Peter Corris: The Washington Club

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 OK.’

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.

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 privately 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.

I U-turned illegally but sedately over double lines and followed at a safe distance and speed. The sports car had to stop at a set of lights only a couple of blocks away, and it was child’s play to hang back and move through the left-hand turn behind her. Her driving settled down after a while. An experienced drunk driver can put on a pretty good show of being sober but I was hoping like hell that she didn’t hit anything or attract cop interest. I wanted to know where she was going. The direction was north-east and in that direction there isn’t all that far to go.