Victor Canning
The Melting Man
CHAPTER ONE
'O, how that glittering taketh me!'
I had my feet up on the window sill, watching the pageantry of life outside. It didn't amount to much. The cab driver at the head of the rank was reading the morning edition of the Evening Standard and smoking a cheroot. A handful of early fallen leaves from the plane trees did a little dervish dance in the wind. A coloured gent went by in a big, blue bedspread. He had a beaming 250-watt smile on his large face that could only have come from transcendental meditation or a new and satisfactory addition to his harem. A traffic warden was booking a Mini-Austin for parking on a yellow kerb line. Two girls went by on the far pavement; one had blonde hair and a face that would have made Botticelli's eyes pop, the other carried a transistor set and sucked at an ice-lolly. A porter polished a brass plate. A pigeon bullied a couple of sparrows in the gutter. Two businessmen hurried towards Trafalgar Square, bowlers set, briefcases and umbrellas at the ready.
I got tired of the pageant and looked at my feet. The suede shoes wanted a good going over with a wire brush. My green socks didn't look good with a dark suit. I didn't care much. At this time of the year lethargy and sloppiness always seemed to set in. In another five days I would be off on holiday. The battery wanted recharging. Pretty soon, I thought, I must decide where I was going.
The office door opened behind me. I didn't turn. I knew it was Wilkins: Hilda Wilkins, thirty-five, spinster, rusty red hair, honest blue eyes (too honest), thick tweed skirt, plain white blouse, sloppy grey cardigan — no oil painting, my partner, and the bond between us unshakeable. There was little about me that she approved of. I sometimes wondered why she stayed. Certainly not for the salary.
She said, 'I'm going to the bank.'
I turned.
'Put or take?'
'Take,' she said. 'I've switched the office phone through here.'
I said, 'I didn't think there was any to take.'
'A little. Have you decided where you're going?'
'No. Nor who I'm going with. Or should it be whom?'
She sniffed, and backed for the door. She had no opinion of my morals or my grammar.
I said, 'I thought about the Gritti Palace in Venice.'
She said, 'Why not — if you're only staying one night? You'd do better with your sister in Honiton. You'd eat free.'
'It's a point. Devonshire cream and cider, great rashers of bacon, fried eggs, chitterlings, black puddings, roast pork, boiled beef and dumplings… Yes, I need feeding up.'
She looked pointedly at my lowest waistcoat button and said, 'That's not the impression I get.'
She went, and I looked down. Maybe she was right. Life had been sedentary lately. I looked at the calendar on the wall opposite and because I had nothing else to do I wondered how many more shopping days there were to Christmas. I couldn't bother to work it out.
The telephone rang. I let it ring a while and then picked it up.
I said, 'Carver and Wilkins. Can I help you?' A man's voice said primly, 'I wish to speak to Mr Rex Carver.'
I said, 'Hold on a moment, I'll see if he's in.'
I put the phone down and lit a cigarette. It was a small office, just Wilkins and myself and a little outside help when we were pressed. It didn't hurt, though, to give the impression of a big organization. And, anyway, years of experience had given me a sixth sense that could always pick a new client on the line. I was going on holiday, somewhere, and I didn't want to be tied up just then with some crumby recovery job or an insurance fiddle or wearing my feet out looking for some man or woman who didn't want to be found.
I picked up the phone.
'I'm sorry, Mr Carver is not available at the moment.'
'You mean he's not there?' He sounded as though he weren't used to people not being there when he wanted them.
'I'm afraid not. He's out.'
'Then would you take a message?'
'Certainly.'
'Tell him it's from Mr Cavan O'Dowda's secretary. Mr O'Dowda's car will call for him at three today. I think it would be advisable if he brought an overnight bag.'
I said, 'Does Mr Carver know about this appointment?'
A little irritated, the voice said, 'Of course he knows. I wouldn't be phoning to confirm it otherwise. The car will be there at three o'clock. Thank you.'
There was a click and he was gone.
Interesting. But not enough to make me get up and check the O'Dowdas in the London telephone directory. I needed a holiday, not work. Mind you, I needed money too. I always needed it, and sometimes when the need was great I wasn't too fussy how I got it. But just now — so long as there was a little in the bank — I needed complete rest and relaxation. I sat there and thought of all the places I could go to. I had a friend who'd retired to Malta to beat the tax game — but that would mean sailing and I hated pulling away at sheets, the kind you find on yachts, anyway. The Costa Brava? Fish and chips, ghastly gazpacho, and even ghastlier flamenco singing. Biarritz? Quiet, Edwardian — only it wasn't any longer. Just big, bustling and noisy, the streets full of Citroens and the Atlantic filling your face full of wind-blown spume and sand the moment you went over the dunes. Somewhere quiet, way up at the back of Cannes? Well, I might find that; peace, solitude and relaxation under some grape-festooned arbour, swigging vin rosé in the morning to taper off from the previous night's Pernod. Fine, all except the solitude. I'd have to have company to beat that. I'd almost worked up enough energy to reach for my address book in the desk drawer when the phone rang. I changed my hand direction and picked it up.
Wilkins said, 'I'm back.'
'Good. The office wasn't the same without you.' When she didn't reply, I said, 'Did you make an appointment for me with a Mr O'Dowda?'
'No.'
'That's good then.'
I put the receiver down and forgot about my address book. They'd all have some excuse, anyway. I could break fresh ground, of course. Perhaps a cruise, if I could get a booking. No, they were all so damned hearty, betting on the day's run, deck quoits, table-tennis and that bloody fancy dress thing, and, anyway, all the unattached girls were too soon swiped by the officers. You can't compete with a uniform and that deep sea-tan.
My private outside line rang. I got the receiver to my ear with an effort. 'Carver here.'
Miggs's breezy, booming ploughman's voice made me wince.
'How are we, me old cock? Haven't had you here for a workout in a month. I'll bet you can't see your Poupart's ligament for fat and if there's a depression over your great trochanter I'm a Dutchman.'
'Go away and carry on with your drinking.'
'Stone sober. Have to be in this job. But come round and we'll have a couple. Also, I've got something for you.'
'Anything you've got you can keep. But I'll come for the drink — that's if my rectus muscles can make it.'
In the outer office Wilkins was knitting something in a bilious yellow wool and doing the Daily Telegraph crossword.
'Going to see Miggs,' I said.
She gave me a look and said, 'Don't forget to have some lunch. And why did you ask me about Cavan O'Dowda?'
'I didn't say his name was Cavan.'
She nodded to the equipment panel on her desk. 'I left the recorder on.'
'Know him?'
'I've heard of him. He's—'
'Don't bother to tell me. I've only one problem at the moment. Where to go for a holiday.' I flexed my legs and went out.
I went down the stairs and stood in the doorway, looking out into Northumberland Avenue. Away up to my left Nelson was standing on his column turning a blind eye to the assault of pigeons and starlings. To my right the brass plate which said Carver and Wilkins wanted polishing. It had just been Carver, until in a more than usually bad year Wilkins had insisted on emptying the old tea-caddy on the mantelshelf at home (where she lived with her father, a retired ship's steward and an indefatigable but not very successful player of the horses) and coming to the rescue — with a look in her eyes which dared me to show even a two-second flash of gratitude. Without saying anything to her I had had the plate changed. From its present state I knew that somebody soon was going to get hell about it.