’

‘And Pascoe’s peccadilloes came to light anyway.’

‘Sure. After the merger he was fired and they gave full reasons. He’d proved he couldn’t be trusted.’

‘The bastards have no mercy,’ said Stafford.

Industrial espionage is not much different from the work of the department called MI6 which the British government refuses to admit exists, or the KGB which everyone knows to exist, or the CIA which is practically an open book. A car company would find it useful to know the opposition’s designs years in advance. One airline, after planning an advertising campaign costing half a million, was taken very much by surprise when its principal rival came out with the identical campaign a week before its own was due to start.

A company wanting to take over another, as in the Electronomics case, would like to know the victim’s defensive strategy. Someone wanted to know what bid price Electronomics would jib at, and employed Peacemore to find out.

Of course, no one on the Board comes right out and says, ‘Let’s run an espionage exercise against so-and-so.’ The Chairman or Managing Director might be thinking aloud and says dreamily, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we knew what so-and-so are doing.’ Sharp ears pick up the wishful think and the second echelon boys get to work, the hatchet men hungry for promotion. Intermediaries are used, analogous to the cut-outs used in military and political intelligence, the job gets done with no one on the Board getting his hands dirty, and an under-manager becomes a manager.

Defence is difficult because the espionage boys go for the jugular. All the security guards in creation are of no avail against human weakness. So Stafford Security Consultants investigated the personnel of their clients, weeding out doubtful characters, and if that was an offence against human rights it was too bad.

And sometimes we fail, thought Stafford.

He sighed and picked up the neglected whisky which Curtis had brought in. And now Gunnarsson was mixed up in the affairs of a friend. Not that Stafford felt particularly friendly towards Dirk Hendriks, but Alix was his friend and he did not want her hurt in any way. And Gunnarsson was not acting in a straightforward manner. Why had he not produced the missing heirs?

Stafford checked the time. It was probably after office hours in Jersey but he would try to talk with the Jersey law firm. There was no reply.

SEVEN

The next morning, just after he arrived at the office, Stafford took a call from Peter Hartwell, the director of the Jersey holding company whom he had queried the day before. Hartwell said, ‘Your man, Hendrykxx, died a little over four months ago. The body was cremated. I checked the newspapers and it went unreported except for the usual formal announcement.’

‘What was the cause of death?’

‘Heart attack. It was expected; he had a history of heart trouble. I discovered we shared the same doctor so I was able to ask a few questions. I went to the Greffe and saw the will. Makes bloody interesting reading, doesn’t it?’

Stafford said, ‘I’m surprised the newpapers didn’t get hold of it. It’s not often multi-millionaires hop their twig.’

Hartwell laughed. ‘Millionaires are not uncommon here—they’re just plain, ordinary folk. Besides, Hendrykxx lived very quietly and didn’t make waves. The news boys don’t read every will deposited in the Greffe, anyway.’

‘How long had he lived on Jersey?’ asked Stafford.

‘He came in 1974—not all that long ago.’

‘What about the executor? What’s he like?’

‘Old Farrar? Good man, but damned stuffy. What’s your interest in this, Max? Isn’t it a bit out of your line?’

‘Just doing a favour for a friend. Thanks, Peter; I’ll get back to you if I need anything more.’

‘There is one odd point,’ said Hartwell. ‘The clerk in the Greffe said there’s been quite a run on copies of that particular will. One from England, two from America and another from South Africa.’ Hartwell laughed. ‘He said he was considering printing a limited edition.’

After he put down the phone Stafford leaned back and thought for a moment. So far, so uninteresting, except possibly for the requests for copies of the will. He snapped a switch, and said, ‘Joyce, get me Mr Farrar of Farrar, Windsor and Markham, St Helier, Jersey. It’s a law firm.’

Five minutes later he was speaking to Farrar. He introduced himself, then said, ‘I’m interested in the late Mr Jan—Willem Hendrykxx. He died about four months ago.’

‘That is correct.’

‘I believe you are having difficulty in tracing the heirs.’

‘In that you are mistaken,’ said Farrar. He had a dry, pedantic voice.

Stafford waited for him to continue but Farrar remained silent. Well, Hartwell had said he was stuffy. Stafford said, ‘I take it you refer to Henry Hendrix of Los Angeles and Dirk Hendriks of London.’

‘You appear to be well informed. May I ask how you obtained your information?’

‘I’ve been reading the will.’

‘That would not give you the names,’ said Farrar dryly. ‘But essentially you are correct. Mr Henry Hendrix is flying from the United States tomorrow, and Mr Dirk Hendriks has been informed.’ Farrar paused. ‘It is true that I was surprised at the length of time taken by…’ He stopped as though aware of being on the edge of an unlawyerly indiscretion. ‘May I ask your interest in this matter, Mr Stafford?’

Stafford sighed. ‘My interest has just evaporated. Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mr Farrar.’ He hung up.

The telephone rang almost immediately and Alix came on the line. ‘It’s true, Max,’ she said excitedly. ‘It’s all true.’

‘If you mean about Dirk’s inheritance, I know. I’ve just been talking to Farrar.’

‘Who?’

‘The executor of the estate. The Jersey solicitor.’

‘That’s funny. The letter came from a solicitor called Mandeville in the City.’ Alix hurried on. ‘Dirk knew all the time. He said he didn’t want to excite me when I was having the baby. He had to go to South Africa to collect evidence of identity. He got back this morning and he’s seeing the solicitor tomorrow. And there is a long-lost cousin, Max. He’ll be there too.’

‘All very exciting,’ said Stafford unemotionally. ‘Congratulations.’ He paused. ‘What do you want me to do about Hardin?’

‘What would you suggest?’

‘He strikes me as being an honest man,’ said Stafford. ‘From the way it looked there could have been jiggerypokery, and Hardin did his best to put it right at considerable personal effort. I suggest you pay his London expenses and his total air fare. And you might add a small honorarium. Shall I take care of it?’

‘If you would,’ she said. ‘Send me the bill.’

‘I’ll break the news to him at lunch. ‘Bye.’ He rang off, asked Joyce to make a lunch appointment with Hardin, and then sat back, his fingers drumming on the desk, to consider the matter.

There did not seem much to consider. Mandeville was probably Farrar’s London correspondent; law firms did arrange their affairs that way. Stafford wondered why Dirk Hendriks had not told Alix before he went to South Africa—she had had the baby by then—but he always had been an inconsiderate bastard. There were a couple of minor points that did not add up. Who shot Hendrix and why? And why hadn’t Gunnarsson produced Hendrix in England as soon as he had been found? But he had only Hardin’s word for those events. Perhaps Hardin really was a con man and playing his own devious game. Stafford, who prided himself on being a good judge of men, shook his head in perplexity.

He got on with his work.

Stafford stood Hardin to lunch in a good restaurant. The news may have been good for Hendrykxx’s heirs but it was bad news for Hardin, and he judged a good meal would make the medicine go down better. Hardin said ruefully, ‘I guess I made a fool of myself.’

‘The man who never made a mistake never made anything,’ said Stafford unoriginally. ‘Mrs Hendriks doesn’t want you to be out of pocket because of this affair. How long is it since you left Gunnarsson Associates?’

‘Just about a month.’

‘What did he pay you?’

‘Thirty thousand bucks a year, plus bonuses.’ Hardin shrugged. ‘The bonuses got a little thin towards the end, but in good years I averaged forty thousand.’

‘All right.’ Stafford took out his chequebook. ‘Mrs Hendriks will stand your air fare both ways, your London expenses, and a month’s standard pay. Does that suit you?’

‘That’s generous and unexpected,’ said Hardin sincerely.

Again Stafford wondered about Hardin, then reflected that sincerity was the con man’s stock in trade. They settled the amount in dollars, Stafford rounded it up to the nearest thousand, converted it into sterling, and wrote the cheque. As Hardin put it into his wallet he said, ‘This will keep me going until I get settled again back home.’

‘When will you be leaving?’

‘Nothing to keep me here now. Maybe tomorrow if I can get a seat.’

‘Well, good luck,’ said Stafford, and changed the subject.

Over the rest of lunch they talked of other things. Hardin learned that Stafford had been in Military Intelligence and opened up a bit on his own experiences in the CIA. He said he had worked in England, Germany and Africa, but he talked in generalities, was discreet, and told no tales out of school, ‘I can’t talk much about that,’ he said frankly. ‘I’m not one of the kiss-and-tell guys who sprang out of the woodwork with Watergate.’

Stafford silently approved, his judgment of Hardin oscillating rapidly.

Lunch over, Stafford paid the bill and they left the restaurant, pausing for a final handshake on the pavement. Stafford watched Hardin walk away, a somehow pathetic figure, and wondered what was to become of him.

Dirk Hendriks rang up next day, and Stafford sighed in exasperation; he was becoming fed up with l’affaire Hendriks. Dirk’s voice came over strongly and Stafford noted yet again that the telephone tends to accentuate accent. ‘I’ve seen the solicitor, Max. We’re going to Jersey tomorrow to see Farrar, the executor.’

‘We?’

‘Me and my unexpected cousin. I met him in Mandeville’s office.’

‘Happy family reunion,’ said Stafford. ‘What’s your cousin like?’

‘Seems a nice enough chap. Very American, of course. He was wearing the damnedest gaudy broadcheck jacket you’ve ever seen.’

‘Three million will cure any eyestrain, Dirk,’ said Stafford dryly. ‘Did you find out about the Ol Njorowa Foundation?’

‘Yes. It’s some sort of agricultural college and experimental farm in Kenya.’ Hendriks hesitated. ‘There’s a funny condition to the will. I have to spend one month each year working for the Foundation. What do you make of that?’

Stafford had noted the clause. His tone became drier. ‘A month a year isn’t much to pay for three million quid.’

‘I suppose not. Look, Max; this character, Hardin. What did you make of him?’

Stafford decided to give Hardin the benefit of the doubt. ‘Seems a good chap.’

‘So Alix says. She liked him. When is he going back to the States?’

‘He’s probably gone by now. He said there wasn’t anything to keep him here, and he has to find a job.’

‘I see. Could you give me his address in New York? He must have run up some expenses and I’d like to reimburse him.’

‘It’s all taken care of, Dirk,’ said Stafford. ‘I’ll send you the bill; you can afford it now. In any case, he didn’t leave an address.’

‘Oh!’ In that brief monosyllable Stafford thought he detected disappointment. There was an appreciable pause before Hendriks said, ‘Thanks, Max.’ He went on more briskly, ‘I must get on now. We’ve just left Mandeville who seems satisfied, and Cousin Henry, Alix and I are having a celebratory drink. Why don’t you join us?’

‘Sorry, Dirk; I’m not a bloated millionaire and I have work to do.’

‘All right, then. I’ll see you around.’ Hendriks rang off.

Stafford had told a white lie. Already he was packing papers into a briefcase in preparation to go home. There was a Test match that afternoon and he rather thought England would beat Australia this time. He wanted to watch it on television.

He walked into his flat and found Curtis waiting for him. ‘The Colonel has a visitor. An American gentleman, name of Mr Hardin. I rang the office but the Colonel had already left.’

‘Oh! Where is he?’

‘I settled him in the living room with a highball.’

Stafford looked at Curtis sharply. ‘What the devil do you know about highballs?’

‘I have been drunk with the United States Navy on many occasions, sir,’ said Curtis with a straight face. ‘That was in my younger days.’

‘Well, I’ll join Mr Hardin with my usual scotch.’

Stafford found Hardin nursing a depleted drink and examining the book shelves, ‘I thought you’d have gone by now.’

‘I almost made it, but I decided to stay.’ Hardin straightened. ‘Did Hank Hendrix arrive?’

‘Yes; I had a call from Dirk. They met the lawyer this afternoon. He seemed satisfied with their credentials, so Dirk says.’

‘The lawyer’s name being Mandeville?’ ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

Stafford had thought Hardin had appeared strained but now he looked cheerful, ‘I bumped into Gunnarsson this morning at Heathrow Airport. Well, not bumped exactly—I don’t think he saw me. I decided not to leave right then because I wanted to follow him.’

Curtis came in with a tray and Stafford reached for his whisky. ‘Why?’

‘Because the young guy with him wasn’t the Hank Hendrix I picked up in Los Angeles.’

Stafford was so startled that he almost dropped the glass. ‘Wasn’t he, by God?’

Hardin shook his head decidedly. ‘No way. Same height, same colouring—a good lookalike but not Hank Hendrix.’

Stafford thought of his conversation with Dirk. ‘What was the colour of his jacket?’

Hardin grinned crookedly. ‘You couldn’t mistake him for anyone but an American—Joseph’s coat of many colours.’

That did it. Curtis was about to leave the room and Stafford said abruptly, ‘Stick around, Sergeant, and listen to this. It might save a lot of explanations later. But first get Mr Hardin another highball, and you might as well have one yourself. Mr Hardin; this is Colour-Sergeant Curtis, late of the Royal Marines.’

Hardin gave Stafford a curious look then stood up and held out his hand. ‘Glad to know you, Sergeant Curtis.’

‘Likewise, Mr Hardin.’ They shook hands then Curtis turned to Stafford, ‘If the Colonel doesn’t mind I’d rather have a beer.’

Stafford nodded and Curtis left to return two minutes later with the drinks. Stafford said, ‘So you followed Gunnarsson?’

‘Yeah. Your London taxi drivers don’t surprise worth a damn. I told mine that if he kept track of Gunnarsson’s cab it was worth an extra tip. He said he could do better than that—they were on the same radio net. Five minutes later he said Gunnarsson was going to the Dorchester. I got there before him and had the cab wait. It ran up quite a tab on the meter.’

‘You’ll get your expenses.’

Hardin grinned, ‘It’s on the house, Mr Stafford. Because I’m feeling so good.’

He sipped his replenished highball. ‘Gunnarsson and the other guy registered at the desk and then went upstairs. They were up there nearly two hours while I was sitting in the lobby getting callouses on my butt and hoping that the house dick wouldn’t latch on to me and throw me out. When they came down I followed them again and they took me to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’

‘Where Mandeville has his chambers. Right? That’s where you got the name.’

‘Right. I still kept the cab and hung on for a while. Gunnarsson came out just as Mrs Hendriks went in with a guy. Would he be Dirk Hendriks?’

‘Big broad-shouldered man built like a tank?’ Like a lot of South Africans Hendriks was designed to play rugby scrum half.

‘That’s the guy.’ Stafford nodded sharply, and Hardin said, ‘They went into the same place. I followed Gunnarsson to the office of Peacemore, Willis and Franks. I didn’t think I could do much more so I came here and paid off the taxi.’ He looked up. ‘I thought it was better I came here instead of your office.’

Stafford nodded absently, mulling it over, then he said, ‘All right; let’s do a reconstruction. You found Henry Hendrix and took him to Gunnarsson in New York. Gunnarsson, who had been hoping for a gold mine, realized he’d found it. Hendrix had no family, he’d never been out of the States, and it wouldn’t be too hard to drain him of information and put someone else in as a substitute here in London.’

Curtis coughed. ‘I don’t really know what this is about yet, but where is the real Henry Hendrix?’

Hardin gave him a sideways glance, ‘I wouldn’t care to guess.’ There was a silence while they digested that, then he asked, ‘So what do we do now?’

‘I suppose I should tell Farrar he’s being taken,’ Stafford said slowly. ‘But I’m not going to.’ Hardin brightened. ‘If I do then Gunnarsson can slide right out from under.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hardin. ‘The young guy takes his lumps for being an impostor, and Gunnarsson spreads his hands and says he’s been as deceived as anyone else. All injured innocence.’

‘And no one would believe you,’ commented Stafford. ‘He’d call you a liar; a disgruntled ex-employee who was fired for incompetence.’

‘That he would.’ Hardin scratched his jaw. ‘There’s still Biggie and the commune. They’d know this guy isn’t Hank.’

‘Christ, they’re seven thousand miles away,’ said Stafford irritably. ‘This man, whoever he is, has committed no crime in the States. He’d be tried here under British law or perhaps Jersey law, for all I know.’

‘What’s the sentence for impersonation over here?’

‘It wouldn’t be much. Maybe two years.’

Hardin snorted, but Stafford ignored him. He was deep in thought and looked upon Hardin with new eyes. The man had proved to be right, after all, and here he had at hand an unemployed Intelligence agent and a man who hated Gunnarsson’s guts. If Stafford was going against Gunnarsson it occurred to him that Hardin would be handy to have around. He knew Gunnarsson and how he operated, and the first rule of any kind of warfare is: ‘Know your enemy.’

He said, ‘You told me you worked in Africa. Do you know Kenya?’

‘Sure.’ Hardin shrugged. ‘It will have changed since I was there, but I know Kenya.’

‘Are you persona grata?’

‘I’m okay in Kenya.’ He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t like to say what would happen if I stuck my nose into Tanzania.’

Stafford said, ‘You told me your salary at Gunnarsson Associates. I think we can match that, and maybe a bit more. How would you like to work for Stafford Security Consultants?’

Hardin did not jump at it. ‘Are you in the same business as Gunnarsson?’

‘Not exactly. We try to stop the bastards.’

Hardin held out his hand, ‘I’m your man. Thanks, Mr Stafford.’

Stafford smiled, ‘I’m Max, you are Ben, and the Sergeant is the Sergeant.’

Hardin had given up his hotel room so Stafford told him he could use the spare bedroom until he got fixed up. ‘You can pay your rent by briefing Sergeant Curtis on this thing.’ ‘What’s this with Kenya?’

Stafford said, ‘That’s where I think the action will be.’ He was thinking that an awful lot of money was going to the Ol Njorowa Foundation, a hell of a lot more than the six million dollars going to the fake Hendrix. The Foundation would be awash with cash—something like seventy million American dollars—and he was sure that Gunnarsson had got the heady scent of it in his nostrils.

EIGHT

Stafford discussed the Gunnarsson affair with Jack Ellis who was the next biggest shareholder in Stafford Security after himself. He felt he could not run up costs on the firm without informing Ellis. He outlined the situation and Ellis said thoughtfully, ‘Gunnarsson. He’s the Peacemore mob, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’

‘We’ve been having trouble with that crowd. Remember Electronomics?’

‘All too clearly,’ said Stafford. ‘Jack, our next logical expansion is into the States. We’re going to come up slap hard against Gunnarsson sooner or later. I’d rather it was sooner, before we set up operations over there. I want to go after him now when he’s not on his home ground.’

Ellis nodded. ‘That should make it easier. Who knows about all this? I mean that Gunnarsson has run in a substitute for Hendrix.’

‘Just four; you, me, Hardin and the Sergeant.’

‘Not Alix Hendriks?’

Stafford shook his head. ‘Nor Dirk. I want to keep this tight.’

‘And why Kenya?’

Stafford said, ‘There was once an American bank robber called Willie Sutton. Someone asked him why he robbed banks. He looked a bit disgusted, and said, “That’s where the money is.” There’s a hell of a lot of money going into Kenya. Gunnarsson will go where the money is.’

‘What do we know about this Foundation in Kenya?’

‘Not a damned thing; but that can be cured.’

‘And you want to handle this personally?’

‘With help.’ Stafford shrugged. ‘I’ve been working damned hard in Europe, and I haven’t had a holiday for three years. Let’s call this paid leave of absence.’

Ellis smiled wryly, ‘I have an odd feeling of déjà vu as though we’ve had this conversation before.’

Stafford said, ‘Make no mistake, Jack; this isn’t a favour for Alix Hendriks. This is for the future benefit of Stafford Security.’

Ellis agreed.

Stafford sent Hardin to Kenya as a one man advance party. He did not want Hardin to meet either Gunnarsson or Hendrix by accident and, although there are eight million people in London, he was taking no chances. The West End covers a comparatively small area and it would be plain bad luck if they met face to face in, say, Jermyn Street. In Kenya Hardin was to arrange hotel accommodation and hire cars. He was also to do a preliminary check into the Ol Njorowa Foundation.

Gunnarsson and the fake Hendrix were kept under discreet observation. Stafford arranged to get a look at them so that he would know them again when he saw them. Gunnarsson did nothing much; he frequented the offices of Peacemore, Willis and Franks, which was natural since he owned the place, and he gambled in casinos, winning often. His luck was uncanny. Hendrix, after looking around London, hired a car and went on a tour of the West Country.

It was then that Stafford invited Alix and Dirk Hendriks to dinner; they were his spies behind the enemy lines. Over the aperitifs he said, ‘How did you get on in Jersey?’

Dirk laughed, ‘I signed a lot of papers and got writer’s cramp. The old man had a fantastic head for business. His investments are widespread.’

‘Did you know your grandfather?’

Dirk shook his head, and Alix said, ‘You’ve never mentioned him, Dirk.’

‘I thought he was killed in the Red Revolt of 1922,’ said Dirk. ‘There was a revolution on the Rand, a real civil war which Smuts put down with artillery and bombers. That’s when he disappeared, or so I was told. It’s a bit spooky to know that he really died only a few months ago.’

‘And your grandmother—did you know her?’ asked Stafford.

‘I have vague recollections,’ said Dirk, frowning. ‘She used to tell me stories. It must have been she who told me about my grandfather. She died when I was a kid. They all did.’

‘All?’ said Alix questioningly.

‘Both my parents, my sister and my grandmother were killed in a car crash. The only reason I wasn’t in the car was because I was in hospital. Scarlet fever, I believe. I was six years old.’ He put on a mock lugubrious expression. ‘I’m a lone orphan.’

Alix put her hand over his. ‘My poor darling. I didn’t know.’

Stafford thought it odd that Dirk had not told Alix this before but made no comment. Instead he said, ‘What’s this Foundation in Kenya?’

‘Ol Njorowa?’ Dirk shook his head, ‘I don’t know much about it other than what I’ve already told you. We’re going out next Wednesday to inspect it. Since I have to spend a month a year there I’d better learn about it. The Director is a man called Brice. Mandeville thinks a lot of him.’

‘How does Mandeville come into it? He’s a QC, isn’t he? I thought Farrar was the executor.’ Stafford held up a finger to a passing waiter.

‘He did a lot of legal work for my grandfather. Apparently they were on terms of friendship because he said he used to stay at my grandfather’s house whenever he went to Jersey.’

‘Is he going to Kenya with you?’

Dirk laughed. ‘Lord, no! He’s a bigwig; he doesn’t go to people—they go to him. But Farrar is coming along; he has business to discuss with Brice.’

Stafford turned to Alix. ‘Are you going, too?’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I’d like to, but I couldn’t take young Max. Perhaps we’ll go next time.’

‘And Henry Hendrix is going, of course. Where is he, by the way? I thought you’d be together.’

‘He’s sightseeing in the country,’ said Dirk, and added tartly, ‘We’re not going to live in each other’s pockets. It’s only now that I appreciate the saying, “You can choose your friends but not your relatives.”’

‘Don’t you like him?’

‘He’s not my type,’ said Dirk briefly. ‘I think we’ll choose different months to stay at Ol Njorowa. But, yes; he will be going with Farrar and me.’

‘I might bump into you in Nairobi,’ said Stafford casually. ‘I’m taking a holiday out there. My flight is on Tuesday.’

‘Oh?’ Dirk looked at him intently. ‘When did you decide that?’

‘I booked the trip a couple of weeks ago—at least, my secretary did.’

The waiter came up, and Alix said, ‘I won’t have another drink, Max.’

‘Then we’ll go in to dine,’ he said, and rose, satisfied with his probing.

Next day he learned that Gunnarsson had visited a travel agent and a discreet enquiry elicited his destination—Nairobi. Stafford had Curtis book two seats on the Tuesday flight and cabled Hardin, advising him to lie low. Curtis said, ‘Am I going, sir?’

‘Yes; I might want someone to hang my trousers. What kind of natty gent’s clothing would be suitable for Kenya?’

‘The Colonel doesn’t want to trouble his head about that. Any of the Indian stores will make him up a suit within twenty-four hours. Cheap too, and good for the climate.’

‘You’re a mine of information, Sergeant. Where did you pick up that bit?’

‘I’ve been there,’ Curtis said unexpectedly. ‘I was in Mombasa a few years ago during the Mau-Mau business. I got a bit of travel up-country to Nairobi and beyond.’ He paused. ‘What kind of trouble is the Colonel expecting—fisticuffs or guns?’ Stafford regarded him thoughtfully, and Curtis said, ‘It’s just that I’d like to know what preparations to make.’

Stafford said, ‘You know as much as I do. Make what preparations you think advisable.’ The first thing any green lieutenant learns is when to say ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’ The non-commissioned officers of any service run the nuts and bolts of the outfit and the wise officer knows it.

Curtis said, ‘Then have I the Colonel’s permission to take the afternoon off? I have things to do.’

‘Yes; but don’t tell me what they are. I don’t want to know.’

The only matter of consequence that happened before they went to Kenya was that Hendrix crashed his car when careering down a steep hill in Cornwall near Tintagel. He came out with a few scratches but the car was a total write-off.

They flew to Nairobi first class on the night flight. Curtis was a big man and Stafford no midget and he saw no reason to be cramped in economy class where the seats are tailored for the inhabitants of Munchkinland. If all went well Gunnarsson would be paying ultimately. Stafford resisted the attempts of the cabin staff to anaesthetize him with alcohol so he would be less trouble but, since he found it difficult to sleep on aircraft, at 3 a.m. he went to the upstairs lounge where he read a thriller over a long, cold beer while intermittently watching the chief steward jiggle the accounts. The thriller had a hero who always knew when he was being followed by a prickling at the nape of his neck; this handy accomplishment helped the plot along on no fewer than four occasions.

Curtis slept like a baby.

They landed just after eight in the morning and, even at that early hour, the sun was like a hammer. Stafford sniffed and caught the faintly spicy, dusty smell he had first encountered in Algeria—the smell of Africa. They went through Immigration and Customs and found Hardin waiting. ‘’Lo, Max; ‘lo, Sergeant. Have a good flight?’

‘Not bad.’ Stafford felt the bristles on his jaw. ‘A day flight would have been better.’

‘The pilots don’t like that,’ said Hardin. ‘This airport is nearly six thousand feet high and the midday air is hot and thin. They reckon it’s a bit risky landing at noon.’

Stafford’s eyes felt gritty. ‘You’re as bad as the Sergeant, here, for unexpected nuggets of information.’

‘I have wheels outside. Let me help you with your bags. Don’t let these porters get their hands on them; they want an arm and a leg for a tip.’

They followed Hardin and Stafford stared unbelievingly at the vehicle to which he was led. It was a Nissan van, an eight-seater with an opening roof, and it was dazzlingly painted in zebra stripes barely veiled in a thin film of dust. He said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Ben! We’re trying to be inconspicuous and you get us a circus van. That thing shouts at you from a bloody mile away.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hardin said reassuringly. ‘These safari trucks are as common as fleas on a dog out here, and they’ll go anywhere. We’re disguised as tourists. You’ll see.’

Hardin drove, Stafford sat next to him, and Curtis got in the back. There was an unexpectedly good divided highway. Stafford said, ‘How far is the city?’

‘About seven miles.’ Hardin jerked his thumb. ‘See that fence? On the other side is the Nairobi National Game Park. Lots of animals back there.’ He laughed, it’s goddamn funny to see giraffes roaming free with skyscrapers in the background.’

‘I didn’t send you here to look at animals.’

‘Hell, it was Sunday morning. My way of going to church. Don’t be a grouch, Max.’

Hardin had a point. ‘Sorry, Ben. I suppose it’s the lack of sleep.’

‘That’s okay.’ Hardin was silent for a while, then he said, ‘I was talking to one of the local inhabitants in the bar of the Hilton. He lives at Langata, that’s a suburb of Nairobi. He said all hell had broken loose early that morning because a lion had taken a horse from the riding stables next door. Even in Manhattan we don’t live that dangerously.’

Stafford thought Hardin had turned into the perfect goggling tourist. He was not there to hear small talk about lions. He said, ‘What about the Foundation?’

Hardin caught the acerbity in Stafford’s voice and gave him a sideways glance. He said quietly, ‘Yeah, I got some information on that from the same guy who told me about the lion. He’s one of the Trustees; Indian guy called Patterjee.’

Stafford sighed. ‘Sorry again, Ben. This doesn’t seem to be my day.’

‘That’s okay. We all have off days.’

‘Did you get anything interesting out of Patterjee?’

‘A few names—members of the Board and so on. He gave me a printed handout which describes the work of the Foundation. It runs agricultural schools, experimental laboratories—things like that. And a Co-operative. The Director responsible to the Board is called Brice; he’s not in Nairobi—he’s at Ol Njorowa. That’s near Naivasha in the Rift Valley, about fifty miles from here.’

‘Who started the Foundation—and when?’

‘It was started just after the war, in the fifties. The handout doesn’t say who by. I did some poking around Naivasha but I didn’t see Brice; I thought I’d leave him for you. He’s English and I thought you’d handle him better, maybe.’

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