The Melting Man rc-4 Page 3

  'Dinner,' said the servant as he left me, 'will be in one hour.'

  'You'd better leave me a map of the place. Otherwise I'll get lost.'

  'It won't be necessary, sir.' He went.

  I had a bedroom and a bathroom. From the bedroom window I could see the park. Outside the window was a small balcony, big enough to take a deckchair. Standing on it, I could see that all the other rooms on this side of the wing had similar balconies.

  My Brighton pyjamas and dressing gown had been laid out on the downturned bed. There were cigarettes and a glass, siphon, water-jug, ice and four bottles on a silver tray on top of a low dressing table. The carpet gave little wheezy gasps as I trod on it. There were two water-colours of the fishing lake, and there wasn't a piece of furniture which didn't have the shining, well-kept patina of age. The bathroom was chrome and marble and the toilet flushed with just the hint of a faint sigh. The bath-towel was so big it really needed two men to handle it. I finished my inspection of the luxuries and went back to the silver tray to fix myself a whisky and soda. Underneath the soda siphon was a little piece of pasteboard with a message in ink on it.

  I want to come and talk to you late tonight. So don't scream when I arrive. Julia.

  I sipped my drink, staring out at the now darkening parkland. Tich Kermode wore field-glasses. He could have seen the man run out of the woods. They would be good glasses and they could have seen as much as I saw. And clearly, from O'Dowda's remark to Durnford, the incident had been reported over the radio to the house. If the two bullets had been meant for O'Dowda then he was being remarkably calm about it. If they were meant for me, then he was being remarkably cavalier about his concern for a guest. But, as he was a millionaire, I suppose he'd long ago given up having a normal person's reaction to abnormal events. Not that that made me any happier. And what the hell did Julia want?

  I finished my drink and picked up the telephone by the bed. It was a house-phone and somewhere, probably in some basement office, a girl asked if she could help me. I gave her Miggs's number. She said she'd call me, and I went and got another drink.

  Miggs came through in about three minutes. He started his usual jossing act, but I cut through it and he knew at once that it wasn't the time or place. I was willing to bet that every phone call that went out of the house was monitored, or would be for a guest of my standing.

  I said, 'See if you can get me a line on a motor scooter, don't know the make, number JN4839. Gubby at the Yard will do it for you, and you can let Wilkins know.'

  'Okay. Will do.'

  I put the phone down, and went through for a bath. The cabinet held a wide range of bath essences. I chose Floris, No. 89, and soaked for half an hour.

  * * *

  He was wearing a green smoking jacket, a loose white silk shirt open at the neck, tartan trousers and black patent-leather slippers. He had a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. I sat opposite him, similarly armoured, except that my cigar wasn't as big as his — my choice — and I hadn't been poured — his doing — so much brandy as he had given himself.

  The manservant had come for me and escorted me to the dining room, a small private one off his study, where we had dined alone; a clear soup and sherry, the trout, lightly flavoured with Parmesan cheese and a good Mersault, and then fillet of beef, spinach en branche, roast potatoes and a claret that was nameless to me, out of the decanter, but which was so good that we had finished it between us. Overall he ate and drank twice as much as me, but I suppose given his size it was reasonable. Apart from that it was evident that he enjoyed the delights of the board for their own sake. In fact, I was sure that he was a man who enjoyed most of the world's delights for their own sake, which, of course, would make him dangerous if anyone got in the way of his getting what he wanted. Through dinner he had talked of fishing and his various houses. I didn't have to say anything. I just listened, and wondered when he would get around to business. Okay, he had this house, a London house, another in Cannes, a château just outside Evian, a flat in Paris, the fishing rights on an Irish river, the shooting over a few thousand acres of Scotland — oh, and an estate in the Bahamas where he went for the golf and big-game fishing — and, boy, wasn't it good to be alive and have all that. Not that he said that, but it was there. Naturally, as the claret mellowed me, I felt jealous. Why not? I've got nothing against wealth. I would have settled for a third of what he had and been happy for life. Not that I wasn't happy as I was, but a little more cash to go with it would have taken the greyness out of Monday mornings. I should add that somewhere in the catalogue he mentioned that he had six cars in the garage at this place, and quite a few in other places — so why was he concerned about the loss of a Mercedes 250SL? To him that was like losing a bicycle.

  He fixed me now with his tiny, fat-set blue eyes, all comfortable in his chair, his tartan trews wrinkled up a little to show two inches of big, pale leg above his wrinkled black silk socks, and said, 'You don't seem to be in any hurry to talk business?'

  I said, 'I haven't got any business with you. You have business with me. If it's urgent you'd have got it off your chest on the lake.'

  He considered this to see whether he liked it then decided he had no feeling either way, and said, 'Miggs gave you a good write-up.'

  I said, 'That's what friends are for. But sometimes they exaggerate.'

  'How much do you make a year?'

  It's funny. They can't keep away from it.

  'Less than you spend on fishing and shooting — but if you're going to be a client I'm hoping this is going to be a big year.'

  He considered that, too, fractionally, before he laughed. Then, rather surprisingly, he said in a friendly voice, 'You've got the usual conventional idea about millionaires, haven't you? And you've picked one of the two conventional responses. Truculent, to-hell-with-you. The other is an anxious subservience. I get tired of both. Why not just be natural?'

  'You're asking for the impossible. But I apologize if I sound truculent. Why not just tell me what the job is and let me get on with it — if I take it.'

  'You'll take it — otherwise you wouldn't be here. Anyway, the job is simple. I've lost a motor car. To be exact a Mercedes-Benz 250SL. The registration is 828 Z-9626. It's red, hard-top, 1966 model…'

  As he was talking I was thinking that I wouldn't have minded one myself. They sold in England at around three thousand pounds… elegant, distinctive lines, a car designed for zestful driving, modern without being tied to short-lived fashion, bold design and technical perfection… I could hear Miggs giving that patter if he were trying to sell one.

  'It was lost, somewhere between Evian and Cannes. My stepdaughter Zelia was driving it. This was two weeks ago.'

  He paused and blew a cloud of cigar smoke.

  'You notified the police?'

  'Yes. But I have no faith in them. They have their hands full of other stuff. They'll be content to wait until it turns up — or if it doesn't, well…'

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  'If it doesn't, will it break your heart? You're insured against theft, I presume?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then why do you particularly want this car back?'

  'Let's say I do. I don't like losing things. I want it back and I want to know who's had it and where it has been. Every detail.'

  We faced one another across almost immobile layers of cigar smoke.

  I said, 'You want more than that.'

  He smiled at me, cradling the brandy-glass in his big palms. 'Could be.'

  'You want something that was in it.'

  'Obviously.'

  'Hidden in it?'

  'Yes. Miggs was right about you.'

  'Forget Miggs. A child could read the message. Did your daughter know that something was hidden in it?'

  'No.'

  'Does she now?'

  'No.'

  'Or your other daughter?'

  'No. And I don't wish it to be known to either of them. Not that it concerns them in a
ny way.'

  'And am I to know what is hidden in it?'

  'Not unless it becomes absolutely essential for the recovery of the car. Now ask the other question, Mr Carver.'

  'Which is?'

  'Is whatever is in it something illegal, something prohibited by law, say, drugs, gold bullion, diamonds and so on.'

  'Well?'

  'It is nothing that would interest the police at all. Something purely private. Let's just say papers.'

  'Did you inform the police of these hidden papers?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because, admirable though police organizations are, if they knew I wanted the car because of the hidden papers in it, then the fact might leak out in their inquiries — and I don't want it to be known that I don't care a damn about the car, but only what is in it. The fewer people who know, the better. More brandy?'

  I shook my head. He refilled his glass.

  'Where,' I asked, 'did all this happen?'

  'Some place on the way down to Cannes. Durnford will give you what details he has. But to get the full facts you will have to see Zelia. I'm hoping that you will get more out of her than I have been able to.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Although I'm very fond of her, she is very unsympathetic towards me. But the fact is that she stayed at a hotel on the way to Cannes. Next day she drove off… Forty-eight hours later she turned up at Cannes without the car.'

  'And what was her story?'

  'She hasn't got one.'

  'She's got a tongue. She's got to have a story.'

  'Not Zelia. Her memory is a complete blank for those forty-eight hours.'

  'You believe this?'

  'I've had her examined by two of the best amnesia specialists in France. They confirm that she is suffering from loss of memory.'

  'People sometimes forget because the truth is too unpleasant to remember.'

  'Exactly.'

  'And why would you think she'd open up for me?'

  'I don't know that she will. In that case your job is so much harder. But if she hasn't lost her memory, then she might let something slip that will help. I want the car back. I want you to get it. I think you're the man to do it.'

  'Because Miggs recommended me?'

  'Originally, yes. Since then I've made other inquiries. They confirm Miggs entirely. You have weaknesses — some of which I share, I may say — but if you take a job you don't go back on it. Correct?'

  'If the money is right.'

  'You can write your own terms. See Durnford about that. You have carte blanche for all expenses while you work for me. Everything. That includes any temporary relaxation or pleasure calculated to keep you going in full trim on this job. Over and above all, I'll add a bonus of one thousand pounds if you find the car and the papers.'

  'Even though they may not now be in the car?'

  'Quite so. But I think they are. No one could find them accidentally.'

  I said, 'Why travel important papers in a car driven by your daughter who knew nothing about them?'

  He smiled. 'Because they were important.'

  'You could have mailed them from Evian to Cannes, registered.'

  His smile broadened. 'Come, Mr Carver. Don't tell me you've never heard of mail being lost in transit?'

  'And a car can be stolen.'

  'Life is full of uncertainties. Can you think of a foolproof way of moving a valuable object from one point to another?'

  'No. Not if somebody else wants that valuable object or bunch of papers.'

  'Exactly.'

  I stood up.

  'How many people knew that you were going to ask me down here?'

  He stood up too.

  'Myself, Julia, Tich Kermode, Durnford, some of the household staff, and Miggs, of course. And the two or three people from whom I made inquiries about you. Why?'

  'Because I have a feeling that those two bullets today were meant for me.'

  'I assure you they weren't.'

  'Why are you so sure?'

  'Because in the last month I have had three telephone calls, threatening my life. And this evening, just after we got back, there was another. It was a man. If I remember the phrasing correctly it went: You were lucky today. But I'll get you, you bastard.'

  He gave me a fat smile. He could have been lying, of course.

  'You don't seem worried.'

  'I may not show it, Mr Carver, but I am. I like living. But anyway, the attempt on my life has nothing to do with this business. Do you want to see Durnford now, or in the morning?'

  I looked at my watch. It was past twelve.

  'He'll be in bed.'

  'I can always get him up.'

  Sure, if you're a millionaire what does another man's sleep mean? But I didn't feel like dealing with those blinking agate eyes tonight.

  'The morning will do.'

  'All right. And before you leave, get a list from Durnford of my movements during the next week or so. I want you to report progress to me as often as you can.' He drained his brandy-glass and winked at me. 'I'm a big man, Mr Carver. I've got big appetites. I like life and I'm prepared to like people. But I'm a millionaire. Nobody really likes me.'

  'I shouldn't think that thought keeps you awake at night.'

  For the first time using a thick Irish accent, he said, 'You're bloody right, boyo.'

  * * *

  The moment my head hit the pillow I was away. It was two hours later when I woke. I lay there for a while trying to place myself and wondering what had wakened me. Then there came a flicker of torchlight on the balcony outside my open window. It flicked off and, against the pale night sky, I saw a shape move to the window and into the room. Almost immediately I heard the quick scrape of a chair. A woman's voice said, 'Damn the blasted thing.'

  I remembered Julia's note, sat up in bed and switched on the bedside light.

  She was standing just in the room, one hand on the back of a chair, the other stretched down to rub her left ankle. She was in a short evening dress and her dark hair was ruffled.

  She looked at me crossly and said, 'You knew I was coming. Why did you leave that damned chair there?'

  'It was there when I came. What was the balcony crossing like tonight, rough?'

  'Keep your voice down.'

  She turned and pulled the curtains across the window. Then she came and sat on the end of the bed. Even with my eyes still full of sleep she looked good. She curled up her left leg and went on rubbing her ankle. It was a nice leg.

  I said, 'Can I do that for you?'

  'You stay where you are.'

  I said,' "A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, to let the warm Love in." '

  'What the hell's that?'

  'Keats. I've got a weakness for him and quite a few others. And when I'm embarrassed I always fall back on poetry.'

  'Just fall back on your pillow and don't move.'

  I did, and lit a cigarette, then tossed the packet and lighter down to her.

  It was a pleasure just to look at her. The thing she had which had hit me in the office was still there, and I knew there was no fighting against it. She was in the grand luxe class compared with most other girls I had known — ones who had merited a detour only; but this one, if I could find the energy, was well worth a special journey.

  As she lit up I said, 'Why this secret, nocturnal visit?'

  'You don't know this house. It's like a prison. Modern. Every security device. Walk down a corridor and a television eye or whatever picks you up. Open a door and a red light flicks on in the basement ops room. Nobody can get above the ground floor at night without a special lift key.'

  'Millionaires have feudal habits. You wouldn't be a damsel in distress, would you?'

  'I want to talk to you — sensibly.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'Why did you ask what it was about step-daddy that I didn't like?'

  'I was just making conversation.'

  'Liar.'

  'What have you got
against him?'

  'Nothing. He's generous and kind.'

  'Well, that's that. Can I go back to sleep now?'

  She went over to the dresser and got herself an ashtray and then settled on the end of the bed, legs curled up underneath her.

  'Why,' she asked, 'is he so keen to get his Mercedes back? He's insured — and God knows, we've got enough cars.'

  'He wants it back. That's enough for me — so long as he pays the rate for the job.'

  She stretched one leg out, and wiggled her toes inside the nylon.

  'Meaning you don't intend to discuss the matter in detail?'

  'Yes.'

  'Because he asked you not to?'

  To change the subject, and still far from sure why she had made this visit, I said, 'Tell me about Zelia.'

  'Why?'

  'I'm going to see her. I want to get details of how and where and, maybe, why she lost the car. So far, I'm told, she hasn't come across with much. Loss of memory, she says.'

  "That's right. She's had treatment for it, but it hasn't helped.'

  'It never does if people don't want to remember.'

  'Why the devil do you say that?' There was a high-voltage flash of anger in her eyes.

  'It was just a kind of general observation. Is she younger than you?'

  'Almost two years.'

  'What about your mother — can't she get anything out of her?'

  'Mother died a few years ago.'

  'I see. You're fond of Zelia, aren't you?'

  'Of course I am. She's my sister.' There was no doubting her sincerity. On the other hand, there was no doubting the fierce, almost passionate, protective feeling that was coming from her as she talked about her sister.

  I said, 'Before we get to the real reason for your coming here, do you think you could answer a few questions about Zelia and so on without biting my head off if I touch you on a sore spot?'