The Melting Man

He gave me a look and said, 'We will not pursue it unless it comes up. Without a corpus there is no corpus delicti. Something like that, no?'

'Something,' I said.

'Tell me,' he said, 'before we get down to the real business. Have you engaged yourself — on the side — in another commission which concerns O'Dowda?'

'Like what?'

'Possibly from some member of his family?'

'I've enough on my hands with his Mercedes job. I just stick to one thing at a time — and often that's too much for me.'

He nodded approvingly, and I said, 'Tell me about Otto Libsch?'

'Willingly. He is about thirty-five years old, born in Linz, Austria, of course. Passes as a Frenchman. Five foot ten, dark-haired, good physique, various prison sentences, various names, same crimes — armed robbery. From a description given, and the method used, he is now wanted for a payroll robbery which he carried out with a companion two weeks ago. It was in France and they got away with the equivalent in English money of…' he thought, licking the fringe of his moustache with his tongue — 'say ten thousand pounds.'

'Where did this happen exactly, and how?'

'At the moment my frankness doesn't reach that far.'

'How far does it reach?'

'Let us see. Ah, yes. A car was used in the robbery. It was a black Mercedes 250SL. Index number — different from any that you named.'

'I'm not surprised. Has the car been traced?'

'No. Nor Otto.'

'Or bis companion?'

'No. He was tall, six feet, big build, round, plump face, steel-rimmed spectacles and he had fair hair. He doesn't fit anyone in our records. Naturally we are interested in anything you might have to say about any person of your acquaintance who fits this description.'

I was silent, trying to figure the best way out because I didn't want to declare as good an ace as Tony Collard yet. He got up and went over to the counter and came back with a concoction that made me feel I would never want to eat again.

Seeing my look, he said brightly. 'It is a Saint-Honoré. He was, you know, once Bishop of Amiens and is the patron saint of pastry-cooks for no good reason that anyone has ever been able to discover. So, a big man with big face and cheap glasses — you met someone like that in Turin?'

'No. I got Otto from Max Ansermoz. He also gave me an address for Otto in Turin — but it was a phoney. Nobody knew of Otto.'

Aristide chuckled.

'You want the car,' he said. 'And we want Otto, plus friend. Please try to find a way around this which will trouble no one's ethics.'

'I'll do my best.'

He nodded. 'Of that I am sure. The trouble is that you produce such a poor best at times. Now me, for example, for a friend I always try to give of my best. Take your car in the garage around the corner. The same kind of car that your employer is so mysteriously worried about. You should not drive it away without having a good look under the bonnet. While waiting for you I took the trouble to inspect it only because I am interested in engines… purely that. How large events sometimes hang on the smallest of human curiosities.'

I stood up. 'I'm sure,' I said, 'you'd like to be left alone in peace with your Saint-Honore. But thank you for everything.'

'Nothing at all. I have left my card in your car. When you are ready — just give me a call.' He raised a large round of sugar-iced choux to his mouth and crunched on it hungrily. Then, mouth full, he added, 'By the way, there is one other small point.'

'Nice of you to save it for last. That means it's the real point.'

'Possibly. When you locate this car — you will notify me at once, and say nothing to your employer until I give you permission.'

'And if I don't?'

He gave me a beaming smile, his mouth flecked with crumbs.

'If you don't — then many people more important than me will be angry. Very angry. Influential, official people, who could make life hard for you.'

'When has it been any other?'

He took another bite at his Saint-Honore and winked, his mouth too full for words.

I went and collected my car, but before driving it away I inspected the engine as he had suggested. In the long run, professional ethics are one thing. But if there is going to be a long run there's nothing like friendship.

The Château de la Forclaz was about ten miles due south of Evian, out along the road to a place called Abondance. It had a mile of road frontage, a high wire fence studded with the usual notices, Chasse Interdit, Defence d'Entrer, Propriete Privee, and so on. There was a lodge, a lodge gate with a wide cattle-grid across the road, and then half a mile of private drive up through pine woods, curving and banking, and with more notices telling one to take it easy on the curves and not exceed thirty kilometres an hour. The rich are great ones for notices telling you what not to do, which is odd, really, when you consider that they take no account of warning notices themselves.

The château, with a facade almost as long as that of Buckingham Palace, was big enough to give a millionaire a feeling of not being too cramped. From the corners and roof spaces of the building — which was built of a pleasant grey-yellow stone — a series of round towers with blue slate roofs fingered their way skywards. There was a terrace along, the front with wide steps leading up from either end. In the centre of the terrace a bronze fountain spouted water twenty feet high over a centrepiece of mixed-up mermen, mermaids and dolphins engaged in some nautical frolic that in real life would certainly have led to trouble. Naturally, being O'Dowda's place, there were no goldfish in the fast swirling waters of the fountain's bowl. Just brown trout.

I had a room in one of the towers with a view reaching way back to Lac Leman. I took lunch in a small, sub-guest dining room with Durnford, who was still twitching his eyes and was not particularly friendly towards me. He told me that O'Dowda was in residence and would send for me after lunch.

I said, 'Did you get that list of people in residence here at the time Miss Zelia left?'

'I am working on it.'

It occurred to me that it wasn't something that required all that much work, but I made no comment because I could see that he was in no mood for comments.

I lingered over my coffee much too long for him, so he got up and excused himself, making for the door. But from the door he did a Wilkins on me, turning and saying, 'I think I should warn you that Mr O'Dowda is in a particular mood today.'

I looked at him inquiringly. 'You care to enlarge on that?'

'No.' He opened the door. 'But I thought it only fair to warn you. His staff are used to him but it sometimes disconcerts strangers.' He went.

I sat there and, after a few moments, it occurred to me that perhaps he wasn't as unfriendly as he always appeared and sounded. If he disliked me he would have been happy for me to meet any awkward mood of O'Dowda's head on.

Half an hour later a footman in green livery, silver buttons, and with the face of a professional mourner, came to conduct me to O'Dowda. We went through and up what seemed a quarter of a mile of corridors, picture galleries and stairs and finally landed up in front of a tall pair of doors covered in red leather and ornamented with copper studs.

From a niche in the wall alongside the door he pulled out a hand microphone and announced, 'Mr Carver is here, sir.'

Almost immediately, the double-doors slid back, and the footman nodded to me to enter, looking as though he were muttering a requiem for me under his breath.

I went through the door, heard it whisper to a close behind me, and faced a long room full of people, not one of whom took the slightest notice of me.

It was an enormous room, originally intended for stately balls, masques, routs, assemblages, minor coronations or, maybe, indoor joustings. Tall mullioned windows ran along one wall, draped with heavy red velvet curtains. From the barrel-vaulted ceiling hung three Venetian glass chandeliers. The floor under my feet was polished Carrera marble, and on the wall opposite the window hung four Velasquez portraits.