Guthrie poured an inch of Jack Daniels into a glass and added an inch of water.

‘You can have your drink now’, he said. ‘Party’s nearly over, and I cleared it with Roberta. I want to talk business. You want to sit down?’

I shook my head; I was leg-weary, but when I sat down I wanted to stay down. I leaned against a wall and took a sip of the bourbon which tasted wonderful: I made a silent, private toast to Helen Broadway.

‘You handled that rugby clown pretty well’, Guthrie said. He didn’t have a glass or props of any kind; he just stood there in his well-tailored lightweight suit with a soft collar and a quiet tie, and exuded his own brand of charm.

‘He’d handicapped himself.’ I held up my glass. ‘That elbow of his gets him into trouble in more ways than one.’

He smiled and nodded. Then the smile fell away. ‘How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars?’

I took another sip to give myself reaction time and looked down at him; concentrating on him now and not on the woman somewhere in another room. For the first time, I saw the strain in his face. He must have been over sixty, but his slim figure hid the fact. Now, very late at night, he had a greyish tinge and the white stubble on his face etched worn deep lines. He was old, tired and deadly serious. That’s a combination to make you nervous and send you in the other direction. Worst comes to worst, you can lay a joke over it. I took another sip.

‘Who would I have to kill?’

‘Not for killing, Mr Hardy. For saving someone’s life.’

2

Paul Guthrie was exaggerating, of course; people usually do when they want something from you. But his problem was real enough. He was, he told me, sixty-two years old, a businessman with interests in sporting and leisure activities. He owned a couple of marinas in Sydney, leased game fishing boats to the rich and had controlling shares in a ski lodge and a dude ranch. He used that expression with obvious distaste, which lifted his stocks with me. He’d rowed for Australia in the double sculls at the 1948 London Olympics.