Kitabı oku: «Windfall»
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.’
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