The Washington Club by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online

sounded like a string section trying to put a percussion section to sleep and vice versa.
    â€˜Mr Katz could see you at 2.15 this afternoon, Mr Hardy. Would that be suitable?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You’re a fraction early, Mr Hardy.’
    I looked at my watch—2.14 and ten seconds. ‘So I am.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I’m Wilson Katz.’
    â€˜Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I imagine you’re a busy man.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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