Lean and well preserved for his fifty plus years, James Nixon was one of the first through customs at the Sydney Airport. His slightly creased lightweight suit, manageable travel bag and inscrutable expression marked him as a regular traveler. He had experienced most things that life could offer.

After a brief, terse conversation on his mobile phone, he climbed into a waiting taxi. The voice had a pleasant Canadian drawl. "McLeary Street, Kings Cross," he instructed the driver.

Several hours later, intermittent rain had not dampened the enthusiasm of tourists and the more colorful locals. Night owls were leaving the numerous hotels and restaurants as two uniformed policemen strolled slowly down the street. They noted, with some speculation, a man on one of the benches in the small park. His tailored, grey silk suit was soaked from the recent shower and his head hung forward on his chest. The crowd, either homeward-bound or pleasure-bent, hurried past unheeding.

James Nixon slumped sideways. His glazed eyes stared at the glowing, overcast sky. His neck had been broken and he was well and truly dead.

It was Sunday morning and a new, redbrick office complex on the quay was deserted - except for the boardroom on the top floor. Seven men sat around the solid, mahogany table in the tastefully furnished room.

"Gentlemen," said the man at the end. "This is a serious situation." His voice was controlled and authoritative.

The others listened attentively. Most wore casual clothes since they had been unexpectedly called from an anticipated day of leisure but even their unaccustomed informality could not disguise the aura of affluence that clung to them.

Michael Farndon carefully studied his strong, manicured fingers spread on the polished surface before him. As chairman of the Australian board of a multi-national property group, his influence was considerable.

He paused, waiting patiently for the exclamations of surprise and concern to finish. Six pairs of eyes finally settled again on the chairman.

"I called this meeting to inform you and to discuss the implications. Two of our members are overseas but decisions must be made now. We are risking forty million dollars on this project. Nothing must interfere with negotiations at this crucial stage."

The eldest member of the gathering lit a cigar. His narrow face twisted in uncertainty. "Nixon is...was... the Canadian who worked for us in Fiji, was he not?"

"But he was supposed to be carrying out confidential investigations in Fiji." stated one of the other directors.

The slate-roofed contemporary house nestled comfortably in the foothills, obscured from the busy main road that snaked down to the wide plain below. Sprawling Adelaide and the blue waters of the Gulf shimmered in the haze, ten kilometers away. A large studio window trapped the warm sunlight and filtered it into the living room where it threw diffused patterns onto the thick white carpet.

A telephone on a side table buzzed urgently and a woman came softly from the kitchen to answer it. She was in her late thirties, barefooted, and a kimono clung provocatively to her tiny, shapely figure. Marta was of Japanese-Hawaiian origin and, among other things, was noted for her fiery temper.

"Mister Flagg's residence," she lisped charmingly. Her finely chiseled oriental features remained expressionless. "Please wait, I shall call him."

Marta glided over the carpet and through a long passageway that led to the sauna room. The window on the inner door was steamed up. She gingerly opened it and peeped in at Drexell Flagg's large and naked body sprawled along a wooden bench. His head rested contentedly on the lap of an equally bare blonde who sat on a towel beside him.

"Telephone! A Mister Farndon from Sydney," she said. Somehow, she managed to communicate a strong note of disapproval in her soft voice.

"Drexell Flagg here," he said curtly, holding the receiver in his large, damp hand. He listened intently to the voice in the distance. "Yes, I've heard of you," he answered at last.

"Yes, I could be in Sydney tonight but, as you may be aware, my fees are high. It will cost you five thousand per day plus expenses." Flagg's lips parted in a slight smile before replacing the receiver.

He turned to the woman and squeezed her arm affectionately. "Pack an overnight bag, my pretty one," he commanded flippantly. "I'll be in Sydney for the next day or two."

The dry, penetrating heat of the sauna was exacting its toll on the blonde who lounged back languidly on the bench. Flagg, still wrapped in a towel, entered and kissed her gently between her ample breasts.

"We shall have to postpone our evening," he whispered. "I have to leave on business. Call me in a few days time."

Marta watched from the patio as Flagg guided his Mercedes down the steep driveway and into the Sunday traffic. She stalked back to the sauna room. "Get dressed!" she ordered. The blonde girl stood up hurriedly. "The party is over Miss Whatever-your-name-is."

Drexell Flagg, a regular commuter to Sydney, wasted no time on sightseeing. A security guard let him into the ornate building. It was eerily deserted as he made his way down the corridor to the end office on level twenty-eight.

Michael Farndon sat behind his large desk, smoking one of his expensive Cuban cigars. He arose when Flagg entered and pointed to a comfortable chair.

They sized each other up. Words were not needed. Each silently completed his assessment. Beneath the suave exterior of civilized and sophisticated businessmen lay the primitive, killer instincts of the shark - strong traits common to both men.

"Thank you for coming at such short notice. I stayed on here at the office instead of driving back to Palm Beach," said Farndon by way of introduction.

"I represent the Australian board of an international property investment group." The chairman pushed long fingers through his thinning hair. "You know the kind of thing...a shopping complex in Perth, a casino in Malaysia, office buildings or housing estates in Houston, all multi-million dollar projects with a quick return on substantial capital outlay."

"Anyway, negotiations are currently going on with regard to the proposed construction of a tourist village and luxury hotel in Fiji. We are investing a lot of money in this project and, before the contract is signed, the board decided that one of our experienced men.... originally from our Montreal office.... should fly to Fiji and check out the other parties to this deal." He grinned. "Some of our directors are ...well ... a little over-cautious. They want everything gift-wrapped."

Flagg watched the other intently, gradually coming to the conclusion that he and Farndon would not be able to mutually agree on any topic for too long.

"Our man was murdered last night right here in Kings Cross when he should have been over in Suva...and the board requires an answer to this intriguing mystery."

Farndon scowled. "It was not my idea. I'm against bringing outsiders into this affair but my fellow directors insisted on hiring someone to discreetly investigate this unusual business. Your name came up in the discussion."

Drexell Flagg rubbed his chin that was just beginning to bristle with twelve hours of tough, dark beard. At forty-five years of age he was still fit and alert but, sometimes, he wondered why he bothered becoming involved in other people's problems.

"If it's murder," he said, "it's a job for the police department. I operate only as a consultant. This is a little out of my line."

Unblinking, Farndon gazed at him through intense pale-blue eyes. "Of course the police are investigating." He smiled without humor. "But you get your rather high fee for looking deeper into this matter. The other members of the board sense that something is going wrong with the Fijian deal. They are not particularly concerned with the personal side of our man's sudden demise."

For several minutes Flagg considered the situation. They were a cold-blooded lot, he decided. "I'll want a free hand to dig into the background of this development project and the people who are involved in it. I might have to follow the trail to Fiji. Also, I want one of your best men to assist me on this."

The tall man behind the desk clenched his hands involuntarily. He was unaccustomed to taking orders. "You must understand that negotiations are at a very confidential and sensitive stage. Too much of our money has already been committed to allow the other parties to be frightened off. Apart from the board, my personal assistant is the only one who is completely conversant with most of the details."

"All the better," said Flagg, enjoying himself. "Tell her to call at my hotel this evening with any relevant files that can be of help in this matter."

Flagg pushed himself out of his chair and grinned. "So is murder. I don't operate in a nine to five office environment, Mister Farndon. If your board wants instant action, I want instant co-operation. You know where I'm staying." He closed the door behind him, still smiling.

It was almost dark when he booked in at the Gazebo Hotel and telephoned room service for a snack and a gin and tonic.

He had deliberately chosen this site because of its proximity to the scene of the crime. After a quick meal he strolled into the park. It was, he decided, a perfect setting for such a murder. There was the illuminated glitter of McLeary Street, the parade of pedestrians and the park benches set back in the shadows of big trees. A powerful person could have easily delivered a vicious blow to his victim's neck - then move on, casually mingling with the passing crowd.

The dead man's wallet had not been stolen, pondered Drexell Flagg. Was this just a senseless, drug-related, murder or had there been another reason for the killing?

The big man shivered. Already the night was turning cold. He strolled past the fountain and the assorted characters sitting on its edge and headed back to the hotel.

When only a hundred metres from the entrance, a shadow came at him from between parked cars. He felt the knife slice into his forearm as he sidestepped.

His attacker came at him again and Flagg forgot the searing pain in his arm. He also forgot his manners. He kicked his assailant hard in the stomach and heard the muffled gasp of agony. Drexell Flagg was not one to stand on ceremony when he was aroused. His fist crashed into the other's throat and the force hurled the man onto the bonnet of a stationary vehicle, cracking the windscreen. It was unfortunate that the luckless man then slid on to the roadway. The driver of an oncoming bus saw the writhing body too late.

The receptionist stared at him and, in the elevator, several well-dressed couples, going out to dine, glanced curiously at his bloodstained sleeve. He was pleased to reach the sanctuary of his own room.

The knife wound was long and shallow, running down the inside of his forearm, but it was not too serious. He bound it as best he could and vowed to find a doctor next day to receive some professional attention. He turned the hot tap on and relaxed in the bath, gingerly holding his injured arm above water level.

It was a strange situation, he mused. The murder of Nixon might be connected to the Fijian property deal or it could just be coincidental - perhaps some psychopath mingling in the crowd, practising his karate chops indiscriminately. He sipped a half-glass of his gin and tonic, precariously replacing it on the edge of the bath. Then there was the attack on himself only thirty minutes earlier. That, too, could have been pure coincidence but he doubted it. It

With difficulty, he raised himself from the now luke-warm water and wrapped a towel around his solid waist. He took the precaution of retrieving an automatic from his still unpacked bag before half-opening the door.

"Mr Flagg?" asked the woman, eyeing him curiously. She was a well-groomed brunette, in her mid-twenties, wearing a black satin slack-suit that she filled exceptionally well.

Self-assured and business-like, she moved into the room, choosing to ignore the dripping body with the bath towel held tightly to it with one hand and clutching a gun in the other.

"My name is Valerie Graham, Mister Farndon's personal assistant. He asked me to call." She threw her briefcase onto the leather couch.

Flagg glanced down the corridor to check that no uninvited companions were with her before closing the door.

Flagg telephoned room services for drinks. He turned to the woman. "I like Farndon's choice of assistant," he said, amiably.

Valerie Graham unpacked files from her briefcases. "Look, Mister Flagg, I happen to be a qualified legal practitioner," she said tonelessly. "I also happen to be good at my work and that is why I am employed as personal assistant to the chairman of the board...not for any other reason, although it's none of your business."

"I am rather peeved," said the girl, thawing slightly. "To be telephoned by my boss and instructed to come right over here with confidential documents is not my idea of a jolly

The confidential files relating to the Fijian development project were interesting. There were several international consortiums involved and, at this late stage, they were all jockeying for concessions before committing to their specific shares of what would eventually be a two hundred million dollar complex of luxury hotels and other tourist facilities. It was a big deal. Even the land, presently held by a Hong Kong registered company, would cost a considerable fortune.

The woman pursed her red lips pensively. "Nixon was a loner. He'd been seconded to our Sydney office, on special projects, for the past six months." She leaned back on the chair and sipped her drink.

"Anyway, negotiations on this Fijian project were nearing finality but the board began to feel uneasy about things." Valerie Graham smiled charmingly. "You know, a kind of commercial sixth sense. Nixon was available so they instructed him to proceed to Suva and satisfy himself that all was going well. My boss thought it was a waste of time, though."

The woman emptied her glass and the ice rattled in the bottom. "There is very little that I can tell you," she continued. "Apart from Nixon's telephone call from Suva last Wednesday, I next heard of him when the morning newspaper reported the murder. It was a shock."

"Yes, my office is adjacent to Mister Farndon's. From what I heard of the conversation, he seemed rather displeased."

Flagg thought about this. After several minutes he dialled a number and the ensuing conversation was brief but friendly.

"I'm disappointed," he finally said to the girl in mock sadness. "I was looking forward to an all-expenses-paid visit to Fiji to follow up on this mystery. Now it doesn't seem warranted. That last call was to a friend of mine at police headquarters here. He tells me that, according to Nixon's used flight boarding pass, he'd just arrived from Hong Kong...not Nadi Airport."

He picked up the telephone receiver again and left a message for someone in Hong Kong. "Just for confirmation," he said rather smugly.

It was forty minutes later, in the hotel restaurant, when the Hong Kong call came through. Flagg left his table and accepted the call at the bar.

"Is that Mister Scott of Scott & Fung Investigations?" he asked. "I have a small but rather urgent job for you."

Valerie Graham was finishing her coffee when Drexell Flagg returned. She smiled and her brown eyes reflected the subdued lighting around them.

The big man sat down heavily. "I have someone in Hong Kong confirming my suspicions. I should get an answer by morning...then we can clean up this sordid business."

The woman glanced at her watch. "I must be leaving," she said. "I have a long way to go and those confidential files come with me."

Flagg frowned. "Damn it! There's a lot of homework to do on some of those before I front up to the board tomorrow."

"Sorry," said the woman firmly. "They are the rules. The files are my responsibility. They stay with me."

Drexell Flagg's lips suddenly parted in a wide, boyish grin. "No problem," he said. "Just leave the files with me for tonight...and stay with them."

It was nine o'clock next morning when Flagg pushed the breakfast tray away from the telephone and called Michael Farndon at his office.

The chairman was evidently trying to control his temper. "Very well, then. Shall we say at my home at noon? It will be more convenient for most of the directors who live on that side of the harbour, anyway."

"Call into the office on your way and have Miss Graham direct you to my residence. She is not here yet but should be by the time you arrive."

Flagg replaced the receiver thoughtfully. He turned to the woman beside him. "You had better get dressed. Your boss wants you to show me where he lives."

They finished their coffee and, before leaving, a call came through from Hong Kong. Flagg appeared satisfied with the information given to him.

It was a cool, fine morning and the taxi ride over the bridge and north to Palm Beach was long but pleasant. Valerie Graham sat contented and silent, still clutching her briefcase of confidential files.

The impressive, forty-square contemporary residence was set in the middle of three hectares of natural grounds with the ocean as a stunning backstop.

They climbed the stone steps and stood before massive, carved teak doors. Michael Farndon was there to greet them. He led the way into a spacious living room where, beyond the tinted glass wall, the Pacific Ocean seemed to be rolling in on them.

"The other directors have not yet arrived," volunteered Farndon. He wore casual but immaculate clothes. "Drink?"

"No thanks, Mister Farndon." Valerie placed the Fijian Development files on his desk in the corner, relieved to be rid of them.

"You won't mind if I do, then?" Farndon poured himself a straight Scotch from the mini-bar. He stood, with glass in hand, and smiled.

"Does this request to call the board together mean that you are about to make some sort of dramatic revelation?" "Farndon sipped his Scotch. He was still smiling but it was wearing thin around the edges. "You obviously know the whole story, then?"

"How clever. My board was right when it insisted on calling you in on this case." Farndon was still smiling. He sat down on the floral settee and the gun he held was pointing straight at Flagg's chest. "Tell me all about it."

Valerie Graham watched her boss in amazement. "I think I shall have a drink," she whispered but the two men, their eyes locked, ignored her.

"It really was a clever scheme," said Flagg. "The company of which you are chairman becomes a member of an international syndicate to provide finance for a multi-million dollar project in Fiji. Negotiations to purchase are carried on with a Hong Kong based company that owns the vital coastal site, just outside Suva. The price asked is very high but the syndicate needs the land and you, as chairman, strongly recommend that the price be paid."

"Very good so far," Farndon reached for his half-empty glass but the gun in his other hand did not waver.

"You were a bit careless, though," continued Flagg, "in not telling your board that you were also the major shareholder in the Hong Kong corporation that was selling the land."

"So I contravened a few sections of corporate legislation by not declaring my interest. So what? It meant a cool ten million dollars profit for me personally." Michael Farndon's white teeth showed. He appeared to be enjoying the game.

"It was bad luck for Nixon that your co-directors here in Sydney were cautious enough to send him to Fiji to conduct a routine investigation of the other parties to the deal."

"Nixon became suspicious and, after telephoning you, flew on to Hong Kong to do some deeper probing. It didn't take much searching to discover who really owned the vital Fijian site. He then...rather foolishly...decided to blackmail you. He flew back to Sydney, telephoned you from the airport and you suggested meeting him at Kings Cross. It would have been easy for you to arrange his murder. Incidentally, your hired help came to a sticky end after you ordered him to eliminate me."

"Congratulations." Farndon lifted his glass in acknowledgement. "It was not my usual style, I admit, but the stakes were rather high."

Drexell Flagg relaxed in his seat. "We just wait," he said. "I took the precaution of notifying the police of the results of my investigations." He glanced at his watch. "It's public knowledge now, Farndon. There's no point in killing us."

The chairman stood up, still smiling. "This is not some drawing room comedy, old boy. I think you might have underestimated me." His voice was brittle. "Now...we all go for a drive in my car before any uninvited guests arrive."

The two men were only a metre apart when Flagg made his move. He dropped suddenly to the floor and lashed out with a lethal heel. It caught the other hard on the knee and spun him around. Flagg followed up with a lunge.

"Careful, Mister Flagg." Farndon lay on the floor in obvious pain but his smile was still there. His gun was levelled at his assistant's attractive features and his finger whitened on the trigger. "Shall we go for that drive? It's all planned, you know."

It was only a short journey in the steel-grey Daimler to the top of the bluff and the breeze, fresh from the ocean, was keen.

Farndon switched off the ignition and turned to the girl in the back seat. The gun was still pointed at Flagg who sat beside him.

"I hope that this sordid affair does not sour your faith in human nature, my dear," he said lightly. "Now get out! Mister Flagg and I have some unfinished business to discuss."

Michael Farndon turned to his passenger. "You are a damned nuisance, Flagg. My whole life has been dedicated to meeting and overcoming challenges...that is why I am so successful. It's not the money...I have plenty of that...I just like to win."

Who doesn't, thought Flagg. He calculated the distance between his fist and the gun held firmly in the other's hand.

Farndon took a large cigar from his inside coat pocket and extracted it from the cellophane tube. He nipped the end carefully and placed the cigar in his mouth.

"Anyway," continued the man with the gun, "I enjoy the good life. Prison is not my idea of living." He reached over and turned the tap of a five-litre petrol container that rested on the floor of the back seat. The liquid began to gurgle silently onto the carpet.

"Keep your window up!" he warned Flagg. The sealed vehicle began to fill with overpowering gasoline fumes.

"I have no intention of waiting around to be arrested," gasped Farndon. "But I first want the satisfaction of proving two things to you."

"We are both takers, Flagg. Sharks in a pool of goldfish. I want to show you that I'm big enough to forgive...and also, that I have more guts than you anyway."

He held his lighter to the cigar in his mouth. "In five seconds I'm going to light this damned thing. You can stay and watch if you like...but you have a choice."

Drexell Flagg was a big man but he was also extremely agile when the situation required it. With catlike speed, he opened the vehicle door and hurled himself outwards.

Flagg lay on the grass and watched the cremation. "What a hell of a way to prove a point," he said grimly.

Five hours later Valerie Graham stood with Flagg at the airport and watched outbound passengers file into the tunnel.

"Yesterday, I had both a good job and an interesting boss," she said ruefully. "Now all I have is a fond farewell and a feeling of deep depression."

Flagg grinned. "You know where I live." He kissed her gently on the lips. "I can highly recommend my sauna for relieving that depressed feeling."

The woman watched him walk away. "I might just take you up on that invitation," she said softly to herself.

Malcolm Reid is retired after a career in mining and finance in Melbourne and overseas. Over the years he has had numerous short stories and articles published in Australian and overseas magazines. Also, thirteen books (including two novels) successfully published by major publishers. He is currently working towards spending more time in writing fiction.