'You're probably right,' said Hardin.

'Orgies!' said Mrs White, relishing the word. 'We found a lot of incense sticks in the house and some funny statues, and they weren't made in the way God made man. I knew then I was right to get rid of that man. Could have been another Charles Manson. You heard of him back East?'

'Yes, I've heard of Charles Manson.' Hardin closed his notebook. 'Thank you for your information, Mrs White; you've been very co-operative.'

'Are you going to put those folks in jail where they belong?'

'I'm a private investigator, Mrs White; but if I find evidence of wrongdoing 'I'll pass the information on to the authorities. Thanks for your help.'

He put down the telephone, Lit another cigarette, and lay back on the bed. Incense sticks and strange statues! And the funny cross with the loop at the top was probably an Egyptian ankh. He shook his head. God, the things the kids were up to these days.

He wondered briefly who else was looking for Hendrix and then closed his eyes.

Hardin walked out of his room next morning into a day that was rainwashed and crisp. He put his bags into his car and drove to the front of the motel. As he got out he looked in astonishment towards the north. There, stretched across the horizon, was a range of mountains with snow-capped peaks rising to a height of maybe 10,000 feet. They had not been there the previous day and they looked like a theatrical backdrop.

'Hollywood!' he muttered, as he went into the inside for breakfast.

Later, as he was tucking his credit card back into his wallet, he said, 'What are those mountains out there?'

The woman behind the desk did not raise her head. 'What mountains ?' she asked in an uninterested way.

'That range of mountains with snow on the top.'

She looked up. 'Are you kidding, mister? There are no mountains out there.'

He said irritably, 'Goddamn it! They're practically on your doorstep. I'm not kidding.'

'This I've got to see.' She came from behind the desk and accompanied him to the door where she stopped and gasped. "Jesus, those are the San Gabriels! I haven't seen them in ten rears.'

'Now who's kidding who?' asked Hardin. 'How could you miss a thing like that?'

Her eyes were shining. 'Musta been the rain,' she said. 'Washed all the smog outa the air. Mister, take a good look; you ain't likely to see a sight like that for a long time.'

'Nuts!' said Hardin shaking his head, and walked towards his car.

As he drove downtown he pondered on the peculiarities of Los Angeles. Any community that could lose a range of mountains 10,000 feet high and 40 miles long was definitely out of whack. Hardin disliked Los Angeles and would not visit it for pleasure. He did not like the urban sprawl, so featureless and monotonous that any section of the city was like any other section. He did not like the nutty architecture; for his money it was a waste of time to drive down to Anaheim to visit Disneyland – you could see Disneyland anywhere in L.A. And he did not like the Los Angeles version of the much lauded Californian climate. The smog veiled the sun and set up irritation in his mucous membranes. If it did not rain, bush fires raged over the hills burning out whole tracts of houses. When it rained you got a year's supply inside twelve hours and mud slides pushed houses into the sea at Malibu. And any day now the San Andreas Fault was expected to crack and rip the whole tacky place apart. Who would voluntarily live in such a hell of a city?

Answer: five million nuts. Which brought his mind back smartly to Hendrix, Biggie and the commune. To hell with Gunnarsson; he would go see Charlie Wainwright.

The Los Angeles office of Gunnarsson Associates was on Hollywood Boulevard at the corner of Highland, near Grauman's Chinese Theatre. His card got him in to see Charlie Wainwright, boss of the West Coast region, who said, 'Hi, Ben; what are you doing over here?'

'Slumming,' said Hardin as he sat down. 'You don't think I'd come here if I had a choice?'

'Still the same old grouch.' Wainwright waved his hand to the window. 'What's wrong with this? It's a beautiful day.'

'Yeah; and the last for ten years,' said Hardin. 'I had that on authority. 'I'll give you a tip, Charlie. You can get a hell of a view of the San Gabriels today from the top of Mullholland Drive. But don't wait too long; they'll be gone by tomorrow.'

'Maybe 'I'll take a drive up there.' Wainwright leaned back in his chair. 'What can we do for you, Ben?'

'Have you got a pipeline into the Sheriff's office?'

'That depends on what you want to come down it,' said Wainwright cautiously.

Hardin decided not to mention Hendrix. 'I'm looking for a guy called Biggie. Seems he's mixed up in a commune. They were busted by sheriff's deputies about ten months ago over ID North Hollywood.'

'Not the L.A.P.D.?' queried Wainwright. 'Don't they have jurisdiction in North Hollywood?'

Hardin was sure Mrs White had not mentioned the Los Angeles Police Department, but he checked his notebook. '"No; my informant referred to the Sheriff's Department.'

'So what do you want?'

Hardin looked at Wainwright in silence for a moment before saying patiently, 'I want Biggie.'

'That shouldn't be too difficult to arrange.' Wainwright thought a while. 'Might take a little time.'

'Not too long, I hope.' Hardin stood up. 'And do me a favour, Charlie; you haven't seen me. I haven't been here. Especially if Gunnarsson wants to know. He's playing this one close to his chest."

'How are you getting on with the old bastard?'

'Not bad,' said Hardin noncommittally.

Two hours later he was in a coffee shop across from City Hall waiting for a deputy from the Sheriff's Department. Wain-bright had said, 'Better not see him in his office – might compromise him. You don't have an investigator's licence for this state. What's Gunnarsson up to, Ben? He's not done this before. These things are usually handled by the local office.'

'Maybe he doesn't like me,' said Hardin feelingly, thinking of the miles of interstate highways he had driven.

He was about to order another coffee when a shadow fell across the table. 'You the guy looking for Olaf Hamsun?'

Hardin looked up and saw a tall, lean man in uniform. Who?' 'Also known as Biggie,' said the deputy. 'Big blond Scandahoovian – monster size.'

'That's the guy.' He held out his hand. 'I'm Ben Hardin. Coffee?" At the deputy's nod he held up two fingers to a passing waitress.

The deputy sat opposite. 'Jack Sawyer. What do you want with Biggie?'

'Nothing at all. But he's running with Henry Hendrix, and I want to visit with Hank.'

'Hendrix,' said Sawyer ruminatively. 'Youngish – say, twenty-six or twenty-seven; height about five, ten; small scar above left eyebrow.'

'That's probably my boy.' 'What do you want with him?'

Must to establish that he's his father's son, and then report back to New York.'

'Who wants to know?'

'Some British lawyer according to my boss. That's all I know; Gunnarsson doesn't confide in me. Operates on need to know.'

'Just like all the other ex-CIA cloak and dagger boys,' said Sawyer scornfully. He looked at Hardin carefully. 'You were a Company man, too, weren't you?'

'Don't hold it against me,' said Hardin, forcing a grin.

'Even if I don't that doesn't mean I have to like it. And you don't have an investigator's licence good in California. If I didn't owe Charlie Wainwright a couple I wouldn't be here now. I don't like you guys and I never have.'

'Now wait a minute,' said Hardin. 'What's eating you?'

'I'll tell you.' Sawyer leaned forward. 'Last year we busted a gang smuggling cocaine from Mexico. Turned out that half of them were bastards from the CIA. They claimed we'd wrecked one of their best Mexican operations. We said they were breaking the law of the United States and we were going to jail them. But do you think we could? Those sons of bitches are walking around free as air right now.'