The Melting Man rc-4 Read online

  'O'Dowda says it was a mistake. They wanted him.'

  'Could be, could be. And between ourselves, old boy, I wouldn't have shed a tear. But that's off the record.'

  'So what,' I said, 'are you doing here?'

  He looked genuinely surprised. 'Why, just having a chat. Haven't seen you for ages. Always enjoy talking to you.'

  I stood up, too, as he moved to the door.

  'It hasn't occurred to you, of course, that O'Dowda might have had Bavana bumped off?'

  'I'm sure he did.' He gave me a charming, disarming smile. 'And just as we can never finger the big boys behind the gold-smuggling rackets through London, Beirut and Calcutta, say, though we know them — the same applies to O'Dowda. They give orders, but the chain of command downwards is as thin and elusive as a thread of the finest gossamer.'

  'Poetic'

  'Not at all, old chap. Gossamer comes from goose-summer, that's early November, when spiders' webs are most seen, and when geese are eaten. And it's always the foolish geese that get eaten. Nice parable there, somewhere.'

  'In a minute you'll have me off pâte de foie gras for life.'

  'Not you.'

  I opened the door for him.

  I said, 'Has O'Dowda got a record at the Yard or with Interpol?'

  I saw the cat's eyes narrow, and I knew damned well that he had not come here for nothing, certainly not for a cosy chat.

  'Not at all. He's a respectable millionaire. All we know about him, you could read in Who's Who — well, almost all.'

  'And you want nothing from me?'

  'You sound like a guilty bloke that's been called in for questioning and is surprised to find that he's being let go, old boy.'

  'I am. You don't waste your time like this normally.'

  'Wish I could oblige you. But we don't want anything from you. Of course, that's not to say that if in the run of your work you came across anything which you felt was a serious police matter, well you might let me know. Or, since you will be abroad chasing this car, give Commissaire Maziol a ring at Interpol.'

  'How did you know it was a car?'

  'My dear old chap, Miggs said so. Just let us know if you come across anything interesting.'

  'Like what?'

  'Anything that strikes you. We can always do with outside help from the public. Even if it's only an anonymous letter.'

  'You've had one about O'Dowda?'

  'A little while ago, yes. Can't reveal the contents, naturally.'

  'What was the handwriting? Male or female?'

  'Couldn't say old chap. It was typed. Unsigned. Well, keep your eyes open.' He went.

  Sometimes I thought I went a bit too far in keeping things to myself. But I was a novice compared to them. I didn't like the look of this commission at all. Right from the start it had begun to breed complications. Bavana shooting at me, Julia wanting me to chuck it, and now Guffy going away up Northumberland Avenue, laughing his head off and already knowing that he had me where he wanted me but in no hurry to let me know exactly where that was. I should have been firm and have taken my holiday. But it was too late for that.

  I went over to the reference bookcase and pulled out a three-year-old copy of Who's Who — well, who's going to renew it each year at six quid a time? For wrist exercise I carried it back one-handed, all five pounds of it.

  O'Dowda was there. Just. And it was clear that he hadn't cared a damn whether he was there or not.

  The entry read:

  O'DOWDA, Cavan; Chairman of Athena Holdings Ltd; b. 24 Feb. 1903. Educ.: Dublin. Is also Director of number of public companies engaged in commercial and industrial enterprises. Address: Athena House, Park Street, Park Lane, W1. T.: Grosvenor 21835.

  There was a lot to fill in between the brief lines. And, I was sure, a lot that could never be filled in, otherwise Guffy would never have been round to see me.

  I pulled out the almost as brief account, which Durnford had given me, of Zelia's trip from the château near Evian to Cannes.

  On Day One she had left the château at two in the afternoon, driving by herself in the red Mercedes. On her own account she had driven south, through Geneva, Frangy and Seyssel, to a hotel on the west side of Lac Le Bourget.

  I took the Who's Who back and found a Michelin map, 'Routes de France'. It was clear at once that a more normal route would have been to have come down through Annecy, Aix-les-Bains and Chambery. But she had explained that. She had plenty of time and wanted to vary her route. She had stayed the night at a hotel called the Ombremont at Le Bour-get-du-Lac. From here, around nine at night, she had put in a call to her father at his Sussex country house. O'Dowda hadn't been there and Durnford had taken the call. She had told Durnford that the next day instead of going straight down to Cannes she might break her journey to stay a couple of days with some friends on the way. She hadn't said who the friends were, or where they lived, and Durnford, the perfect secretary, had not asked for information which had not been proffered.

  On Day Two she had left the hotel in the morning, before nine-thirty. This had been established because Durnford, like a perfect secretary, had got in touch with O'Dowda who was in London (probably a do-not-disturb-after-eight night somewhere) and O'Dowda had instructed him to phone the hotel and tell Zelia she was to make the trip straight to Cannes without any delays. Durnford made the call at nine-thirty and Zelia had already left. From then on, through Day Two, Day Three, until the morning of Day Four (when Zelia, on her own account, had found herself at Gap, a town on the Route Napoleon, some 160-odd kilometres south from Le Bourget-du-Lac) her life was a blank. In Gap she had been minus the Mercedes, minus her luggage and minus any memory of what had happened to her since she had left the hotel. Life, since leaving the hotel, had become a void. She had the clothes she stood up in, and her handbag with money. She had hired a car and driven to Cannes and the yacht, where O'Dowda had been impatiently waiting for her. No details of the scene on her arrival, or what had happened after, had been given me — except that no one, including Zelia, could think of any friends of hers or the family who lived in the area between Le Bourget-du-Lac and Gap. Betting on probabilities: for my money, Zelia was a liar. For my money, if she wanted to she could give a blow by blow account of every minute of every missing hour. And with O'Dowda's money I'd been engaged to prove it and find the missing car.

  I had trouble with Wilkins after lunch. She'd been to the dentist to have a filling renewed. It was a bit difficult to understand her when she spoke because one half of her jaw was still frozen with novocaine.

  Following my usual practice, I dictated to her a simple, straightforward account of what had happened so far for my confidential files, and I could see that she was taking against the whole affair. She sat there as though I were dictating the operation order for the extermination of some mid-European ghetto.

  At one stage she said, 'I don't think you should have any more to do with O'Dowda. This Bavana man obviously was trying to kill you.'

  'For big money risks must be taken. Life is full of hazards. Anyway, that one's been eliminated.'

  I finished the dictating. She closed her notebook and got up to go. I stopped her.

  'What do you think?' I asked.

  'About what?'

  'Various things. Zelia first.'

  'She obviously had some emotional or disturbing experience and her subconscious mind has decided to force her to forget it. I wonder it doesn't happen to women more often.'

  'Then, if you think Zelia's an innocent maid in traumatic shock — why shouldn't I go on with the job?'

  'Because men like O'Dowda clearly aren't innocent — not when it comes to things that matter, like business interests and rivalries. Often there's no way of getting what they want legally. That's the moment when men like O'Dowda begin to use people. That's why — almost before you were on his payroll — somebody tried to kill you. Just write and tell him you have thought the matter over and regretfully, etcetera, etcetera. There's plenty of straightforward work waiting
for you if you take the trouble to look for it.'

  It was about the longest harangue I'd ever had from her. And I should have taken her advice. Two things stopped me. First, there was Julia, and her anxiety over Zelia. I'd more or less promised to handle that for her. And then there was O'Dowda. Something about his character rubbed me the wrong way. He'd got well and truly under my skin. I knew that most of it was pure envy. But, at least, it was pure. I just wanted to show him that here was someone he couldn't play around with and make dance his way at the flap of a cheque book. Whatever was in that red car he wanted it badly. Okay, it was my commission to find that car, and it stopped there. When I knew what was in the car, and perhaps had it in my hands, it would be fun to have him dancing for a while as I dangled it in front of him. Not nice perhaps, but then we all have to have our moments of power. Also, power meant cash, and that was something I could always use.

  I said, 'I'd like you to book me on a plane to Geneva tomorrow morning and have a self-drive car waiting for me. And then get me a reservation tomorrow night at the Ombremont Hotel, Le Bourget-du-Lac. If you have any trouble about it, use O'Dowda's name hard. It'll work.'

  She just looked at me, nodded, and made for the door. As she reached it I said, and God knows what quirk of self-indulgence made me, 'About the hire car. I want a red Mercedes 250SL.'

  Hand on the door knob, she jerked her head back at me. 'Why?'

  'Because I've never driven one. And red is my favourite colour. Tell them I've got to have it, no matter what it costs.'

  'Well, in that case, we must do our best for you, mustn't we?' She went out. It was a long time since I'd known her so icy.

  * * *

  By the time I went home that evening Wilkins had fixed my air travel and had an assurance that there would be a car waiting for me at Geneva and that, if it were at all possible, it would be a red Mercedes.

  Home was a small flat — bedroom, sitting room, bathroom and kitchen — in a side street near the Tate Gallery. From the sitting-room window, by risking a crick in the neck, I could get a fair glimpse of the river. Mrs Meld, who lived next door and did for me, had cheerfully been fighting a losing battle against my untidiness for years. She'd put some rust-coloured chrysanthemums in a vase on the window table and propped a note against them, saying, Left a little something for you in the oven. We're almost out of whisky.

  The little something was a cottage pie. That meant she was in a good mood. I lit the gas oven to warm up the pie and then went back and fixed myself a whisky. She was right. There was only three-quarters of a bottle left. I sat down, put my feet up and stared out of the window at the London dusk. Life ought to be good, I thought; a cottage pie — plenty of onion in it — warming in the oven, a glass of whisky and my feet up, and tomorrow I would be off to foreign parts chasing a stolen motor car. Other chaps my age would be home now, cuffing their kids away from the telly to get on with their homework, hunting for a screwdriver to fix a busted plug lead on the vacuum cleaner, wifey would be in the kitchen opening cans of instant steak-and-kidney pie and rice pudding, and tomorrow would be the same old day for them. Variety is the spice of life. That was for me. Each day different. Never knowing what was coming. Never knowing when you were going to be shot at, or when a beautiful girl would come sliding into your bedroom appealing for help, never knowing when you were being used, bed to, conned or secretly laughed at and despised. A great life. The trouble was that just at that moment I didn't feel up to it. I suddenly felt moody and sour and I wondered what it was a reaction to. Something. I considered digging deep to see if I could find out, then decided against it and had another whisky.

  I'd just settled with it when the flat bell rang. I let it ring two or three times hoping whoever it was would go away. It went on ringing so I got up and went to the door.

  Outside was a man in a dark blue suit and bowler hat, umbrella crooked over one arm. He had a fat cheerful face with high arched eyebrows, a squat lump of putty for a nose, lips that somehow reminded me of a duck-billed platypus, and he was wearing a big floral-pattern tie against a pink shirt. Just to top the bizarre appearance his face was coal-black with a sort of underlying purple sheen, and to bottom it he was wearing ginger-coloured suede shoes. The distance between his shoes and the top of his bowler was all of fifty-four inches. With a flash of white from teeth and eyes, he held out a slip of card to me and I could feel the cheerfulness radiating from him like a convector heater.

  'Mr Carver, yes?' It was a cheerful singing voice.

  I nodded and squinted at the card in the bad hall light. It wasn't easy to read because the whole thing had been done in Gothic type. He must have been used to people having trouble with it because, chuckling as a preamble, he recited to me—

  'Mr Jimbo Alakwe, Esquire, Cardew Mansions, Flat Three, Tottenham Court Road, London, West One. Representations. Specialities. Accredited Courier. Imports and Exports.' He paused, and then added, 'A willing heart goes all the way, your sad tires in a mile-o.'

  'Where does it say that?'

  He reached up and politely turned the card over for me, and there it was printed on the back.

  'A splendid sentiment, Mr Alakwe, but I don't want any representations, specialities, imports or exports, and certainly not a courier with a willing heart. Okay?'

  He nodded affably. 'Okay.'

  I made to shut the door and he moved in and shut it for me.

  I said, 'Look, I've got a cottage pie in the oven, and I want a quiet evening. There isn't a speciality in the world you could provide that would shake me from a quiet night at home.'

  He nodded, took off his bowler politely, pulled a handkerchief from inside it and gently tapped his face with it, looked at it — to see if any of the black had come off, perhaps — put it back in the bowler and put the bowler on.

  'Ten minutes of your time. No more, Mr Carver. And a splendid proposition to put. You will, I think, find it to your advantage. Did I say "think"? No, I know. You need me to help you. Splendid prospects and, believe me, absolutely nothing to pay, man. The contrary.'

  'You should sell insurance,' I said to his back as he went into the sitting room.

  He looked around the room curiously and said, 'Did that for two years once. In Ghana. Accra, you know. It is considered a U-thing there, you know. But I prefer now more variety. Lovely flowers, dahlias, no? Ah, your autumn is a prolific time for dahlias. I have seen some once, purple with a little white zebra stripe. Most splendid.'

  He sat down in my chair and looked, his face wreathed in a rapturous smile, at the whisky bottle.

  I gave up. I could have thrown him out, but it would have been an effort. And against all that bonhomie and cheerfulness any resentment would have been churlish. Churlishness and effort, I decided, could be postponed for ten minutes by which time my pie would be ready.

  I tipped some whisky into a glass for him.

  'Water or soda, Mr Alakwe?'

  'With many thanks, neither.' He took the glass from me, sipped, nodded approval and said, 'A very nice place you have here. My own flat I share with three others. They are most uncongenial types but useful for business contacts. You have any idea how much I am authorized to offer you?' Big smile, another sip of whisky, and a fat hand momentarily adjusting and smoothing down the floral tie. It should have had dahlias and chrysanthemums on it, but it didn't.

  I sat in the other armchair and just studied him, in silence. The silence puzzled him.

  He said, 'I say, Mr Carver, have you any idea how much I am authorized to offer you?'

  'And I say, Mr Alakwe, Esquire, that you'd better begin at the beginning. As a suggestion, in what role are you here? Representation? Specialities? Import and Export or—'

  'I am, Mr Carver, representing.'

  'Who?'

  He sipped again at the glass. 'Damn fine whisky. Would I imagine be a good proprietary brand?' He squinted at the bottle. 'Yes. Very good mark.'

  'Who?' I repeated.

  'Let us say friends of frie
nds who have friends who have very delicate susceptibilities towards matters which affect their political, industrial, commercial and international reputations, etcetera and etcetera.' He smiled. 'You see I have need to be discreet. So, naturally—'

  I lay back in my chair and shut my eyes. "Wake me,' I said, 'when you come to the point.' He laughed.

  I opened my eyes.

  He winked at me, and said, 'Five hundred pounds?' I shut my eyes.

  'Guineas, Mr Carver. That would be—'

  'Five hundred and twenty-five pounds.'

  'Ah, then you agree? Good. Very sensible, Mr Carver. And if you wish for some advice as to investing such a sum, I have a proposition which would double your money in six months. After that, another proposition that would double that amount in a similar time, and so on ad nauseum. In some years you are a millionaire, thanks to Jimbo Alakwe.'

  'Esquire, or Mister?'

  I opened my eyes.

  He genuinely looked a little crestfallen but it didn't last long, the thick lips spread, the fine teeth shone, the pudgy nose wrinkled and the bright eyes spun in their sockets promisingly as though when they stopped the whole jackpot would come spouting out of his mouth. In a way, it did.

  'One thousand. Not pounds, Mr Carver. Guineas. Which is one thousand and fifty pounds.'

  I stood up and said, 'The only word you've said so far which makes sense is the word "millionaire". I suggest you take it from there very quickly.' I moved to the door. 'Not. that I want to be rude — especially to a man of your ebullience. But I want my supper. Okay?'

  'Okay. Ebullience. Splendid word. Yes, that is me. Okay. These friends of friends, etcetera and etcetera, would like you to relinquish your commission with a certain gentleman. Then you get the money. Okay?'

  He stood up, and I had no doubt that he thought that it was going to be as simple and painless as that. Only a fool would turn down one thousand guineas.

  I held the door open. 'What was their top limit, Mr Alakwe? Surely more than a thousand?'

  He said, 'I think I am smelling a good aroma. Your supper, no doubt? The cheque will be sent.'