The Melting Man rc-4 Page 11

  Tony got up and took the baby to a wicker cradle that stood on a side table. He began to tuck it away, making father noises. Without turning, he said, 'What kind of car did you say?'

  'I told you. A red Mercedes 250SL. Number 828 Z-9626. 1966 model.'

  He turned, smiled at me and nodded.

  'That's the one. Otto brought it to me almost a month ago. I did it over for him. Only an outside job, no fiddling about changing engine numbers and so on. Just a respray and new number plates. Let me see.' He screwed up his eyes in thought, staring at the ceiling. He was a big man, bigger than he'd looked in the chair. 'Yes.' He came back to earth, having remembered, walked to his chair, patted Mimi on the bottom as he passed, and collapsed into the cane chair so that it creaked like a building about to come down in a high wind. 'Yes. I did it up cream, and the new number was something like 3243 P 38. Or it may have been 3423. But it was certainly P and 38. The last two numbers, you know, show what department a car is registered with and he particularly wanted it to be Isere — that's up around Grenoble.'

  I said, 'You don't mind sitting there and telling me you did this?'

  'Why should I? But you try to put it on the record — which I don't think you will — then I'd deny it. I run an almost honest business. That's as much as any garage can say.' He chuckled, and winked at Mimi. Thank God, she spared him the silent kiss on that one.

  'What would he do — resell it?'

  'With Otto, he could do anything. Enter it for Le Mans perhaps. Give it to his old mother for a present — if he ever knew who was his mother.'

  'What does Otto look like?'

  He didn't answer at once. He glanced at Mimi and I could sense the joke bubbling silently between them like a dark underground stream while their eyes lightened with merriment.

  'He's four foot nothing and built like an ape. Very strong. Brown hair, long, always tossing it out of his eyes. Smart dresser. About thirty-five. Good dancer. Women fall for him, God knows why, but it never lasts because he's so selfish and unreliable with money. Still owes me for the repaint job.'

  'That's all?'

  'What more do you want?'

  'He's got two heads,' said Mimi.

  I sighed as they went into a convulsion of laughter. In fact, I was a bit annoyed. If there's a good joke going I like to be in on it.

  I said, 'Anything else you've overlooked? Hare Up, forked tail, or a club foot?'

  Mimi said solemnly, 'On the inside of his left thigh he's got a birthmark shaped like the cross of Lorraine.'

  They both laughed again and when Tony had squeezed the last tears of delight from his eyes, he said, 'Pay no attention. Just Mimi's jokes. She's a good one for a giggle.'

  I said, 'how come Otto let you walk in and take over Mimi?'

  'Because he knew I was going to do it anyway, and break him in half if he made trouble. Oh, he knew it. But trust Otto to get out without trouble. A week after he took the car off he phoned, long distance somewhere, saying he was through with Mimi. Right, cara mia?

  'Just like that.' Mimi began to put away the ironed clothes. 'Just phoned. Everything was over. It was not unexpected. The baby was a mistake. He never loved it. Never wanted it — but I am naturally shocked until Tony comes and says marry me. Tony is a good man.'

  'The best,' said Tony. 'True love triumphs. You know what we're going to do — when the baby's a little older? Sell the garage and go to Australia. No more garage. I'm going to farm. With animals, I am good. Like with children, like with women.' He reached out as Mimi passed and held her by the left knee under the apron and they both made silent kissing motions at one another as though I were not there. He let her go and she moved over to the baby.

  I said, 'Any idea where Otto might be now?'

  Tony choked on his mirth, pursed his lips, gave it thought, and then said, 'Sitting comfortably somewhere without a care in the world.'

  I wasn't meant to see it, but there was a mirror on the wall over Tony's chair. In it I could see Mimi's back as she bent over the cradle. From the movements of her shoulders and head, I thought she was about to have a convulsion. She just stood there, holding down a great, pulsing pressure of laughter.

  I was glad to get out of the place, to get away from the homely shrine they'd built to their true love. Going down the street, heading for the nearest bottle of beer, I knew that up in the flat they were letting the laughter flow like red-hot lava. I didn't believe a word they'd said about Otto. But what they hadn't said didn't make me feel sorry for him wherever he was sitting — comfortably and without a care in the world — because always at the back of my mind was the thought of Zelia with him and Max at the Chalet Bayard.

  After the beer I took a taxi to the Via Sacchi and the Palace Hotel. Lying on my bed, I put in a call to Paris and got the duty man at Interpol. I had a brief up and down with him, establishing my credentials after he'd told me that Commissaire Maziol wasn't available. I threw Guffy's name at him — told him that my bona fides had already been checked through him once, and what was the matter, weren't they interested in suppressing crime and bringing the riff-raff of Europe to book? He said it was a beautiful day in Paris, and would I make it as brief as possible. So I said in precis: Otto Libsch. Could be Otto Probst. Possible descriptions. Four feet high, strong as an ape, brown floppy hair. Or, maybe, six feet high, round happy face, steel-rimmed spectacles, fair hair, going bald. Associate Max Ansermoz — inquiry already made viz same. Otto floating around possibly in cream-coloured Mercedes 250SL. Index number — 3243, 3234, or 3423 P 38 according to latest inaccurate information, probably different number altogether, possibly car not cream, but green, blue, black or maroon. But certainly Mercedes. For a moment or two I debated dropping in the names of Mimi Probst and Tony Collard and then decided against it. They were a couple I'd like to have up my sleeve just in case anything definite came up about Otto.

  Just as I was finishing, Julia came in without knocking and sat at the end of the bed. She wore a cream-coloured silk dress with a little snatch of red scarf at the throat, and I could see by the set of her mouth that she was determined to have things out with me. I looked at her watch and checked it against Mimi's — they were both the same. Otto, before taking off, or Tony, before settling in, had made it a love gift.

  I put the phone down and Julia said, 'I've driven you all the way down here. When do I get let into your confidence?'

  I should say that Najib had taken my car. He'd left a note on Max's round table saying that Panda was driving it off, and he gave the name of a garage from which I could collect it in Geneva. That was merely to get a head start on me in the chase after Otto. At this moment he was probably a damned angry man without any doubt that I was anything but a bon ami of his.

  So Julia had been press-ganged into driving me to Turin and no explanations. She'd been content to wait for the right moment which, as she swung her legs up on to the bed, I saw she had decided was now.

  I said, 'There isn't any need for you to know anything. You want to protect Zelia. So do I. Let's leave it like that.'

  'I want to know about this Max Ansermoz.'

  'He's dead — and I'm heartily glad. A sort of friend of mine shot him just before he could shoot me, and then this friend conveniently carted the body off — and my car. All I need say to you is that Zelia spent a couple of nights at the chalet. Okay?'

  She looked at me, head lowered a little, and then slowly nodded.

  'Okay. But why are you here?'

  'I've got a job to do. Remember? I have to find your father's car.'

  'Can't I help you with that?'

  'You have, by driving me here. But that's as far as it goes. Look, your concern was Zelia. You've got my word about that. O'Dowda's not going to know anything. But there's still the car, and that's my job. It isn't a game. I'm paid to take bumps on the head and stupid risks. I've a defect of character which forces me to accept it as a way of life. I'm a hard case, hooked. I can't afford to have you along all the time. Somebody might
flatten you — and then what chance would I have of a bonus from step-daddy? Business to me is money, and I don't want you involved just for the kicks. Let me finish this job and then, if you like my company, I'll give you two weeks you'll never forget.'

  'God, you're impossible.'

  Her bosom heaved. It was something I had never seen happen before. She almost burst.

  'I dislike you,' she said, 'more than I can say.'

  I said, 'The top button of your dress has popped.' It had, too.

  She swung off the bed and made for the door, her hands up, buttoning her dress. Halfway there, she turned towards me.

  'By the way, while you were out I phoned my father. He wants to see you at once. That's an order.'

  'Where is he?'

  'Evian — at the château.'

  I gave her a big smile.

  'You wouldn't care to drive me back as far as Geneva?'

  'Not bloody likely. Remember, you don't want any help from me.'

  'Okay.'

  She went to the door, and then paused before opening it.

  She said, 'Tell me one thing — and I'm not asking out of idle curiosity. When you talked with this Max, did he tell you how he came to know Zelia?'

  'No. He just said he met her in Geneva and Evian.'

  'Secretly?'

  'I imagine so.'

  'Poor Zelia.'

  'Well, she doesn't have to worry about Max any more. And when I get hold of the other bastard I'll do something about him.'

  'The other?'

  'Yes — it can't hurt you to know. There was another man at the chalet. He's the one who ran off with the car. I thought I might find him here, but I was unlucky.'

  'What was his name?'

  'Otto Libsch.'

  There was a long pause, and then she went

  I didn't care for the pause. There was something unnatural about it. I had the impression that for a few seconds she was fighting within herself to decide whether she should move out at the end of the pause or say something.

  Somehow I wasn't surprised when, ten minutes later, she phoned through and said that she had changed her mind and would be willing to drive me to Geneva. And that change of heart I was convinced had something to do with the name Otto Libsch.

  A few minutes later my phone went again. It was a Paris call. The duty officer out at Saint Cloud was brisker this time, alive, alert, almost commanding. Somebody had not only confirmed my rating with him, but somebody clearly wanted something from me. Where, he asked, could I be found in the next twenty-four hours? I said that I was going to be driving through the night to Geneva, where I should be picking my car up at the Autohall Servette in the Rue Liotard, and then going on to Cavan O'Dowda's château above Evian, and what was the sudden urgency about? He said it was still a splendid day in Paris and wished me bon voyage.

  * * *

  At nine the next morning Julia dropped me in the Rue Liotard. The night drive had been quite an experience, like being crated up in the hold of a jet cargo plane. I croaked appropriate thanks and crabbed my way down the street on bent legs, my eyes gritty for sleep and my mouth dry with smoking too many cigarettes. She swept by me with a wave, smiling and as fresh as a dew-spangled rose.

  At the entrance to the Autohall I was met by an old friend, looking, as usual, as droopy and sun-dazzled as a day-trapped owl. He was leaning against the wall, Gauloise dangling from the corner of his mouth, wearing a shabby brown suit, brown shirt without tie, and big brown shoes that turned up at the toes. Over his rusty brown moustache he blinked upwards at me in welcome. Upwards, because Aristide Marchissy la Dole was only just over four feet in height. He looked at his watch and said, 'Good timing. I heard it was a Facel Vega. I had you bracketed to the half-hour.'

  I said, 'What the hell are you doing in Switzerland?'

  The last time I'd met him he had been with the Sûreté Nationale — Office Central des Stupéfiants. Before that with Renseignements Generaux.

  He said, 'I've moved on to higher and no better things. Let's have breakfast.'

  He took me around the corner to a pâtisserie where he loaded his plate with a large slice of gâteau Galicien, oozing with apricot jam and stuck all over with pistachio nuts, ordered a large cup of hot chocolate into which he poured cognac from his own flask and then, butter cream fringing his moustache, asked, 'You are well?'

  I was feeling sick, but said, 'Yes. And you?'

  'I am in good health and appetite, despite a lack of sleep. But sleep is for weaklings. Tell me, are we going to have the usual trouble with you over this?'

  'Probably.'

  'You know what I mean by this?'

  'No.'

  He stoked up with more cake and through it said, 'I am very fond of Galicien. It was first made in Paris at the Pâtisserie Frascati, alas no more. It stood on the corner of the Boulevard Richelieu, on the site of what was at one time one of the most famous gaming houses in the city.' He sighed, blinked and went on, 'I wish I were back in Paris at the Sûreté. I do not like International things nor anything that begins with Inter. Despite De Gaulle I am not even in favour of the Common Market. I am parochial. And much as I like you, I am sorry even to meet you briefly on business because I know you will only give me trouble as before.'

  He held a brief silence in memory of the troubled past. I lit a cigarette and, reaching for his flask, put the rest of his cognac in my coffee.

  He said, 'Let us now play the frankness game. I will be frank with you.'

  'And I will be frank with you.'

  'Up to a point.'

  'Up to a point where individual ethics, self-interest, etcetera, etcetera demand otherwise. So?'

  'We have no information on one Max Ansermoz.'

  I said expansively, 'Forget him. Requiescat in pace.'

  He gave me a look and said, 'We will not pursue it unless it comes up. Without a corpus there is no corpus delicti. Something like that, no?'

  'Something,' I said.

  'Tell me,' he said, 'before we get down to the real business. Have you engaged yourself — on the side — in another commission which concerns O'Dowda?'

  'Like what?'

  'Possibly from some member of his family?'

  'I've enough on my hands with his Mercedes job. I just stick to one thing at a time — and often that's too much for me.'

  He nodded approvingly, and I said, 'Tell me about Otto Libsch?'

  'Willingly. He is about thirty-five years old, born in Linz, Austria, of course. Passes as a Frenchman. Five foot ten, dark-haired, good physique, various prison sentences, various names, same crimes — armed robbery. From a description given, and the method used, he is now wanted for a payroll robbery which he carried out with a companion two weeks ago. It was in France and they got away with the equivalent in English money of…' he thought, licking the fringe of his moustache with his tongue — 'say ten thousand pounds.'

  'Where did this happen exactly, and how?'

  'At the moment my frankness doesn't reach that far.'

  'How far does it reach?'

  'Let us see. Ah, yes. A car was used in the robbery. It was a black Mercedes 250SL. Index number — different from any that you named.'

  'I'm not surprised. Has the car been traced?'

  'No. Nor Otto.'

  'Or bis companion?'

  'No. He was tall, six feet, big build, round, plump face, steel-rimmed spectacles and he had fair hair. He doesn't fit anyone in our records. Naturally we are interested in anything you might have to say about any person of your acquaintance who fits this description.'

  I was silent, trying to figure the best way out because I didn't want to declare as good an ace as Tony Collard yet. He got up and went over to the counter and came back with a concoction that made me feel I would never want to eat again.

  Seeing my look, he said brightly. 'It is a Saint-Honoré. He was, you know, once Bishop of Amiens and is the patron saint of pastry-cooks for no good reason that anyone has ever been able to discover. So, a
big man with big face and cheap glasses — you met someone like that in Turin?'

  'No. I got Otto from Max Ansermoz. He also gave me an address for Otto in Turin — but it was a phoney. Nobody knew of Otto.'

  Aristide chuckled.

  'You want the car,' he said. 'And we want Otto, plus friend. Please try to find a way around this which will trouble no one's ethics.'

  'I'll do my best.'

  He nodded. 'Of that I am sure. The trouble is that you produce such a poor best at times. Now me, for example, for a friend I always try to give of my best. Take your car in the garage around the corner. The same kind of car that your employer is so mysteriously worried about. You should not drive it away without having a good look under the bonnet. While waiting for you I took the trouble to inspect it only because I am interested in engines… purely that. How large events sometimes hang on the smallest of human curiosities.'

  I stood up. 'I'm sure,' I said, 'you'd like to be left alone in peace with your Saint-Honore. But thank you for everything.'

  'Nothing at all. I have left my card in your car. When you are ready — just give me a call.' He raised a large round of sugar-iced choux to his mouth and crunched on it hungrily. Then, mouth full, he added, 'By the way, there is one other small point.'

  'Nice of you to save it for last. That means it's the real point.'

  'Possibly. When you locate this car — you will notify me at once, and say nothing to your employer until I give you permission.'

  'And if I don't?'

  He gave me a beaming smile, his mouth flecked with crumbs.

  'If you don't — then many people more important than me will be angry. Very angry. Influential, official people, who could make life hard for you.'

  'When has it been any other?'

  He took another bite at his Saint-Honore and winked, his mouth too full for words.

  I went and collected my car, but before driving it away I inspected the engine as he had suggested. In the long run, professional ethics are one thing. But if there is going to be a long run there's nothing like friendship.