‘No luck, I’m afraid, Mr. Rademacher,’ said Davis. ‘After calling at the Salk Institute for the dope test, she vanished. I can’t help you.’
‘That’s tough,’ said Dryden. ‘It might have added a hundred or so to our gate. Too bad. That Dr. Serafin you mentioned in the piece. Is he the father?’
‘Could be. We haven’t traced him either. He was a professor of something I can’t get my tongue around, at the CIHS in Bakersfield. Seems to have retired two years back.’
‘He must have left a forwarding address,’ said Dryden.
‘Sorry to disappoint you. Seems Prof Serafin wasn’t giving much away about his retirement plans. He called in a couple of times to collect mail, and that’s all they know.’
‘He didn’t have friends there?’
‘Seems not,’ said Davis. ‘In the words of the Registrar — this is off the record — he thought he was God, but he had trouble convincing his colleagues. They were that glad when he offered to retire that nobody’s kept up with him since. Of course, we can’t even be sure he’s the father of our blonde.’
‘You got nothing else on him?’
‘We spoke to his neighbours in Bakersfield. He alienated them, too. Cut them stone dead in the street. His wife was a local doctor, nice woman, our man in Bakersfield was told, and there was this pathetic daughter who didn’t resemble our whiz kid one bit. Frankly, the story’s spiked till we turn up something new. If you get a lead, let me know, won’t you?’
Dryden went back to the Times Information Bureau and looked for Tamarisk Lodge in the Register of Social Agencies. It didn’t appear, yet he was sure he had the name right. He asked the girl if they kept old editions of the register. She said no, she thought they would have one at the County Welfare building on Wilshire.
There, he was shown a shelf of registers going back to the forties. In the volume for 1960 he found:
TAMARISK LODGE, Casitas Springs, Ventura. Acc. 25cm/f under 11.
Matron: Mrs. G. Van Horn.
He asked for a telephone directory and confirmed that someone of that name was listed and still lived in Ventura. He dialed the number. An elderly voice answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs. Van Horn?’
‘That’s so.’
‘I wonder if I’ve got this right. Are you by any chance the lady who was formerly Matron at Tamarisk Lodge?’
‘I am. Who is this speaking?’
‘That’s great. My name is Hofmann. I don’t suppose by any chance you recollect a child named Dean Hofmann, a girl of about three years of age?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ the voice answered cautiously.
‘Wonderful! Mrs. Van Horn, I’m one of the family visiting Los Angeles and I dearly want to find out what I can about Dean. We lost trace of her, you see. If she’s the child I think she is, I’m her cousin. Could you spare me half an hour if I came out to see you at Ventura?’
‘I suppose I might be able to, Mr. Hofmann, but I can’t tell you a lot.’
‘Thanks, ma’am. What’s the time now? I should be with you by five-thirty, if that’s really okay.’
He put down the phone before she could say no. He could make a sizable list of the mean things he had done in his life, but telling lies to sweet old ladies was new. He got into the Excalibur and drove west on the Hollywood Freeway.
Mrs. Van Horn had a small house one block past the Mission San Buenaventura on Main Street. A regiment of poinsettias, spaced and sised, lined the front. He saw the old lady watching him from behind her chintz curtains as he came up the path. He didn’t blame her.
‘Mrs. Van Horn? I’m Jack Hofmann.’
‘I supposed you were. Do come in.’
The room was tidy, but stacked with ornaments, and smelled of lavender. A red-faced man in a dark suit was standing at the mock fireplace, fixing him with a penetrating stare.
‘This is Mr. Hardaker, my lawyer,’ Mrs. Van Horn explained. ‘He — er — happens to have dropped by. You don’t mind if he stays?’
‘Lord, no,’ said Dryden. The old lady had got her reinforcement organised fast.
‘And it’s about Dean Hofmann, I understand?’ she said. ‘Do sit down.’
‘That’s right. I hope to trace her while I’m over here. I’m from London,’ he said, lowering himself into a leather armchair showing signs of wear.
‘How interesting. Yes, I remember the child very clearly. There was an accident, you know.’
‘I just read it up in back issues of the Los Angeles Times. Terrible tragedy.’
‘Her mother was an air stewardess,’ said Mrs. Van Horn. ‘Now what exactly would your relationship be to her?’
Hardaker must have primed her. Dryden wondered why. He started on the story he had fabricated on the drive over. ‘It’s a little complicated. My father was born in Germany, but he took a job making clockwork toys in London in the thirties and got married to an English girl. When war broke out in 1939 he found himself on the wrong side, you see. He decided to change his name to Harrison and stay in London. So I grew up as Jack Harrison. It wasn’t till Dad’s death last year that I learned our name was actually Hofmann. Going through his papers I found some newspaper clippings describing the 1936 Olympic Games. I’m not sure which paper they were from, but it was all in German. One name was underlined in each of them, a Fräulein G. Hofmann. My German isn’t good, but I could understand enough to make out that she had been a member of the German National Gymnastics Team which had won the gold medal. I asked my mother about it, and she told me Miss Hofmann was Dad’s sister. I found it incredible at first, he had always seemed so English to me, but the papers proved it. In the war he had bought a forged identity card — it cost him thirty pounds — and after that he’d had no trouble.
‘Well, when I learned the truth and got over the shock, I was curious to know if I had relatives alive in Germany. After changing our name, Dad had never contacted his own people again. He was funny like that; it was as if he really had started a new life, and even the ending of the war made no difference. But Mother told me that Dad’s sister had a child named Trudi, born, I believe, in 1940. The father was an army officer, who was killed not too long after. Last summer I visited Germany and tried to trace my aunt and my cousin Trudi. No luck. I discovered they had emigrated to the States soon after the war. Santa Barbara, I was told.
‘But I’m not easily put off once I start something, and this summer here I am in your country. I tried Santa Barbara first, and managed to find out a little more. My aunt died when Trudi was eighteen or so, and Trudi moved into Los Angeles to work as an air stewardess, still using the name of Hofmann. The personnel section at TWA still have a record of her, and told me about the accident in 1964. Terrible. I heard there was a small daughter, and that she was taken to Tamarisk Lodge. How sad, I thought — that little girl of two years old with no family. I supposed she must have been adopted after a time, and maybe she’s quite happy now. On the other hand, if she isn’t, if there’s any way I can help her, I’m not short of money now, and I’d like to. So I set about contacting you, Mrs. Van Horn. I found your name in the County Welfare building on Wilshire Boulevard.’ Dryden held out his hands. ‘That’s how I’m here.’
‘Can you prove all this?’ asked Hardaker stiffly.
‘Prove it?’ repeated Dryden.
‘Mr. Hofmann has said enough to satisfy me,’ said Mrs. Van Horn emphatically. She was small and fragile-looking, with a marked curvature of the spine, but she spoke to Hardaker as if he was a boy being difficult in Tamarisk Lodge. ‘Do you drink coffee or tea, Mr. Hofmann?’