The Washington Club by Peter Corris Page B

private enquiry agents are very aware of their potential.
    I finished my search, checked on Claudia—still sleeping—and went into the living room. It was after midnight but I phoned Cy Sackville at home. The answering machine picked up but I cut the call without leaving a message and did it again and again until Cy came on the line.
    â€˜Jesus. What is it?’
    â€˜Who, mate. This is Hardy.’
    â€˜Cliff, it’s very, very late. I’m due in court tomorrow morning.’
    â€˜We never sleep. I have to tell you things. This has all got very strange. Claudia’s telling me a different story from what she’s said up till now, and I believe her.’
    â€˜Where are you?’
    â€˜At her place.’
    â€˜Cliff, you haven’t?’
    â€˜Not important. The thing is, she . . .’
    Have to hand it to Sackville, he was lightning fast in recovery. I could see him taking a sip from the water he kept by the bed, looking at his Rolex, blinking, tapping into hisstockpile of energy. ‘You shouldn’t talk on the phone. The police might be bugging her.’
    â€˜Or someone else.’
    â€˜Ah. Right. I’m not far away. I’ll come over.’
    â€˜No, not necessary. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve got problems and possibilities.’
    â€˜Just what I love at one o’clock in the bloody morning. I’m awake now. I’m on my way.’
    Cy lived in Neutral Bay, only a five-minute run at that time of night if you knew the directional lurks. I poured some coffee, still hot in the machine, and added a judicious shot of the Scotch. The speaker and camera for the security gate were activated by switches on the wall near the door. I wandered over there and began pushing buttons. The area in front of the gate came into slightly grainy, black and white view. Idly, I wondered what Sackville would be wearing for such an impromptu call. I bet on a tracksuit, sneakers.
    It took closer to ten minutes before he arrived and I was all wrong on the dress code. Cy wore rumpled jeans, a white business shirt and espadrilles—you can never tell. His face was dark with stubble and I realised that I’d never seen him other than very closely shaven. With his dark, receding hair sticking up and his slight gut bulging at the waist of the too-tight jeans, he looked nothing like the sleek barrister feared by prosecutors and uncertain witnesses. He took off his distance glasses, puton his specs for close work and peered at the name tags. I grinned as I watched, took a sip of the coffee.
    The buzzer was louder than I’d expected and I worried that it would wake Claudia.
    â€˜You’re in, night owl,’ I responded. ‘Push the gate.’
    He did. The gate opened and I’d half-turned away when I heard the three popping sounds, close together. At first I thought it was some kind of audio bleep. I swung back to look at the screen and saw Cy sliding down with his hands clutching at the gate. His head jerked and his glasses came off. Dark splashes appeared on the back of his shirt as he hit the ground. He twitched a couple of times and then lay very still.
    I shouted his name, ran across the deep pile carpet and threw myself at the telephone.

10
    I rang 000 and raced down the stairs and out to the gate. Cy was lying face down; his head was holding the gate open. I crouched beside him and felt for his pulse but I knew it was no use. The shooter had put three bullets in a tight pattern through his back and into his heart. The entry wounds were small but I could tell from the blood and the tissue spattered around the gate that his chest had been blown open.
    The noises I’d heard had been the impact of the bullets. The shots themselves had been silenced and had attracted no attention. The sirens brought out the first onlookers. Lights came on in the house behind the garden where Pete Marinos’ man had been placed and in other houses on that