The Washington Club

by Peter Corris

  ‘My god. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. When you go out, what’s the procedure?’

  ‘How do you mean, the procedure?’

  ‘Do you walk down to the ferry or catch a cab in the street? Do you ring for cabs? Is there someone who picks you up?’

  ‘All those things. Why? What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m worried about Henderson being involved in this. I’ll arrange for someone to keep an eye on you, but it’s too hard to do round the clock. I want you to ring for a cab when you go out, get the number, direct it to the main gate and wait until you’re sure the cab that pulls up is the right one. Will you do that, please?’

  ‘They’ll think I’m mad.’

  ‘No, not in Kirribilli. They’ll just think you’re rich.’

  I regretted the words as soon as they were out. I got the deep freeze.

  ‘This is ridiculous. No, I won’t do that. I don’t believe you. You’re dramatising.’

  ‘Claudia, I . . .’

  The line went dead. Brilliantly handled, Hardy, I thought. Telephone diplomacy at its best. I hit redial. The phone rang for a long time but she didn’t answer. The ice had melted in my drink; the Scotch was just a pale tint in the water and making it darker wouldn’t change anything. I tossed it off and set about cooking a bachelor dinner—salad with French dressing, pasta with pesto and grated cheese—living with those women had taught me something.

  I had a glass of wine with the food and poured another when I sat down with a foolscap pad to try to make some sense of the day’s information and events. With any luck I’d get through the night one drink under my limit. My no doubt simple-minded procedure is to list the names of the people involved, all the relevant information on them and to draw arrows between them all pointing in all directions, noting on the shafts the things that connected them.

  Sometimes this can be time-consuming and cover many sheets. Sometimes laying it all out like this triggers brainwaves and stimulates me to leaps of imagination. This time it took a few minutes and yielded virtually no results. I knew almost nothing beyond superficialities about Julius and Claudia Fleischman. I knew still less about Robert Van Kep, Wilson Katz and Judith Daniels. The only person I knew anything solid about was the new participant, Haitch Henderson. I had another entry on the pad—‘other man’, signifying the alleged accomplice of Van Kep. I drew an arrow between this entry and Henderson, but I didn’t think it was going to be anywhere near that simple.

  I finished the wine and no other thoughts came other than the obvious one—dig for details on all parties still alive and available. Being kind to my liver and waistline, I resisted the fifth drink and made coffee instead. The dishes went into a newly acquired dishwashing machine, a factory second with a scratch on the cabinet, bought cheap. I only ran it once a week and didn’t feel too bad about its environmental impact. As I waited for the coffee to perk I made a list of the things to do the next day. Top of the list was to fax Cy a contract and try to get a solid retainer out of him, despite being in the red. I’d have to try to get that past Janine and the odds were evens at best.

  I drank coffee, had a shower and slopped around in a sulu someone had brought back for me from Vanuatu. I put on a cassette of the soundtrack from Local Hero and spent some time cleaning, oiling and checking the action of my Smith & Wesson .38. The gun was very dusty and dry from disuse and it felt heavy and awkward in my hand, but with Haitch Henderson in the picture, it seemed like a good idea to get familiar with it again. I handled it, picking it up, aiming it, lowering, swinging it around, gripping and re-gripping until it felt like something I might be able to use, if I had to. I rewound the tape and listened to ‘Going Home’ three times.

  Cy rang just before midnight.

  ‘Good eats?’ I said.

  ‘I forget already. What’s up?’

  I told him about Henderson and how badly I’d handled Claudia over the phone.

  He groaned. ‘What’s the good news?’

  ‘There isn’t any. I’ll need to slot someone in to keep an eye on her, at least for a few days until I can do something about Henderson. That’s going to cost.’

  ‘Do it. Tell Janine what you need up-front and I’ll okay it.’

  Well, that was good news for me at least. I gave Cy a run-down on what I’d be doing next and he told me he had a meeting scheduled with the prosecutor. We agreed to keep each other fully informed.

  ‘I suppose you’ve got one of those fucking foolscap pads all covered with doodles?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And an arrow linking up Henderson and the supposed other man?’

  ‘Right again. But I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.’

  ‘Christ, I hope not,’ Cy said.

  4

  I left a message on Pete Marinos’ answering machine asking him to arrange an arm’s-distance minder for Claudia Fleischman. Pete has been a lot of things in his time—footballer, disc jockey, stand-up comic—and now he employs all his talents as a private enquiry agent. He can talk his way in and out of tricky situations better than anyone I know and, at about five foot six with curly hair and soft brown eyes, he looks harmless. He isn’t. If he didn’t do it himself he’d find someone to keep discreet watch on Claudia without her being aware of it. I told the machine that Cy Sackville was employing me—that would give Pete confidence and convey the seriousness of the matter. Unlike a lot of people in our game, Pete plays it straight and wouldn’t sell any information he got to the tabloids.

  I went to bed very sober, feeling upright and glad to be working on something solid, even if it had disturbing aspects, or perhaps because of those aspects. One of my favourite writers is Graham Greene and I’ve read that fending off boredom was one of his big problems. Same for me, especially in these unattached days. Greene did it with drink, travel and writing, and good luck to him.

  Although I was tired, I lay sleepless for a while thinking of Claudia Fleischman’s toothy good looks and wishing I could have done the surveillance on her myself. Instead of which I’d managed to piss her off. Still, it was early days and the lady just might be a cold, calculating murderer. That was a little too disturbing and I tried to focus my mind on something else. A night southerly got up and a branch I’d meant to trim away weeks before started brushing against the bedroom window. It sounded as if someone was scratching at the pane, trying to find a way in. I drifted off to sleep and into a dream in which I was digging a deep hole in my tiny backyard. That dream ended; I dreamed something unconnected and then in a third dream I was in the backyard and falling down the hole. No more dreams after that.

  In the old days, gathering background information on people like the Fleischmans and Katz and the dirt on characters like Robert Van Kep and Haitch Henderson took legwork, contacts and hard currency. You spent time in libraries, hung out in newspaper offices and bought drinks for reporters and cops. Now all it takes is a few phone calls and faxes to the right numbers, the reading off of your credit card numbers and the writing of cheques to organisations with names like Information Services Inc, and Access Database. When I left the house at a bit before ten the next morning, I was confident that my fax machine would soon be chattering and that I’d have a file half an inch thick before noon.

  I took a ‘Close the Third Runway’ flyer out from under the windscreen and put it in my pocket.

  ‘You’ve parked me in!’ The speaker was a tall, skinny guy I’d only seen a few times before—a new arrival in the street, a stranger. He wore a cream linen suit and carried a briefcase pretty much the same colour, probably had them to match all his outfits. His vehicle was a big blue Toyota Land Cruiser that looked as if it had never been off the tarmac. It had wide wheels, a bull-bar and other chrome accessories whose functions I could only guess at. The distance between the front of my car and the back of his was about a metre. The Toyota hadn’t been there when I’d arrived home. I walked forward and saw that his bull-bar was about the same distance from the car in fr
ont—a red Commodore which also hadn’t been there when I’d parked.

  I pointed at the Commodore. ‘He or she parked you in, mate, not me. Anyway, I’m off, so you’ll be all right.’

  But he wanted a fight. ‘Your old heap wasn’t there when I got home last night.’

  The Falcon is old by some car owners’ standards but not by mine, nor is it a heap. Everything works most of the time. I took in a deep breath. ‘You’re new around here,’ I said. ‘Parking’s a bit of a problem for all of us and we try to get along. Now I suggest you hop into your magnificent chariot and warm it up while I back up and give you all the room you’re ever going to need. Okay?’

  ‘You think I can’t get out of there?’

  I was in no mood for a mine’s bigger than yours session. ‘My friend, you said you were parked in . . .’

  ‘Stay there. I’ll show you.’

  He opened the door, threw his briefcase inside, climbed in and started the engine. The 4WD gave out the sort of masculine roar he no doubt liked and I stepped across to the other side of the road to admire his technique. He turned the steering wheel hard, gunned the motor and put the Toyota into reverse. His judgement was lousy; the vehicle lurched back and the heavy rear bar thumped into the front of the Falcon. I didn’t have time to swear because the collision was followed by an explosion. The Falcon’s windshield and windows blew out; the front seat disintegrated and the roof bulged and then split with a shrieking sound that blended with the noise of the shattered glass. The Toyota driver panicked; he gunned the motor, shot forward and tore a rear panel from the Commodore as he rabbit-hopped away from the kerb. He stopped in the middle of the road and I could see his shoulders shaking as he held onto the steering wheel.

  Suddenly the street was full of people, including the owner of the Commodore, who tore open the door of the Toyota, dragged the driver out and began to scream at him.

  ‘You fucker! Look what you’ve done to my car! You stupid cunt!’

  He didn’t pay any attention to the Falcon, which looked as if all the air inside it had suddenly expanded a hundred times and burst the car at the seams. I told the people milling around to stay back in case the car caught fire, but after a few minutes it didn’t seem likely to happen. It wasn’t that kind of a device, but if I’d been behind the wheel when it went off I’d have been in several pieces on the road. A woman offered me a cigarette and I took it automatically. She lit us both up and said she’d called the police. I thanked her and smoked the cigarette. Some of the people in the street knew what I did for a living. Some were interested, some were amused, some disapproved. I could hear them muttering about ‘private eyes’ when the first of the police cars arrived. The Commodore owner had calmed down after taking in more of the scene. He and the 4WD man were apologetically exchanging information. Any minute they’d be asking me the name of my insurance company. I drew on the cigarette and wondered if I’d be able to prevent myself from punching the first one to ask.

  The police performance was about average. They took down details, inspected my ID and various licences—driver’s, private enquiry agent, gun carrier. The uniformed men weren’t happy and the two detectives who arrived a bit later were even less so. Detective Senior Constable Deakin, a short, intense individual with an aggressive style, pressed me for details of the cases I was currently working on. I wasn’t forthcoming. We were over by my front fence by this time. The police had dispersed the crowd. The Toyota had driven shakily off and a tow truck was hoisting up the Commodore—the rear axle had suffered some serious damage.

  ‘You put these people’s life at risk,’ Deakin said, waving his arm at the houses in the street.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘That was some sort of anti-personnel device. Very specific. Very clean.’

  ‘Clean!’

  ‘It would’ve killed me and no one else. It was just bad luck the other cars were involved. My good luck.’

  Deakin didn’t seem to like the idea of my having any kind of luck at all. He walked over and inspected the Falcon from stem to stern. ‘A write-off,’ he said. ‘This might be some kind of clever insurance stunt by you.’

  I was over the shock by now although if there had been anything handy I would have broken my no grog before six rule on the spot. Somewhere along the line I’d finished the cigarette and dropped it. Now I wanted another and the urge made me angry. This little pipsqueak was pushing too hard. I crowded him against the fence, not exactly shouldering him but almost. ‘What about you, arsehole? You’re a copper, you’ve arrested wife-beaters and nutters. What if one of them comes along and fire-bombs your joint? It happens. I’ve fuckin’ seen it. Now back off me.’

  ‘Easy, Cliff.’ I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to shake it off or hit its owner. Ian Sangster, the medico who’s patched and pilled me for years and whose practice was a block or so up Glebe Point Road, was smiling at me and easing me away from the detective.

  ‘I’m Dr Sangster, officer,’ he said to Deakin. ‘Mr Hardy is a friend and patient. Someone told me what happened and I came down just in case I was needed. The man’s in shock.’

  Deakin slid around me and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘All right, doctor. I’ll leave him in your care. When he’s making sense, tell him to come to the station and make a full statement. We’ll send a technical team down here to go over the car.’

  Sangster nodded and Deakin and the other detective and the uniformed men left. Sangster, an unrepentant smoker, pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I gestured for one and he obliged. We smoked for a few minutes before Ian took a close look at the car.

  ‘That would’ve been the end of a steady bulk bill,’ he said. ‘Let’s go inside and I’ll look you over.’

  I took a draw on the cigarette, realised what I was doing and threw it away. Sangster grinned at me and I laughed. The tension I’d felt building up inside me broke. I gave the Falcon a pat and we went into the house. I heated up the breakfast coffee while Sangster tested my blood pressure.

  ‘Bit high.’

  ‘Two bloody cigarettes,’ I said. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Dare I say it, you’re getting a bit old for this sort of thing.’

  I poured the coffee, black for me, white with three sugars for Ian. He had another cigarette going. ‘I haven’t had an attempt on my life for five or six years. Makes me feel young again.’

  ‘Hopeless case.’ Sangster drank his coffee quickly and left, telling me that if I needed a medical certificate for anything or a commitment order he’d oblige for a consideration. I hurried him out and called a cab. I wanted to be away from the house before any media got there. The cab came quickly and I rode into the office.

  An idealist and deep thinker might have been concerned about how and when my presence in the Fleischman case came to be noted, but I was worrying about why someone would want to remove me from the matter so permanently.

  5

  Three flights of stairs can have a significant effect on your thinking, particularly after you’ve received a bit of a shock. As I walked along the lifting lino to my office door I realised that I was concentrating my thinking on Haitch Henderson. A car bomb was his style. If that was true the questions followed: was Henderson involved as a principal, for example as the ‘other man’, or was he working for someone else? If so, who and why? I stood outside my office door with the key in my hand and hesitated. The filing card taped to the door with CLIFF HARDY PRIVATE ENQUIRIES printed on it in my best Clovelly Primary School letters, was undisturbed. There were no unusual scuff marks on the floor or signs of illegal entry, but I was anxious. If you’re serious, why not go for a good old one-two?

  I decided that was ridiculous and that whoever had set the high-tech bomb would have been confident of a result. I opened the door and went in to the accustomed smells of dust and No Frills disinfectant. The light was flashing on the answering machine and paper had spewed from the fax to form a slightly untidy pile on the card table I’d rigged up behind it. I ignored both
forms of communication. First things first. One of my random thoughts in the cab had been about the Falcon. I was in business after all, and it was my habit to regard the economy, as far as it affected me personally, as being in permanent recession and bankruptcy a constant threat.

  Ian Sangster had persuaded me to corporatise myself a few years back and I’d done so with considerable misgiving. So far I considered it a lineball between what I’d saved on tax and what accounting fees had cost me. My accountant had stressed to me that the Falcon was my chief piece of capital equipment and the necessity of keeping a close record of every cent spent on it. Was the insurance fully paid up? The papers were on file; I knew I’d seen them recently, but I just couldn’t quite remember writing the cheque. I yanked open the filing cabinet drawer, riffled through the pristine folders in the CLIFF INC section and found the insurance file. The car was comprehensively covered—renewed three weeks ago. I made a two-finger gesture in the direction of where insurance companies conglomerate and got down to some professional analysis.

  The material on Julius Fleischman was surprisingly thin, given his wealth. My source opted for a South African origin, with Australian citizenship being granted in 1993—more than twenty years after he first set up business in this country. He was sixty or sixty-four years of age (apparently official documents differed), chairman of the board of Fleischman Holdings Incorporated, a director of this and that, a former economic adviser to several ministers in the previous Coalition government. He had an honorary doctorate from Bond University and was a founding member of the Economic Liberty Society, a business-funded right-wing think-tank that sponsored a magazine, The Mercantilist, radio programs and awarded scholarships in business studies at several universities. Member of the Royal Sydney Golf Club and the Australasian Sailing Club.

  Fleischman Holdings was a private company, so its economic solidity couldn’t be judged without inside knowledge. My source asked if I wanted to ‘go this route’. There were substantial mortgages on all of Julius’ known major property holdings—houses, the flats at Kirribilli, the yacht, the plane. That didn’t necessarily mean anything in tycoon land. His interests were given as ‘culture, wine-making, photography, golf’. He had been a member of various clubs and a patron of things like the Sydney Opera Company and the Australian Ballet. I read through it all and came out with not the faintest idea of what sort of a man Julius Fleischman had been. The photograph showed a lean face, high forehead, goatee. When looking at photographs, searching for an insight into the subject, I’d formed the habit of applying one word and trying to extrapolate from that. For Fleischman I came up with ‘discipline’. He looked like a disciplined man and in my experience disciplined people like applying their ideas of discipline to others.