said to Richardson. ‘Now some other guy can maintain her.’ Briefly he wondered what sort of a man this stranger, Kreiss, was then put the matter out of his mind. For he was now the master of unexpected wealth and his heart was filled with jubilation. ‘Now I can do it,’ he said.
‘Do what?’ asked Richardson.
‘I’m flying to England.’
‘You’re nuts!’ Richardson protested. ‘Ben, this obsession is doing you no good. What can you do in England?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hardin cheerfully. ‘But I’ll find out when I get there. I haven’t had a vacation in years.’
Before leaving for England he flew to Washington on the shuttle where he renewed acquaintance with some of his old buddies in the Company and armed himself with some British addresses, and he visited the British Embassy where he ran into problems. No one knew much about Jersey.
‘They’re autonomous,’ he was told. ‘They have their own way of doing things. You say you want to know about a will?’
‘That’s right.’
‘In London a copy would be kept in Somerset House,’ said the attaché. ‘But I don’t think that applies to Jersey wills.’ He thought for a moment then his face lightened. ‘I do believe we have someone who would know.’ He picked up a telephone and dialled, then said, ‘Pearson here. Mark, you’re a Jerseyman, aren’t you? Yes I thought so. Would you mind popping in here for a moment?’ Pearson put down the telephone. ‘Mark le Tissier should know about it.’
And Mark le Tissier did. ‘Wills are kept in the Greffe,’ he said.
‘The what?’
‘The Greffe.’ Le Tissier smiled. ‘The Public Records Office. I had the same problem a couple of years ago. They’ll give you a copy.’
‘All I have to do is to go to this place, the Greffe, and ask?’
‘Oh you don’t have to go. Just drop a line to the Greffier. We’ll go into the library and dig out his address.’
So Hardin went back to New York and wrote to Jersey, giving as return address poste restante at the London office of American Express. A few days later he flew and the day he left from Kennedy Airport the rooming house in the Bronx in which he lived burned to the ground though he did not know about it until long after. Still, it could have been chance; there are, after all, whole blocks burned out in the Bronx.
In the employment of Gunnarsson Associates Hardin had learned how to travel light. He freshened up before landing at Heathrow in the early morning and cleared Customs quickly while the rest of the passengers were waiting for their baggage, then took the Underground into London where he registered at an inexpensive hotel near Victora Station. He then walked through St James’s Park towards the Haymarket where he picked up his mail.
He enjoyed the walk. The sun was shining and he felt oddly contented and in a holiday mood as he strolled by the lake. It was true that it had been some years since he had taken a real vacation. Perhaps he had been getting in a rut and the split with Gunnarsson was to be good for him in the long run. He had little money and no prospects but he was happy.
After leaving the American Express office Hardin bought a street plan of London from a news vendor because, although he was no stranger to London, it was many years since he had been there. Then he went into a pub to inspect the single letter he had received. The envelope was bulky and bore Jersey stamps. He ordered a half pint of beer at the bar and took it to a corner table, then opened the envelope.
The will was seven pages long. Jan-Willem Hendrykxx had left £10,000 to Dr Morton, his physician, as a token of esteem for keeping him alive so long, £20,000 to Mr and Mrs Adams, his butler and housekeeper, and various sums of between £1,000 and £4,000 to various members of his staff, which appeared to be large.
Detailed instructions were given for the sale of his real property of which he had a plenitude; a house in Jersey, another in the South of France, yet another in Belgium, and a whole island in the Caribbean. The sums arising from these sales and from the sale of his other possessions were to be added to the main part of his estate. Hendrykxx had evidently been a careful man because the will was up-to-date and he had estimated the current market values of his properties. Thenceforth the terms were expressed in percentages; 85 per cent of his estate was to go to the Ol Njorowa Foundation of Kenya, and 15 per cent to be divided equally among his living descendants.
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 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 corner of 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 fingers 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 to 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.’
