Windfall

'The last time you helped Alix you came to the office with your arm in a sling,' said Ellis. 'Watch it, Max.'

'That kind of lightning doesn't strike twice,' said Stafford.

Stafford soon found that the problem presented by Alix was not to be sorted out in an hour. He arrived on time at the house in Belgravia and found Hardin already there, a balding man in his mid-fifties with a pot belly like a football. To Stafford's eye he looked seedy and rundown. After gravely inspecting and admiring Stafford's three-week-old namesake the three of them adjourned to the dining room for lunch and Hardin retold his story. It was three in the afternoon when Stafford held up the sheaf of papers. 'And this is purported to be the will?'

Hardin's face reddened. 'It is the goddamn will. If you don't believe me you can get your own copy. Hell, 'I'll even stand the cost myself.'

'All right, Mr Hardin; cool down.'

During Hardin's narrative Stafford had been revising his opinion of the man. If this was a con trick he found it difficult to see the point because there was nothing in it for Hardin. The will was obviously genuine because its source could be so easily checked and the passing of a fake will through the Probate Court was inconceivable. Besides, there was Gunnarsson.

He said, 'What do you think Gunnarsson has done with Hendrix?'

Hardin shrugged. 'I wouldn't know.'

'Would you call Gunnarsson an ethical man?'

'Christ, no!'

'Neither would I,' said Stafford dryly.

'You know him?' said Hardin in surprise.

'Not personally, but he has caused me a considerable amount of trouble in the past. We happen to be in the same line of business but reverse sides of the coin, as you might say. I run Stafford Security Consultants.'

Hardin was even more surprised. 'You're that Stafford? Well 'I'll be damned!'

Stafford inspected the will. 'Old Hendrykxx was either wise or had good advice.'

Alix poured more coffee. 'Why?'

'Setting up in the Channel Islands. No death duties, capital gains tax or capital transfer tax. It looks as though Dirk will get about three million quid free and clear. I know quite a bit about that aspect. When we went multinational we began to put our business through the Channel Islands.' He laid the will on the table. 'Who do you think shot Hendrix in Los Angeles?'

'That I don't know, either,' said Hardin. 'I can only guess. There were other guys looking for Hendrix besides me. I told you that.'

'Who could be German,' said Stafford. 'All right, Mr Hardin; why did you come to England?'

'I was so mad about the way Gunnarsson shafted me that I wanted to do something about it. Call it revenge, if you like. I drew a blank in New York and when I got a few unexpected dollars I came over here." Hardin shrugged and pointed at the will. 'When I saw that, I knew damn well what Gunnarsson was doing, but there's not a thing I can do about it. But I came here to see Hank and to tell him to watch his step with Gunnarsson and to put a zipper on his wallet.'

Stafford was pensive for a while. At last he said, 'How long are you staying in England?'

'I'm leaving tomorrow or maybe the day after. Depends on when I can get a reservation.' Hardin smiled wryly. 'I have to get home and go back to earning a living.'

'I'd like you to stay a little longer. Your expenses will be paid, of course.' Stafford glanced at Alix, who nodded. He did not know exactly why he wanted Hardin to stay. He just had an obscure feeling that the man would be handy to have around.

'I don't mind staying on that basis,' said Hardin.

Stafford stood up. 'If you let me have the name of your hotel 'I'll be in touch.'

'I have it,' said Alix.

'Then that's it for the moment. Thank you, Mr Hardin.' When Hardin had gone Stafford said, 'May I use your phone?'

Alix looked up from clearing away the coffee cups. 'Of course. You know where it is.'

Stafford was absent for five minutes. When he came back he said, 'Jan-Willem Hendrykxx really did exist. I've been talking to my man in Jersey who looked him up in the telephone book. His name is still listed. I think Hendrykxx is a Flemish name.' He picked up the will. 'That would account for the house in Belgium. I've asked my chap to give me a discreet report on the executor of the estate and to find out when and how Hendrykxx died."

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.