Windfall

'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 rum 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 jo stay in the service after the war. A 37-year man. At the statutory retiring age of 5 5 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.