The Melting Man

'No. Not if somebody else wants that valuable object or bunch of papers.'

'Exactly.'

I stood up.

'How many people knew that you were going to ask me down here?'

He stood up too.

'Myself, Julia, Tich Kermode, Durnford, some of the household staff, and Miggs, of course. And the two or three people from whom I made inquiries about you. Why?'

'Because I have a feeling that those two bullets today were meant for me.'

'I assure you they weren't.'

'Why are you so sure?'

'Because in the last month I have had three telephone calls, threatening my life. And this evening, just after we got back, there was another. It was a man. If I remember the phrasing correctly it went: You were lucky today. But I'll get you, you bastard.'

He gave me a fat smile. He could have been lying, of course.

'You don't seem worried.'

'I may not show it, Mr Carver, but I am. I like living. But anyway, the attempt on my life has nothing to do with this business. Do you want to see Durnford now, or in the morning?'

I looked at my watch. It was past twelve.

'He'll be in bed.'

'I can always get him up.'

Sure, if you're a millionaire what does another man's sleep mean? But I didn't feel like dealing with those blinking agate eyes tonight.

'The morning will do.'

'All right. And before you leave, get a list from Durnford of my movements during the next week or so. I want you to report progress to me as often as you can.' He drained his brandy-glass and winked at me. 'I'm a big man, Mr Carver. I've got big appetites. I like life and I'm prepared to like people. But I'm a millionaire. Nobody really likes me.'

'I shouldn't think that thought keeps you awake at night.'

For the first time using a thick Irish accent, he said, 'You're bloody right, boyo.'

* * *

The moment my head hit the pillow I was away. It was two hours later when I woke. I lay there for a while trying to place myself and wondering what had wakened me. Then there came a flicker of torchlight on the balcony outside my open window. It flicked off and, against the pale night sky, I saw a shape move to the window and into the room. Almost immediately I heard the quick scrape of a chair. A woman's voice said, 'Damn the blasted thing.'

I remembered Julia's note, sat up in bed and switched on the bedside light.

She was standing just in the room, one hand on the back of a chair, the other stretched down to rub her left ankle. She was in a short evening dress and her dark hair was ruffled.

She looked at me crossly and said, 'You knew I was coming. Why did you leave that damned chair there?'

'It was there when I came. What was the balcony crossing like tonight, rough?'

'Keep your voice down.'

She turned and pulled the curtains across the window. Then she came and sat on the end of the bed. Even with my eyes still full of sleep she looked good. She curled up her left leg and went on rubbing her ankle. It was a nice leg.

I said, 'Can I do that for you?'

'You stay where you are.'

I said,' "A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, to let the warm Love in." '

'What the hell's that?'

'Keats. I've got a weakness for him and quite a few others. And when I'm embarrassed I always fall back on poetry.'

'Just fall back on your pillow and don't move.'

I did, and lit a cigarette, then tossed the packet and lighter down to her.

It was a pleasure just to look at her. The thing she had which had hit me in the office was still there, and I knew there was no fighting against it. She was in the grand luxe class compared with most other girls I had known — ones who had merited a detour only; but this one, if I could find the energy, was well worth a special journey.

As she lit up I said, 'Why this secret, nocturnal visit?'

'You don't know this house. It's like a prison. Modern. Every security device. Walk down a corridor and a television eye or whatever picks you up. Open a door and a red light flicks on in the basement ops room. Nobody can get above the ground floor at night without a special lift key.'

'Millionaires have feudal habits. You wouldn't be a damsel in distress, would you?'

'I want to talk to you — sensibly.'

'Go ahead.'

'Why did you ask what it was about step-daddy that I didn't like?'

'I was just making conversation.'

'Liar.'

'What have you got against him?'

'Nothing. He's generous and kind.'

'Well, that's that. Can I go back to sleep now?'

She went over to the dresser and got herself an ashtray and then settled on the end of the bed, legs curled up underneath her.

'Why,' she asked, 'is he so keen to get his Mercedes back? He's insured — and God knows, we've got enough cars.'

'He wants it back. That's enough for me — so long as he pays the rate for the job.'

She stretched one leg out, and wiggled her toes inside the nylon.

'Meaning you don't intend to discuss the matter in detail?'

'Yes.'

'Because he asked you not to?'

To change the subject, and still far from sure why she had made this visit, I said, 'Tell me about Zelia.'

'Why?'

'I'm going to see her. I want to get details of how and where and, maybe, why she lost the car. So far, I'm told, she hasn't come across with much. Loss of memory, she says.'

"That's right. She's had treatment for it, but it hasn't helped.'

'It never does if people don't want to remember.'

'Why the devil do you say that?' There was a high-voltage flash of anger in her eyes.

'It was just a kind of general observation. Is she younger than you?'

'Almost two years.'

'What about your mother — can't she get anything out of her?'

'Mother died a few years ago.'

'I see. You're fond of Zelia, aren't you?'

'Of course I am. She's my sister.' There was no doubting her sincerity. On the other hand, there was no doubting the fierce, almost passionate, protective feeling that was coming from her as she talked about her sister.

I said, 'Before we get to the real reason for your coming here, do you think you could answer a few questions about Zelia and so on without biting my head off if I touch you on a sore spot?'

She gave me an obstinate little look, then softened it and said, 'I'll try.'

'Good. You know Zelia well, you're very close to her?'

'Yes.'

'She lost this car and her memory. Do you think she really knows what happened but is clamming up just to annoy O'Dowda… say, to get back at him for something?'

I wasn't there, but I was near it. I could tell from the movement of her body, the lift of her chin, as she considered it.

'Neither of us get on too well with our stepfather, but I'm sure that's not the reason. She really has lost her memory and… All right, I'll admit it — I don't think she wants to remember.'

I could have gone in straight away from there but I didn't think it was wise because I knew that once I did I might not get any more from her — and there was a lot more I wanted if eventually I was going to get my hands on O'Dowda's thousand-pound bonus. Mercenary, but there it is. I was in business for money.

I said, 'How many times has O'Dowda been married?'

'Twice. He married his first wife in 1926. They had a son. She died ten years later.'

'The son was the one killed alongside Miggs?'

She nodded. 'He was nineteen. He got into the army early by faking his age. I think he was the only person that O'Dowda really loved.'

I made no open comment that she, too, had now called him O'Dowda.

'After that?'

'He married my mother in 1955. She was a widow. Zelia was twelve and I was fourteen at the time.'

She looked at me, waiting for my next question. I didn't put it. I just contented myself with looking. She sat there, her dark hair a little disordered, gipsy eyes deep and large, and posed in a way that would have made a Goya1 want to strip and paint her, and I knew that she was reluctant to come to the real point of her visit.