Windfall. Desmond Bagley

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?’

      ‘Yes; I had a call from Dirk. They met the lawyer this afternoon. He seemed satisfied with their credentials, so Dirk says.’

      ‘The lawyer’s name being Mandeville?’ ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

      Stafford had thought Hardin had appeared strained but now he looked cheerful, ‘I bumped into Gunnarsson this morning at Heathrow Airport. Well, not bumped exactly—I don’t think he saw me. I decided not to leave right then because I wanted to follow him.’

      Curtis came in with a tray and Stafford reached for his whisky. ‘Why?’

      ‘Because the young guy with him wasn’t the Hank Hendrix I picked up in Los Angeles.’

      Stafford was so startled that he almost dropped the glass. ‘Wasn’t he, by God?’

      Hardin shook his head decidedly. ‘No way. Same height, same colouring—a good lookalike but not Hank Hendrix.’

      Stafford thought of his conversation with Dirk. ‘What was the colour of his jacket?’

      Hardin grinned crookedly. ‘You couldn’t mistake him for anyone but an American—Joseph’s coat of many colours.’

      That did it. Curtis was about to leave the room and Stafford said abruptly, ‘Stick around, Sergeant, and listen to this. It might save a lot of explanations later. But first get Mr Hardin another highball, and you might as well have one yourself. Mr Hardin; this is Colour-Sergeant Curtis, late of the Royal Marines.’

      Hardin gave Stafford a curious look then stood up and held out his hand. ‘Glad to know you, Sergeant Curtis.’

      ‘Likewise, Mr Hardin.’ They shook hands then Curtis turned to Stafford, ‘If the Colonel doesn’t mind I’d rather have a beer.’

      Stafford nodded and Curtis left to return two minutes later with the drinks. Stafford said, ‘So you followed Gunnarsson?’

      ‘Yeah. Your London taxi drivers don’t surprise worth a damn. I told mine that if he kept track of Gunnarsson’s cab it was worth an extra tip. He said he could do better than that—they were on the same radio net. Five minutes later he said Gunnarsson was going to the Dorchester. I got there before him and had the cab wait. It ran up quite a tab on the meter.’

      ‘You’ll get your expenses.’

      Hardin grinned, ‘It’s on the house, Mr Stafford. Because I’m feeling so good.’

      He sipped his replenished highball. ‘Gunnarsson and the other guy registered at the desk and then went upstairs. They were up there nearly two hours while I was sitting in the lobby getting callouses on my butt and hoping that the house dick wouldn’t latch on to me and throw me out.