When Gunnarsson arrived they talked for a while of how the country was going to hell in a handcart and of the current situation at Langley. Then Gunnarsson said, 'What are you going to do now, Ben?'

Hardin shrugged. 'What's to do? I'm a trained agent, that's all. Not many skills for civilian life.'

'Don't you believe it,' said Gunnarsson earnestly. 'Look, Fletcher and I are setting up shop in New York.'

'Doing what?'

'Same racket, but in civilian form. The big corporations are no different than countries. Why, some of the internationals are bigger than goddamn countries, and they've all got secrets to protect – and secrets to find. My God, Ben; the field's wide open but we've got to get in fast before some of the other guys who were canned from Langley have the same idea. We wait too long the competition could be fierce. If this Watergate bullshit goes on much longer retired spooks will be a drug on the market.'

Hardin took a swig of beer. 'You want me in?'

'Yeah. I'm getting together a few guys, all hand picked, and you are one of them – if you want in. With our experience we ought to clean up.' He grinned 'Our experience and the pipelines we've still got into Langley.'

'Sounds good,' said Hardin.

'Only thing is it'll take dough,' said Gunnarsson. 'How much can you chip in?'

Money and Hardin bore a curious relationship. A dollar bill and Hardin were separated by some form of anti-glue they never could get together. He had tried; God, how he had tried. But his bets never came off, his investments failed, and Hardin was the centre of a circle surrounded by dollar bills moving away by some sort of centrifugal force. He had once been married and the marriage had failed as much by his inability to keep money as by the strain imposed by his work. The alimony payments now due each quarter merely added to the centrifugal force.

Now he shook his head. 'Not a thin dime,' he said. 'I'm broke and getting broker. Annette's cheque is due Tuesday and I don't know how I'm going to meet that.'

Gunnarsson looked disappointed. 'As bad as that?'

'Worse,' said Hardin glumly. 'I've got to get a job fast and I have to sweet talk Annette. Those two things are holding my whole attention.'

'Gee, Ben; I was hoping you'd be in with us. There's nobody I'd rather have along, and Fletcher agrees with me. Only the other day he was talking about how ingeniously you shafted that guy in Dar-es-Salaam.' He drummed his fingers on the table. 'Okay, you don't have money, but maybe something can be worked out. It won't be as sweet a deal as if you came in as a partner but it'll be better than anything else you can get. And we still want you along because we think you're i good guy and you know the business.'

So a deal had been worked out and Hardin went to work for Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc. not as a partner but as an employee with a reasonable salary. At first he was happy, but over the years things began to go wrong. Gunnarsson became increasingly hard-nosed and the so-called partnership fell apart. Fletcher was squeezed out and Gunnarsson and Fletcher Inc. became Gunnarsson Associates. Gunnarsson was the ramrod and let no one forget it.

And Hardin himself lost his drive and initiative. No longer buoyed by patriotism he became increasingly dissatisfied with the work he was doing which in his view fulfilled no more elevating a function than to increase the dividends of shareholders and buttress the positions of corporate fatcats. And he was uneasy because a lot of it was downright illegal.

He fell down on a couple of jobs and Gunnarsson turned frosty and from then on he noted that he had been down graded as a field agent and was relegated to the minor investigations about which no one gave a damn. Like the Hendrix case.

Hardin lay on the bed in the motel and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. Come on, Hardin, he thought. You've nearly got a Hendrix – you're nearly there, man. Think of the bonus Gunnarsson will pay you. Think of Annette's alimony.

He smiled wryly as he remembered that Parker had referred to him as a 'private dick'. Parker had been reading too many mysteries. Natural enough, though; wasn't this Chandler country; Philip Marlowe country; 'down these mean streets a man must go' country? Come on, you imitation Marlowe, he said to himself. Get off your ass and do something.

He swung his legs sideways, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the telephone. From what he had gathered the owner of the Parker house operated from her home in Pasadena, and it was still not too late in the evening to talk to her. He checked the number in his notebook and dialled. After a few buzzes a voice said in his ear, 'The White residence.'

The White House! He suppressed an inane chuckle, and said, 'Mrs White?'

'It is she speaking.'

'My name is Hardin, and I represent Gunnarsson Associates of New York. I understand you own a house in North Hollywood.'

'I own several houses in North Hollywood,' she said. 'To which do you refer?'

'It would be 82, Thorndale; at present rented by Mr Parker.'

'Yes, I own that property, but it is rented to Mrs Parker.'

'I see; but I have no interest in the Parkers, Mrs White. I am interested in a previous tenant, a man called Hendrix. Henry Hendrix.'

'Oh, him!' There was a sudden sharpness to Mrs White's voice. 'What is your business, Mr Hardin?'

'I'm a private investigator.'

'A private eye,' said Mrs White, confirming his theory that he was in mystery readers' country. 'Very interesting, I must say. What do you want him for? Nothing trivial, I hope.'

He explored the nuances of her voice, and said, 'I can't tell you, Mrs White. I just find them; what happens to them is out of my hands.'.

'Well, I hope that young man gets his comeuppance,' she said bitterly. 'He wrecked that house. It took me thirty-five hundred dollars to repair the damage done by him and his friends.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Hardin, injecting sincerity into his voice. 'How did it happen?'

'He – Hendrix, I mean – rented the house and agreed to abide by all the conditions. What I didn't know was that he was leader of what they call a commune. You know; those young people who go around with dirty feet and the men wearing head bands.' Hardin smiled. 'Mrs Parker tells me the place still stinks of marijuana. And the filth they left there you wouldn't believe.'

'And when did they leave?'

'They didn't leave, they were thrown out,' said Mrs White triumphantly. 'I had to call the Sheriff's Department.'

'But when was this?'

'Must be nine… no, ten months ago.'

'Any idea where they went?'

'I don't know, and I don't care. For all I care they could go drown, only it would dirty up the ocean.'

'You say Hendrix was the leader of the commune?'

'He paid the rent.' Mrs White paused. 'But no; I don't reckon he was the leader. I think they used him as a front man because he was cleanest. The leader was a man they called Biggie. Big man – tall as a skyscraper and wide as a barn door.'

Hardin made a note. 'Do you know his name – his last name?'

'No; they just called him Biggie. He had long blond hair,' she said. 'Hadn't been washed for months. Kept it out of his eyes with one of those head bands. Shaggy beard. He walked around with his shirt open to the waist. Disgusting! Oh, and he wore something funny round his neck.'

'What sort of funny?'

'A cross. Not a decent Christian cross but a funny cross with a loop at the top. It looked like gold and he wore it on a chain. You couldn't help but notice it the way he wore his shirt open.'

'Were there any women in the commune, Mrs White?'

'There were. A lot of brazen hussies. But I didn't have any truck with them. But 'I'll tell you something, Mr Hardin. There were so many of those folks in that little house they must have slept head-to-foot. I don't think there could have been a virgin among them, and I don't think they were married, either.'