The Melting Man

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.'