Flyaway / Windfall (33 page)

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

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 of—ficer 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.