The Washington Club (5 page)

The material on Julius Fleischman was surprisingly thin, given his wealth. My source opted
for a South African origin, with Australian citizenship being granted in 1993—more than twenty years after he first set up business in this country. He was sixty or sixty-four years of age (apparently official documents differed), chairman of the board of Fleischman Holdings Incorporated, a director of this and that, a former economic adviser to several ministers in the previous Coalition government. He had an honorary doctorate from Bond University and was a founding member of the Economic Liberty Society, a business-funded right-wing think-tank that sponsored a magazine,
The Mercantilist,
radio programs and awarded scholarships in business studies at several universities. Member of the Royal Sydney Golf Club and the Australasian Sailing Club.

Fleischman Holdings was a private company, so its economic solidity couldn't be judged without inside knowledge. My source asked if I wanted to ‘go this route'. There were substantial mortgages on all of Julius' known major property holdings—houses, the flats at Kirribilli, the yacht, the plane. That didn't necessarily mean anything in tycoon land. His interests were given as ‘culture, wine-making, photography, golf'. He had been a member of various clubs and a patron of things like the Sydney Opera Company and the Australian Ballet. I read through it all and came out with not the faintest idea of what sort of a man Julius Fleischman had been. The photograph showed a lean face, high forehead, goatee.
When looking at photographs, searching for an insight into the subject, I'd formed the habit of applying one word and trying to extrapolate from that. For Fleischman I came up with ‘discipline'. He looked like a disciplined man and in my experience disciplined people like applying their ideas of discipline to others.

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?'