The name of the executor was given as Harold Farrar of the firm of Farrar, Windsor and Markham, a Jersey law firm. Hardin made a note of the address and the telephone number. His hand trembled a little as he noted the size of the estate.

It was estimated at forty million pounds sterling.

Hardin drank his beer, ordered another, and contemplated what he had discovered. Hank Hendrix and Dirk Hendriks, if he was still around, stood to split 6 million between them. He translated it into more familiar terms. The rate of the dollar to the pound sterling had been volatile of late but had settled at about two to one. That made twelve million bucks to split between two if there were no other heirs and he knew of none, unless Dirk Hendriks had children. That dope-smuggling drop-out, Hank Hendrix, was a multi-millionaire. The main bulk of the fortune might be going to the foundation with the funny name but the residue was not peanuts.

Hardin smiled to himself. No wonder Gunnarsson had been so interested. He always knew the value of a dollar and would not resist the temptation to put himself alongside six 5 million of them in the hope of cutting himself a slice. He had isolated Hendrix and that young man would be no match for Gunnarsson who could charm birds from a tree when he wanted to. Gunnarsson would cook up some kind of deal to guarantee that some of those dollars would stick to his fingers.

So what was the next step? Hardin walked to the comer at the bar where there was a telephone and checked the directory which lay on a shelf next to it. He turned to 'H' and found the Hendriks's; there were more than he expected of that spelling, perhaps fifteen. He ran his finger down the column and found 'Hendriks, D.' On impulse he checked the variant spelling of 'Hendrykxx' but found no entry.

He returned to his table and consulted the street map. The address was near Sloane Square and the map of the London Underground gave his route. He patted his jacket over his breast pocket where he had put the will. Then he finished his drink and went on his way.

Coming up from the subway at Sloane Square he discovered himself in what was obviously an upper class section of London comparable to the 70s and 80s of Manhattan's East Side. He found the street he was looking for, and then the house, and gave a low whistle. If Dirk Hendriks lived in this style he was in no particular need of a few extra millions.

Hardin hesitated, feeling a bit of a fool. He had found what he wanted to know – why Gunnarsson had been so secretive -and there was nothing in it for him. He shrugged and thought that perhaps Hank was in there with his cousin; the place looked big enough to hold an army of Hendrixes. He would like to see the kid again. After saving his life and ministering so his wounds he felt a proprietary interest. He walked up the short flight of steps to the front door and put his finger on the bellpush.

The door was opened by a young woman in a nurse's uniform. Someone sick? 'I'd like to see Mr Hendriks -Dirk Hendriks,' he said.

The young woman looked doubtful. 'Er… I don't think he's here,' she said. 'You see, I'm new. I haven't been here long.'

Hardin said, 'What about Henry Hendrix?'

She shook her head. 'There's no one of the name here,' she said. 'I'd know that. Would you like to see Mrs Hendriks? She's been resting but she's up now.'

'Is she sick? I wouldn't want to disturb her.'

The nurse laughed. 'She's just had a baby, Mr… er…'

'Sorry. Hardin, Ben Hardin.'

She opened the door wider. 'If you come in 'I'll tell her you're here, Mr Hardin.'

Hardin waited in a spacious hall which showed all the evidences of casual wealth. Presently the nurse came back. 'Come this way, Mr Hardin.' She led him up the wide stairs and into a room which had large windows overlooking a small park. 'Mrs Hendriks; this is Mr Hardin.' The nurse withdrew.

Mrs Hendriks was a woman in her mid-thirties. She was short and dark, not particularly beautiful but not unattractive, either. She used make-up well. As they shook hands she said, 'I'm sorry my husband isn't here, Mr Hardin. You've missed him by twenty-four hours. He went to South Africa yesterday. Do you know my husband?'

'Not personally,' said Hardin.

'Then you may not know that he's a South African.' She gestured. 'Please sit down.'

Hardin sat in the easy chair. 'It's not your husband I really want to see,' said Hardin. 'It's Han… Henry Hendrix I'd like to visit with.'

'Henry?' she said doubtfully.

'Your husband's cousin.'

She shook her head. 'I think you're mistaken. My husband has no cousin.'

Hardin smiled. 'You may not know of him. He's an American and they've never met. Least, that's what Hank told me. That's how he's known back home. Hank Hendrix; only the name is spelled different with an 'X' at the end.'

'I see. But I still think you're mistaken, Mr Hardin. I'm sure my husband would have told me.'

'They've never met. A few letters is all, and those some years ago.' Hardin was vaguely troubled. 'Then Hank hasn't been here?'

'Of course not.' She paused. 'He might have come when I was in confinement. I've just had a baby, Mr Hardin, and modern doctors prefer maternity wards.'

'The nurse told me,' said Hardin. 'Congratulations! Boy or girl?'

'I have a son,' she said proudly. 'Thank you, Mr Hardin.' She reverted to the problem. 'But Dirk would have told me, I'm sure, if a long-lost cousin had arrived out of the blue.'

'I'm sure he would have,' said Hardin sincerely, and his sense of trouble deepened. If Hank had come to England he would have certainly looked Dirk up; all it took was a phone book. Damn it, the Jersey lawyer would have certainly introduced them. Jack Richardson had checked that flight tickets had not been bought, so where in hell was Hank and what game was Gunnarsson playing?

His worry must have shown on his face because Mrs Hendriks said gently, 'You look troubled, Mr Hardin. Is there anything I can do to help?'

Hardin felt the copy of the will in his pocket. At least that was real. He said, 'Has Mr Hendriks heard from a lawyer about his grandfather's will?'

Mrs Hendriks was astonished. 'His grandfather I My husband's grandfather died years ago in South Africa. Or, at least, I've always assumed so. Dirk has never mentioned him.'

Hardin took a deep breath. 'Mrs Hendriks; I have something to tell you and it may take a while. It's like this…'

Max Stafford was contemplating the tag end of the day and thinking about going home when his telephone rang. It was Joyce, his secretary. 'Mrs Hendriks is on the line and wants to talk to you.'

'Put her through.'

There was a click. 'Max?'

'Hello, Alix. How is motherhood suiting you?'

'Great. I'm blooming. Thank you for the christening mug you sent young Max. A very elegant piece of Georgian silver. He'll drink your health from it on his coming-of-age.'

Stafford smiled. 'Is it eighteen or twenty-one these days? 'I'll be a bit long in the tooth then.'

She laughed. 'But that's not why I rang; there's a proper 'Thank you" letter in the post. Max, I need your advice. A man, an American called Hardin, came to me yesterday with a strange story concerning Dirk. Now, Dirk isn't here -he's in South Africa. I tried to ring him last night but he seems to be on the move and no one knows exactly where he is. I'd like you to see this man before he goes back to America.'

'What sort of strange yarn is he spinning?'

'It's a bit difficult to explain and I probably wouldn't get it right. It's complicated. Please see him, Max.'

Stafford pondered for a moment. 'Is Dirk in trouble?'

'Nothing like that. In fact it might be the other way round. Dirk might inherit something according to Hardin, but there's something odd going on.'