Windfall. Desmond Bagley

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