Hand on the door, I said, 'Think nothing of it. But don't forget I've got a broad pair of shoulders.' So they were, almost as broad as hers. I went out, thinking of what Robert Burns had said about waiving the quantum of the sin, the hazard of concealing. If ever a woman had hardened all within and petrified the feeling, then Zelia had done it since leaving the Ombremont Hotel. And I meant to know why.
* * *
But first I had to get by the silver-haired, purple-rinse number in the red shorts. I didn't have a hope and in the end I was glad of it, because although I couldn't use Zelia the way I ought to have done, it was easy with Mirabelle Heisenbacher, nee Wright, stage-name Mirabelle Landers, age thirty-eight, friendly, bored, and all set to marry O'Dowda when she got her divorce from Mr Heisenbacher, a rot-the-bald-headed-bastard-of-a-shoe-manufacturer (her words).
As I stood by the gang ladder wondering where my boy with the pram dinghy was, she came down the deck, changed into a green silk beach-suit, cigar in one hand and the other reaching for my arm as she said, 'Unless you have a drink first, you've got to swim back. Come on.'
She led me up to the stern where, under an awning, chairs, tables and drinks waited. She was as friendly as a puppy and just as restless.
She said, 'Did you get anything out of Zelia?'
'No — she's still in some kind of personal deep freeze.'
'I can't think why Cavan is riding the child about the damned car. He's so loaded, what does a car matter?'
'He was tough with her, was he?'
'Originally. I thought he was going to go into orbit. Gave me a few moments' doubt. Such a temper. After all, he's the guy I'm going to marry. Then I thought, what the hell? All men have something and, unlike most, he's got millions so I didn't see why love's blossom should be allowed to wither. Why's he so stuck on getting the car back?'
'I wish I knew. You known him long?'
'Three, four years. Nice guy — except I don't like the side he's been showing since the car went. It's got to be more than the car. You know my theory?'
Tell me.'
'Sometimes I think Zelia lost the car on purpose to annoy him. She must have guessed there was more to it than the car and she ditched it to get back at him. Some kind of emotional compensation for something or the other.'
'You've been talking to a psychoanalyst.'
'Not me. Any time I spend on couches is strictly for pleasure. Not that I'm like that now. I'm strictly a Cavan O'Dowda girl these days.'
'If he got that car back he'd be nicer than he is at the moment, wouldn't he?'
'Sure. And I wouldn't be stuck here, keeping an eye on Zelia. I hate boats. She wants to be out here. She hasn't been off this yacht for weeks. What are you driving at?'
'Was I?'
'Come off it, buster, I know the look in a man's eyes when he wants something and at the moment you've got that look — though it isn't asking for the usual thing which, in a way, is no damned compliment to me.'
'I just want to satisfy O'Dowda.'
'Snap. So?'
'Is there a shore-going telephone from the Ferox?'
'No.'
'What happens about the mail? When you write to O'Dowda, for instance?'
'Now we're getting down to business. Why not be direct? You think Zelia might want to write to someone now that you've seen her?'
I looked at her over a large gin-and-tonic she'd fixed for me. She was a woman who knew where she was going and how to handle herself. She was going to marry O'Dowda. What she didn't know about men would probably make only two dull lines of addenda to a large volume of personal reminiscences. She had to be like that because I hadn't said anything of note yet and already she was with me. I gave her a wink. She tossed the end of her cigar over the rail and winked back.
'Level,' she said, 'and Mirabelle might help — just so long as it all adds up to making O'Dowda sweet and getting Zelia out of the doldrums.'
'I've mentioned a little fact to Zelia which may make her want to write to someone. If I could have the names and addresses of all the people she writes to in the next twenty-four hours it could help a lot. Difficult?'
'No. All the ship's letters are put in the mail-box in the saloon and one of the stewards takes them ashore late afternoon. Any name and address in particular?'
'Not really.'
'Liar. Where are you staying?'
'The Majestic'
'You like your kind of job?'
'I travel and meet people, and help some of them.'
'Then I wish to God you'd help Zelia to come out from under the glacier. I'm liable to be stuck here for weeks and that adds up to a lot of lost fun. It's a man, of course, isn't it, that she'll be writing to?'
'I wouldn't bet on it.'
'Why not, it's an even money chance? Anyway, it's got to be. Any girl ever needed a man, she does. My bet is she found one and he went bad on her. For the first time in her life she went into it starry-eyed and then — bam! the bastard ran true to form. They all do, even the nice ones, but she didn't have any experience to help her ride the punches. Correct?'
'You'll make a first-class stepmother.'
'Wife is all I'm interested in. I thought I had it made with Heisenbacher, but he developed nasty habits, and when I broke him of those he just withdrew and started collecting Japanese ivory carvings, netsukes and all that stuff. I gave up. You like to stay for lunch?'
I said regretfully that I couldn't and it took me another half-hour to get away. I was run ashore in the yacht's launch and on the quayside waiting for me was Mr Najib Alakwe, Esquire.
He fell into step alongside me, handed me the ignition key, and said, 'Okay, Mr Carver, wrong car. You get anything from Miss Zelia?'
'No. But why should I keep you up to date on things?'
'Two thousand pounds, Mr Carver. Damn generous offer. Cable from Jimbo this morning. Two thousand pounds you resign from Mr O'Dowda's employment now, or three thousand you go on, find car, and hand same over to us intact.'
I shook my head.
His eyes spun in just the same way as his brother's had. 'This is a serious refusal, Mr Carver?'
'Absolutely.'
He took a deep, sad breath and said, 'Then all I can indicate is that the consequences for you, Mr Carver, may be—'
'D for drastic?'
'Absolutely.'
* * *
I had lunch at the hotel and then went up to my room and lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It was a boring kind of ceiling to stare at, not a crack or a stain on it, so I had to fall back on pure thought. What kind of people, I asked myself, would employ the Alakwe twins? The best answer I could come up with was probably people of their own race. O'Dowda, for instance, would never have employed them — except on an African assignment where they would not be conspicuous, though I had an idea they would still be just that even in an Accra bazaar. In Europe they stuck out like a couple of sore black thumbs. Probably their employer or employers didn't mind this. The Alakwes wanted whatever was hidden in the Mercedes, and they knew that O'Dowda knew they wanted it and — almost certainly — that O'Dowda knew who their employers were.
Then I had a think about Zelia. I was beginning to get some kind of picture of the nature of her amnesia. Max Ansermoz, I hoped, if I ever reached him, could fill in the blanks.
The phone went about four o'clock and it was Wilkins, with a list as long as my arm of companies and holding companies, subsidiaries, agencies and property investments which were all wrapped up in Athena Holdings Ltd. Most of the information I knew had never been got from Somerset House. It was the kind of stuff that came from a good city man working the pubs around Mincing Lane and Fleet Street. As I finished taking down the list, Wilkins said, 'Are you interested in any particular one?'
'Should I be?'
'In view of Joseph Bavana and a certain gentleman called Mr Jimbo Alakwe who called round here for a general chat about you this morning, I should have thought that—'
'How did you get on with hi
m?'
'He said he could get me an electric typewriter brand new at a discount of 50 per cent. Do you want me to get more details about United Africa Enterprises?'
I said I did. It was on the list she had just dictated to me.
Half an hour later I had Durnford on the line. Mr O'Dowda, he said, wanted a progress report up to date, and with particular reference to my visit to Zelia. He assumed I had seen her.
'I've been with her, and I've got nothing from her.'
'Nothing?'
'Absolutely nothing. But I'm following a different lead which may help me.'
'Mr O'Dowda would appreciate some indication of this new line. You realize that?'
'Sure. I'll give you details very soon.'
'So, in short, you've made no real progress at all?' I could imagine his cold agate eyes blinking.
'Yes, I'd say that was a fair summary. But don't worry. I'm not downhearted. A willing heart goes all the way, your sad tires in a mile-o.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Never mind. But you can do something for me which might help. I'd like a complete list of guests, friends, or family who might have been staying at Mr O'Dowda's Evian château for the two weeks before Zelia took off on her trip in the Mercedes. Can you let me have that?'
There was a little longer than natural silence at the other end, then he said, 'Yes, I suppose so.'
'Now?'
'No. I'd have to make inquiries.'
'Okay. I'll phone sometime tomorrow or the next day. Oh, there is one thing you can tell Mr O'Dowda. I've been offered two thousand pounds by a certain Mr Jimbo Alakwe — my secretary will give you his address — to drop this job. Interesting?'
'You refused, of course.'
'With a struggle — yes.'
Around six I was still on the bed, thinking of having a shower before going down to the bar for a drink, when the phone went. The desk said that there was a Miss Yunge-Brown wanting to see me.
I was at the door waiting to greet her. She came in with a warm, flashing smile, a passing whiff of Jolie Madame, and a silver mink cape draped over one arm. After staring at a bedroom ceiling all the afternoon she gave my eyes trouble in focusing for a while. She dropped into the bedroom chair, crossed two beautiful long legs, fingered the fall of her black dress smooth, and said, 'I've never seen a man's eyes look so pouchy. Drinking at lunchtime?'
'They go like that when I sleep in the afternoons. A couple of whiskys and everything soon shakes back into place. Where shall we go for dinner?'
'We don't. Why don't you give up?'
'You've decided I'm not your type?'
'It's under review. What did you get out of Zelia?'
'Zelia,' I said, 'is a woman who needs understanding. I might make something of her if I could get her away from that jigsaw long enough.'
She gave me a cool, long look. There was in it even a hint of something a little warmer than a review-board stare. She topped the look with a little shake of her head so that one coral-pink tip of an ear showed against a raven wing of smooth, loose hair and then slid back shy as a sea anemone.
'Zelia,' she said, 'has spent most of this afternoon on her bed crying. That's something I've never known her do before. What the devil did you say to her?' The last sentence came curt and hard.
'When did you arrive?'
'Lunchtime. What have you done to Zelia?'
'Nice drive down in the Facel Vega?'
'Yes. And don't hedge. You bloody well leave Zelia alone if all you can do is to twist her up. Yes' — she eyed me with angry thoughtfulness — 'maybe I am going to dislike you a lot.'
'Pity. I'd prefer it the other way. And don't get so het up about Zelia. Between ourselves she brings out the Sir Galahad in me and I'm looking forward to going into action. I like big, beautiful girls. But I don't like them frozen. They should be warm and full of bounce. So why don't you belt up and give me that envelope you're fiddling with?'
She looked down at her right hand and seemed surprised to find the envelope there which she had drawn from her handbag.
'I wish I didn't keep changing my mind about you,' she said.
'Give it time. The needle will settle down soon and show you the right course.'
She handed me the envelope.
'It's from Mirabelle. She asked me to deliver it.'
'Now there's a woman who's going full steam right ahead, armour-plated, reinforced bows and god help any pack ice that gets in the way.' I turned the envelope over. She'd made a reasonable job of it, but it was quite clear that it had been opened and then stuck down. I raised my eyebrows at her.
'I opened it,' she said. 'I couldn't imagine what Mirabelle could have to say to you.'
'You couldn't? Well, given a million pounds, I could have her lisping in my ear for the rest of my life and I wouldn't mind at all, except that she'd have to get rid of that purple hair-rinse.'
It was a half-sheet of plain notepaper and Mirabelle had written—
One letter an hour after you left.
Now she's taken to her bed. Letter went
ashore five o'clock with yacht's mail.
Max Ansermoz, Chalet Bayard, St Bonnet,
Hautes Alpes. Don't you do a damned thing
to hurt the kid.
Mirabelle.
I put the letter in my pocket. Julia eyed me like a child watching a conjuror. I pulled out my cigarettes, lit one, and she watched the first curl of smoke fade away.
'Thanks for trusting me,' I said.
'What makes you think I do?'
'This.' I waved the letter. 'You'd have torn it up if you hadn't.'
'Well?'
'Well, what?' I said.
'Who is this Max Ansermoz — and what's he got to do with Zelia?'
'You've never heard the name before?'
'No.'
'Then forget it,' I said, hard. 'If you're fond of Zelia, really forget it. And when you get back to the Ferox, thank Mirabelle and tell her to do the same. Okay?'
'If you say so. Are you going to see him?'
'Yes.'
'When? Tomorrow?'
'Yes.'
'I'll drive you up.'
'I've got my own car and you'll stay here. I've just told you to forget Max Ansermoz.'
She stood up and came across to me, slipping the mink over her shoulders, the diamond setting of her watch pin-pricks of brilliance with the movement. Mink and diamonds, Facel Vegas and yachts, Mercedes and châteaux in the Haute Savoie, paté de foie gras, caviare and pink champagne, dream stuff… but it didn't isolate her or Zelia or Mirabelle or any other woman from life… from the nasty little habits that some men are born with and others develop. Men were hunters and, no matter how much they kidded themselves otherwise, women were the prey. Just at that moment I didn't like the idea; wished I could be outside it, but knew I couldn't. The only consolation was that most men reluctantly observed the game laws and the close seasons. Some didn't. Max Ansermoz I was sure was one. So, I had an idea, was Cavan O'Dowda. Someday, somebody, I told myself, ought to shoot the pair, stuff and mount them, and hang them above a bar.
'What on earth's got into you?' she said. 'You suddenly look as though you wanted to hit somebody.'
'Don't let these puffy old eyes fool you.'
She came closer. 'They're not as puffy as I made out. And I'm really beginning to think that they don't fool me as much as you would like. Would you like me to break my dinner date?'
'Not on my account. I'm going early to bed. I've got a busy day tomorrow.'
She wasn't fooling me. I knew exactly what was in her mind, and had been ever since she had steamed open the letter on the yacht or wherever it was.
She was as anxious to see Max Ansermoz as I was. That didn't suit me. I wanted to see him first, and alone. In fact, I was already looking forward to it.
She said, 'I really want to come with you tomorrow.'
I said, 'I'm going alone. If you queer that I'll toss in this job — and then O'Dowda will get s
omeone else, some fast slick operator who'll probably make a juicy story out of it afterwards for all the boys in the bar to laugh at. So keep away!'
Deep and warm inside me, heating up fast every moment, was a feeling that I didn't have very often, wouldn't wish for often, but which when it came just had to be obeyed. Somebody had to be hit… Oh, yes, somebody had to be hit hard and the name was clicking through my brain like a ticker tape. She knew, too, what was there. Slowly she put out a hand and gently nipped the cloth of my sleeve between two fingers.
'All right,' she said. 'I won't interfere… Poor Zelia.' She turned away to the door. Then, her fingers on the door handle, she turned and said, 'Do me a favour.'
'What?'
'Don't bother to be polite with him.'
She went. I gave her a few minutes, and then I called the desk. I wanted my bill made up. I was leaving right after dinner and would they send someone up to get my car key so that the Mercedes could be brought round for me. With any luck I might arrive at the châlet Bayard just about the time Max Ansermoz got Zelia's letter. One thing that I knew for sure I wasn't going to find at the Châlet Bayard was a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche.
* * *
I left just after ten. There was a light drizzle falling and I could see no sign of Najib Alakwe being on the watch outside. If he had been I wasn't going to worry. In the Mercedes I was reasonably confident I could shake any tail.
St Bonnet was about twenty- or thirty-odd kilometres north of Gap, and my route was back along the road by which I had come down from Grenoble. From the map I worked out that it gave me something over seven hundred and fifty kilometres of driving. I had time on my hands and took things slowly.
I gave myself an hour's sleep, somewhere well south of Gap, and then drove on to Gap for an early breakfast, coffee laced with cognac and a couple of crisp croissants spread with apricot conserve. Fortified, I left Gap and drove up and over the Col Bayard, thinking that if I had a troubled life, the chevalier had had the edge on me, every head of his family for two centuries having fallen in battle, and he himself likewise in the end — to an arquebus ball, whatever that was. From the top of the pass I rolled down into St Bonnet and got directions for the Chalet Bayard. It was a small, rough road, doubling back out of the village along the course of the river for a while and then climbing steeply through pine and oak woods by way of a series of virages that made me keep my eyes strictly on the road and ignore the views.
The Melting Man rc-4 Page 8
