Windfall ms-2

by Desmond Bagley

  Alix frowned. 'You don't suspect anything…? I mean he must have been an old man.'

  Stafford smiled. 'I was trained in military intelligence. You never know when a bit of apparently irrelevant information will fit into the jigsaw.' He scanned the will. 'The Ol Njorowa Foundation stands to inherit about thirty-four million pounds. I wonder what it does?' He sat down. 'Alix, what's this with you and Dirk? You sounded a shade drear on the phone this morning.'

  She looked unhappy. 'I can't make him out, Max. I don't think fatherhood suits him. We were happy enough until I got in the family way and then he changed.'

  'In what way?'

  'He became moody and abstracted. And now he's pushed off back to South Africa just when I need him. The baby's just three weeks old – you'd think he'd stay around, wouldn't you?'

  'Um,' said Stafford obscurely. 'He never mentioned his grandfather at any time?'

  'Not that I can remember.' She made a sudden gesture as if brushing away an inopportune fly. 'Oh, Max; this is ridiculous. This man – this Fleming with the funny way of spelling his name – is probably no relation at all. It must be a case of mistaken identity.'

  'I don't think so. Hardin came straight to this house like a homing pigeon.' Stafford ticked off points on his fingers. 'The American, Hank Hendrix, told him that Dirk was his cousin; Hardin saw the instructions to Gunnarsson from Peacemore, Willis and Franks to rum up descendants of Jan-Willem Hendrykxx with the funny name; in doing so Hardin turns up Hank Hendrix. It's a perfectly logical chain.'

  'I suppose so,' said Alix. 'But can you tell me why I'm worried about Dirk inheriting millions?'

  'I think I can,' he said. 'You're worried about a bit that doesn't seem to fit. The shooting of Hank Hendrix in Los Angeles. And I've got one other thing on my mind. Why haven't the Peacemore mob turned up Dirk? Hardin did it in thirty seconds.'

  Curtis, Stafford's manservant, was mildly surprised at seeing him. 'The Colonel is back early,' he observed.

  'Yes, I got sidetracked. It wasn't worth going back to the office.'

  'Would the Colonel like afternoon tea?'

  'No; but you can bring me a scotch in the study.' 'As the Colonel wishes,' said Curtis with a disapproving air which stopped just short of insolence.

  Curtis was a combination of butler, valet, chauffeur, handyman and nanny. He was ex-Royal Marines, having joined in 1943 and electing jo stay in the service after the war. A 37-year man. At the statutory retiring age of 5 5 he had been tossed into the strange civilian world of the 1980s, no longer a Colour-Sergeant with authority but just another man-in-the-street. A fish out of water and somewhat baffled by the indiscipline of civilian life. He was a widower, his wife Amy having died five years before of cancer; and his only daughter was married, living in Australia, and about to present him with a third grandchild.

  When Stafford had divorced his wife he had stayed at his club before moving into a smaller flat more suitable for a bachelor. It was then that he remembered Curtis whom he had known from the days when he had been a young officer serving with the British Army of the Rhine. One night, in one of the lesser salubrious quarters of Hamburg, he had found himself in a tight spot from which he had been rescued by a tough, hammer-fisted Marine sergeant. He had never forgotten Curtis and they had kept in touch, and so he acquired Curtis – or did Curtis acquire Stafford? Whichever way it was they suited each other; Curtis finding a congenial niche in a strange world, and Stafford lucky enough to have an efficient, if somewhat military, Jeeves. Curtis's only fault was that he would persist in addressing Stafford in the third person by his army title.

  Stafford looked at the chunky, hard man with something approaching affection. 'How's your daughter, Sergeant?"

  'I had a letter this morning. She says she's well, sir.'

  'What will it be? Boy or girl?'

  'Just so that it has one head and the usual number of arms, legs and fingers. Boy or girl – either will suit me.'

  'Tell me when it comes. We must send a suitable christening present.'

  'Thank you, sir. When would the Colonel like his bath drawn?'

  'At the usual time. Let me have that scotch now.' Stafford went into his study.

  He sat at his desk and thought about Gunnarsson. He had never met Gunnarsson but had sampled his methods through the machinations of Peacemore, Willis and Franks which was the wholly-owned London subsidiary of Gunnarsson Associates, and what he had found he did not like.

  It was the work of Stafford Security Consultants to protect the secrets of the organizations which were their clients. A lot of people imagine security to be a matter of patrolling guards and heavy mesh fencing but that is only a part of it. The weakest part of any organization is the people in it, from the boss at the top down to the charwomen who scrub the floors. A Managing Director making an indiscreet remark at his golf club could blow a secret worth millions. A charwoman suborned can find lots of interesting items in waste paper baskets.

  It followed that if the firm of Stafford Security Consultants were making a profit out of guarding secrets – and it was making a handsome profit – then others were equally interested in ferreting them out, and the people who employed Gunnarsson Associates were the sort who were not too fussy about the methods used. And that went for the Peacemore mob in the United Kingdom.

  Stafford remembered a conversation he had had with Jack Ellis just before he left for the Continent. 'We've had trouble with the Peacemore crowd,' said Ellis. 'They penetrated Electronomics just before the merger when Electronomics was taken over. Got right through our defences.'

  'How?'

  Jack shrugged. 'We can guard against everything but stupidity. They got the goods on Pascoe, the General Manager. In bed with a gilded youth. Filthy pictures, the lot. Of course, it was a Peacemore set-up, but I'd have a hell of a job proving it.'

  'In this permissive age homosexuality isn't the handle it once was,' observed Stafford.

  'It was a good handle this time. Pascoe's wife didn't know he was double-gaited. He has teenage daughters and it would have ruined his marriage so he caved in. After the merger we lost die Electronomics contract, of course. Peacemore got it.'

  'And Pascoe's peccadilloes came to light anyway.'

  'Sure. After the merger he was fired and they gave full reasons. He'd proved he couldn't be trusted.'

  'The bastards have no mercy,' said Stafford.

  Industrial espionage is not much different from the work of that department called MI6 which the British government refuses to admit exists, or the KGB which everyone knows to exist, or the CIA which is practically an open book. A car company would find it useful to know the opposition's designs years in advance. One airline, after planning an advertising campaign costing half a million, was taken very much by surprise when its principal rival came out with the identical campaign a week before its own was due to start.

  A company wanting to take over another, as in the Electronomics case, would like to know the victim's defensive strategy. Someone wanted to know what bid price Electronomics would jib at, and employed Peacemore to find out.

  Of course, no one on the Board comes right out and says, 'Let's run an espionage exercise against so-and-so.' The Chairman or Managing Director might be thinking aloud and says dreamily, 'Wouldn't it be nice if we knew what so-and-so are doing.' Sharp. ears, pick up the wishful think and the second echelon boys get to work, the hatchet men hungry for promotion. Intermediaries are used, analogous to the cut-outs used in military and political intelligence, the job gets done with no one on the Board getting his hands dirty, and an under-manager becomes a manager.

  Defence is difficult because the espionage boys go for the jugular. All the security guards in creation are of no avail against human weakness. So Stafford Security Consultants investigated the personnel of their clients, weeding out doubtful characters, and if that was an offence against human rights it was too bad.

  And sometimes we fail, thought Stafford.

  He sighed and pick
ed up the neglected whisky which Curtis had brought in. And now Gunnarsson was mixed up in the affairs of a friend. Not that Stafford felt particularly friendly towards Dirk Hendriks, but Alix was his friend and he did not want her hurt in any way. And Gunnarsson was not acting in a straightforward manner. Why had he not produced the missing heirs?

  Stafford checked the time. It was probably after office hours in Jersey but he would try to talk with the Jersey law firm. There was no reply.

  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.'

  'We?'

  'Me and my u
nexpected 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 that 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 6? 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.'