The Melting Man

CHAPTER SEVEN

I packed my bag and left it in my room. Then I went down to reception, paid my bill, said I wouldn't be in for lunch but would be back around five o'clock just to pick up my bag.

Then I took a stroll along the lakeside and up into the village. I picked up one of Aristide's men quite quickly. Not because I was all that clever, but because he had meant me to spot him. That meant there was another one around somewhere. I would be lucky if I spotted him. The only thing to do was to isolate him, and I'd already made arrangements for this.

The front man was a plumpish little number, wearing a beret, a sloppy linen suit, and had a camera slung round his neck. He worked overtime with the camera whenever I hung him up. There was probably no film in it anyway.

I took him for a stroll around, hoping I might spot the other, but I never did, and after an hour I gave up trying because it had suddenly occurred to me that it wasn't a camera at all but a walkie-talkie and he was just giving a running commentary to his chum somewhere out of sight.

About one o'clock I went back to the hotel and got the car. As I drove across the quay-side I saw the camera man sitting in a parked car by the pissoir. He was lucky to have got a parking space because the quay was crowded with visitors' cars. He took a nice little shot of me as I went by — f.11 at 250, with a heavy cloud overhead, what did he care? — to tell his hidden chum I was moving.

I drove along the road to Annecy for a mile and then turned left-handed up to the Annecy golf course. I parked with three or four other cars outside the little club house and went in and had lunch. Halfway through, my camera man took a table well away from me and ordered beer and a sandwich. There were only a few other people eating and they had all been there before I arrived. That meant that number two was outside somewhere by now. I took my time. Julia had a longish drive ahead of her, even in the Facel Vega, and various things to do before we met.

Finally I went downstairs, paid a green fee and hired a small bag of clubs from the professional. I was wearing a pullover and thick brown shoes so I had no changing to do, but I went into the dressing room to see a man about a poodle. There was the usual notice over the place asking you not to throw cigarette ends into it. Some wag had added underneath: Cela les rend si vachement difficile a fumer apres.

I was more interested in a camera that was hanging from one of the coat-hooks in the changing room. I didn't examine it, but I made a note of the brown suit jacket which was also on the hook.

When I went outside there was a man tapping balls about on the putting green. He was wearing brown trousers that matched the jacket inside. His shoes were suede moccasins. Never mind, like good policemen, they were doing their best.

They couldn't have anticipated golf. He was a big man, with the height, bulk and look of a de Gaulle but with a nervous, hesitant smile on his face when I nodded to him that would never have done for a man of destiny. He didn't look as though he could say 'Non' to anyone. But appearances are deceptive — or Aristide wouldn't have chosen him. He was going to stick to me. Just for a moment I was tempted to ask him to join me, set the stakes high and hope that I'd got a pigeon. Then I thought of Julia and gave up the pleasure.

I was lucky that I was operating on familiar ground. I'd once spent a memorable month in these parts and played the course a few times. I climbed the flagpole-decorated mound to the first tee and saw that my tail was wandering across to play round after me.

I didn't hurry. I couldn't have done because it was one of those days when I was right off my game. If I'd been playing the whole course — which I wasn't going to do — something in my bones told me that I would never break a hundred. I lost a ball on the first hole, in the long grass of the right-hand slope down to the green. I sliced one out of bounds on the second, over a stone wall and trees into a bungalow garden. On the third, which was a short hole of about two hundred yards, and the farthest outward point on this section of the course, I hit a lucky screamer to within three yards of the green. I wasn't too happy about that because this was the point I had picked for operations. I didn't want par golf, I wanted manly work in the rough, so I took a seven iron and chipped the ball boldly across the green into the bushes ten yards behind it. Then I started to look for it, and couldn't find it naturally. Behind me my tail hit a bad shot halfway down the fairway, and then a few more bad ones, working to the green and giving me time to find my ball and play out.

I stepped back from the bushes and politely waved him through. He had to come. It was a nice spot, low down and far out and not so easy to see from the clubhouse.

My tail holed out on the green, and then, with the camaraderie of an afternoon potterer, strolled across to me to help look for my ball. He came up with that nervous smile that meant nothing except that he wasn't going to lose sight of me, and I hit him, hard, with the side of my hand across his windpipe and again across the side of the neck as he choked and fell back. He went down with a rattle of irons from his bag and stayed down.

I ducked through the bushes and ran. Three hundred yards away, over a field and some small farm plots, was the road to Annecy.

The timing was beautiful. As I hit the road, a horn honked behind me and the Facel Vega came screaming down from the direction of Talloires.

A couple of miles farther on, through Menthon on the road to Annecy, Julia swung hard right up the hill.

I said, 'Where are we going?'

She was driving fast, concentrating, and said without turning, 'I've got a ski-lodge near Megeve. There won't be anyone there.'

'You collected all the things I wanted?'

She nodded.

I'd asked her to hire a projector and a tape recorder as she came through Annecy on her way down. She'd then gone to Talloires and picked up my bag from the hotel and the parcel from the safe at the Auberge du Pere Bise.

When we hit Megeve, some hours later, she stopped in the main street, near the Casino.

She said, 'There's no food in the place. You get coffee and bread. I'll do the rest.'

She was being very brisk and efficient, playing the role of assistant conspirator and enjoying it.

The shopping done, we went out of the town, along the road to Mont Arbois, past the golf course and then a mile further on she swung into a small open drive. Isolated in the middle of a small alp was a neat two-storey chalet, great stones wired to the roof, the facade polished boards, and the pink-and-grey shutters at all the windows cut with little heart-shaped openings. She parked the car round the back on bare gravel and we carried all our stuff in. There was a large main room with a tiled stove in the centre, comfortable chairs and a couple of settees, and an open stairway running up to the top floor. In a way it was not unlike Ansermoz's place.

When all our stuff was dumped in the middle of the floor, I said, 'I want a room to myself for half an hour. Okay?'

'You can take the big spare bedroom.'

I looked at her. She was worth looking at. She wore tight tartan trousers — I wouldn't know what clan, but there was a lot of red and yellow in them — a black sweater and a loose leather coat. On her head was a peaked black cap, shaped like an engine driver's. I could imagine the original photograph of it in Vogue.

She looked good; just the sight of her did things for me — but there was no getting away from the fact that our wavelengths were different. However, I had an idea now of the station she was more or less permanently tuned in to. As though to confirm it, she said, 'What about Otto Libsch?'

I said, 'We'll come to him in good time.'

I lugged the projector, tape recorder and the parcel up to the spare room. I took a sheet off the big bed, hung it across the shuttered window and set up the projector. Then I locked the door and ran the two reels.

They were more or less what I had expected; dramatis personae — Panda Bubakar and, a safe bet for the other two, General Seyfu Gonwalla and Mrs Falia Makse. It had all been shot from a hidden camera somewhere high up in the room. Either Durnford or Tich Kermode, I thought, could have been responsible for that. More probably Tich. As a display of acrobatics it had its limitations; as a fillip for a tired businessman it was just run-of-the-mill stuff, but for private showing to Gonwalla's cabinet it would have been a bomb, particularly under the seat of the Minister for Agriculture. The public image set up for Gonwalla in his country was that of the stern father-figure, determined to stamp out corruption, immorality, and all social and economic evils. Given selective showing in the General's home country, I could see that the film would lead to a speedy change of government. Which, of course, was what O'Dowda was after.

The tape recorded a conversation between the General and Mr Alexi Kukarin. They were very friendly, referring to each other as General and Alexi, and it was all in English. And it had all been taped, I was sure, without their knowledge, otherwise the General would not have offered some of the comments he had about his government colleagues, and Alexi would not have made one or two beefs about his which would have made him very unpopular at home. The meat of the conversation, however, was that Alexi's people would be happy to supply aircraft, arms and equipment against a guaranteed percentage — a large one, and at a cheap rate — of certain minerals, ores and chemical products, simple innocuous things like cobalt, aluminium ore and uranium, which were to be produced eventually by a state-owned monopoly of mineral and mining resources now in process of being established. In addition, Alexi was insistent that no compensation should be paid to existing European concerns already operating in the country. Straight appropriation was the ticket. The General stuck at this one a bit, but Alexi insisted — pointing out that the country had suffered decades of colonial exploitation, and there was no need to be soft-hearted. The General in the end agreed.

I must say that, from the tapes, their characters came over well. Alexi — for all his charm and occasional jokes — had been given a brief and when it came to facts he was diamond-edged. The General was a nice enough chap outside of a bedroom, but he was a bit fuzzy around the edges, wanting things explained more than once. He had to have a big streak of simplicity in him, otherwise he would never have fallen for the invitation to use the Château de la Forclaz. O'Dowda, I knew, had made it open house for visiting members of the government for years and it hadn't occurred to the General to question the propriety of going on using it, as he had no doubt often done in the past when he felt the need for peace and quiet and the stimulating company of old friends like Panda and Mrs Makse. We all of us live and learn. It's a question of the proportion between the two. The General was miles away from ever breaking even.

I dismantled everything, and then packed the film and tape away in the parcel.

Downstairs the stove was alight, the room warm, and bottles and glasses had appeared on a side table. I could hear Julia moving about in the kitchen. I rummaged a desk, found paper and string and rewrapped the parcel. One thing was certain, I didn't want to have it around this place longer than I could help. I addressed it and then poked my head in the kitchen. She was doing something at the side of the sink with meat.

I said, 'Can I borrow your car? I want to go down to Megeve to the post office.'

She looked at her watch. 'It'll be shut.'

I said, 'There are ways round that.'

There was. I went back along the road to the golf course and then turned into the drive of the Hotel Mont d'Arbois. It was pretty deserted because it was almost the end of the season.

I handed the parcel, and a hundred-franc note, to the clerk at the desk and asked him to post it for me. He said it wouldn't go out until the next morning. I said that that was fine, asked if they'd had a good season, was told that it had been so-so, and went.

Going into the chalet it was a nice feeling to think the parcel was well out of my hands. It was nice, too, to see Julia.

She'd changed into the dress she had been wearing in my office the first time we had met; it could have been design or accident. Anyway, just watching her move in it was enough to soothe away the strain of the last few days. I said what would she have and she said a gin-and-Campari with a big slice of lemon and a lot of ice, and it was all there on the table. I poured a stiff whisky for myself. She squatted on the settee, drew her legs up, and took the drink with a polite little nod of her head. Something from the kitchen smelled good.

I said, 'You cook as well?'

'Cordon bleu.'

I said, 'You know why croissants are called croissants?'

'No.'

'Good.'

I stretched out in an armchair and lit a cigarette, sipped my drink and felt the first caress of whisky go lovingly down. All was well with the world, almost.

Almost, because she was giving me her dark-eyed gipsy stare, and I wasn't sure where to begin. Semi-honest, Aristide had called my business. He was right. Well why not, I thought, just for once, just for the hell of it, try straightforward honesty? Why not? It could pay off. It would hurt, of course, but I already had a four-thousand dollar purse to ease the pain. I decided to give it serious thought, later.

I said, 'Can you listen as well as I hope you cook?'

"You're nervous about something,' she said.

'Naturally. I'm considering being entirely honest. That's strange ground for me.'

'Take it a step at a time. It won't spoil what I'm cooking.' I did. She listened well. Summarized it went like this.

At this stage, I said, 'You get that?'

She said, 'Yes. But I'm surprised that Interpol would do a thing like that.'

I said, 'Governments are outside morality. What is devalu- ation but defaulting on your creditors? Governments can short-change but not individuals. To go on to the most important point—'

'And what,' Julia asked, 'do you intend to do with it?'

'It's a testing question, isn't it?'

'Is it?'

'For me, yes. What would you do?'

'Put it on the stove right away.'

'Crisp, positive. If I had it here I might consider it. But it's in safe keeping.'

'That doesn't surprise me. It stops you doing anything impulsive like burning it here and now.'

'Bright girl.'

'Did you enjoy the film?'

I didn't like the way she said it.

I said, 'I've seen better. However, let's come to another point, which is more of a domestic matter. Interpol have another interest in all this — apart from the parcel. Somebody has been writing them anonymous letters about your stepfather.'

'It certainly wasn't me.'

'No, I didn't have you lined up for that. But would you have any idea what the letters might be about?'

She didn't answer, but I was sure that she did have an idea. Before the silence could become embarrassing, I went on, 'All right. Let's approach it another way. You've been wanting to talk about it for a long time. If I'd been on the ball I might have got it from you the first time you came to see me. In a way I'm glad I didn't because it could have complicated things then. Why didn't you tell me right away that Otto Libsch had once been second chauffeur at the château?'

'I didn't see that it was going to help.' She was ready enough with that one, but it was unconvincing.

'Look,' I said, 'I'm on your side. Just give a little. Okay, knowing about Otto at that time wouldn't have helped me much' in the job I had to do. Oh, I can guess how he was linked up with Max. Zelia was the lonely type. Otto drove her around. They talked. She liked him. It was part of his form to have people like him. Maybe he took her to a discotheque or something in Geneva, gave her a pleasant time, and then eventually she met Max, and she kept the whole thing secret because it was her first big romance and that was the way she saw it. Something like that?'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'Well, if so — there would have been no harm in telling me about it in Turin. But you didn't. And I know why.'

'Why?'

'Because you had a different interest in Otto. Right?'

She gave me a long look and then gently nodded her head.

'Good. You had another interest in him, but you weren't sure how to handle it. Not even sure you could tell me about it because you still weren't trusting me. You thought, maybe still think, that any private or confidential information I get I immediately look over to see where there might be a profit in it for me.'

'That's not true!'

'No?'

'No!' Her indignation sounded real and that pleased me.

'In that case, let's have it now. What had Otto got to do with the way your mother died?'

She put her cigarette down slowly and then stood up and came and picked up my empty glass and went to fill it, her back to me. It was a nice back, nice legs, and I liked the way that her dark hair fell about the nape of her neck.

'Slowly, in your own words,' I said, to help her.

Back to me, she began to talk.

'It was over two years ago. We were at the château. My mother told me she was leaving O'Dowda. She was in love with someone else.'

'Who?'

She turned. 'She didn't say. Wouldn't say. I think, maybe, even then, she was scared to. She said we would know very soon. She was leaving first thing in the morning, and Otto was going to drive her to Geneva. This was late at night. I went to bed, and I never saw her again.'

'Why not?'

She came back and put the glass in front of me.

'I was told by my stepfather at noon the next day that she had been drowned in Lake Leman. He said that she had got up early, called for Otto to drive her down to the lake — we kept a couple of speedboats there — and she had gone out with Kermode and the boat had capsized.'

'Was it a likely story?'

'She loved boats and she loved speed. And she liked going out early. Any other morning it was something that could easily have been true. But not that morning. That morning she was due to go off for good with this other man.'

'And her body was never recovered?'

'No. But that happens sometimes in the lake. It's very deep.'

'I see. And Otto swore at the inquiry that he drove her down and saw her go aboard with Kermode?'

'Yes.'

'And Kermode told his story. Speed too high, tight curve, gallant effort to save her and so on?'

'Yes.'

'And you — and Zelia — have had your suspicions of O'Dowda ever since?'

'I think he had her killed.'

'And what about the man she was going away with? Did he ever show?'

'No.'

'And you've no idea who it was?'

'No.' She went and sat down, curling her legs up under her.

'I imagine that Otto left your stepfather's service soon after?'

'Yes.'

I said, 'You like me to tell you who the man was — the man your mother was going away with?'

'How can you possibly know?'

'Some of it's crystal-ball stuff, I'll admit. But not much. It was Durnford—'

'That's impossible!'

'Not, it isn't. We're talking about love, and love comes up with some odd combinations at times. It was Durnford. He's the one who has been writing anonymous letters. His hatred of O'Dowda isn't the ordinary comfortable hatred of a secretary for a millionaire employer. He's so full of hate for your stepfather that he's buzzing around like a wasp trapped against a window pane. He's doing everything he can to bitch up O'Dowda — particularly over this car business. He must have been the one who tipped the Gonwalla crowd off about the film and tape in the first place. He'd do anything to spite O'Dowda. He was going off with your mother and, somehow, O'Dowda found out, and it would suit his sense of humour to get rid of your mother and keep Durnford on, half-knowing that Durnford would guess the truth and wouldn't be able to do anything about it. That's just the situation O'Dowda likes. That's why he has that waxworks. And Durnford has been trying to get at him any way he could. He's worked the ends against the middle so much now that he's got himself tied in a real Turk's Head — and if he's not careful Kermode will take him for a ride when O'Dowda's tired of the whole thing.'

'Durnford… I can't believe it.'

'I can. And I can believe something else. If your stepfather murdered your mother there isn't anything you or anyone else can do about it. Otto's dead, and can't give evidence of perjury. Kermode's alive and won't give evidence. She went to the lake, like they said. It can't be disproved. And that's not just my opinion. I've an idea that Interpol feel that way. So my advice to you is to forget it. You got money of your own?'

'Yes.'

'Then follow Zelia's example. Just get out on your own. Feeling as you do, you can't go on living under his roof.'

'That's just what I've done.'

'Done?'

'Yes. I'd have done it before, but this Zelia thing came up. But when you telephoned me yesterday I was packing to leave. This chalet belongs to me. I was coming up here anyway for a few days to settle things in my mind.'

'Did you tell O'Dowda you were leaving him?'

'Yes, in a letter which I left with Durnford… Durnford. I can't believe it.'

'I'll bet on it. Did you mention anything of your reason in the letter?'

'No. But he won't have difficulty in reading between the lines. And I don't care a damn if he does.'

She stood up, smoothing the dress wrinkles over her thighs.

'Life's complicated,' I said. 'For the most part I like it that way. All this parcel business and then your mother… Whew, what a tangle. Sometimes a return to simple things is therapeutic. I'll pick the parcel up first thing in the morning and destroy it.'

She smiled for the first time, holding out her hands to the heat of the stove.

'You will?'

'I'll go and get it now if you like.'

'No, the morning will do. I'm not having the meal spoiled.'

She moved towards the kitchen door, then half-turned, her face serious again.

'You really think it's hopeless to do anything about… well, about my mother?'

'O'Dowda's a millionaire. He knows how to be careful. He can buy and sell, not only people, but truth. My advice is to forget it all. If he did it, it's written in the book against him and one day the charge will come home to roost. But there's nothing you can do.'

She nodded and went into the kitchen.

It was a good meal. We had tranches de mouton done in brandy and served with a puree of spinach, and then spent a pleasant evening together.

When we went up to bed, she stopped at her door and she said, 'You really are going to get that parcel and destroy it, aren't you?'

'First thing in the morning.'

She moved close to me and put her arms around my neck. I had to do something with my arms so I put them around her.

She kissed me, and a little carillon of bells began to tinkle at the back of my skull. She drew back and looked into my eyes.

I said, 'What's that for?'

She smiled 'To say I'm sorry for having been mixed up about you. You're not a bit like you want people to think you are.'

She kissed me again and then I held her away from me.

I said, 'You've no idea what I'm like, given the right stimulus. And it's working now.' I reached round her, opened her door, kissed her, fought against the one thing I had in mind, won, and gently armed her into the room. I pulled the door shut and, from the outside, said, 'Lock it. Sometimes I walk in my sleep.'

I waited until I heard the key turn. Then I went into my own room, telling myself that just for once I would do things in their right order. I wanted that parcel out of the way, destroyed, first. I knew me too well. I could have gone into the room with her, and had second thoughts about the parcel in the morning. After all, it was worth a hell of a lot of money, and money is real, so many other things fade and wither.

Before I undressed, I got out my four thousand dollars and hid the notes spread flat under the linoleum. If I were going to do the proper thing and all was to be right between us I knew hat I would be back here soon. And if things didn't go right, well, it would still be here. After all, every winning fighter is entitled to his fairly won purse money.

I was down at the Hotel Mont Arbois by eight o'clock the next morning to get my parcel before it was collected by the mail. I was too late. The post had gone. Well, I should just have to collect it at Evian — where I had posted it to myself poste restante. I drove slowly in the Facel Vega, wondering why I was throwing away the chance to collect a few more easy thousands for myself. So far as I could see it wasn't going to do me any good. I couldn't even detect the slightest beginning of any spiritual change in myself. Why was I doing it? Clearly, just to get a good standing in Julia's eyes. Some day, I thought, I might find myself in circumstances where I could do something out of pure principle, and no strings attached. It would be interesting to see how I felt then.

I parked the car round the back and hurried into the kitchen, looking forward to coffee and eggs and bacon. There was a good smell of coffee from the pot on the stove, but no sign of breakfast or Julia. I went up to her bedroom. The bed was made, but all her clothes and her suitcase had gone. In my room the bed had been made up.

I went down to the big main room, puzzled. On the table where the drinks were an envelope was propped against one of the bottles. I tore it open.

It was from Panda Bubakar.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself some coffee and sat on the table, thinking.

I had an idea that all this had stemmed from Durnford trying to free himself from the Turk's Head he'd got tangled in. He was prepared now to do anything to muck O'Dowda up and wasn't giving a thought to any consequences. If he couldn't get the parcel from me he was prepared to help Najib to get it. Anything so long as O'Dowda didn't get it.

I called the Château de la Forclaz and got him.

I told him where I was and went on, 'Did you know Miss Julia was going to be here?'

'Yes. Before she left she asked me to forward any mail to her there.'

'And you told Najib where he could find her?'

'What I do is my own business.'

'Well, all I can say is don't go out in any speedboat with Tich Kermode. You've made a real old muck of things. Where's O'Dowda?'

'He's back here and he wants to see you.'

'I'll bet he does. Tell him I'll be along pretty soon. Has he read Julia's letter?'

'What letter?'

'The one in which she says she's finished with him.'

After a pause, he said, 'Yes.'

'Pity.'

I rang off.

O'Dowda, knowing now that Julia had cut adrift from him, wasn't likely to consider that Najib and company had any great bargaining pawn in her. O'Dowda wanted that parcel badly. He wouldn't care a damn what happened to Julia — and plenty could happen to her because Najib was playing for high stakes on the General's behalf.

I fried myself an egg and did some more thinking. It didn't get me anywhere. Then I went up and packed my things, including the ritzy pyjamas. I had a fair idea why Panda and Najib had not waited for me to come back from the hotel.

They weren't interested in talking to me. They would go straight to O'Dowda himself.

Only one thing was clear to me. I had the parcel, and I didn't intend that any harm should come to Julia. That meant that I would have to hand it over to Najib. O'Dowda wasn't going to like that, and neither was Aristide. Both of them would do all they could to stop me. For the time being I decided that it would be best to leave the parcel sitting waiting for me at the Evian post office until I had got things straightened out.

I locked up the chalet and drove off in the Facel Vega. It was a good thing that I hadn't got the parcel with me. Just this side of Cluses, I was flagged down by a couple of police types on motor cycles. They were very polite, checked my papers, and then went over the car inch by inch. Disappointed, they asked me where I was going. I wasn't quite sure, but to keep them happy I said the Château de la Forclaz. They waved me on with a couple of gallant Gallic flourishes and sat on my tail for the next ten miles. But they must have been busy on the radio because, as I came down to Thonon on the side of the lake, a couple of fresh motor-cycle types appeared, slowed me down, took up station one at bow and one at stern, and escorted me into the town and on to the Quai de Rives where they pulled up. Aristide was waiting in a shabby old blue saloon.

He got out, dismissed the police, and came back to me and invited me across the road for a drink. He ordered a Pernod for himself and a beer for me and gave me a warm smile. The cornflower in his buttonhole was faded and he had cut himself in a different place on his chin shaving.

'Nice job you did at the golf course,' he said.

'I thought it was neat.'

'You have girls all over France you can call on for help?'

'Quite a few — but I'm not giving away any addresses. I'm not in a giving-away mood.'

'Pity. You spent last night with this Miss Julia Yunge-Brown?'

'Yes. She's a cordon bleu cook, and we had tranches de mouton with brandy. I don't know how she cooked it, but it took about two hours.'

He nodded. 'Could have been a la Poitevine. Should have had garlic with it. If only a touch.'

'It did.'

'Where is she now?'

'I don't know. I went for a stroll before breakfast and when I got back she had gone. A friend of ours left this note.'

I handed him Panda's note. He studied it without emotion and then put it in his pocket. 'What is so special about the pyjamas?'

'The design is made up of the flags of all nations.'

'Julia picked up the parcel for you, of course? I should have thought about the Auberge du Pere Bise. And now you have safely disposed of it?'

'Yes.'

'Good. I would not want to think that anyone else could get their hands on it. That would be unfortunate for you.'

'Naturally, until I can hand it over in exchange for Julia.'

He shook his head.

'You are taking far too chivalrous a view.'

'If I didn't she could end up floating in a lake. General Gonwalla, fond though he may be of girls, isn't all that soft-hearted. He wants to keep his power seat warm, so he won't mind who he shoves out into the cold.'

'Power, politics — they are the bane of my life. It is nice to concentrate on simple things like murder, theft, forgery. Unfortunately one cannot always choose. I have the strictest instructions to obtain the parcel. Following your request, my organization have agreed to make a payment for it.' He sighed. 'Until now, I thought that it would be a simple matter of bargaining between the two of us. You would not have got the price Gonwalla or O'Dowda might have paid, but since your heart is in the right place I know you would have foregone the extra profit in order to do me a favour. Now it is very much complicated by this kidnapping — and becomes very difficult for you.'

'You think so?'

'I know so, and so do you. I must have the parcel for my employers. They insist, ruthlessly. Gonwalla may be ruthless and O'Dowda, too, but theirs is a personal form of ruthlessness. It does not approach the ruthlessness of an amorphous organization like a government or group of governments using a perfectly legitimate international organization. No individual would be personally responsible for the girl's death — not that we shan't try to find her and release her, of course — because it would be a bureaucratic necessity. It is very sad, is it not?' He drained his Pernod and called for another.

'You expect me to hand the parcel over and let what may happen happen to Julia?'

'That's what I've been saying.'

'You know that I won't bloody well do that!'

'I know that you will try to find a way around it.'

'What way?'

'That is up to you. I have no objection to anything you do, so long as I get the parcel. If I don't get it, you know, of course, what will happen to you?'

'Go ahead. Frighten me.'

'It will be out of my hands, of course. Happily another department will deal with it, so I shall have no guilt feelings. But you will be eliminated — out of pure bureaucratic pique, of course. I don't suggest that they will do it in any sadistic way, or make it particularly lingering. They will do it quickly and it will look like an accident. You are not naive enough to think I'm being flippant about this?'

I wasn't. He was pressuring me, but behind the pressure was a fact, a simple, frightening fact. They would do just as he was promising. As a bureaucratic necessity. I would have to go. It was a straightforward situation. I had the parcel. If I gave it to Najib in return for Julia — then I would go. If I gave it to O'Dowda (which I couldn't see myself doing) — then it was ditto, with the addition of Julia. And if I gave it to Aristide, which I could do by motoring a few miles up the lakeside, then Julia would go because Gonwalla would have to make someone pay for the trouble that lay ahead of him. All I had to do was to find some way of getting my hands on Julia, freeing her, and then handing the parcel over to Aristide. That was all. Simple. I ordered myself a Pernod. Beer was too insipid in the circumstances.

Aristide watched me in silence. I downed the Pernod much too fast and stood up.

'I will have to think about this.'

'Naturally. You have my telephone number. Just call me.'

'And what,' I asked, 'are you doing about the other aspect of this O'Dowda affair?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'That is a simple matter of murder. I have had instructions to leave it in abeyance until this far more important matter is settled. You are, I imagine, going to the château?'

'Yes.'

'Then please don't mention to O'Dowda our interest in this affair. That is between us.'

'Of course, I wouldn't do anything to embarrass you.'

He grinned. 'That is the correct attitude.'

It would have been nice to sock him on the nose before leaving. But it wouldn't have done any good. He had nothing to do with it. He was just a cipher. He took his pay and went through the prescribed motions and when he went home at night everything dropped from him, leaving him stainless. Just wipe the knife down with a wet rag and you couldn't tell that it had been used. As long as the correct official form had been made out, endorsed by the right department, and neatly filed in the correct cabinet, then there was nothing to worry about.

I drove along the lake as far as Evian, and then I phoned the château and got hold of Durnford. I asked if O'Dowda was around. He wasn't. He had gone to Geneva for the day. I told Durnford I was coming along to see him.

The last person I wanted to run into at the moment was O'Dowda.

I parked on the gravel outside the château, went in and across the big marbled floor to Durnford's office. He was sitting in a swivel chair, staring at a green filing cabinet, smoking, and, from the ash scattered down his waistcoat front, he'd been in that position for a long time. He just cocked his head at me as I came in and then went on staring.

I sat down and lit a cigarette. There was a photograph behind the desk of O'Dowda on the shores of some loch holding up a pike that must have gone all of thirty pounds.

I said, 'This is a purely private talk between us. We won't go into the muck-up you've made of things. We'll just stick to some straight answers — from you. Okay?'

He nodded and then reached down and produced a glass from an open desk drawer at his side. He took a generous swig, blinked his eyes at the filing cabinet and put the glass back.

'How long have you been on that?'

'Since lunchtime.'

'Then just knock it off until we've finished our business. First of all — have you had any communication from Najib Alakwe today?'

'No.'

'Did you know that he's grabbed Julia — and she isn't coming back until I hand over the parcel from the car?'

'No.' He didn't seem much interested. Well, whisky can Hunt the susceptibilities of the best of us.

'When you've wanted to get in touch with Najib in the past, how have you done it?'

He said, 'That's my business.'

I said, 'It's my business now. I want to know and I'm in the mood where I don't mind beating up a man some years older than myself. So give.'

He considered it for a while, then turned and fished in another drawer and passed a card across to me. I looked at it and wondered how many different kinds Najib had. It was the usual Mr Najib Alakwe, Esquire, of the import, export and specialities line, but this time there was an address in Geneva. I had to turn it over. You never knew what gem the Alakwe brothers were coming up with. I wasn't disappointed. The motto read: A bon entendeur il ne faut que demi parole. Well, I was hoping to have more than half a word with Najib — and soon.

Without looking at me, he said, 'All you had to do was to let me have the parcel, or destroy it.'

I said, 'I was going to destroy it — but you spoilt that. Things are a bit more complicated now.'

He shook his head. 'You would have kept it. Made money from it. I know you.'

'That's what I thought myself — but it didn't work out that way.' I stood up. 'You want some advice?'

'Not particularly.' He sounded completely apathetic, not the crisp number I had first known.

'Pack up and get out of here, get a long way away from O'Dowda. You were going to do it once with her and he bitched you. You should have done it on your own after that.'

He looked up suddenly, his eyes blinking.

'How did you know that?'

'It was a guess — until this moment.'

'He murdered her.'

'I'm inclined to agree. But there's nothing you can do about it. After what you've done, and when he learns the full story, you need to be thinking about your own skin.'

He said, 'I think I may kill him.'

I said, 'I wish I could think that was a firm promise. But when the whisky is finished your only concern will be how to get rid of a hangover.'

'Tich Kermode did it. He's an evil bastard — worse than O'Dowda. They get drunk sometimes, those two. Shut themselves up in that bloody great waxworks room with all the people O'Dowda hated. You can hear them laughing and pounding around. I kept it from the girls for years and years… but they knew in the end… That's why they've left him.'

I made for the door. Then, a thought occurring to me, I said, 'Have you got a gun?'

'Gun?'

Why do drunks always have to give off echoes?

'Yes, a gun. It could be that I might need one — and for sure you won't.'

I think he fancied that I might be going to use it on O'Dowda because he cooperated by opening another drawer and tossing a gun to me. It's not an action I like. Guns are full of gremlins. I looked at it and said, 'What the hell's this?'

'It's all I've got,' he said, as he handed over to me a box of ammunition.

It was a .22 compressed-air pistol, powered by a Sparklet compressed air tube which gave about forty shots at somewhere around a muzzle velocity of four hundred feet per second. It could be nasty and looked like the real thing. I'd used one in Miggs's shooting range before. I hoped that it would be good enough to impress Najib and make him hand over Julia.

I went back to the car and sent up a fine shower of gravel going down the long drive. I wanted to be clear of the place before O'Dowda got back.

It was dark as I rode into Geneva. The address I had was in a cul-de-sac just off the Rue des Vollandes and not far from the Gare des Eaux-Vives. It was a top-floor flat and had a blue door painted with diagonal yellow stripes and when I thumbed the bell-push chimes inside played a simple melody that was vaguely familiar.

As I stood there trying to remember what it was, the door opened and Najib appeared. He'd gone back to his old style of dressing, ginger shoes, cream linen suit, red shirt and a yellow tie with garlands of multi-coloured roses trailing over it. It was a bit of a shock but I kept the air pistol firmly pointing at him.

'I'd like to come in,' I said.

The brown face beamed, the smudge nose crinkled, and the whiter shade of white teeth flashed.

'Certainly, Mr Carver. Damn glad to see you again. Welcome to not so humble abode.'

I said, 'You lead the way and cut out the music-hall patter.'

He went ahead of me down a softly carpeted hallway into a large sitting room. Not so humble it was. The furniture was all upholstered in black velvet, the carpet was pearly grey with great whorls of red in it. The curtains were green and the walls were covered with a paper that imitated great chunks of granite with thick white plaster marks in the joins. There was a sideboard nearly six feet long, covered with bottles and the things that go with them, a long table untidy with magazines, the covers of which were showing a lot of female flesh, and the place reeked of Turkish tobacco.

Najib turned, waved a hand around, and said, 'You like? No? Tastes differ. Some people say, just like a whore's parlour. Personally I have found many such parlours very comfortable and entertaining. What is your favourite tipple, sir?'

'My favourite tipple,' I said, 'is a large whisky and soda which I'll fix in case you have any poison around. Personally I'm hoping that it's not a drink I shall have to linger over because I want my business cleared up smartly. Also, please cut out all the babu talk. You're probably a D.Litt. and, no doubt, could start at Chaucer while I pegged off at Shakespeare and beat me handsomely through to T. S. Eliot. So let's stick to a reasonable syntax, Najib, eh?'

He gave me that big, wide-open smile, and said, 'Actually, it's BSc (Econ.) but I have not neglected the arts. Also, we should get the names right. I am disappointed that you have such a bad memory for faces. I am Mr Jimbo Alakwe, Esquire.'

I was so surprised that he went and fixed my drink for me while I got over it. When I had recovered and the drink was in my hand, I said, 'What the hell are you doing here?'

'Temporary posting. Najib has a lot on his hands. Also, remember I now work for Mr O'Dowda so have to be on the spot.'

'You don't mean he actually took you on?'

'Why not? He doesn't trust me, but he likes to know where I am. Also, if he gets false information from me about affairs in my country, he probably guesses it is false and can make something from it. Wrong information can be as revealing as correct information. Mr O'Dowda is prepared to pay for both. Needless to say, my loyalty, is to my country. I am inordinately proud of that. One of the things, I feel, which prevent you from becoming a success is that you have no loyalty to anyone but yourself. That can only lead to limited profits. What is your asking price for the parcel?' He held up a hand and went on quickly, 'Naturally the girl will be returned as well, but I realize that you will want something for yourself. But not as much, of course, as though we didn't have the girl.'

I said, 'No money passes. And no parcel passes. I want the girl.'

'I think,' said Jimbo, 'we had better discuss this situation a little more fully.'

'Let us do that,' I said, and sat down on a soft-sprung chair.

Jimbo reached for a cigarette box. As he opened the lid it began to play a tune. He grinned at me.

'Au clair de la lune. The toilet container in this place plays Sur le pont d'Avignon. This is really Panda's flat. You like her?'

'She's a great girl. Good swimmer, too. I'd like to know how she and Najib knew I was at Ansermoz's chalet, by the way.'

'It was very simple. They lost you so they made a phone call to the house. You answered the phone. Remember — you said to the woman caller that Max was in Cannes. So they knew you were there. After that they kept an eye on you from a safe distance.' He smiled. 'A man travelling fast, dreaming of profit, should look behind him occasionally.'

I said, 'You ought to print that on one of your cards.'

'Maybe.'

I stood up. 'All right, let's have a look round. You go ahead and don't make any sudden movements.'

He showed me round the flat. It was furnished throughout in Panda taste and it wasn't difficult to guess that she used the place for her professional entertaining. The whole place was probably wired for sound and film. One thing it didn't have, however, was any sign of Julia.

I took Jimbo back into the sitting room and he sat down and helped himself to another musical cigarette and waved his hand at the drinks for me to help myself.

Bottle in hand, I said, 'All right — she's not here. Where is she?'

He polished his ebony chin with the tips of his fingers and said, 'If I knew I wouldn't tell you, but the sad fact is that I don't know.'

'Why sad?'

'Because it shows that Najib, in a most unbrotherly way, doesn't altogether trust me. I have no means either of communicating with him. He phones me when he needs me. So please don't bother to exert yourself with any physical measures to make me talk. I have nothing to say. That is the most honest statement I have made for some weeks.'

I wondered. Then I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He realized it and gave me a sympathetic nod of his head.

'I should say, however, Mr Carver, that I am authorized to discuss details for a satisfactory exchange. What price were you thinking of?'

'I wasn't. I don't intend to do any deal.'

'Unchivalrous. She is a very beautiful girl, and — a little bird says — has some tenderness for you. Just think — for a parcel which is of no importance to you intrinsically you can earn yourself, say, a thousand guineas and her release. She will be delighted and, no doubt, eventually show her gratitude in the one way which constantly occupies men's minds. I am assuming, of course, that you still have the parcel and that it is in a safe place?'

I said, 'You can assume that. But you're not getting the parcel. Nobody's getting it.'

He shook his head. 'Not us, not Mr O'Dowda, or Interpol?' He gave me a big beaming smile of disbelief. 'You are, as they say, on the horns of a dilemma. A most unusual one, too, because this beast has three horns. I am sad for you. It is a predicament I should not like to be in myself. As I say, she is a very beautiful young woman. What you call, I think, the Celtic type… No, no, perhaps Romany would be the word.'

He was right, of course. Not only about her physical type, but about my dilemma. At that moment I did not know which way to turn, what to do or where to go. Just for a moment I did reconsider using force on him in the hope that he might know more than he professed, but it was only for a moment. I could have taken him, but I didn't think he would speak before he passed out. Jimbo was a resolute type, inordinately proud of his loyalty.

I finished my drink and made for the door.

'Just sit there,' I said.

He nodded.

I went down the hallway and out. As I closed the door of the flat the solution to one question, at least, came to me. I realized that the tune the doorbell had played was 'Happy Birthday to You'.

A few minutes later, as I was about to get into the Facel Vega parked in the cul-de-sac outside the flat, Tich Kermode dubbed me over the back of the head and O'Dowda grabbed me like a sack of potatoes before I could hit the pavement. I passed out without protest.