The Washington Club

by Peter Corris

  I started to investigate the place in earnest. In cupboards and the fridge Haitch had enough provisions for at least a week of comfortable living. In an annexe I found a washing machine and drier and a well-stocked freezer that added several weeks on. Henderson’s personal possessions were arranged neatly and systematically on a clothes rack beside the bed, in a suitcase and overnight bag under it and in a small chest of drawers. His wallet was on the bed. I used a blade on my Swiss army knife to lift and turn the various items. His whole life in its current phase was laid out for me to look at and it wouldn’t take very long. For a better person than Haitch, this would have seemed sad. The box of shotgun shells reminded me that it wasn’t sad at all.

  From a few receipts and other papers I pieced together Henderson’s life over the past few months. He’d been living in Melbourne until very recently. As an old hand, he had no cheque-book stubs or bank passbooks, but I found an autobank slip he’d evidently neglected to destroy. Careless. A week back he’d withdrawn four hundred dollars from an account that had a balance of just over thirty thousand. Twelve hundred and twenty dollars were in his wallet along with a keycard in the name of A.J. Saunders. Haitch was in the chips and it could only be for services rendered. Services to whom was the question and I focused my search on answering that question. I pocketed the card. There was no little black book or microfilm hidden in the heel of any of his three pairs of shoes, but two things invited explanation—a key and a phonecard with a number written on it.

  The keys to the Honda and to the building were on a ring beside the beer can that Henderson had been drinking from when I disturbed him. This single key was in a compartment of his wallet. The phonecard had the look of the autobank slip—something intended to be thrown away and overlooked. I sat on the bed (if the forensic people had a way to identify a bum print on a bed they were welcome to take me) and thought over my options. To go to the police would involve me in a complex and time-consuming process that might end with me spending time in gaol. I rejected that. It was a sure bet that Noel kept more than his spare Citroens here. There had to be drugs around the place somewhere and I considered searching for them, leaving a trace and arranging things to look as if Haitch had died defending his son’s stash. Cute, but I didn’t have the time for it.

  I decided to leave things as they were. On a bench in the workshop I found a dismantled and possibly defective US-made blast grenade along with a magnetic clip, some wire and a couple of low-tension springs. I threw back the tarpaulins and searched the workshop and the cars thoroughly but there was no sign of the sort of weapon that had been used to kill Cy and, possibly, Julius Fleischman. Someone else involved or a hiding place? The questions were stacking up fast. I scooped the parts of the grenade and other material into a plastic shopping bag and set it by the door to take with me. I didn’t want any connections between myself and this place. I replaced the tarps, went back to the living area and took the twelve hundred dollars from the wallet. Someone was spending money to kill me and I was going to spend some of the same money to find out who.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. I took the car keys from the ring and went out to the Honda. A soft, warm rain was falling; cloud had drifted over and made everything much darker and cooler than it had been before. I scarcely glanced at the body in the grass and felt nothing about it. The car started easily; the petrol tank was almost full and the windscreen-wipers worked smoothly. I drove away from the place mentally checking off a list of my illegal acts that night—assault, abduction, arson, possession and use of an illegal firearm, theft of money, theft of motor vehicle, some degree of homicide. Not a bad score, and my PEA licence was forever forfeit if the police found out.

  The Honda handled well, the rain stopped and I made good time driving back to the city. I was thinking clearly enough, making decisions, plotting courses. I was tired and very hungry because I hadn’t eaten anything since that solid breakfast. The warmth of the Scotch in my almost empty stomach was fading but I didn’t want to risk any more alcohol in the keyed-up state I was in. I drove to Marrickville and left the Honda in the car park of the RSL club with the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. I wiped down everything I’d touched and then wiped it all again and checked that I hadn’t left any trace of my presence. With any luck the car would take a long trip and never be seen again.

  It was getting on for eleven o’clock and things were quiet in Marrickville. Some arrivals and departures at the club, a few strollers, light traffic. I walked down Illawarra Road and across the bridge over the Cooks River. At the midpoint I dropped the Colt over the side and heard it splash. I’d had it a long while, had only used it a few times and now I’d killed a man with it. I was glad to see it go and it was a sure bet that it wouldn’t be lonely in the toxic mud at the bottom of the Cooks River. It was a firearm graveyard. A politician, when queried as to whether he favoured cleaning up the river, said it was ‘a big ask’, and, as far as I knew, that’s as far as the proposition ever got.

  The Camry was sitting quietly on the edge of the pool of light. I stopped a hundred metres away, stood in the shadows for ten minutes and tried to register and monitor every shape and sound in the vicinity. When I was satisfied no one was taking any interest in the car I approached, zapped it with the remote-controller, got in and drove off—signalling, seat-belted, keeping to the left. The model driver and citizen and car-phone user. I dialled clumsily.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is Hardy. I spotted you in the garden in Kirribilli the other day. Pete gave me your mobile number. Where are you? What can you tell me?’

  ‘Mrs Fleischman’s at Bluefin Bay, Mr Hardy. She’s in a house near the water. She got a taxi to Palm Beach and came over by water taxi. I’m glad you called. I don’t know what to do. I’m stuck here until morning, sleeping under a fucking tree, unless I phone a water taxi to get me back.’

  I turned left out of Addison Road. The pub on the corner was like a beckoning finger but I resisted and drove up towards Enmore. ‘I don’t know much about that part of the world. What’s your name?’

  ‘Vinnie Gatellari.’

  ‘You say she’s alone, Vinnie?’

  ‘Looks that way. Nice house. They go for about half a million up here.’

  ‘You’d say she’s safe?’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon you can leave, Vinnie. Thanks. Tomorrow, could you try to find out whose house it is and a phone number? Pete’ll okay the expense. And hang around if that’s okay. I don’t want her getting away.’ I gave him the number of the car phone.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Hardy. I’ll get back to the peninsula and work on it first thing tomorrow. You’ll hear from me.’

  I believed him. He was coming across as a good man and I could see why Pete valued him. A company man, though, a facilitator, maybe not a doer. I’d many times been offered jobs in big agencies with more money than I’d ever make on my own and turned them down because facilitating wasn’t my game and I had the scars to prove it. Cy had mocked me but understood. Not many people did.

  That seemed like enough for now: leads to follow and Claudia located. I headed for Glebe, some food and drink, and, provided I could keep blocking out the shotgun and the Colt and the way Henderson jerked and fell and died, sleep.

  16

  I woke up worrying about who had hired Haitch Henderson. Just because one killer was out of the picture didn’t mean there couldn’t be another to take his place. And Haitch’s sponsor obviously had resources. Enough to get someone better perhaps. I was also worried about Noel. If he managed to identify me somehow and he was in touch with whoever hired Haitch or worked with him, I would be in trouble. That was a possibility. On the upside was the extreme unlikelihood of Noel giving his information to the cops.

  I was mulling this over, having flicked through the paper and found nothing about a dead man being discovered at Rooty Hill. I had my ear cocked to the radio for the same reason and had to turn it down when the phone rang.

>   ‘Mr Hardy, my name is Leon Stratton, I’m an associate at Sackville and Sackville. I think we met once, briefly.’ Cy had gone into his father’s firm as a partner and kept the two names, although his dad had been dead for many years.

  ‘I believe we did, Mr Stratton. Cy’s fiftieth birthday, was it?’

  ‘Yes. As you can imagine we’re all in a state of shock here, but things have to be carried forward. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Yes. I was planning to contact someone in the office today. Mrs Fleischman . . .’

  ‘Can be assured of our continued support if she wishes. I’d be happy to take the matter on if she is agreeable. I’ve been trying to reach her by telephone but with no success. I don’t suppose you happen to know where she is?’

  I tried to get Stratton up on the mental screen. A tall, pale individual. Youngish, which for me means less than forty-five. Nothing else. He’d be bright, Cy didn’t hire duds. He’d do, the question was how to play him. The best way to deal with someone like a lawyer is to tell them something they don’t know. I told him about the reporter who implied that Claudia would benefit from Cy’s death.

  ‘That’s absurd!’ Stratton said.

  ‘Yeah, but it upset Mrs Fleischman and she left Sydney for a time. I know where she is in a general sort of way. Not the specific place. I’m hoping to get a phone number today.’

  ‘I see. Well, I know the faith Cy had in you and if Mrs Fleischman wants to retain our services, I can tell you that I want you to continue as Cy instructed. Of course, we’ll have to get the hearing date set back so I can prepare properly.’

  Couldn’t be better. I thanked him. Told him I’d be in touch with a number for Claudia as soon as I had it. Then the hard bit. ‘How’s Naomi?’

  ‘Distraught, but she’s got a lot of family support and she’s bearing up well—for the children . . . I talked to the police but they don’t seem to know very much. Are you . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know who did it, Mr Stratton, or why, but I’m sort of getting closer to it, I think. I’ll do everything I can to get him.’

  He tried to cancel the emotion from his voice with a forced cough. ‘I’m sure you will. I’ll be glad to hear from you. In case you haven’t seen the notice, the service at the Chevra Kadisha’s the day after tomorrow. Then Rookwood.’

  He rang off and any brief satisfaction I’d got from having his confidence and still being on the job ebbed away as I put the phone down. I hate funerals.

  I examined the three items, not counting the grenade and associated bits and pieces, I’d taken from the Rooty Hill workshop. The autobank slip told me nothing—Commonwealth Bank in George Street, used by thousands of people daily. The key was a kind I’d seen all my life—grey, flat, with a minimum of notches. Number C20. It was a locker key of some kind, could be a workplace locker or one at a gymnasium or a swimming pool or even a school. No way to tell. The phone number promised more. I looked up the prefix in the dictionary and felt that small thrill that comes with some degree of enlightenment. The numbers indicated that the subscriber lived in Watsons Bay.

  I poured a second cup of coffee and rang the number.

  ‘Hello. Yes?’

  ‘Is this 337 4343?’

  ‘Yeah, who’s this?’

  ‘Telecom, sir. Checking on a crossed-line problem with another subscriber. You are Mr . . .?’

  The line went dead abruptly. Long shot, no luck. The voice was standard Australian with a hard edge, confident, aggressive. I had a feeling that I recognised it and then decided I was wrong. I replaced the phone thinking about white shirt-sleeves and Judith Daniels with her scarf and shades and her load on, risking life and limb to get to Watsons Bay. Why? I looked at the key again. It was well worn, polished smooth by handling and use. The C20 cut into it had almost been obliterated. Maybe if I took it to a clairvoyant she could place it between her palms and visualise the bank of lockers and the owner.

  The phone rang again and I snatched at it, hoping for Claudia. The sexual reawakening had left me edgy and anxious on that score; I wanted more scenes, not a slow dissolve. Instead I got Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton. I realised as I heard his voice that I was edgy and anxious about him as well. I waited for him to suggest that they’d found some connection between me and a dead man at Rooty Hill and that I’d better come out with my hands up.

  ‘I wondered if you were still working on Mrs Fleischman’s behalf?’ Bolton said.

  ‘I am, yes. One of Cy Sackville’s people has confirmed that.’

  ‘I see. Have you learned anything . . . useful?’

  Trying to pick my brains. Fuck him! ‘No. Can you release my pistol to me?’

  That surprised him. ‘D’you think you need it?’

  ‘Did you see my car?’

  ‘I take your point. Yeah, you can collect the gun. I hope we can count on your cooperation in all this, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Of course, sergeant. Where’s the gun?’

  ‘I’m on my way to Liverpool on another matter. I’ve got about ten other matters, you see. I’ll drop it off at Glebe, okay? Be there within the hour.’

  I thanked him. Shrewd. I’d have to check in at Glebe and Bolton would get a report on my appearance, behaviour, method of transportation. But I’d have the pistol and hadn’t told him a bloody thing. I’d call it even.

  So far the Fleischman case involved three deaths and I was no closer to knowing what was going on. A priority was to make sure Claudia and myself didn’t make four and five. I had no solutions but at least I had options. For my next move, I had two choices—Watsons Bay, or to act on the information Frank Parker had reluctantly and dangerously given me on the whereabouts of Anton Van Kep. I was intrigued by the voice over the phone, Judith Daniels’ behaviour and the white shirt sleeve. Besides, I needed to make a few preparations before going after Van Kep. Give me a choice and I’ll opt for the beach every time. Watsons Bay it was, after a phone call to Daphne Rowley.

  Some time ago I struck up a drinking acquaintance with Daphne, who plays a mean game of pool at the Toxteth Hotel and likes a beer and a chat. She runs a small printing business in Glebe Point Road. Very high tech, very leading edge. I used to be a fair snooker player and I have my moments at pub pool but Daphne can always beat me. As a consequence, she’s well disposed towards me and will do little jobs if time permits. I rang her and placed an order. She chuckled and said the stuff would be ready by late afternoon. She said I’d need a four-wheel drive to complete the picture.

  At the Glebe station, just around the corner from Daphne’s, they treated me with polite disdain. I showed ID, signed forms and they gave me back my gun. I couldn’t miss the plain clothes detective pretending to check something at a table behind the desk. He looked me over well and truly and would be telling Bolton how I looked and acted. I played it friendly. When I left the station a female officer picked me up, tracked me to my car and I could almost hear the brain cells clicking as she sauntered past on the other side of the road mentally registering the registration of the Camry. I took off my jacket, a white denim number cut like a sports coat, and put on the holster. I’d bought the jacket when I was with Glen, happy and contented, eating well and somewhat heavier than I was now. It was loose, plenty of room for the gun without creating a bulge. In general, you don’t need a jacket in Sydney in December, but when you’ve got a gun to hide you do—one of the irritations of the profession.

  Mindful of what Daphne had said, I drove to Darlinghurst and swapped the Camry for a 4WD Nissan Patrol with all the trimmings. It had a tape deck rather than a CD player, with no tapes provided. Adieu, Edith Piaf. I kept the same mobile, though. I didn’t want to lose touch with Claudia or Vinnie Gatellari. I tried Gatellari on the drive to Watsons Bay and got the no-go signal. Worrying.

  I’d had some very good times at Watsons Bay with Frank Parker and Hilde, Glen Withers and other people. Fish feeds at Doyles or the pub, swims at Camp Cove, taking in the fishing village feel of the place that modern development
s haven’t quite managed to eliminate. Not a bad spot to hide either—lots of high-rent transients and visitors, a law-abiding, own-business-minding population. Good fishing. Bus, ferry and two road routes to the city. A status-quo inclined police force so I’d been told. The sort of place Haitch Henderson might have used as a bolthole or base. He didn’t, but he had the phone number of someone who might have. Bolthole from what? Base for what? It would help to know.

  I drove slowly down Sandhill Street and cruised past number seven. Judith Daniels’ sports car was parked outside. Since I’d last seen it, the car had acquired a long, deep scrape on the driver’s side. No surprise, given the way she drove. I parked more or less outside the house on the other side of the street. Clearly, there was no back access. The houses were built closely here, front to back on the steeply sloping land. The house behind the one I was watching would face the street above. No lanes or right-of-ways. That wouldn’t stop a bit of fence-jumping of course, but a fence-jumper has to come out somewhere and the person with the vehicle has the advantage.

  Still, I wondered how to tackle the situation. Marching up to the door and knocking didn’t seem like such a good idea and this was no place for my Rooty Hill fire trick. I resorted to the technology again and dialled the number. Plenty of rings and then that almost-familiar voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could I speak with Ms Daniels, please?’

  ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘Tell me who you are and I’ll tell you who I am. I’m right outside.’

  Silly thing to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I hung on to the phone and waited for a response. He shouted something but he wasn’t talking to me. Then the front door opened. I half-expected to see Judith Daniels come trotting out. Instead a man in a white shirt, with the long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, rushed out and took the steps down to the street three at a time. He was big, he moved fast and fluently and he was carrying something in his hand that wasn’t a mobile phone. He vaulted over the gate and headed straight for me.