Hardin pondered. All this was adding up to the classic picture of a German soldier except that ritual duelling was no longer acceptable. 'How old is he?'

'Thirty-five – maybe forty. Not more. So you really don't know the guy.'

'I don't give a damn about him and I don't give a damn about you. All I want is to talk to Hendrix. Go get him.'

'You don't give a damn about me, and you don't listen good.' Biggie stuck out his forefinger then tapped himself on the chest. 'The only way to get to Hendrix is through me.'

'Does he know that?' asked Hardin. 'What is he, anyway? Your fancy boy?'

'Christ, that does it,' said Biggie, enraged.

'Oh, shit!' said Hardin resignedly as Biggie flexed his muscles. 'I'm not mad at you, Biggie; I don't want to fight.'

'Well, I want to fight you.' Biggie plunged forward.

It was no contest. Hardin was full of frustrations; his angers at Gunnarsson, the weary miles of travel, his sense of personal failure – all these he worked out on Biggie. He had several advantages; one was that Biggie had never learned how to fight – he never had to because what idiot would want to tangle with a man who was obviously a meat grinder? The idiot was Hardin who had been trained in unarmed combat by experts. In spite of his age and flabbiness he still knew the chopping places and pressure points, the vulnerable parts of a man's body, and he used his knowledge mercilessly. It was only by a deliberate act of will that he restrained himself from the final deadly blow that would have killed.

Breathing heavily he bent down and reached for the pulse it the side of Biggie's neck and sighed with relief as he felt it beating strongly. Then he straightened and turned to see Hendrix watching him.

'Jesus!' said Hendrix. He was wide-eyed as he stared at the prostrate Biggie. 'I didn't think you could beat him.'

'I've taken a lot of shit on this job,' said Hardin, and found his voice was shaking. 'But I wasn't going to take any from him.' He bent down and ripped the golden ankh from Biggie's neck, breaking the chain. 'And I've been insulted by a cop, a cop who told me this couldn't be done.' He tossed the golden cross down by Biggie's side. 'Now let's you and me talk.'

Hendrix eyed him warily. 'What about?'

'You can start off by telling me your father's name.'

'What's my old man got to do with anything?' said Hendrix in surprise.

'His name, sonny,' said Hardin impatiently. 'Hendrix, of course. Adrian Hendrix.'

'Where was he born?'

'Africa. Some place in South Africa. But he's dead.'

Hardin took a deep breath. This was the one; this was the right Hendrix. 'You got brothers? Sisters? Your Mom still alive?'

'No. What's this all about?'

Hardin said, 'I wouldn't know, but a man in New York called Gunnarsson wants to know.'

'Why?'

'Because a British lawyer wants to know. Maybe you're inheriting something. What about going to New York with me to find out?"

Hendrix scratched his jaw. 'Gee, I don't know. I don't like the East much.'

'Expenses paid,' said Hardin.

Biggie stirred and groaned, and Hendrix looked down at him. 'I guess Biggie will be hard to live with now,' he said reflectively. 'He won't want anyone around who's seen him slaughtered like that. Might not be a bad idea to split for a while.'

'Okay,' said Hardin. 'Is there anything you want to take?'

'Not much,' said Hendrix, and grinned. 'I have a good surfboard but that won't be much use in New York. I'd better take some clothes, though.'

'I'll come help you pack,' said Hardin, and added pointedly, 'I've had a hard time rinding you, and I don't want to lose you now.'

Hendrix told Hardin where he lived and, as he drove, Hardin thought about the other man looking for Hendrix. Or other men. The man described by Biggie was hardly likely to be the 'nice young man' as described by Mrs Parker. All right, then; two or more men. He said, 'Did Biggie ever say anything about another guy looking for you? Could be a German.'

'Yeah.' Hendrix lit a cigarette. 'He told me. He thought you were together but he wanted to make sure first before…' He broke off suddenly.

'Before what?'

Hendrix laughed shortly. 'Biggie thought there might be some dough in it somewhere. If you and the foreign guy were together, then okay; but if you weren't he figured he could make a trade.'

'Sell you off to the highest bidder?' Hardin grimaced. 'What did you think of that?'

Hendrix shrugged. 'Biggie's all right. It's just that he was short of dough, that's all. We're all short of dough.'

'All?'

'The gang.' He sighed. 'Things haven't been the same since we were busted over in the San Fernando Valley.'

'When you blew up Mrs White's house?'

Hendrix turned his head sharply. 'You've been getting around.' He sounded as though he did not like it. 'But it wasn't all that much. Just some smoky walls and busted glass.'

Hardin came back to his main problem. 'The foreigner. Did you ever meet him?"

'No. Biggie set up a meeting for tonight in case he had something to trade. That's why he wanted to blow you off fast.'

'Where's the meeting?'

'I don't know – we didn't get that far. Man, you sure cooled him.' He pointed. 'That's our place.'

Hardin drew up in front of the dilapidated house. 'I'll come in with you.' He escorted Hendrix to the door and they went in. In the narrow hall they met the girl who had set up the meeting with Biggie. She looked at Hardin with surprise and he thought he detected something of alarm in her eyes.

She turned to Hendrix. 'Where's Biggie?'

'He'll be along. He… uh… had something to attend to,' said Hendrix. 'Come on, Mr Hardin; we'd better make this fast.'

As they climbed the stairs Hardin thought with amusement that Hendrix had every reason for speed. If Biggie came back and found him in the act of packing he would want to know why and Hendrix would not want to tell him. 'How many in the gang?' he asked.

'It varies; there's six of us now. Have been as many as twelve.' Hendrix opened the door of a room. 'This won't take long.'

It took less time than Hardin would have thought. Hendrix was a nomad and had few possessions, all of which went into a metal-framed backpack. He lifted it effortlessly and then looked regretfully at the surfboard lying against the wall behind the unmade bed. 'Can't take that along, I guess. You sure there are dollars in this, Mr Hardin?'

'No,' said Hardin honestly. 'But I can't think of anything else.'

'You said a British lawyer. I don't 'know any Britishers and I've never been out of the States.' Hendrix shook his head. 'Still, you said you'll pay my way so it's worth a chance.'

They went downstairs and met the blonde girl again. 'When'll Biggie be back?' she asked.

'He didn't say,' said Hendrix briefly.

She looked at the backpack. 'You going some place?'

'Not far.' Hendrix coughed. 'Just down to… uh…

Mexico, Mr Hardin and me. Got to pick up a package in Tijuana.'

She nodded understandingly. 'Be careful. Those Customs bastards are real nosy. What is it? Pot or snow?'

'Snow,' he said. 'Come on, Mr Hardin.' As they got into the car Hendrix forced a smile. 'No use in letting the world know where we're going.'

'Sure,' said Hardin. 'No point at all.' He switched on the ignition and, as he took off the handbrake, something whined like a bee in front of his nose. Hendrix gave a sharp cry, and Hardin shot a glance at him. He had his hand to his shoulder and blood was oozing through his fingers.

Hardin had been shot at before. He took off, burning rubber, and turned the first corner at top speed. Only then did he look in the mirror to check for pursuers. The corner receded behind him and nothing came into sight so he slowed until he was just below the speed limit. Then he said, 'You all right, Hank?'