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.’
‘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 over 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 years.’
‘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 LA. And he did not like the Los Angeles version of the much lauded Californian climate. The smog veiled the sun and set up irritation is 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
