Windfall

‘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?’