The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(101)
‘Charlie.’
‘Yes?’
‘Remember when I coaxed you to have that vasectomy done just after we were married?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that cute little clinic?’
‘Yes.’
They did not perform a vasectomy.’
‘Good God!’ I cried, appalled. ‘Why, I might have had a baby!’
‘I don’t think so, dear. What they did do was implant in your, uh, groin a tiny explosive capsule with a quartz-decay time-system. It explodes in, let’s see, ten days time. Only the guy who put it in can take it out without activating a kind of fail-safe mechanism, so please don’t let anyone meddle with it: I kind of like you as you are, you know? Hey, Charlie, are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ I said heavily. ‘Very well. Just give me those flight numbers again. And Johanna?’
‘Yes dear?’
‘Tell the chap who knows how to take the gadget out of me to be very, very careful crossing the road, eh?’
16 Mortdecai takes a little more drink than is good for him and is frightened by a competent frightener
Being of noble fostering, I glance
Lightly into old Laggan’s ingle-nook …
Rabbits or snipe-fowl – even nicer things:
Has any longer title – God-remitted?
The Old Poacher
I stayed not upon the order of my going, nor even to lose my ￡1000 at the tables in far-famed Macao, but crammed everything – well, almost everything – into my suitcase and went down to the desk to pay my bill and book a ticket on the night-flight. The desk-clerk – how is it that they all contrive to look the same? – said that he had something in the safe for me. Had there been anywhere to run to I daresay I would have run. As it was, I made a nonchalant ‘Oh, ah?’ The desk-chap twiddled the safe and fished out a stout envelope; it was addressed in a scrawly hand to ‘The Friend of the Poor’ and the clerk had omitted to remove the clipped-on piece of paper which read ‘For the overweight, Jewish-looking guy who wears his collar back to front and drinks too much.’ I am not proud, I opened the envelope: it contained a note saying ‘Dear Father, I played your dough at the craps table and made five straight passes and then faded a couple other shooters taking the odds and got lucky and I taken 5% for my time and trouble and I hope the poor will offer up a prayer for yours truly …’ The other contents of the envelope were a quite improbable wodge of currency notes of all nations. Hotels like the one I had been staying at have, of course, all-night banking facilities: I bought a cashier’s cheque for my winnings (and most of my ￡1000 walking-about money) and sent it to the poor, as my conscience dictated. The only poor I could think of at the time was C. Mortdecai in Upper Brook Street, London, W1. I shall always remember that nice American as the only honest man I have ever met.
Painlessly gaining the price of another Rembrandt etching for the rainy-day scrap-book usually has a soothing effect on the nerve-endings but, long before my taxi-cab dumped me at the airport, I was quaking again. This was not necessarily a bad thing; had I been able to put a bold front on I would certainly have been apprehended as an obvious malefactor but, twitching with terror as I was, the customs chaps and security thugs wafted me through as a clear case of St Vitus’ Dance or Parkinson’s Disease – well-known occupational hazards among Curial Secretaries.
All went as merrily as a wedding-bell until the penultimate leg of the journey: Paris to New York, via Air France. A little too merrily, indeed, for by then I was a bit biffed – you know, a little the worse for my dinner, which had been several courses of Scotch whisky – and on my journey to the lavatory or toilet I sat, quite inadvertently, on the laps of several of my fellow-passengers. Their reactions varied from ‘Ooh, aren’t you bold!’ via ‘Ach, du lieber Augustin’ to ‘Pas gentil, ?a!’, while one impassive Chinese gentleman ignored me completely, pretending that his lap was quite free of any Mortdecai. Having at last locked myself in the loo or bog, I found that I had failed to arm myself with the necessary screwdriver with which to unscrewdrive the inspection-plate.
Back to my seat I teetered, watched narrowly now by the stewardess. When she came to enquire after my well-being I had decided upon a ruse: I would tell her that the zip of my trousers was jammed and that she must find me a screwdriver so that I could free the Mortdecai plumbing system. Alas, my usual fluent French deserted me – look, can you remember the French for ‘screwdriver’ when you’re biffed? – and I had to resort to a certain amount of sign-language, pointing vigorously at my fly while vociferating the word ‘screwdriver’ again and again. Her English was little better than my French.
‘ “Screw” I onderstand,’ she said demurely ‘but what is zis “draivaire”, hein?’
‘ “Draivaire”,’ I said wildly, ‘ “drivaire” is like, yes, conducteur!’ and again I frantically pointed at that area of my trousers where my personal lightning-conductor is housed. She clapped her hands gleefully as understanding came to her.
‘Ah! Now I onderstand! You weesh me to tell the conducteur – the pilot – that you weesh to do to him what Général de Gaulle has done to the whole French nation, not so?’