The Melting Man

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 him?'

'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.