Peter Corris: The Washington Club

Miss Mudlark looked somewhat drowned. Her brown hair was lifeless and lying flat on her round skull and the shine had gone out of the brown eyes. She looked at Claudia briefly then looked away. I could read her thoughts: It’s because of you he’s dead. But I still didn’t know whether or not that was true.

We went to the lifts and waited.

‘I thought you were going to get a cheque from her?’ Claudia said.

‘I was just needling him, the way you did with the cigarette.’

She smiled. ‘I like you.’

‘I like it that you do.’

I pointed the 4WD towards Vaucluse where it would have lots of mates-Land Cruisers and Pajeros with unscratched duco. Claudia was tense beside me. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘I’m sure. Yes. I don’t care if the staff think I killed Julius. Bugger them. The place is mine until someone takes it off me. Bugger them!’

I could feel her whipping herself up and I didn’t discourage it. Wandering around in a joint like that where the gardener and the housekeeper thought you were a murderer and where the only memories were bad ones would take some nerve.

She laughed. ‘Think I’ll have a swim. The pool was the only really good thing about the horrible place. I’m a good swimmer, came third in the state under-18 breast stroke. How about you?’

‘I’m not much of a breast stroker.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I used to surf a bit when I was young. Should have joined the life-savers and all that but I wasn’t public-spirited enough. And I didn’t like marching. Funny thing is, I went into the army for a few years a bit later.’

We talked background until I drew up at the gates to the Fleischman residence. The sun was high and hot and a swim sounded like a good idea, but not for me here, not today. Claudia reached across and squeezed my arm.

‘I’ll be all right, Cliff. I’ll stay here for a while. Might even stay the night or I might go to Kirribilli. I’ve got your numbers. I’ll let you know.’

‘What’s the number here?’

She told me and I wrote it down. ‘If you stay, I’d like you to let a man named Gatellari come in. You heard me talk about him earlier. He’s good and he wouldn’t get in your way. There must be about a dozen guest rooms in that place.’

From where we were you couldn’t get much of an idea of the size of the house and she looked at me curiously.

‘How d’you know that?’

‘I scouted around here a few days ago.’

She squeezed again. ‘My very own detective. Talk to you later.’

She climbed down, opened the back door, pulled out her overnight bag and walked towards the gate. I watched her easy, graceful stride and the way she stood. Straight back. Swimmer’s shoulders. She spoke into the intercom and waited before pushing the gate open. A quick wave and she was through and tramping up the drive. Despite myself I couldn’t help thinking that she still had her old passport with her. For detective read suspicious and mistrustful, also bloody near exhausted. Driving, love-making, talking to lawyers and getting very little sleep as a combination isn’t recommended for the almost-fifty brigade. My days in the Maroubra surf, when I could stay on a board for hours waiting for a wave and ride in one after another, paddling straight back out for more, were long behind me. Besides, I had to save my strength for a funeral and tennis.

I went first to the office in Darlinghurst to check the mail, faxes and telephone messages. Various small things I’d neglected since taking on the Fleischman case were threatening to get away from me and I spent a little time trying to get on top of them. This involved a few calls and faxes from me, nothing too strenuous. I was operating on about half physical and mental strength and not capable of doing any more. There was a message to call Frank Parker. I deliberated, decided, got myself a glass of wine and made the call.

‘Ah, Cliff. Thanks for calling. Have you acted on the information?’

‘I have, yes.’

Relief entered his voice. ‘Well, there haven’t been any waves so you must have been discreet.’

‘Always.’

‘Making any progress?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Still being discreet. Something you might be interested in-your old mate Haitch Henderson’s dead.’

Is this a trap? Have they found some connection? I forced myself to sound only mildly interested, tiredness helped. ‘Yeh, natural causes?’

‘You could say that. He was shot through the chest out at Rooty Hill where his son Noel keeps his spare Citroens and some of his stash. Looks as if Haitch got in the way of something.’

‘He’s no great loss. I’ve been chasing all over the countryside, Frank. I’m bushed. Gotta go-’

‘OK. We’ll get in some tennis when you recover.’

‘Right.’ I hung up. Usually Frank and I were pretty even. The way I felt now, I’d be lucky to take a game off him.

I drove on automatic pilot until I reached Glebe. Work had just about finished on the apartment block where Glebe Point Road meets Broadway. They’d torn down the old building that had elegantly wrapped itself in a curve around the corner, leaving only the facade, and had dug a deep hole and thrown up the usual concrete interior. The work had disrupted traffic and created a lot of dust and I’d been sceptical about the result, but I had to admit to being impressed. University Hall looked like a pretty good place to live, with views across Victoria Park and the amenities of Glebe Point Road right outside. That’s provided the flats were double-glazed. I wondered about the price and the wisdom of living in a flat rather than a house, especially as I didn’t have a cat anymore. Off-street parking would be a plus.

At home, I collected the newspaper from the front step and spared the front garden a glance. A disgrace. What had happened to the bob-a-job Boy Scouts who used to take care of these things for a busy man? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a Boy Scout of any description in a long time. The bob-a-job types were probably washing windscreens at intersections.

The Nissan looked good. A little dusty which suited it. When I thought about how much it was costing me I regretted not getting some more money out of Miss Mudlark. I stripped off my clothes, showered and wandered around the house with a towel around my waist and a glass of white in my hand. I was tired but still a bit wound up from all the activity and I needed to come down before I could sleep. No messages of significance on the answering machine, nothing important in the mail. I looked at the threadbare carpet, scuffed lino tiles and battered fridge and tried to imagine Claudia here. Tried to imagine her in one of her silk blouses and slinky pants with Gucci shoes and Faberge wristwatch. Impossible. The thought depressed me and I took myself and another glass of wine up to the bedroom where the decor wasn’t any better but the room could at least be made dark. I pulled the curtains across, cunningly arranging them so a shaft of light fell at the head of the bed.

I got into bed, pulled up the sheet and selected Letters from Jack London from the pile of books. I’d bought it sight unseen from Nicholas Pounder’s catalogue because London’s White Fang and The Jacket were among my favourite books as a kid. I took a big drink in honour of Jack, who took a few big ones himself, and opened the book. Eighteen-year-old Jack’s first letter was to the editor of a magazine offering him an article he’d written on his small boat trip in the Yukon. The editor sent London’s letter back to him with the annotation: ‘Interest in Alaska has subsided to an amazing degree. Then, again, so much has been written that I do not think it would pay us to buy your story.’ I hoped he remembered that later when Jack was getting paid a dollar a word. I read a few more letters, mostly London complaining about not being understood. That matters when you’re eighteen. I finished the wine, dropped the book and the shutters came down hard.