Free The Greenwich Apartments by Peter Corris

careful. Darcy—where is he?’
    His pudgy face was pale and it looked as if he’d bit his lip to add to his problems. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Up there.’
    I gestured with the gun. ‘Let’s go.’
    He eased himself up carefully, wincing and reaching behind him to pull the glass out. ‘You’re not a cop.’
    â€˜No. And you’re not a nightwatchman. Take me up to Darcy.’
    â€˜He’ll sort you.’
    â€˜We’ll see. Your jeans are in a dreadful state.’
    He went gingerly up the stairs; I followed two steps below and off to one side in case he had some idea of evening the score. He didn’t. He went meek as a lamb along a carpeted corridor to the second of three doors, all of which had ‘Private’ written on them. He knocked.
    â€˜Who the hell is it?’ The voice was rough, muffled and annoyed.
    â€˜Connelly.’
    â€˜Well?’
    I showed Connelly my finger held to my lips. He opened his mouth and I dug him in the ribs with the gun.
    â€˜Connelly?’ Less muffled now, closer to the door, but more annoyed. The door opened and the man in the photograph stood there; he’d put on weight and lost hair but he was unmistakably the same man. His white shirt was open to the waist showing a fleshy, hairy chest, tanned like his face and arms. I held the gun low and Darcy looked from Connelly to me, puzzled.
    â€˜Couldn’t you handle it?’
    â€˜He’s got a shooter,’ Connelly said.
    â€˜And this.’ I held up my licence. ‘And this.’ I put the licence away and pulled out the photographs. ‘Tell Connelly here to go and find his keys and clean up the broken glass on the stairs. We have to talk.’
    A woman appeared in the doorway behind Darcy. She was buttoning her blouse and straightening her tight skirt. Darcy saw my eyes flick to her but he could also see the gun now.
    â€˜Go on, Kenny; I’ll deal with it.’ Connelly turned and limped away; there was blood all over the seat of his trousers. Darcy looked amused.
    â€˜Sorry if I caught you at a bad time,’ I said.
    â€˜Hardy, eh? I’ve heard of you.’ He ran his hand over his thinning blonde hair, did up a button on his shirt and then patted his crotch. ‘My fly’s still done up, isn’t it? Could’ve been worse. Come in, Hardy. Come in.’

9
    I didn’t exactly back Darcy into his own residence at the point of a gun, but I didn’t treat him like my long lost brother either. What we were doing reminded me of an army training exercise—semi-serious. He retreated along the passage and I advanced. The woman circled around in the room we were headed for.
    â€˜The gun’s a bit over the top,’ Darcy said. ‘You just had to ask.’
    â€˜I asked downstairs. Your staff’s too busy serving watered drinks to be helpful.’
    He smiled at that; he seemed to like smiling. ‘What’s this about?’
    We were in a big living room now—white carpet, black leather armchairs and couch, glass and chrome bar and other fittings suggestive of the good, idle life. Outside the window the lights of Kings Cross became the lights of Elizabeth Bay and then became the lights of the yacht club and the marina and the boats at anchor. Darcy had done up a couple more buttons on his shirt, had pulled his stomach in and was over at the bar now making drinks. The woman stood beside him; she was tall and thin like a fashion model and with an appropriate lack of expression on her face. She’d got her blouse and skirt straight: she had short, bobbed blonde hair that hadn’t become disturbed by whatever it was I’d interrupted. So she looked fine and that seemed to give her nothing else to do.
    â€˜Oh, Jackie,’ Darcy said, ‘this is Cliff Hardy. He’s a private eye.’
    She took her drink and didn’t say anything. Darcy chuckled. ‘You won’t