search so far had taken two weeks.
Further searches revealed that Hendrix had taken out naturalization papers eight years later in Clarksville, Tennessee. More to the point he had married there. Establishing these simple facts took another three weeks and a fair amount of mileage.
Adrian Hendrix had married the daughter of a grain and feed merchant and seemed in a fair way to prosper had it not been for his one fault. On the death of his father-in-law in 1950 he proceeded to drink away the profits of the business he had inherited and died therefrom but not before he sired a son, Henry Hendrix.
Hardin looked at his notebook bleakly. The substitution of the son for the father had not made his task any easier. He had reported to Gunnarsson only to be told abruptly to find young Hendrix and to stop belly-aching, and there followed further weeks of searching because Henry Hendrix had become a drop-out—an undocumented man—after leaving high school, but a combination of legwork, persistence and luck had brought Hardin to the San Fernando Valley in California where he was marooned in his car.
It was nearly three-quarters of an hour before the rain eased off and he decided to take a chance and get out. He swore as he put his foot into six inches of water and then squelched across the street towards the neat white house. He sheltered on the porch, shaking the wetness from his coat, then pressed the bell and heard chimes.
Presently the door opened cautiously, held by a chain, and an eye and a nose appeared at the narrow opening. ‘I’m looking for Henry Hendrix,’ Hardin said, and flipped open a notebook. ‘I’m told he lives here.’
‘No one by that name here.’ The door began to close.
Hardin said quickly, ‘This is 82, Thorndale?’
‘Yeah, but my name’s Parker. No one called Hendrix here.’
‘How long have you lived here, Mr Parker?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Hardin extracted a card from his wallet and poked it at the three-inch crack in the doorway. ‘My name is Hardin.’
The card was taken in two fingers and vanished. Parker said, ‘Gunnarsson Associates. You a private dick?’
‘I guess you could call me that,’ said Hardin tiredly.
‘This Hendrix in trouble?’
‘Not that I know of, Mr Parker. Could be the other way round, from what I hear. Could be good news for Hendrix.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Parker. ‘We’ve lived here eight months.’
‘Who did you buy the house from?’
‘Didn’t buy,’ said Parker. ‘We rent. The owner’s an old biddy who lives in Pasadena.’
‘And you don’t know the name of the previous tenant? He left no forwarding address?’ There was not much hope in Hardin’s voice.
‘Nope.’ Parker paused. ‘Course, my wife might know. She did all the renting business.’
‘Would it be possible to ask her?’
‘I guess so. Wait a minute.’ The door closed leaving Hardin looking at a peeling wooden panel. He heard a murmur of voices from inside the house and presently the door opened again and a woman peered at him then disappeared. He heard her say, ‘Take the chain off the door, Pete.’
‘Hell, Milly; you know what they told us about LA.’
‘Take the chain off,’ said Milly firmly. ‘What kind of a life is it living behind bolts and bars?’
The door closed, there was a rattle, and then it opened wide. ‘Come on in,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘It ain’t fit for a dog being out today.’
Thankfully Hardin stepped over the threshold. Parker was a burly man of about forty-five with a closed, tight face, but Milly Parker smiled at Hardin. ‘You want to know about the Hendersons, Mr Hardin?’
Hardin repressed the sinking feeling. ‘Hendrix, Mrs Parker.’
‘Could have sworn it was Henderson. But come into the living room and sit down.’
Hardin shook his head. ‘I’m wet; don’t want to mess up your furniture. Besides, I won’t take up too much of your time. You think the previous tenant was called Henderson?’
‘That’s what I thought. I could have been wrong.’ She laughed merrily, ‘I often am.’
‘Was there a forwarding address?’
‘I guess so; there was a piece of paper,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’ll look in the bureau.’ She went away.
Hardin looked at Parker and tried to make light conversation. ‘Get this kind of weather often?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Parker briefly. ‘Haven’t been here long.’
Hardin heard drawers open in the next room and there was the rustle of papers. ‘The way I hear it this is supposed to be the Sunshine State. Or is that Florida?’
Parker grunted. ‘Rains both places; but you wouldn’t know to hear the Chambers of Commerce tell it.’
Mrs Parker came back. ‘Can’t find it,’ she announced, ‘It was just a little bitty piece of paper.’ She frowned. ‘Seems I recollect an address. I know it was off Ventura Boulevard; perhaps in Sherman Oaks or, maybe, Encino.’
Hardin winced; Ventura Boulevard was a hundred miles long. Parker said abruptly, ‘Didn’t you give the paper to that other guy?’
‘What other guy?’ asked Hardin.
‘Why, yes; I think I did,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘Now I think of it. A nice young man. He was looking for Henderson, too.’
Hardin sighed. ‘Hendrix,’ he said. ‘Who was this young man?’
‘Didn’t bother to ask,’ said Parker. ‘But he was a foreigner—not American. He had a funny accent like I’ve never heard before.’
Hardin questioned them further but got nothing more, then said, ‘Well, could I have the address of the owner of the house. She might know.’ He got the address and also the address of the local realtor who had negotiated the rental. He looked at his watch and found it was late. ‘Looks like the day’s shot. Know of a good motel around here?’
‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘Go south until you hit Riverside, then turn west. There are a couple along there before you hit the turning to Laurel Canyon.’
He thanked them and left, hearing the door slam behind him and the rattle of the chain. It was still raining; not so hard as before but still enough to drench him before he reached the shelter of his car. He was wet and gloomy as he drove away.
His motel room was standard issue and dry. He took off his wet suit and hung it over the bath, regarded it critically, and decided it needed pressing. He wondered if Gunnarsson would stand for that on the expense account.
