Windfall

'The bloody old crook,' said Stafford.

'On the way through the years there was also a couple of marriages, both bigamous because Anna was still alive back in South Africa. In 1974 he retired and went to live in Jersey, probably for tax reasons. By then he was pretty old. Last year he died, leaving close on a hundred million bucks, most of which went to the Ol Njorowa Foundation in Kenya. End of story.'

Stafford stared at Hardin. 'You must be kidding, Ben. Where's the Kenya connection?'

'There isn't one,' said Hardin airily.

'But there must be.'

'None that I could find.' He leaned forward. 'And I'll tell you something else. Hendrykxx never was all that big time and crooks like him are usually big spenders. I doubt if he made more than five million dollars in his whole life. Maybe ten. Of course, that's not bad but it doesn't make him into any kind of financial giant. So where did the rest of the dough come from?'

'Every time we find anything new this whole business gets crazier,' Stafford said disgustedly. . 'I checked a couple of other things,' said Hardin. 'I went to Jersey and saw Hendrykxx's death certificate in the Greffe -that's their Public Record Office. The old guy died of a heart attack. I talked to the doctor, a guy called Morton, and he confirmed it. He said Hendrykxx could have gone any time, but…' Hardin shook his head.

'But what?' asked Stafford.

'Nothing to put a finger on definitely, but I had the impression that Morton was uneasy about something.' Hardin refilled his glass. 'Back in London I checked on Mandeville, the lawyer who handled the London end of the legacy business. Very right wing. He's making a name for himself defending neo-Nazi groups, the guys who find themselves in court for race rioting. But I don't see that has anything to do with us.'

'No,' agreed Stafford. 'Did you talk to him?'

'I couldn't. He's vacationing in South Africa.' Hardin drank some beer. 'What's new with you?'

Stafford told him and by the time he had finished it was late afternoon and the undrunk coffee had gone cold. Hardin listened to it all thoughtfully. 'You've had quite a time,' he commented. 'Where's Corliss now?'

'Curtis saw him yesterday,' Stafford said. 'He was in a remote tented camp in the Masai Mara, but I wouldn't want to guarantee he's there now. What do you think of the line Gunnarsson pitched me?'

'Righteous anger isn't Gunnarsson's style,' said Hardin. 'He sure as hell wants Corliss back and if that's the way he's going about it you know what it means – Hendrix is dead.'

'I'd already got that far,' said Stafford.

'But there's more.' Hardin took out his wallet. 'I got this at paste restante in London. Jack Richardson sent it, and he got it from Charlie Wainwright in Los Angeles. Charlie remembered I'd been interested in Biggie.'

He took a newspaper clipping from the wallet and passed it to Stafford. It was a brief report from the Los Angeles Examiner to the effect that a disastrous fire had broken out IT. a house in Santa Monica and that all the occupants had died six of them. The fire was believed to have been caused by an over-heated pottery kiln which had exploded. The names of the dead were given. Five of them were unknown to Stafford but the sixth was Olaf Hamsun. Biggie.

He looked at Hardin and said slowly, 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

'If you're thinking that Gunnarsson plays for keeps.

'Ben; you're a bloody lucky man. How did Gunnarsson miss you?'

'You've just said it – sheer goddamn luck. Jack Richardson sent a letter with that clipping; he told me that the rooming house I'd been living in had burned up. Maybe I'd slipped to London just in time.' Hardin rubbed his jaw. 'On the other hand it might not have been Gunnarsson at all. In the Bronx they have a habit of burning buildings for the insurance money. The whole damn place is falling apart.'

Stafford held up the clipping. 'Was this the whole of the commune?'

'Just about, I reckon.'

'Then that means that you are possibly the only person who definitely knows that the Hendrix who claimed the estate is a fake. What's more, it means that Gunnarsson, if he's going to make a big song and dance at the Embassy, is sure that you won't pop up to prove him wrong. If Gunnarsson thinks you're out of the game – and that's the way he's acting – then that gives us an edge.'

'What do I do? Dress in a white sheet and scare him to death?'

'We'll think of something. Let's get back to the main issue. Who would want Hendrix dead? Chip asked the question -who benefits? The answer to that is his cousin and sole relative, Dirk Hendriks. I argued that he couldn't have organized it because he was in England, but these days one can get around really fast.'

'He was in England,' said Hardin. 'I forgot to tell you. He was on the same plane that I came in on this morning.'

'Was he?' said Stafford.

'It's okay, Max; he's never met me. Besides, he travelled first class, and the guys up front don't mix with the hoi polloi in economy.'