Chapter 7

The next morning, just after he arrived at the office, Stafford took a call from Peter Hartwell, the director of the Jersey holding company whom he had queried the day before. Hartwell said, 'Your man, Hendrykxx, died a little over four months ago. The body was cremated. I checked the newspapers and it went unreported except for the usual formal announcement.'

'What was the cause of death?'

'Heart attack. It was expected; he had a history of heart trouble. I discovered we shared the same doctor so I was able to ask a few questions. I went to the Greffe and saw the will. Makes bloody interesting reading, doesn't it?'

Stafford said, 'I'm surprised the newspapers didn't get hold of it. It's not often multimillionaires hop their twig.'

Hartwell laughed. 'Millionaires are not uncommon here -they're just plain, ordinary folk. Besides, Hendrykxx lived very quietly and didn't make waves. The news boys don't read every will deposited in the Greffe, anyway.'

'How long had he lived on Jersey?' asked Stafford.

'He came in 1974 – not all that long ago.'

'What about the executor? What's he like?'

'Old Farrar? Good man, but damned stuffy. What's your interest in this, Max? Isn't it a bit out of your line?'

'Just doing a favour for a friend. Thanks, Peter; 'I'll get back to you if I need anything more.'

'There is one odd point,' said Hartwell. 'The clerk in the Greffe said there's been quite a run on copies of that particular will. One from England, two from America and another from South Africa.' Hartwell laughed. 'He said he was considering printing a limited edition.'

After he put down the phone Stafford leaned back and thought for a moment. So far, so uninteresting, except possibly for the requests for copies of the will. He snapped a switch, and said, 'Joyce, get me Mr Farrar of Farrar, Windsor and Markham, St. Helier, Jersey. It's a law firm.'

Five minutes later he was speaking to Farrar. He introduced himself, then said, 'I'm interested in the late Mr Jan-Willem Hendrykxx. He died about four months ago.'

'That is correct.'

'I believe you are having difficulty in tracing the heirs.'

'In that you are mistaken,' said Farrar. He had a dry, pedantic voice.

Stafford waited for him to continue but Farrar remained silent. Well, Hartwell had said he was stuffy. Stafford said, 'I take it you refer to Henry Hendrix of Los Angeles and Dirk Hendriks of London.'

'You appear to be well informed. May I ask how you obtained your information?'

'I've been reading the will.'

'That would not give you the names,' said Farrar dryly. 'But essentially you are correct. Mr Henry Hendrix is flying from the United States tomorrow, and Mr Dirk Hendriks has been informed.' Farrar paused. 'It is true that I was surprised at the length of time taken by…' He stopped as though aware of being on the edge of an unlawyerly indiscretion. 'May I ask your interest in this matter, Mr Stafford?'

Stafford sighed. 'My interest has just evaporated. Thanks for letting me take up your time, Mr Farrar.' He hung up.

The telephone rang almost immediately and Alix came on the line. 'It's true, Max,' she said excitedly. 'It's all true.'

'If you mean about Dirk's inheritance, I know. I've just been talking to Farrar.'

'Who?'

'The executor of the estate. The Jersey solicitor.'

'That's funny. The letter came from a solicitor called Mandeville in the City.' Alix hurried on. 'Dirk knew all the time. He said he didn't want to excite me when I was having the baby. He had to go to South Africa to collect evidence of identity. He got back this morning and he's seeing the solicitor tomorrow. And there is a long-lost cousin, Max. He'll be there too.'

'All very exciting,' said Stafford unemotionally. 'Congratulations.' He paused. 'What do you want me to do about Hardin?'

'What would you suggest?'

'He strikes me as being an honest man,' said Stafford. 'From the way it looked there could have. been jiggery-pokery, and Hardin did his best to put it right at considerable personal effort. I suggest you pay his London expenses and his total air fare. And you might add a small honorarium. Shall I take care of it?'

'If you would,' she said. 'Send me the bill.'

'I'll break the news to him at lunch. 'Bye.' He rung off, asked Joyce to make a lunch appointment with Hardin, and then sat back, his fingers drumming on the desk, to consider the matter.

There did not seem much to consider. Mandeville was probably Farrar's London correspondent; law firms did arrange their affairs that way. Stafford wondered why Dirk Hendriks had not told Alix before he went to South Africa – she had had the baby by then – but he always had been an inconsiderate bastard. There were a couple of minor points that did not add up. Who shot Hendrix and why? And why hadn't Gunnarsson produced Hendrix in England as soon as he had been found? But he had only Hardin's word for those events. Perhaps Hardin really was a con man and playing his own devious game. Stafford who prided himself on being a good judge of men shook his head in perplexity.

He got on with his work.

Stafford stood Hardin to lunch in a good restaurant. The news may have been good for Hendrykxx's heirs but it was bad news for Hardin, and he judged a good meal would make the medicine go down better. Hardin said ruefully, 'I guess I made a fool of myself.'

'The man who never made a mistake never made anything,' said Stafford unoriginally. 'Mrs Hendriks doesn't want you to be out of pocket because of this affair. How long is it since you left Gunnarsson Associates?'

'Just about a month.'

'What did he pay you?'

'Thirty thousand bucks a year, plus bonuses.' Hardin shrugged. 'The bonuses got a little thin towards the end, but in good years I averaged forty thousand.'

'All 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 restau rant, 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.'