Windfall. Desmond Bagley

If Hank had come to England he would have certainly looked Dirk up; all it took was a phone book. Damn it, the Jersey lawyer would have certainly introduced them. Jack Richardson had checked that flight tickets had not been bought, so where in hell was Hank and what game was Gunnarsson playing?

      His worry must have shown on his face because Mrs Hendriks said gently, ‘You look troubled, Mr Hardin. Is there anything I can do to help?’

      Hardin felt the copy of the will in his pocket. At least that was real. He said, ‘Has Mr Hendriks heard from a lawyer about his grandfather’s will?’

      Mrs Hendriks was astonished. ‘His grandfather! My husband’s grandfather died years ago in South Africa. Or, at least, I’ve always assumed so. Dirk has never mentioned him.’

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

       SIX

      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