The Melting Man

I said, 'What kind of social life does Zelia have? I mean, is she a friendly, out-putting type? Does she get on well with men? Lots of friends?'

She shook her head. 'She keeps herself to herself. She's very lovely, but men don't interest her.'

I said, 'Then what's the problem? What are you doing here?'

She frowned. 'I don't get you.'

'Oh yes you do — you've been making the signals for a long time. Maybe you don't want to put it in words. You'd like it to come from me, perhaps. Look, she's mislaid a car. It could have been stolen from her. She could have sold it… Oh, there are lots of things that could have happened. But none of them would have inhibited her from telling O'Dowda about it — except one. And that one thing would have to be something to do with Zelia, something that happened to her that she doesn't want anyone to know about. Not even you — though I've an idea you can guess at it. Right?'

'How can you possibly know that?'

I shrugged. 'I've been digging dirt professionally for a long time. I know the form. Millionaires' daughters don't have anything to worry about. Money can fix anything. Except one — their personal pride, shame, anguish, or whatever. So what is it you want to ask me to do?'

She was silent for a while, and then she said, 'I think, maybe, I was wrong about you. I don't see how you could have known all this, but you do. Yes, there is something I want you to do. That's why I'm here and why I came this way. I wouldn't want him to know. For Zelia's sake, I just want you to say you can't do this job. I just want her left alone. This job doesn't matter to you. You can get another. But I don't want Zelia hurt—'

'And particularly you don't want me to find out what happened and hand the information on to O'Dowda.'

'Of course I don't. It would kill Zelia.' I lit myself another cigarette.

'You'd even pay me something for chucking the job in?'

'Of course. That's what you're interested in, isn't it? Money.'

'Show me someone who isn't. But I'm also interested in logic.'

'What do you mean?'

'If I kick this job in, then O'Dowda will hire someone else. When he wants something he gets it, doesn't he?'

'If money could buy it, he'd organize the weather the way he wants it, and the crops could go to hell.'

She slid off the bed with an angry movement, and began to grope for her shoes.

'Then you'd have someone else to deal with. O'Dowda wants that car. You might find yourself landed with someone who lacked my sense of discretion. Someone who wouldn't care a damn about Zelia. Might even get a big laugh from it all.'

'You're just saying that you're not going to give up a good job.'

'Could be. And it's no good you being indignant about it. I'm going to find his car for him. That means I may have to find out about Zelia's missing forty-eight hours. But it doesn't mean I have to tell anyone else about it. Not you, not O'Dowda. My contract is to find the car. The small print at the bottom of the form has a clause which says that I don't have to supply details of all my operations or betray any confidential information or sources. That suit you?'

She looked down at me, worked up, not sure whether to let it all slide and ignore me, or give me a blasting. Not because she had so much against me, but because she was worrying about Zelia, as maybe she had always worried about her, fighting for her, as maybe she had always fought her battles, and yet wanting to clear the load of her emotions with a first-class row with someone so that she would feel better afterwards.

'I don't have much choice, do I?'

'As a matter of fact, you do. I pointed it out to you just now — and you can make it. Either you settle for me, or for the next chap that comes along to take my place. Well?'

From somewhere outside a little owl screeched, and I kept an Indian expression of graven nothingness on my face while the night breeze flapped the curtains and this gorgeous wind-on-the-heath girl looked down at me as though she couldn't make up her mind which dagger to stick in my heart.

Then she said, 'You do anything to hurt Zelia, and I'll make it my business to find some way of hurting you.'

I gave her a big, boyish grin. 'Fair enough. And thanks for the vote of confidence.'

She moved to the window, picking up her torch. I liked the way she moved. In fact, I liked the way she did everything, even when she got angry with me, but from a personal point of view I couldn't kid myself that I had made a good start with her. Which was a pity, because not for a long time had I met anyone with whom I would have preferred to make a good start.

From the window, she said, 'Do you mind switching off the light?' Her hand was on the curtain, ready to draw it.

'Why?'

'Because there are two men who take it in turns to patrol the grounds at night. I don't want an audience for my balcony scramble.'

I switched off the bedside light, heard the curtain sing back, felt the fresh night air billow into the room, and saw her shape slide across the long rectangle of pale night sky. I lay back then and thought about millionaires, about how ready O'Dowda had been to haul Durnford out of bed after midnight, how he had poured himself a bigger brandy than the one he had given me, about the dozen or so cars and almost as many houses, about the purple grouse moors and the peaty Irish loughs and the public right of way to the lake which had to be stopped up somehow… and I thought how wholesome it would be to be a millionaire and not to have to go digging around in other people's dirt but to have minions ready at hand to clear up your own. And then I thought of Zelia who didn't have any time for men. That hadn't pleased old Mother Nature and I was prepared to bet that, as usual, she had chosen an awkward moment to do something about it. And then I went to sleep and dreamt of walking over MacGilli-cuddy's Reeks with Julia, wind and rain in our faces, and the same song in both our hearts. At least my dreams never let me down.

* * *

Breakfast was brought to me in bed by the manservant. I rolled over and sat up to find tomato juice, two poached eggs on toast, a pot of coffee, marmalade and all the trimmings under my bleary eyes.

The manservant said, 'Good morning, sir.'

I said, 'I don't think so.'

He just looked at me, puzzled.

I said, 'I've never known a good morning which began at six-thirty.'

Pompously, as though he were reading out a club rule which every member should have had at heart, he said, 'Mr O'Dowda, sir, believes in early rising. Breakfast is always served between half past six and seven.'

I lay back and nodded at the tray. 'Take that away and bring it back at a quarter to eight. And I'd like boiled eggs, not poached. Two and a half minutes. And if Mr O'Dowda is checking the breakfast programme tell him that because of a professional ulcer I'm under doctor's orders not to rise or eat before seven-forty-five.'

I rolled over and went into a light sleep filled with unpleasant dreams about millionaires.

I got my boiled eggs on the dot.

And I was in the secretary's office just after nine. Durnford looked bad-tempered. He had probably already done a full day's work. I did my best not to look at him much because it was still too early in the morning for me to face those blinking cold agate eyes, the big teeth and the nicotine-stained wisp of moustache. If I did my best not to look at him, he did a much better best of not wasting time on me. I didn't know it then, of course, though he might have done, but time wasn't going to improve our relationship. We both knew quite instinctively that we were never going to like one another, which in many ways was a good thing. We knew exactly how we stood with one another, and weren't going to waste time over any damned nonsense about brotherly love.