The Washington Club

by Peter Corris

  Judith Daniels, née Fleischman, was more interesting on the surface. Daniels it might have been recently (she’d divorced Mr Daniels a few years back), but it had been Strickland and Katz before that. Katz made me sit up. Judith had married Wilson Katz a few months after her divorce from Weston Strickland had come through. She was then twenty-two. The first marriage had lasted two years. Katz was history as a husband two years later. Daniels, following eighteen months later, had scored three years before being filed away. Judith was now thirty, just. I flicked through the pages to the material on Claudia. Thirty-three. Dangerous situation.

  Judith didn’t seem to do much with herself except be ‘seen’ at exclusive places with wealthy people. Her mother and father had been divorced within a year of her birth (there was no information on the first Mrs Fleischman) and Judith had gone to boarding and finishing schools and ‘studied’ abroad. To judge from her photo, what she’d studied most was how-to-be-a-top-person. She was very good-looking—dark, Semitic, with luxuriant hair and a full figure that she’d have to watch if she wanted to keep wearing size twelves. She lived in Woollahra when she wasn’t in Paris, London or LA. Her money came from Daddy and her exes. She drove an Alfa Romeo sports car and had been booked for speeding twice and prosecuted for causing a serious accident while driving under the influence. Fine, community service, suspended sentence. I jotted addresses and telephone numbers down in my notebook.

  Wilson Katz was an American, aged forty, who had run his own advertising agency in Sydney until he had joined Fleischman Holdings as personnel manager. At the time of Fleischman’s death he was on the board as vice-chairman. He looked to be medium-sized, fleshy. He sailed with the Sydney amateurs, played golf at the Lakes and had an interest in a Mudgee vineyard. Surprisingly, he was the author of several books—Selling Yourself (1989), Doing Business in Asia (1990) and Playing Poker for Serious Money (1992). All published by Upfront Press—not a household name. Patrick White had said that a writer gives himself away with every word. I made a mental note to get hold of Mr Katz’s revelations.

  The phone rang before I moved on to the pages about Claudia. I let the machine pick it up, listening for the umpteenth time to my recorded message. It sounded more world-weary and disillusioned than I d ever intended. Then Claudia’s unmistakable voice came on the line.

  ‘My limit for leaving messages, for recorded voices is two, so this is the last try. Again, sorry I was so shitty last night . . .’

  I snatched up the phone. ‘I’m here. I just got in and haven’t played the messages so you can pretend this is number one.’

  She laughed. I could see the teeth and the slight inclination of the head and a light sweat broke out on my body. ‘I’ve spent some time looking into the street to see if you’ve put your watcher on. There’re a couple of possibilities but I can’t really tell.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to. He’ll be there though.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why the change of heart?’

  ‘I’m like that. Sometimes everything that’s happened lately seems unreal. Then it hits me—Julius was killed and I’m accused of murder. That’s as real as it gets.’

  ‘You’re right there.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve never heard of any Henderson. Julius had a computer here that he wrote letters on. I’ve checked the disc—there’s no Henderson. What is it exactly that you’re doing?’

  I glanced down at the sheets of fax paper. I’m snooping on you and yours, darling, I thought. ‘I’m fishing around for connections between Van Kep and other people. I’m looking for people who might want your husband dead and you in the dock for it.’

  ‘Then you believe me.’

  ‘Claudia, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t believe anybody about anything. That’s the way I’ll play it until . . . unless something forces me to think differently.’

  ‘You want to believe me, though.’

  I sucked in stale air through what felt like a stale mouth. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s something I suppose. I haven’t been getting too many votes of confidence lately. I’ll have to make do with that. What people?’

  The beep of an incoming call distracted me. ‘What?’

  ‘You said you were looking for people who wanted Julius dead. Like who?’

  ‘Well, I’m going to try to get to see Wilson Katz as soon as I can.’

  ‘Oh him. He adored Julius, worshipped him. He called him Captain, would you believe?’

  ‘I see that he was married to Fleischman’s daughter.’

  ‘For a while, one of many. I could tell you a bit about that, and about her.’

  I took a risk. ‘I think you should. I think you should tell me everything about everybody who’s even remotely involved. I want to know everything about your marriage, day by day. Otherwise I’m working in the dark.’

  I waited to feel the drop in temperature as before but it didn’t come. There was a long pause but when she spoke again her voice was still the same, smoky, with the almost lisp. ‘I didn’t expect anything like this.’

  You could make anything you wanted of that. I kept quiet and turned over pages until I came to Claudia’s photograph. The grainy, poor quality of the print didn’t take anything away from her. The picture showed her at a party of some sort; she was wearing a simple dark dress and her hair had been piled up somehow. Her neck looked stately and her mouth was a wide, dark slash. She held a champagne flute as if she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

  ‘Would you like to come over here tonight? We could talk.’

  ‘Fine. Would you like to go out for a meal?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps. We’ll see. I . . .’

  ‘Okay. Would seven o’clock be right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was suddenly aware that she was saying less and less with each utterance, which can be a sign of distress. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing today?’

  Another pause. I could almost feel the effort she was making to get a few more words out. ‘I’m all right, yes. I’m not doing anything much. I’ll see you at seven then. Goodbye.’

  I put the phone down, very unsure of what I was letting myself in for, but certain I’d be there at seven sharp unless I got hit by a bus or a bullet.

  The phone rang and it was a reporter from Channel 10 asking for an interview. He’d been to Glebe with a crew and they had footage of the police technical boys working on the Falcon before towing it away.

  ‘Dramatic,’ I said.

  ‘They say a couple of high-power blast grenades were used. We need to talk to you, Mr Hardy. Who tried to kill you?’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong. Somebody wanted to kill the car. Sorry, mate, no interview. Thanks for the information.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’ve told me what happened and where my car is. Very useful. Thanks again.’

  I hung up. On television, private eyes go straight for the jugular. If a Harley Davidson’s been spotted in the alley the gumshoe heads directly to the toughest biker bar in town and wraps a pool cue around the neck of a seven-foot behemoth with a beard down to his Nazi chest tattoo. Not me. I had a meeting with the client at seven and it was my responsibility to be fully functional when I got there. That meant leaving the places where I’d have to go to get a line on Haitch Henderson until later. I phoned Fleischman Holdings and asked to speak to Mr Katz’s secretary.

  ‘Mr Katz’s office. Kathy speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private investigator working for the barrister defending Mrs Fleischman. I’d like to see Mr Katz in that connection at his earliest convenience, please.’

  Kathy said, ‘Just one moment,’ and I waited through fully two minutes’ worth of classical music that sounded like a string section trying to put a percussion section to sleep and vice versa.

  ‘Mr Katz could see you at 2.15 this afternoon, Mr Hardy. Would that be suitable?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said.

>   Fleischman Holdings was housed in a fifteen-storey building a block from the Stock Exchange. The company had three floors—the top three, naturally. I wondered whether it owned the building or rather, given what I’d learned about Fleischman’s operation, had a mortgage on it. Expecting to be calling on people, that morning I’d put on a grey lightweight suit, Italian slip-ons bought on special and a freshly dry-cleaned pale blue cotton shirt with a buttoned-down collar. No tie. I entered the world of polished steel, chrome, and glass and rode the lift up to the thirteenth floor. The view was spectacular, the carpet was thick, the service was efficient. A heavily made-up young woman wearing a shiny cream suit and with her blonde hair pulled back into a tight roll, took my card, pressed buttons and then escorted me to a waiting room that had a 180-degree view, armchairs, pot plants and coffee machine.

  ‘You’re a fraction early, Mr Hardy.’

  I looked at my watch—2.14 and ten seconds. ‘So I am.’

  ‘Mr Katz will see you very soon. Would you like coffee?’

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks. I’ll just feast my eyes on the stock exchange for a while.’

  She forced a smile and left the room. I walked to the full-length window and looked out on the best city view in the world. Under a blue sky the harbour was poetic; the parks were green and fresh looking and the buildings seemed to frame the natural beauty and not diminish it.

  ‘Mr Hardy.’

  I turned slowly and felt my hand reaching out towards a handshake as if it was acting on its own accord. The man who’d entered the room without a sound was a couple of inches taller than me, six foot three at least, and built like an athlete—wide-shouldered, lean-hipped, spare. He had regular features, an even tan and white teeth, but nothing was overdone. His hair was dark and short with a bit of grey in it at the front and sides. We shook hands. It wasn’t that he was charismatic or commanding. There was nothing aggressive or forceful in his body language, but he had somehow taken charge and compelled that handshake.

  ‘I’m Wilson Katz.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I imagine you’re a busy man.’

  ‘Always.’ He stepped aside and moved an arm, indicating I should precede him and the direction I should go. I forced myself not to oblige and stood still.

  ‘I won’t take much of your time. We could talk here.’

  A wrinkle of irritation appeared on the almost unlined face and then was quickly smoothed away by a slight smile. ‘No, no. My office is more comfortable. You can have my undivided attention for fifteen minutes, Mr Hardy. Then I’m afraid I’m off to a meeting.’

  The accent was American, East Coast, eroded by time spent in Australia. He wore dark suit trousers, a cream shirt and a burgundy tie—the uniform of the money-makers. Suddenly we were, subtly, like two boxers circling each other in the ring. He was trying to feint and baulk me into his corner and I was resisting. I won. He shrugged and led the way out of the room, across the corridor and into an office that had no name on the door. I bet that all the underlings’ offices did have names on the doors. Cute.

  ‘Have a chair, Mr Hardy, and let me know what you want from me.’

  I unbuttoned my jacket, sat down and crossed my legs. The office was austere but stylish with a couple of paintings on the wall, a bookcase, a desk that looked as if work got done on it and chairs that were comfortable, but not so comfortable you felt like settling in. Sitting very upright with his back to the magnificent view, Katz somehow looked invulnerable, as if he could whistle up help from all over the place to solve any problem he might have.

  ‘If Claudia Fleischman didn’t have her husband killed,’ I said slowly, ‘then there’s someone or some people walking around out there who did. I was wondering if that made you nervous, Mr Katz?’

  His pale eyes opened wider and he stared at me as if I’d spoken in Urdu. ‘I confess you’ve surprised me. That’s quite a neat little question. Really bores in, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What’s the answer?’

  ‘Like I say, that’s new territory for me. I’d have to think about it. I’ve been assuming Claudia did it.’ He smiled. ‘Lucky I’m not eligible for jury duty, huh?’

  I decided then that I disliked him, but it might just have been his supreme confidence that annoyed me.

  ‘Things must be rather difficult for you just now,’ I said. ‘Mrs Fleischman being the heir but also suspected of murdering your boss. I suppose everything is on hold, business-wise.’

  ‘Not at all. You obviously don’t understand business to say that.’

  ‘True, I don’t. I know a bit about people, though. Do you think Mrs Fleischman is stupid?’

  I could see he was tempted to be flip but he didn’t want to hedge another question. ‘No. Julius wouldn’t have married a stupid woman.’

  Interesting angle, I thought. He probably knew exactly what Julius thought about Hunter Valley reds and jockey versus boxer shorts. ‘Only a stupid woman would do what she’s accused of.’

  ‘I guess things went wrong with her plan.’

  I stood up. ‘I don’t think so. Well, thanks for your time, Mr Katz. You’ll make your meeting okay.’

  He half-rose, then sat down harder than he intended. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes, unless you have something you’re burning to tell me.’

  The eyes weren’t wide open now; they were shuttered and probing. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Fine.’ I nodded and left the room. There was no one in the corridor or the waiting room and I stood by the door and listened. After a few seconds I heard water running and realised there was only a thin wall between me and Katz’s en suite bathroom. He wasn’t getting himself a glass of water, that was for sure. Miss Cream Suit would be trotting down with the Evian if that’s what he wanted. His hands and face had looked clean enough to me, so why was he splashing about in the bathroom? It seemed I’d rattled Mr Katz’s chain a little, which was all I’d hoped to do.

  6

  A private detective without a car is like a ship without a sail, like a boat without a rudder, like a fish without a tail. I caught a taxi to Metro Car Hire in Surry Hills and rented a silver grey Toyota Camry with a sunroof, CD player, air-conditioning and mobile phone. The Falcon needed driving, the Camry only needed steering; everything else it seemed to do itself.

  Experience has taught me that it’s useful to see where people involved in a conflict live. The houses can sometimes tell you something about them, the locations themselves can be significant. Or maybe I just fancied driving around for a few hours in the flash car before I called on the client.

  The Fleischman pile in Vaucluse was everything you’d expect—white, bigger than anyone would ever need, perched high and commanding a view to make a real estate agent drool. I parked in the street and strolled past the high iron gates, which were well fitted out with an electronic security system, getting a good view into the grounds that looked a little under-gardened for their grand design. I caught a glimpse of a tennis court surrounded by a high brushwood fence with cyclone mesh on top of it to catch mistimed lobs; I couldn’t see the swimming pool but it’d be there all right. There was a three-door garage and a gazebo. From further down the street I looked up to a partial view of the back of the house and could estimate its actual size. Big, very big. Plenty of glass and worked stone, an attic or two and some palm trees. A dream come true.

  I stared at the house and wondered how much time Claudia had spent there and what she’d done in the place. That led to speculation about why she’d married a man who’d want such a house. Dangerous ground. I hopped back into the air-conditioning and drove to Woollahra. Judith had positioned herself safely away from where anyone could accuse her of living in Bondi Junction rather than Woollahra. Her apartment was in a big block with a high wall and some massive plane trees to shield it from non-residents. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to park a car off the street. No doubt that would have seemed odd to Daddy, but my guess was that the locals had the area pri
vately patrolled. No chance here of a peek to judge the taste of the occupants. The security looked good.

  I parked on the other side of the road in the shade of some more trees and, on a whim, dialled up Judith’s number on the mobile. It was 3.30 p.m. but the voice that answered the phone had drunk its way well past six.

  ‘Yes? Who’s this?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Ms Judith Daniels.’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I’m working for Claudia Fleischman’s barrister as a private investigator, Ms Daniels. I wonder if it would be possible for me to have a few words with you? I wouldn’t take up much of your time.’

  I could almost smell the gin in the pause that followed. She started to say something, evidently thought better of it and slammed the phone down. I replaced the handset carefully and watched a few leaves settle gently on the bonnet of the Camry. It was my day for upsetting the folks with the money. Not unpleasant. Idly, I pressed the button that opened the hatch on the CD player. There was a disc in place and I lifted it out. Before I could see what it was there was activity across the street.

  Judith Daniels, with a scarf over her hair and dark glasses, wearing white stretch pants and a black shirt, rushed through the security gate and threw herself into the red Alfa Romeo sports car parked outside the building. She kept turning the key after the engine had started and the machinery shrieked in protest. She took off from the kerb in a fast lurch then almost turned into a tailspin. She fought the wheel, got the car under control on the wrong side of the road, and accelerated away. If there had been any other traffic her trip would have ended right there.