Peter Corris - The Washington Club

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Inour twenty-year-plus relationship, there were only two reasons why my lawyer,Cy Sackville, ever called me. One was to remind me that I owed him money. In mytime as a private detective Cy had bailed me out of gaol, headed off suits forassault, threatened welshing clients with litigation and performed otherservices. He didnt need the money and I usually didnt have it, but Cy saidthe reminder kept us on a professional footing. The other reason was to inviteme to play squash. I hate squash, play it like tennis and mostly lose, even toCy who is no athletic marvel. Hes had the lessons though, has all the gear andgets lots of practice. He enjoys winning and I see losing as like payinginterest on the debt. A twenty-year pattern is pretty fixed but patterns can bebroken.

I want to hire you, Cliff, Cysaid.

I still owe you money.

This could clear it and then some.Cy did his Masters at the University of Chicago and has resolutely hung on tothe Americanisms he picked up in his days as a brilliant student. Some, like cool,meaning uncomplicated, have gone in and out of fashion since he graduated.

I was interested. Getting out ofdebt is almost as interesting as actually making money. And if I was out ofdebt I could refuse some squash invitations, or even try harder to win. Andworking for Cy would certainly mean doing something legal in both senses. Cy istoo smart to need to be dodgy.

I guess I could fit you in, Isaid.

I could hear Cys snort of amusementover the line. I know youre snowed under with big cases, but if you could getalong here at two this afternoon Id be most terribly grateful.

Give me a taste.

Im representing ClaudiaFleischman.

Is that good?

I suppose in your usual ignorantfashion you havent been reading the papers.

Not true. I read that Sampras beatStich in straights in Munich.

So one millionaire pops it over thenet a few more times than another millionaire. Who cares? Claudia Fleischman ...

I know who she is, Cy. I was havinga lend of you. Youre not exposed to enough irony in your trade. Youre rusty,if you get the pun.

Cy groaned. I wish I hadnt heardany of that. See you at two, Cliff. Dont be late.

Claudia Fleischman was accused ofmurdering her husband. Julius Fleischman was a mysterious figure, the onlyabsolutely clear thing about him being that he was very rich. Some newspaperaccounts had him as English, others as South African. I seemed to remember thatthere was dispute as to whether he had become a naturalised Australian. He hada big house in Vaucluse and a slightly smaller one with a lot of land around itat Kiama.

His yacht was one of the biggest andbest. Among his other toys were a few racehorses, a Lear jet and a vintageRolls-Royce said to be worth a million dollars. It might as well have been a1956 Volkswagen for all the good it was to him now. Three months backFleischman had been shot to death in his bedroom.. Id followed the case in adesultory fashion. At first there were no suspects, then investigations werecontinuing and finally Claudia Fleischman, along with one Anton Van Kep, wasup for committal, charged with murder. Motive obviousthe dough. Means, well,Van Kep was the means and if a wife doesnt have an opportunity to murder a manthe law doesnt know who does. Almost nothing was on the record as yet. Tojudge from a press photo that was published in defiance of the ban, ClaudiaFleischman was a spectacularly attractive womanthirtyish, tall, fashionablyslender, dark. Journalists speculated circumspectly about a love triangle,about a purely commercial hit, about a bungled attempt at intimidation. Theydidnt know and the public didnt know.

Only the cops and lawyers knewanything solid and I was about to join their exalted company. I had to admitthat I was intrigued. Summons-serving, bodyguarding and money-minding are allvery well and pay the bills, but theres bugger-all about them thats investigativeand it was primarily my snoopiness that had got me into the business in thefirst place. My ex-wife said that I had no respect for peoples privacy and Imafraid she was right. My bookshelves gave me awayThe Diary of Pete Seeger,The Letters of Ernest Hemingway, that sort of thing, took up a fair bit ofspace. I had the paperback of the letters of Paddy White all ready to go. Howthe old bastard would have despised Julius who, so far as I knew, had neverread a book, looked at a painting or been to a play in his life.

It was close to midday when Cycalled and almost one oclock when I finished musing about Fleischman, money,life and death. I had a few small things on my plate, nothing that couldnt bedelayed for something more interesting. I ate lunch at my deskthree bananasand a bigger-than-standard glass of wine. Since Glen Withers left me to marryanother cop, Ive found it hard to think of meals as anything other thannecessary fuel. The fruit shop in Glebe Point Road has seductive bananas theyear round and theyd become my staple foodtasty, easy on the clackers, fullof goodness and no plate or cutlery needed. Id discovered that bananas dontgo really well with any kind of alcohol and that was a plus. Nourishing foodthat kept my grog consumption down had to be a good thing. Id even thought ofdoing the bookA Pis Balanced Diet, eight bananas and eight glasses ofred wine per diem.

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Iwandered down William Street and took in a little slice of Hyde Park on my wayto Cys office in Martin Place. People occupy the park in numbers unless itspissing down rain. This December day was fine, a bit muggyshirt sleeves anddrill trousers weather for me, no jacket. I wondered if any of the peoplelunching on the grass, strolling about or hurrying through were millionaires ormurderers. I was pleased with the speculationit showed I was getting involvedand using my imagination. When Im working on a case and no bizarre ideas orunlikely suspicions enter my head it means Im not properly wired into it.

Cys office is everything it shouldbe well-appointed but not opulent, suggesting competence rather thanostentation, effective service rather than massive fees, but with thoseprofessional touches that showed you why you needed him probably more than heneeded you. His secretary hadnt changed in twenty-plus years. Miss Mudlark, Icalled her to myself, because she always wore brown. She was a tall, ratherangularly built woman, wearing a beige blouse and loose dark brown pants, highheels. Her hair and eyes were brown and I bet she took her coffee with a dashof milk. Her name was Janine. She knew how matters stood between me and Cy andshe was tolerant. Our communications were almost entirely banter.

Mr Sackville is expecting you, MrHardy. Go right in.

Thanks, Janine. Nice outfit.

You always say that.

It always is. Is she inthere?

Yes. Try to stay on your feet.

I knocked and entered in what Ihoped was a smooth, confident sweep. Cy was sitting behind his desk and stayedthere. A woman was in a chair slightly to his side; not exactly where youdexpect a lawyers client to be but not in his lap either. She stayed seatedtoo. That made me, at six feet and half an inch, the tallest thing in the room,but a long way from the most powerful.

Cy checked his watch. A reflexaction. Id done the same a few minutes earlier and ensured that I was on time.

Cliff Hardy, Mrs Fleischman, Cysaid. Claudia, this is the man I spoke to you about.