The Melting Man

CHAPTER THREE

Guffy was for Gerald Ulster Foley. As far as anyone at the Yard could be called a near friend of mine, he was the nearest, and even that did not put us too close. However, he was — no matter how hard pressed or frustrated by any dealings with me — always pleasant and well mannered. It's nice to know someone who would put you under the lights and grill you, smiling, and murmuring apologies all the time.

Officially he was a Detective Chief Superintendent in 'C' Department, earning around two thousand five hundred pounds a year. With his qualifications and abilities he could have got ten times that in industry — but not half the excitement and fun, I imagine. And Guffy liked excitement and variety. Just the thought of it narrowed his greeny-yellow tabby-cat eyes and made him purr. He had a lean, alley-cat look, and if his ears weren't torn and his face scarred from fights with other toms, it was because he knew how to look after himself in a scrap as well as almost any man I knew. No one that I knew at the Yard ever had cared to outline what his specific duties were. But I did know that he had done a two-year stint at No. 26, Rue Arnengaud, Saint Cloud, Paris, France, and, for all I knew, still did work for Interpol.

He sat across the desk from me, smoking one of his usual Dutch Schimmelpennincks, smiling, and looking as though he was going to believe every word I said, and in return would be equally trusting with me.

Very carefully I was outlining my interest in the defunct Joseph Bavana. I told him the whole story of my visit to O'Dowda, except that I did not mention the nature of the assignment which my client had given me, nor anything about Julia's midnight heart-to-heart talk. Also, I omitted to mention the field-glasses or the two-way radio in the row-boat on the lake. O'Dowda might have had Bavana killed, or it might have been an accident. If it hadn't been an accident, then O'Dowda was doing his warm-hearted best either to protect me or himself. Either way ethics and common sense dictated that I shouldn't indulge in speculation with a man like Guffy until my arm was forced.

When I had finished, he said affably, 'A good synopsis of the whole affair. Taut, dear chap, crisp, omitting all the relevant facts. Such as, for example, the nature of your commission for O'Dowda.'

'He wants me to find something for him. A straightforward recovery job. You feel inclined to press me on that?'

'Not immediately. Perhaps never at all. Why would you think Bavana would want to shoot you or O'Dowda?'

'No idea. Tell me about Bavana.'

'Willingly. The rifle he used was found, dismantled and packed away in one of the carriers of the scooter. He was a student over here. Not London University, but a business college. Prior to that he'd done a course in computer management. None of it meant anything. Just a cover for political activities. Any idea how many African political groups operate from London at the moment?'

'No.'

'Far more than ever were of émigré Poles, Russians and all the other run-of-the-mill Europeans. Every time you move you trip over them. Fifty per cent of them are as innocuous as a Band of Hope society. Of the rest, some are intelligence organizations for African states and some are exile organizations wanting to get back into the great wind-of-change game that's going on. Some of them are operated by idealists, but most of them by chisellers. Some of their activities would make you laugh and some would make you cry — and some would curdle your blood. Overall they're a nuisance, but we have to keep an eye on them. I was naturally curious about your interest in Joseph Bavana. He was one of the blood-curdlers, a paid killer.'

'Paid by whom?'

'I don't know. That's why I'm talking to you, old boy.' He stood up. 'Logically — and I've no doubt you've got there before me — if it were you he had wanted to kill, then it must have been because someone didn't want you to carry out O'Dowda's commission for the recovery of whatever it is.'

'O'Dowda says it was a mistake. They wanted him.'

'Could be, could be. And between ourselves, old boy, I wouldn't have shed a tear. But that's off the record.'

'So what,' I said, 'are you doing here?'

He looked genuinely surprised. 'Why, just having a chat. Haven't seen you for ages. Always enjoy talking to you.'

I stood up, too, as he moved to the door.

'It hasn't occurred to you, of course, that O'Dowda might have had Bavana bumped off?'

'I'm sure he did.' He gave me a charming, disarming smile. 'And just as we can never finger the big boys behind the gold-smuggling rackets through London, Beirut and Calcutta, say, though we know them — the same applies to O'Dowda. They give orders, but the chain of command downwards is as thin and elusive as a thread of the finest gossamer.'

'Poetic'

'Not at all, old chap. Gossamer comes from goose-summer, that's early November, when spiders' webs are most seen, and when geese are eaten. And it's always the foolish geese that get eaten. Nice parable there, somewhere.'

'In a minute you'll have me off pâte de foie gras for life.'

'Not you.'

I opened the door for him.

I said, 'Has O'Dowda got a record at the Yard or with Interpol?'

I saw the cat's eyes narrow, and I knew damned well that he had not come here for nothing, certainly not for a cosy chat.

'Not at all. He's a respectable millionaire. All we know about him, you could read in Who's Who — well, almost all.'

'And you want nothing from me?'

'You sound like a guilty bloke that's been called in for questioning and is surprised to find that he's being let go, old boy.'

'I am. You don't waste your time like this normally.'

'Wish I could oblige you. But we don't want anything from you. Of course, that's not to say that if in the run of your work you came across anything which you felt was a serious police matter, well you might let me know. Or, since you will be abroad chasing this car, give Commissaire Maziol a ring at Interpol.'

'How did you know it was a car?'

'My dear old chap, Miggs said so. Just let us know if you come across anything interesting.'

'Like what?'

'Anything that strikes you. We can always do with outside help from the public. Even if it's only an anonymous letter.'

'You've had one about O'Dowda?'

'A little while ago, yes. Can't reveal the contents, naturally.'

'What was the handwriting? Male or female?'

'Couldn't say old chap. It was typed. Unsigned. Well, keep your eyes open.' He went.

Sometimes I thought I went a bit too far in keeping things to myself. But I was a novice compared to them. I didn't like the look of this commission at all. Right from the start it had begun to breed complications. Bavana shooting at me, Julia wanting me to chuck it, and now Guffy going away up Northumberland Avenue, laughing his head off and already knowing that he had me where he wanted me but in no hurry to let me know exactly where that was. I should have been firm and have taken my holiday. But it was too late for that.

I went over to the reference bookcase and pulled out a three-year-old copy of Who's Who — well, who's going to renew it each year at six quid a time? For wrist exercise I carried it back one-handed, all five pounds of it.

O'Dowda was there. Just. And it was clear that he hadn't cared a damn whether he was there or not.

The entry read:

O'DOWDA, Cavan; Chairman of Athena Holdings Ltd; b. 24 Feb. 1903. Educ.: Dublin. Is also Director of number of public companies engaged in commercial and industrial enterprises. Address: Athena House, Park Street, Park Lane, W1. T.: Grosvenor 21835.

There was a lot to fill in between the brief lines. And, I was sure, a lot that could never be filled in, otherwise Guffy would never have been round to see me.

I pulled out the almost as brief account, which Durnford had given me, of Zelia's trip from the château near Evian to Cannes.

On Day One she had left the château at two in the afternoon, driving by herself in the red Mercedes. On her own account she had driven south, through Geneva, Frangy and Seyssel, to a hotel on the west side of Lac Le Bourget.

I took the Who's Who back and found a Michelin map, 'Routes de France'. It was clear at once that a more normal route would have been to have come down through Annecy, Aix-les-Bains and Chambery. But she had explained that. She had plenty of time and wanted to vary her route. She had stayed the night at a hotel called the Ombremont at Le Bour-get-du-Lac. From here, around nine at night, she had put in a call to her father at his Sussex country house. O'Dowda hadn't been there and Durnford had taken the call. She had told Durnford that the next day instead of going straight down to Cannes she might break her journey to stay a couple of days with some friends on the way. She hadn't said who the friends were, or where they lived, and Durnford, the perfect secretary, had not asked for information which had not been proffered.

On Day Two she had left the hotel in the morning, before nine-thirty. This had been established because Durnford, like a perfect secretary, had got in touch with O'Dowda who was in London (probably a do-not-disturb-after-eight night somewhere) and O'Dowda had instructed him to phone the hotel and tell Zelia she was to make the trip straight to Cannes without any delays. Durnford made the call at nine-thirty and Zelia had already left. From then on, through Day Two, Day Three, until the morning of Day Four (when Zelia, on her own account, had found herself at Gap, a town on the Route Napoleon, some 160-odd kilometres south from Le Bourget-du-Lac) her life was a blank. In Gap she had been minus the Mercedes, minus her luggage and minus any memory of what had happened to her since she had left the hotel. Life, since leaving the hotel, had become a void. She had the clothes she stood up in, and her handbag with money. She had hired a car and driven to Cannes and the yacht, where O'Dowda had been impatiently waiting for her. No details of the scene on her arrival, or what had happened after, had been given me — except that no one, including Zelia, could think of any friends of hers or the family who lived in the area between Le Bourget-du-Lac and Gap. Betting on probabilities: for my money, Zelia was a liar. For my money, if she wanted to she could give a blow by blow account of every minute of every missing hour. And with O'Dowda's money I'd been engaged to prove it and find the missing car.

I had trouble with Wilkins after lunch. She'd been to the dentist to have a filling renewed. It was a bit difficult to understand her when she spoke because one half of her jaw was still frozen with novocaine.

Following my usual practice, I dictated to her a simple, straightforward account of what had happened so far for my confidential files, and I could see that she was taking against the whole affair. She sat there as though I were dictating the operation order for the extermination of some mid-European ghetto.

At one stage she said, 'I don't think you should have any more to do with O'Dowda. This Bavana man obviously was trying to kill you.'

'For big money risks must be taken. Life is full of hazards. Anyway, that one's been eliminated.'

I finished the dictating. She closed her notebook and got up to go. I stopped her.

'What do you think?' I asked.

'About what?'

'Various things. Zelia first.'

'She obviously had some emotional or disturbing experience and her subconscious mind has decided to force her to forget it. I wonder it doesn't happen to women more often.'

'Then, if you think Zelia's an innocent maid in traumatic shock — why shouldn't I go on with the job?'

'Because men like O'Dowda clearly aren't innocent — not when it comes to things that matter, like business interests and rivalries. Often there's no way of getting what they want legally. That's the moment when men like O'Dowda begin to use people. That's why — almost before you were on his payroll — somebody tried to kill you. Just write and tell him you have thought the matter over and regretfully, etcetera, etcetera. There's plenty of straightforward work waiting for you if you take the trouble to look for it.'

It was about the longest harangue I'd ever had from her. And I should have taken her advice. Two things stopped me. First, there was Julia, and her anxiety over Zelia. I'd more or less promised to handle that for her. And then there was O'Dowda. Something about his character rubbed me the wrong way. He'd got well and truly under my skin. I knew that most of it was pure envy. But, at least, it was pure. I just wanted to show him that here was someone he couldn't play around with and make dance his way at the flap of a cheque book. Whatever was in that red car he wanted it badly. Okay, it was my commission to find that car, and it stopped there. When I knew what was in the car, and perhaps had it in my hands, it would be fun to have him dancing for a while as I dangled it in front of him. Not nice perhaps, but then we all have to have our moments of power. Also, power meant cash, and that was something I could always use.

I said, 'I'd like you to book me on a plane to Geneva tomorrow morning and have a self-drive car waiting for me. And then get me a reservation tomorrow night at the Ombremont Hotel, Le Bourget-du-Lac. If you have any trouble about it, use O'Dowda's name hard. It'll work.'

She just looked at me, nodded, and made for the door. As she reached it I said, and God knows what quirk of self-indulgence made me, 'About the hire car. I want a red Mercedes 250SL.'

Hand on the door knob, she jerked her head back at me. 'Why?'

'Because I've never driven one. And red is my favourite colour. Tell them I've got to have it, no matter what it costs.'

'Well, in that case, we must do our best for you, mustn't we?' She went out. It was a long time since I'd known her so icy.

By the time I went home that evening Wilkins had fixed my air travel and had an assurance that there would be a car waiting for me at Geneva and that, if it were at all possible, it would be a red Mercedes.

Home was a small flat — bedroom, sitting room, bathroom and kitchen — in a side street near the Tate Gallery. From the sitting-room window, by risking a crick in the neck, I could get a fair glimpse of the river. Mrs Meld, who lived next door and did for me, had cheerfully been fighting a losing battle against my untidiness for years. She'd put some rust-coloured chrysanthemums in a vase on the window table and propped a note against them, saying, Left a little something for you in the oven. We're almost out of whisky.

The little something was a cottage pie. That meant she was in a good mood. I lit the gas oven to warm up the pie and then went back and fixed myself a whisky. She was right. There was only three-quarters of a bottle left. I sat down, put my feet up and stared out of the window at the London dusk. Life ought to be good, I thought; a cottage pie — plenty of onion in it — warming in the oven, a glass of whisky and my feet up, and tomorrow I would be off to foreign parts chasing a stolen motor car. Other chaps my age would be home now, cuffing their kids away from the telly to get on with their homework, hunting for a screwdriver to fix a busted plug lead on the vacuum cleaner, wifey would be in the kitchen opening cans of instant steak-and-kidney pie and rice pudding, and tomorrow would be the same old day for them. Variety is the spice of life. That was for me. Each day different. Never knowing what was coming. Never knowing when you were going to be shot at, or when a beautiful girl would come sliding into your bedroom appealing for help, never knowing when you were being used, bed to, conned or secretly laughed at and despised. A great life. The trouble was that just at that moment I didn't feel up to it. I suddenly felt moody and sour and I wondered what it was a reaction to. Something. I considered digging deep to see if I could find out, then decided against it and had another whisky.

I'd just settled with it when the flat bell rang. I let it ring two or three times hoping whoever it was would go away. It went on ringing so I got up and went to the door.

Outside was a man in a dark blue suit and bowler hat, umbrella crooked over one arm. He had a fat cheerful face with high arched eyebrows, a squat lump of putty for a nose, lips that somehow reminded me of a duck-billed platypus, and he was wearing a big floral-pattern tie against a pink shirt. Just to top the bizarre appearance his face was coal-black with a sort of underlying purple sheen, and to bottom it he was wearing ginger-coloured suede shoes. The distance between his shoes and the top of his bowler was all of fifty-four inches. With a flash of white from teeth and eyes, he held out a slip of card to me and I could feel the cheerfulness radiating from him like a convector heater.

'Mr Carver, yes?' It was a cheerful singing voice.

I nodded and squinted at the card in the bad hall light. It wasn't easy to read because the whole thing had been done in Gothic type. He must have been used to people having trouble with it because, chuckling as a preamble, he recited to me—

'Mr Jimbo Alakwe, Esquire, Cardew Mansions, Flat Three, Tottenham Court Road, London, West One. Representations. Specialities. Accredited Courier. Imports and Exports.' He paused, and then added, 'A willing heart goes all the way, your sad tires in a mile-o.'

'Where does it say that?'

He reached up and politely turned the card over for me, and there it was printed on the back.

'A splendid sentiment, Mr Alakwe, but I don't want any representations, specialities, imports or exports, and certainly not a courier with a willing heart. Okay?'

He nodded affably. 'Okay.'

I made to shut the door and he moved in and shut it for me.

I said, 'Look, I've got a cottage pie in the oven, and I want a quiet evening. There isn't a speciality in the world you could provide that would shake me from a quiet night at home.'

He nodded, took off his bowler politely, pulled a handkerchief from inside it and gently tapped his face with it, looked at it — to see if any of the black had come off, perhaps — put it back in the bowler and put the bowler on.

'Ten minutes of your time. No more, Mr Carver. And a splendid proposition to put. You will, I think, find it to your advantage. Did I say "think"? No, I know. You need me to help you. Splendid prospects and, believe me, absolutely nothing to pay, man. The contrary.'

'You should sell insurance,' I said to his back as he went into the sitting room.

He looked around the room curiously and said, 'Did that for two years once. In Ghana. Accra, you know. It is considered a U-thing there, you know. But I prefer now more variety. Lovely flowers, dahlias, no? Ah, your autumn is a prolific time for dahlias. I have seen some once, purple with a little white zebra stripe. Most splendid.'

He sat down in my chair and looked, his face wreathed in a rapturous smile, at the whisky bottle.

I gave up. I could have thrown him out, but it would have been an effort. And against all that bonhomie and cheerfulness any resentment would have been churlish. Churlishness and effort, I decided, could be postponed for ten minutes by which time my pie would be ready.

I tipped some whisky into a glass for him.

'Water or soda, Mr Alakwe?'

'With many thanks, neither.' He took the glass from me, sipped, nodded approval and said, 'A very nice place you have here. My own flat I share with three others. They are most uncongenial types but useful for business contacts. You have any idea how much I am authorized to offer you?' Big smile, another sip of whisky, and a fat hand momentarily adjusting and smoothing down the floral tie. It should have had dahlias and chrysanthemums on it, but it didn't.

I sat in the other armchair and just studied him, in silence. The silence puzzled him.

He said, 'I say, Mr Carver, have you any idea how much I am authorized to offer you?'

'And I say, Mr Alakwe, Esquire, that you'd better begin at the beginning. As a suggestion, in what role are you here? Representation? Specialities? Import and Export or—'

'I am, Mr Carver, representing.'

'Who?'

He sipped again at the glass. 'Damn fine whisky. Would I imagine be a good proprietary brand?' He squinted at the bottle. 'Yes. Very good mark.'

'Who?' I repeated.

'Let us say friends of friends who have friends who have very delicate susceptibilities towards matters which affect their political, industrial, commercial and international reputations, etcetera and etcetera.' He smiled. 'You see I have need to be discreet. So, naturally—'

I lay back in my chair and shut my eyes. "Wake me,' I said, 'when you come to the point.' He laughed.

I opened my eyes.

He winked at me, and said, 'Five hundred pounds?' I shut my eyes.

'Guineas, Mr Carver. That would be—'

'Five hundred and twenty-five pounds.'

'Ah, then you agree? Good. Very sensible, Mr Carver. And if you wish for some advice as to investing such a sum, I have a proposition which would double your money in six months. After that, another proposition that would double that amount in a similar time, and so on ad nauseum. In some years you are a millionaire, thanks to Jimbo Alakwe.'

'Esquire, or Mister?'

I opened my eyes.

He genuinely looked a little crestfallen but it didn't last long, the thick lips spread, the fine teeth shone, the pudgy nose wrinkled and the bright eyes spun in their sockets promisingly as though when they stopped the whole jackpot would come spouting out of his mouth. In a way, it did.

'One thousand. Not pounds, Mr Carver. Guineas. Which is one thousand and fifty pounds.'

I stood up and said, 'The only word you've said so far which makes sense is the word "millionaire". I suggest you take it from there very quickly.' I moved to the door. 'Not. that I want to be rude — especially to a man of your ebullience. But I want my supper. Okay?'

'Okay. Ebullience. Splendid word. Yes, that is me. Okay. These friends of friends, etcetera and etcetera, would like you to relinquish your commission with a certain gentleman. Then you get the money. Okay?'

He stood up, and I had no doubt that he thought that it was going to be as simple and painless as that. Only a fool would turn down one thousand guineas.

I held the door open. 'What was their top limit, Mr Alakwe? Surely more than a thousand?'

He said, 'I think I am smelling a good aroma. Your supper, no doubt? The cheque will be sent.'

I shook my head.

'Don't bother. When I take a job I stay with it.'

He was genuinely concerned for me, surprised, no doubt, at my lack of common sense.

'Please, Mr Carver, for your own sake. This is not a situation which calls for any high-mindedness or lofty idealism. Just work and money, Mr Carver. Perhaps one thousand five hundred pounds.'

'No. And don't make it guineas. Just tell them I'm not interested in their money.'

'Absolutely?'

'Absolutely.'

He came by me, as near stunned as he had ever been, I imagine. In the hall he stopped, eyed me, shook his head and said, brightening a little, 'Yes, now I understand. There can only be one explanation. You are eccentric. Very eccentric'

'Something like that.'

'Well, Mr Carver, all I can say is that it is your privilege to be that. But it is dangerous. These people — you understand, I only act for them — please be polite they say, this man is intelligent, good-mannered and understanding. But these people may now take other action. D for drastic action, Mr Carver.'

'And you would act for them?'

'Well, naturally, if they pay me. One thousand five hundred pounds or guineas — for the first time I meet a sensible chap who says no to it. You know' — hope sprang briefly to life — 'it would be arranged, the payment I mean, so that you would not have to pay tax.'

'Goodnight, Mr Alakwe.'

I opened the door for him and he went reluctantly past me and paused on the doormat, carefully scuffing his shoes on it.

'Tell me,' I said, 'in your dealings with these friends of friends, etcetera and etcetera, did you ever come across a countryman of yours called Joseph Bavana?'

'Bavana? Why of course. He is my husband-in-law.'

'Your what?'

'Well, if that is not right… I mean, he is married to my second wife. Who now, of course, is a widow. So now, of course, maybe, I shall take her back.'

'You know Bavana's dead? How he died?'

'Of course. I tell them not to use that way first of all. Joseph always was accident prone. This Mr Carver, I tell them from reading their first report, is not a man to deal with like that, but Joseph persuaded them.'

'And what are you going to advise them now?'

'I like you, Mr Carver. You are polite and respectable with me. I shall tell them you ask for five thousand pounds. That gives you a few days to think about it. I know them. They will say, "God man, five thousand — for doing nothing? Offer two thousand five hundred, guineas if necessary." Then I come to you. You accept' — his face began to beam — 'and we shall be happy. You should expect me tomorrow. Don't worry, Mr Carver.' He thumped his chest with the handle of his umbrella. 'A willing heart is mine. For a friend I got all the way.' He tipped his bowler and turned away, borne on a euphoric cloud of human kindness.

I went back into the flat to be greeted by the smell of burning from the kitchen.

Mrs Meld woke me with a thump on the door and a few exuberant lines of Yellow Submarine. I'd noticed recently that she'd slowly been bringing her repertoire up to date.

'Good morning, Mr Carver. How was the pie?'

'Splendid,' I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.

'What you need,' she said, 'is a woman to look after you — not that you can't cook as well as any woman, but it's the cooking that does it. Time you've done it, as I tell Meld, it puts you right off. And then things like laundry, you never think about them. You going to stay a bachelor all your life?'

I said, 'Go away. I want two eggs, lightly fried, and some bacon, crisp.'

'Ten minutes, then. And I'll fix a nice steak and kidney for tonight.'

I got out of bed. 'Don't bother. Tonight I shall be in France, eating omble chevalier, straight from the lake. You know what omble is?'

'Well, if it ain't fish, I don't know what it would be doing in a lake. But anyway, that accounts for the spade across the road maybe. He was there when Meld went off at seven. France, is it, and more of your larrikins? You have a nice life, Mr Carver, but you need a good woman to share it with.'

I pulled oh a dressing gown and went into the sitting room.

From the kitchen Mrs Meld said, 'He's in the Mini, parked by the letter box.'

From the window I couldn't see much of him, just his bulk behind the wheel and a pair of brown hands spread over the wheel rim. The bulk of his body looked too big to be my friend Jimbo. But I had no doubt that they were connected. While Jimbo Alakwe tried to negotiate new terms for me, they were keeping an eye on me.

At half past nine I dropped my travelling case out of the bathroom window at the back of the flat. Mrs Meld caught it for me from below in her garden, and then I followed, moving into her kitchen, pausing to admire the new washing-up machine that she'd finally persuaded Meld to buy for her, and then through the house and out of her side door which opened into the next street. It was a route that I'd used many times before, so many times in fact that I'd probably established a permanent right of way by now.

I took a taxi to Miggs's place and got him to send a boy up to the office to collect my air tickets and passport. If they were watching the flat they could well be watching the office. I phoned Wilkins and told her what was happening, and then asked her to have someone check at Somerset House and get all they could on Athena Holdings Ltd. Wilkins was in a better mood, and made me run over all I'd packed for my trip to make sure that I hadn't forgotten anything.

She finished, 'You're not taking a firearm?'

'No,' I said, 'I'm not taking a firearm.' Mrs Meld would call a spade a spade, but not Wilkins. 'Why? Do you think I should have a gun?'

'No, I do not. You're much too bad a shot for it to be any use.'

Well, maybe she had something there. But, now and then, they were comforting things to have to hand.

I then phoned Guffy and told him about Mr Jimbo Alakwe, Esquire. At the moment I considered this a frank, open approach which might be useful.

'If there's anything about him or his employers which you Know, which could be helpful to me, I would appreciate it. Let Wilkins know.'

He said he would consider it.

At two o'clock I was in Geneva, and there was a red Mercedes 250SL waiting for me. What it is to work for a millionaire and be able to use his name and credit rating.

I went south like a red streak on the wings of fantasy. I had fishing loughs, grouse moors, town and country houses and reserved hotel suites where I was not to be disturbed after eight. I had a yacht and a handful of cars of which this was my favourite. I daydreamed my way down to Annecy and Aix-les-Bains along a road I knew well. My hands had a millionaire's firm grip on the steering wheel with its large, padded safety boss, and — thanks to the single joint, low-pivot swing axle, the separation of wheel mounting and wheel suspension — the car held the road like a high-speed leech, gentling down the moment I put a foot on the two-circuit servo-assisted disc brakes. Oh, I knew all the jargon. I'd done a year as a car salesman before I had moved into business on my own, chasing other people's troubles and generally ending up with a bag full of them for myself.

Below Aix-les-Bains, at the end of the lake, I swung across country and then up to the west side of the lake. The Ombre-mont Hotel sat on the hillside above the lake, looking across to Aix. I had a large, bright, chintzy room overlooking the water and when I phoned down for whisky and Perrier water I got it within five minutes, which was something near a record. For records, it was going to be my lucky day. Within the next two hours I had found out something about Zelia which went a long way to convincing me that she had no more lost her memory than I had lost mine — not that there weren't a lot of things in my past that I would have liked to have forgotten. But there it is, things happen to you and things are done by you which are forever on the record.

Just before dinner I went down to the reception desk and cashed a traveller's cheque with the girl who was on duty. I didn't need the money because I had picked up cash at Geneva, but it was a way of opening a conversation and letting her get a few minutes of my warm, affable, engaging nature before I started on the small deceits and oblique questions which were part of my other, second, nature.

She was a girl of about twenty-plus with a little mole at the right corner of her mouth, a pair of dark, wise eyes that had an occasional flash of humour, and she had time on her hands, for all the evening transients had booked in. Her English was streets ahead of my French. I complimented her on it and asked where she had learnt it. It worked, of course. It always does. There's nothing people like more than to have it acknowledged how well they speak a foreign language. In no time we'd got to the point where she asked me whether I was in France on holiday or business. I said that I was on business, that I was the private secretary of one Mr Cavan O'Dowda, and I didn't have to tell her who he was. She knew. If you're in the hotel business you probably know all the millionaires and, anyway, the French have this natural reverence for money which makes the names of the world's millionaires as familiar to them as football players are to the differently oriented Anglo-Saxons.

Confidentially, shuffling my franc notes slowly into my wallet, I said that I was making some inquiries about his stepdaughter Mademoiselle Zelia Yunge-Brown who was at this moment suffering from loss of memory which had come on at the moment she had left this hotel some weeks ago. For a moment her dark eyes were sad, at the thought of a millionaire's daughter being so afflicted — every memory must be golden, what unhappiness to lose even one.

I agreed and asked if I could see a copy of Zelia's hotel bill. I didn't think it would give me anything openly to prove a theory which I was nursing, knowing human nature, and that Zelia had been off the direct route down to Cannes. But there was no harm in checking. The girl produced a carbon copy from a file. It was for Room 15 and she had paid for the apartment and breakfast. No dinner charge. Well, she might have eaten out somewhere. I was about to hand it back when I noticed that there was no charge for an item which should have been there.

'While Mademoiselle Zelia was here she put in a call to her father in England, at about nine o'clock in the evening. There's no charge for it.'

The girl agreed that there wasn't a charge.

I said, 'Do you keep a record of phone calls?'

'From the rooms, when they are to be charged, yes.'

'Can you check the long-distance calls that evening? From all the rooms.'

'That would mean checking the copies of the accounts of all the guests who were here that night.' There was no sadness in her dark eyes now, just wisdom. A millionaire was fussing about his daughter and, while anyone in their right mind would be anxious to help, it would mean extra work.

I said, 'If it will take you a little time, then naturally Monsieur O'Dowda would wish me to acknowledge that.' I pulled out my wallet and handed her a hundred-franc note.

She took it with a quick, sensible nod of her head; no one in the French hotel business is anything but sensible about money. She said that if Monsieur would look back after dinner, no?

Monsieur went to dinner. There was no omble.

I made do with a terrine de canard aux truffes, and a poulet aux morilles with a bottle of Château-Rayas.

And, after dinner, the information was waiting for me. The only phone call to England made from the hotel that night — and it was just before nine — had come from Room 16 which had been occupied by a Monsieur Max Ansermoz who had booked in the same evening and left the following morning.

Not bothering with niceties, I asked, 'Is there a communicating door between Rooms 15 and 16.'

'Yes, monsieur. Normally it is locked but one would only have to ask the chambermaid.'

'What address did this Monsieur Ansermoz give?'

She had done her homework. It was a Geneva hotel, the Bernine, 22 Place Cornavin. Instinct told me that it wouldn't be any good making inquiries for Max Ansermoz there.

Quite genuinely, the girl said, 'I hope this information will not make trouble for Mademoiselle Zelia.'

'On the contrary. I think it will help her recovery. Her father will be most grateful to you.'

'It is a pleasure to help, monsieur. If you would wish it, some of the hotel servants might remember this gentleman. Maybe, by tomorrow morning, I could tell you what he looked like, no?'

I said I would be grateful for any scrap of information, no matter what the cost of the trouble, and then I went up to my room and sat on the little balcony, smoking, and looking across the lake to the lights of Aix-les-Bains.

So, Zelia had met Monsieur Max Ansermoz at the hotel. It had been careless of her to put a phone call through from his room, but then at that time she probably had not realized that there was any great need for care. Something had happened after leaving the hotel which had brought dull care on to the scene. After leaving the hotel, somewhere along the line, she had started losing things, her car, her luggage, her memory, and who knew what else… my guess was that Max Ansermoz knew. It would be interesting to know what Zelia's present feelings towards him were. It would be even more interesting — for this was my particular baby — to know what he had done with the red Mercedes.

I went back into the room, picked up the phone and booked a call to Paris 408.8230. It came through about twenty minutes later and I was put on to a duty officer, sitting bored miles away in 26 Rue Arnengaud, Saint Cloud, who was distinctly cagey about the call. I told him he could check my credentials with Commissaire Maziol or Detective Chief Superintendent Gerald Ulster Foley, but either way I would like any information Interpol was prepared to pass on about one Max Ansermoz, if he were on their files; either here if before nine in the morning or to my office in London if later. Reluctantly he said he would see what could be done and then rang off, no doubt to go back to reading his Paris-Match.

I didn't get my call before nine, but for twenty francs extra I had a description of Ansermoz. The hall porter remembered him well, a tall, dark gentleman between thirty and forty who had arrived with a young lady in a red Mercedes and had departed with her in the car the following morning — and he'd had with him a dog, a white poodle. He was a very nice, pleasant gentleman and was French, or at least he thought so, but, of course, he might well have been Swiss.

I tipped and thanked him, and then headed south down the Route Napoleon.

I reached Cannes late, largely because I had stopped for a very leisurely lunch and put a call in to Wilkins afterwards, which had taken over half an hour to come through.

She had had a message for me, through Guffy from Interpol. There was no one of the name Max Ansermoz on their records, but he might easily be there under another name. Would I please supply a description if possible and any other details which might be helpful. I passed the description, the name of the Geneva hotel and the fact that he probably owned a small white poodle, for Wilkins to relay.

'And Miss Julia Yunge-Brown called on behalf of her father and wanted to know where you would be staying in Cannes. I'm to ring them as soon as I know.'

'Tell them the Majestic, if I can get a room there, which I ought to do because they've got three hundred. Have you looked into the Athena Holdings set-up yet?'

'I've got someone on it today.'

'Good. I'll phone you tomorrow about it.'

Between that moment and the time I arrived in Cannes somebody, I was to discover, had kept the wires busy. I got a room without trouble, ran the car around the corner from the Rue des Serbes and found a garage for it. I had two drinks, dinner, and then a short stroll down the street on to the Boulevard de la Croisette to get a whiff of the sea breeze and then back to bed. Somewhere in the port was O'Dowda's yacht, the Ferox — which was a name that had not surprised me, knowing his passion for fishing and knowing also something now of the nature of the man… By any standards he was a cannibal trout preying on large and small fry.

In my room I dropped into a chair, lit a last cigarette before bed and began to think about Zelia and Max Ansermoz, and more particularly of the combinations of human experience and passion which, so soon after a no doubt romantic night at the Ombremont, could have made her decide to lose her memory of the events of the next two days and with it the red

Mercedes. Somewhere along that line somebody had had a change of heart. I didn't get far with the obvious possibilities because the telephone rang.

There was, the desk informed me, a Mr Alakwe to see me.

It was nearly eleven o'clock and my first instinct was to tell them to tell Mr Alakwe to go to hell. Then curiosity as to how he could have traced me made me tell them to send him up.

He came in, dressed now for the Continent in a lightweight fawn linen suit, smiling all over his face, snub nose creased up like a wrinkled black plum. He carried a panama hat with an orange-and-silver ribbon round it. His tie was pale blue with a yellow horseshoe and hunting crop, rampant, over a bilious green shirt with a fine yellow stripe. He still wore his ginger suede shoes. He shook my hand and then presented me with his card.

I said, 'Don't let's go through that ritual again, Mr Jimbo Alakwe, Esquire.'

He shook his head, his smile almost cutting his face in half, and said, 'Not Jimbo, Mr Carver. Jimbo's my brother.'

I looked at the card. He was right. This was Mr Najib Alakwe, Esquire — in the same line of business, but with an address in Cannes in the Rue de Mimont which, as far as I could remember, was somewhere behind the station. I turned the card over. The quotation on the back read: Un bon ami vaut mieux que cents parents. Well, I wasn't going to argue with that.

I handed the card back and said, 'Twins?'

'Yes, Mr Carver.'

'How the hell am I going to tell you apart?'

'Very simple. I am always in France and Jimbo is always in England.'

I wanted to ask about the ginger shoes but decided not to because it would be some simple explanation I should have thought of for myself.

I said, 'How did you know where to find me?'

'Again very simple. Jimbo telephones me with the information.'

'And how did he get it?'

'This is not for me to know. We keep our departments very separate except in peripatetic cases like yours, Mr Carver, where the subject is long-ranging. May I say already I have a great admiration for you. Man, you're a damned fast worker.'

I sat down, suddenly feeling very tired. Jimbo and Najib might look and act like a couple of clowns, but there had to be more to them than that. They had to be good for far more than a laugh. To prove it, Najib put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gun.

I said, 'Is that really necessary?'

He said, 'Man, I hope not, because I am very bad at aiming.' He half turned and called over his shoulder, 'Panda!'

From the little hallway outside the bedroom door, where she had been waiting, a young woman came into the room. Not that 'came' was the word. She breezed in like a whirlwind, smacked Najib on the back and waltzed up to me in a cloud of some very strong scent, ran her fingers through my hair, tugged the lobe of my right ear and said, 'Whoof! Whoof! Happy to know you, Rexy boy.'

Wearily, I said to Najib, 'She's not real, is she?'

Panda gave me a big grin, 'You betcha, daddy-ho. Every curve, every muscle, genuine human and jumping with life.'

She was over six feet tall, wearing a very short skirt and a gold lame blouse. She was good-looking, with big, moist brown eyes and a laughing mouth full of the most splendid teeth I had ever seen, though I felt that there were too many of them. In fact there was too much of her altogether. Her legs were too long and her arms were too long, and as she pirouetted in front of me she gave off a hum as though she were driven by some high-powered dynamo. Her skin was a pleasant milky-coffee colour, and her hair was a mass of tight black curls. From her ears dangled gold earrings, each shaped to represent a man hanging from a gallows.

Najib said, 'My assistant, Miss Panda Bubakar. Pay no attention to her. Tonight she is full of beans.'

'Panda hungry. Panda want man,' said Panda.

'Panda search room,' said Najib, smacking her on the bottom. Standing, he could just reach it.

'Panda can search room,' I said, 'but what the hell is she looking for — apart from a man?'

'In England,' said Najib, holding the gun on me, 'you were given damned honourable offer of cash for non-cooperation with O'Dowda. Now, cash offer withdrawn. We just take the goods.'

From behind me, where Panda was turning over my bed, she said, 'Ra-ra! Ritzy pyjamas. Any time you want those pressed, Rexy, just call for me.'

Something bit me gently on the back of the neck and I jumped.

'Leave Mr Carver alone and get on with job,' said Najib.

I slewed round, rubbing my neck and watched her. Winking at me, she started to go through the room. She did it well — not as well as some people I'd seen, but good enough to prove she was no amateur.

Some of her remarks as she went through my case and the bathroom wouldn't have gone down well at a vicarage garden party, but there was no denying her high spirits and exuberant bonhomie. At a distance she was — once you got used to the length of her — quite good to look at, but I didn't trust the hungry man-glint in her eyes. After mating, she was the kind that topped it off by making a meal of her consort.

She came back from the bathroom and said, 'Nothing, Najib — except he wants a new toothbrush and he's almost out of sleeping pills. You sleep bad, honey?' She kicked out a long leg. 'Whoof! Whoof! Mamma has something for that, too.'

'Give me your number,' I said. 'The next time I have insomnia I'll ring. Now will the two of you get to hell out of here?'

'If it is not here, then it must be in the car still. The key, please?' Najib held out his hand.

Panda sat on the bed behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck. 'Give the man the key, honey.'

I said, half choked, 'What's all this about a car?'

Najib said, 'The car you find. I wait here all this evening and see you arrive, but I am not quick enough to see which garage you took it to.'

One of Panda's hands had snaked down inside my jacket and now came out. holding my car key. She slid around me and handed it to Najib.

'Okay,' I said, 'it's in the Renault Garage just up the avenue and behind the Rue d'Antibes. Just leave the key with the hall porter when you've finished. I'm going to bed.'

It was a stupid thing to say.

Panda gave a couple of barks and high kicks and said, 'Mamma stay and tuck Rexy up.'

I said, 'Take this praying mantis with you, too.'

Najib looked at the key which lay like a fat tear-drop in the palm of bis black hand, and then raised a pair of puzzled eyes to me.

I went on, 'It's not the car you want, but one I hired in Geneva to drive down here. Why didn't you check the registration number when I arrived?'

'Numbers can be changed, honey,' said Panda. 'You go check, Najib.'

'You both go,' I said. 'Check the car. There's one thing will tell you whether it's the right one. The secret compartment. You know where it is supposed to be?'

Najib grinned suddenly. 'I know where it is, Mr Carver, sir. But I don't think you do. O'Dowda would never have told you. Damn right, yes?'

'Course he doesn't know,' said Panda. 'Mamma can tell from his eyes.' She made for the bathroom.

'That's not the way out,' I said.

'Man, I know that. I'm going to fix your bath and rub you down after.' She opened her mouth and snapped her fine teeth at me, her eyes rolling.

'You come with me, Panda,' said Najib. Then to me, he went on, 'I make the check and return the key. Some time, also Mr Carver, after you have seen Miss Zelia, we must have a man-to-man talk because it could be to your profit.' He got hold of Panda's arm and began to tug her towards the door.

'Mamma stay,' she cried.

'Mamma go,' I said. There was a moment's temptation, but I put it firmly aside. I just wasn't in her league.

From the door Najib said, 'While you are in this town, if there's anything you need, just let me know.'

'Double it for me,' said Panda.

'After all' — Najib ignored her — 'we are in the same line of business, so no need not to be friends unless it becomes absolutely damned necessary otherwise.'

'Nicely put,' I said.

'Sleep well, Mr Carver.'

'I don't like to think of you all lonely in this room, lover-boy,' said Panda. 'I'll survive.'

'Say, Rexy' — her eyes open wide with a thought — 'you ain't discriminating about colour are you?'

I shook my head. 'I like your colour. But I need a lot of building up to deal with the size it comes in. Goodnight.'

They went. And I went to bed. Both of them were putting on a big fooling act. But neither of them were fools. And how the hell had they known that I was coming to the Majestic? Nobody had known until I told Wilkins, and she had phoned the O'Dowda place in Sussex. Within three or four hours of that time Najib had been on my trail. Somewhere in the O'Dowda menage there was somebody who was tipping off the other side. Somebody in the household didn't want O'Dowda to have his Mercedes back, and they weren't being very subtle about it. My' guess was that it was Durnford. Working for O'Dowda, he could be expected to have a healthy dislike for him, but this went farther, this was a horse called Revenge out of Dislike by Disloyalty. Good lines but obvious breeding. As far as O'Dowda was concerned something was really burning up Durnford, and quite clearly he wasn't overworried about what the man said, that you can hide the fire, but what do you do about the smoke? When O'Dowda saw that smoke Durnford was due for trouble.