The Melting Man rc-4 Read online

  It was a wooden-built chalet, fairly new, with pink-and-green shutters, and the roof barge-boards decorated with pink-and-green stripes. It stood to one side of a steep green alp, on a plateau about the size of a couple of tennis courts. There was no garden, just trees and scrub running either side of the rough drive and then spreading back from the house itself. There was a garage beyond the open space in front of the house. The doors were shut.

  I parked the car close under the verandah which ran along the front of the house, and went up the steps. There were petunias and geraniums in flower-boxes all along the front of the verandah and the front door was wide open to show me a small hall of narrow, polished pine boards, the odd rug and a grandfather clock with a loud tick, announcing that it was five minutes past nine.

  There was an iron bell-pull at the side of the door. I gave it a couple of jerks and way back in the house a bell clanged, loud enough to wake the dead. But it didn't wake anyone in the house. I tolled again and still no one came to answer it.

  I went in. There were two doors off the hall. I tried them both. The first led down a corridor to the kitchen quarters. It was a neat bright kitchen and there were the remains of a breakfast on the table, and a ginger cat curled in a wicker chair. The cat eyed me for a moment, stood up, stretched its legs stiffly and then collapsed on to the cushion, rolled itself into a turban and ignored me.

  I went back and tried the other door. It led into a large lounge which ran the full length of the far side of the house with a view across part of the alp and away beyond to the valley peaks and crests, some of them already smudged with a patchwork of snow. It was a good, big comfortable room, polished pine boards, skin rugs over them, two big settees, four large armchairs, a wide, circular table adzed out of oak and ornamented with a bowl of multicoloured dahlias that would have had Jimbo in ecstasies. In one corner was a desk, and against the false wall that made part of a staircase that ran up to an open gallery with doors along it, was a bookcase and a long sideboard with drinks, cigarette box and a pile of old newspapers. I lit a cigarette and went upstairs. There were three bedrooms, all the beds neatly made, and a bathroom. The sponge on the side of the bath was damp, and so was one of the toothbrushes and the cake of soap. I went down to the lounge and started a more detailed inspection. The bookcase was interesting. One shelf had as big a collection of cookery books as I had ever seen in half a dozen languages. If Max were the cookery expert he had something for a guest of any nationality. There were three shelves full of thrillers, French, English, American and German. It was nice to know that Max was multilingual. We wouldn't have difficulty communicating.

  The desk was neat and tidy, and contained very little. It was clear that Max didn't care to leave any private papers lying around. There were some cancelled cheques, paid bills, most of them local, a list of shares and securities, some American, most French, which had been added to from time to time. He didn't seem to have sold any for there were no deletions. I didn't try to make out what they were worth. In one of the drawers was a pile of estate agents' leaflets and they were all concerned with restaurant and cafe properties as far apart as Paris and Marseilles. Another drawer held a 9-mm Browning pistol, the magazine full, and alongside it a box of ammunition and a spare magazine. I pocketed the lot as a safety precaution.

  I went across to the window, admired the view, and wondered how long Max would be. My guess was that he had gone off for his morning constitutional. He was a neat orderly type, bed made before he left the house, not a speck of dust anywhere, ashtrays emptied. Neat and — normally — regular in his habits, fond of the culinary arts to the point of already owning, or contemplating owning, a restaurant or a cafe, kind to animals — the cat seemed well content — and with a nice touch of expertise in flower decoration as the bowl of dahlias testified. Turning from the window and looking at the flowers, I noticed something I had not seen before. Lying on this side of the bowl was an envelope.

  I picked it up. It had been slit open along the top and the letter tucked back inside. It was addressed to him and postmarked Cannes the previous day. I had to hand it to the Postes et Télégraphe boys. They had had five hours' start on me and beaten me to it.

  I dropped into an armchair by the fireplace. It was so deep and wide I wondered for a moment if I was ever going to hit bottom. I did, bounced a bit, and then took the letter out of the envelope. It was to him from Zelia and read without benefit of any superscription, no glad 'Darling' or 'Dearest one'—

  I had hoped that I would never have to communicate with you in any way. Circumstances now make it necessary. For some reason my father is highly concerned about the loss of the car and has employed a certain Mr Rex Carver of London to trace it. This man saw me today. Although he did not mention your name, he must know it, because he knows that you stayed in the next room to me at the Hotel and that I made my phone call to home from it. I denied everything. I shall continue to deny everything. I just want what happened to become a blank in my mind. If this man should trace you, you will do the same. You have never known me. You have betrayed me once. For this I do not hate you, or forgive you. I have simply made you nothing in my mind. Betray me to this man, or anyone else, and I swear that I will have you killed. You have destroyed something in me. Make this in any way public and I will destroy you.

  Zelia.

  I put the letter back in the envelope and slipped it into my pocket. Nothing she had said was news to me. She meant every word she said, and I was sorry for her. That was the hell of it. I was sorry for her, but I had a job to do. If I possibly could, I wanted to do it without hurting her more. She might want what had happened to be a blank in her mind, but I had to know what had happened. Once I knew, I could pass on to my real concern, the car, I would make it a blank in my mind. I sat there, wondering how Max Ansermoz had felt when he had read the letter. Not overmuch concerned, I imagined, or he would not just have chucked it across the table.

  At this moment there was a yappy bark from the open door of the lounge behind me. Something white skittered around the side of the chair on the polished boards, leapt on to my knees and began to lick my face. It was a small white poodle. I'm not going to upset anyone by saying I'm no dog-lover, but I like my dogs big, discriminating, and with a certain secret contempt for mankind. I was just about to chuck this one into the empty fireplace as undersized when a breathless voice from the door called, 'Otto! Otto — tu es fou venir ici avec cette sacrée auto? Tu voudrais que tout le monde—'

  He broke off as I stood up with the white poodle in my arms and he saw me for the first time.

  I said, 'You're rushing it, Max. That's not the car Otto went off with. Same colour, different number.'

  I dropped the poodle to the ground and it began to walk around on its hind legs like some circus number.

  'Cute,' I said. 'How is it as a gun-dog?'

  He had a shotgun under one arm and a couple of pigeons hanging from his right hand.

  'Who are you and what are you doing here?' He said it in English, not much accent, and his voice under control.

  'Carver,' I said. 'Rex Carver of London. I think Miss Zelia Yunge-Brown mentioned me to you in a letter.'

  I had to hand it to him. He didn't faint or have palpitations or collapse into a chair. He just stood there and for the fraction of a moment his eyes glanced at the big circular table. He was taller than me, slim, not an ounce of fat on him, and he had one of those dark, unhealthy-looking tans which come from chromosomes more than the sun. He wore a loose shooting jacket with a fur collar, a black peaked cap and black breeches tucked into the top of gum-boots. He had an intelligent, good-looking face and sparkling teeth and eye-whites. I didn't like the look of him at all, but I could see how in a bad light, after a few glasses of champagne, some women might have called him a dreamboat. Not Zelia, I shouldn't have thought. But there you are — when a woman finally decides to drop the barriers you never know which way the water will flow.

  Calmly, he said, 'I don't know what y
ou're talking about. Kindly get out of my house.'

  He dropped the brace of pigeons on to a chair and eased the gun into both of his hands, the muzzle low, pointing to the ground. He was over his surprise now, and had me sized up. What could I do while he had a gun in his hands? I decided to see how far he would go.

  I shrugged my shoulders, and said, 'You can take that attitude if you like. But it won't get you far — and I'll be back.'

  I moved up towards the door and he swung slightly round to keep me fully under observation. When I was abreast of him, he said, 'Before you go I'd like the letter which I left on the table.'

  I stopped moving, eyed him as though I might be going to make an issue of it — which I certainly wasn't while he stood at the ready with a double-barrelled twelve-bore — and then with another shrug I slipped my hand into my pocket for the letter and handed it out to him.

  He smiled, just the faintest edge of white teeth showing, and shook his head.

  'Put it on the chair there,'

  I moved to the chair, put the letter on one of its arms and then gave the chair a hard push towards him across the slippery pine floor. The far arm caught him on the thigh, knocked him off balance and before he could gather himself together, I jumped him. Miggs, I'm sure, would have said I was slow, but I was fast enough for Max Ansermoz. I chopped down at one of his wrists, broke his hold on the gun, grabbed the barrel in my other hand and twisted the weapon free from him. I could have stopped there, I suppose, but a nice warm feeling flooded through me and I didn't see why I shouldn't take the opportunity to put him in a cooperative mood. I jabbed him hard in the stomach with the butt of the shotgun and, as his head came forward, I slapped him sidehand across the neck and he went down with a crash that had the fool poodle dancing and yip-ping with excitement.

  He was game. He came up twice at me and I put him down each time, not bothering about the Queensberry rules, remembering Miggs saying, 'Don't be nice, be nasty, but leave 'em so they can talk.'

  I let him crawl off his knees and into a chair. He flopped back, murdering me with his eyes, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. I sat on the edge of the table and faced him.

  I said, 'Before I begin the questions, let's get one thing clear. Everything you say to me about Miss Zelia will be in the strictest confidence. Think of me as a confessional. It comes to me — and goes no farther. Okay.'

  He spat something at me in a language I didn't know. To gentle him down I smacked the butt of the shotgun across the top of his kneecap, just not hard enough to break it. He gasped with pain, doubled forward and the poodle jumped up, trying to lick his face. He shoved it away roughly and dropped back into the chair.

  'Bastard.'

  'I don't expect you to like me. I'd take it as an insult if you did. Just answer me — or I'll break every bloody bone in your body. Ready?'

  He said nothing and I took it for assent.

  'Okay,' I said. 'Let's start at the end. Maybe that way we can skip some of the dirty middle. Who's Otto?'

  He considered this, — and he was considering more. I knew the look and that slow pulling-together movement of the body as they decide to go along with you, hoping that their cooperation will make you so pleased that you'll drop your guard for a moment.

  'Otto Libsch, a friend of mine.'

  'Age, nationality, description, residence and occupation.'

  'Thirty-odd. Austrian. He's tall, biggish, fair hair, going slightly bald. Walks with a bit of a limp and has the lobe of his left ear missing.'

  It was too glib, too fast, so I smacked him on the back of his right hand with the gun barrel. He shouted and swore with the pain.

  'Try again,' I said. 'From the start.'

  He sucked the blood off the back of his hand, and then, his eyes full of the comforting fantasies of what he would like to do to me, he said:

  'Twenty-five. French. He's short, dark-haired, thin, weedy-looking. God knows what he does, or where he lives. He just turns up.'

  'Not quite good enough. If you wanted to get in touch with him what would you do?'

  He balanced that one for a moment, eyed the gun, and decided to give good measure.

  'I'd ring his girlfriend, Mimi Probst. Turino 56.4578. That's 17 Via Calleta.'

  Keeping my eyes on him, I backed to the sideboard and picked up the telephone and carried it to him, putting it on the ground where he could just reach it.

  'Ring directory inquiries and ask for the telephone number of Probst, 17 Via Calleta, Turin. Then let me have it.'

  He picked up the phone and dialled, saying to me, 'I'm telling you the truth.'

  'The one thing I always check is the truth.'

  I waited while he put the call in. It took a little time and I lit a cigarette one-handed, keeping the other on the gun. After a time he spoke, asking for the information, then he nodded to me and put the phone with the loose receiver on the floor. I retrieved it, eyes on him all the time. After a few moments the girl at the other end came on and my French was more than good enough to follow her. He'd given me the right number.

  I shoved the telephone on to the table and said, 'Otto was here when you were here with Miss Zelia, yes?'

  'Yes.'

  'He stole the car?'

  'Yes.'

  'And her luggage and any loose stuff she had lying around, watch, jewellery and so on?'

  'Yes.'

  'Nice man. Weren't you worried?'

  'No.' There was the faintest shadow of a smile about his lips, and I was tempted to smash it off his face.

  'Was he interested in this car particularly, or was it just a car like any other, fair game if he could see a way of driving off in it?'

  'Otto would steal anything. He's my friend. He's amusing — but he is a born thief.'

  He was coming back fast, I could sense it.

  'How long had you known Zelia before you came here with her?'

  'Quite a while — on and off.'

  'Where?'

  'Geneva. Whenever she was staying at her father's château.'

  'You read her letter carefully?' I nodded to where the letter lay on the floor by the chair.

  'Yes.'

  'Then take my advice. She wants the time she spent here to become a blank. That's how it's going to be. You step out of line over that and I'll do the job of wiping you out for her free. Understood?'

  'Don't you want to know what happened here?'

  'No, I bloody well don't. I'm only interested in the car.'

  He grinned and I began to see red.

  'You don't want to know what she's like, this beautiful iceberg when for the first time a man gets his hands on her and warms her up? When for the first time—'

  I should have sat tight and blasted his head off from a safe distance. I should have known that he was deliberately provoking me, hoping for some advantage from it. Christ, I should have known, but I didn't care. I just went for him, to stop the dirty words in his throat, and he played my own trick on me, suddenly swivelling the chair round on the polished floor so that the arm crashed into my hip as he leaped from the chair and kicked my legs from under me.

  I went sliding across the floor and almost before I had finished moving, he was standing over me with the gun pointing at me.

  'Just stay there,' he said. 'You move and I'll blow your head off a little quicker than I intend.'

  I lay where I was, and said nothing. It was one of those times for inaction and silence. He had a finger crooked round the lead trigger and I saw his thumb slide the catch off safety.

  'And I do intend to,' he said quietly. 'You've annoyed me, assaulted me and entered my house unbidden. I shall say that I came back, found you robbing the place, that you attacked me and the gun went off accidentally. The police won't make any trouble about that.'

  'Other people might.' I felt that I ought to make some case for myself.

  'No. Not Miss Zelia, as you so nicely call her. Or her father — because she will never say a word about me.' He gave me a warm,
evil grin. 'She wants to forget she ever knew me — or Otto. You know she knew Otto as well, of course? No? Well, I want you to know it. I want you to know everything before I shoot you. When I met her in Geneva she was ripe, you know. Ripe to explode — and she did, like a wild thing after a few drinks here, in this room. We all finished up together, upstairs in the one big bed: Otto, dear Zelia, and me—'

  'Shut your dirty mouth!'

  'Move — and I'll shoot you. It doesn't matter to me now when I do it. Yes, she was wild. She suddenly woke up and began to live and she tried to put all she'd missed in the last ten years into two days.' His eyes sparkled as he spoke. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. 'There were times when even Otto and I found it hard to handle her. But if she went up like a rocket — are you enjoying this? — the charred stick came back to earth eventually. But before it did Otto moved out with everything she had — the car, her luggage, everything. He didn't tell me he was going to do it. At six o'clock on her last morning he was gone from the communal bed… No, no, hear it all. It amuses me to see you hating me and every word I say. He went and she came back to earth, back to what she'd been before I met her. And she walked out too. Just walked. I didn't mind. Except when she was wild, she was rather boring.'

  I said, 'It would be a pleasure to kill you.'

  'Happily you're not going to have that pleasure. Mind you, I don't want you to get the wrong idea of Zelia's character. Everything was perfectly correct, all those times in Geneva. They were just warming-up exercises. And here… well, just drink wouldn't have released her to such wild heights of inhibition. Oh no — Otto and I doctored her drink. In a way, you could say it was an act of mercy, a form of therapy which she needed. You know, ever since she left I've been wondering whether to be content, altruistically, with having helped her to discover herself, or whether I shouldn't make a charge. Blackmail, I suppose you would call it. What do you think?'