The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(104)

‘Oh, goodness, yes,’ I hastened to say, ‘goodness yes. Indeed, I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of meeting your Mr Ho. Ah? That’s really why I’ve sort of taken out insurance. I mean, I’ve a simple-minded sort of mind, you understand, no trace of a death-wish or any of that rubbish: self-preservation is so much more fun than self-destructiveness, don’t you agree? Eh? Or rather, “Ah”, eh?’

‘What sort of precautions have you taken, Mr Mortdecai?’

‘Oh, well, I’ve sort of entrusted the toothpowder to the US Mails: an incorruptible lot, I’m told. Neither frost nor sleet nor trade unions prevents these messengers from etc. And it’s gone to a safe address. Old-fashioned, I know, but the best I could think of at the time. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Mr Mortdecai,’ he murmured suavely, pouring me another cup of delicious tea, ‘if you have met my subordinate, Mr Ho, you must surely rearize that this safe address can be ericited from you in ress time than it takes to say what I am saying.’

‘Oh, my word, yes; I quite understand that, but the address is no secret at all, you may have it for the asking. It’s the Commercial Attaché at the British Embassy in Washington – he doubles in security co-ordination or whatever they call it now, as I’m sure you know. Old school-friend of mine; knows my face, you see. I sort of worked for him in the 1940s if you know what I mean. He’s quite potty about security, wouldn’t dream of handing the package to anyone but me. And I mean, me unaccompanied, of course. And if I didn’t say the right sort of words he’d give me a cosy bedroom in the Embassy for as long as I needed it. You see?’

He thought a while but without ostentation.

‘I see,’ he said. (An English chap would have said ‘Yes, I see, I see,’ but your actual Oriental is economical with words.)

‘How much do you want?’ he asked.

‘Money?’ I asked disdainfully. ‘Nothing at all. Still less, God forbid, any part of that costly tooth-powder, for I fancy I know what happens to people who own such things when other people wish to own them. No, all I wish is a little information. I have become tired and vexed, you see, at being used as a cat’s-paw in matters about which I know nothing. This prodding from random directions insults my intelligence. I am prepared to fight under almost any flag if the money is good, but I do need to have a squint at the flag first. I am too overweight to play, ah, silly buggers.’

I could tell by the way he mused over this that he was a clever man. How much cleverer than me he was, of course, remained an open question.

‘That is quite understandable, Mr Mortdecai,’ he said at last, ‘and it seems to me that your case-officer has been running you without a proper regard for your interrigence and, ah, other quarities. I agree that you should be given a view of the frag under which you are fighting – but you rearise that I must first get a little crearance. Ah?’

‘Ah,’ I agreed. He invited me to his office. We entered. That sounds easy, but entering the office of a clandestine Chinese gentleman seems to involve being goggled at through peepholes, scanned by metal-detectors and listening to the office-owner murmur into voice-sensitive locks – all that stuff which so destroys the quality of life nowadays. Death, too, now I come to think of it. He gave me a glass of the actual John Smith’s Glenlivet to sip while he dialled a number so prodigal in digits that it had to be somewhere far, far away. His polite stare at me while he waited for his connection bore no trace of hostility but it had the effect of making me feel far, far away from home and loved ones; one would have thought that he was costing me out in terms of coffin-wood – or perhaps concrete and baling-wire. I let my tummy sag out fully, hoping to make myself look less cost-effective. The telephone crackled at last.

‘Harro!’ he said. ‘ … may make more noise,’ I murmured, for I can never resist finishing a quotation. His stare at me sharpened and he switched into a language which sounded like a malicious send-up of a Welsh newsreader but was, I suppose, one of the many brands of Chinese. He clacked and grunted and fluted awhile then listened intently while similar noises from his interlocutor made the instrument positively vibrate in his hand. This went on for a time then, in beautifully-modulated but outdated French, he said, ‘D’accord. Au’voir, re copain.’ Showing off, I suppose. Having replaced the receiver he said to me, ‘Would you rike to wash your hands, Mr Mortdecai?’ I inspected said members: they were indeed sweating profusely. How had he known?

Returning from his richly but curiously appointed lavatory, I moved into the attack.

‘Well, Mr Ree?’ were the stormtrooper words which spearheaded my attack.

‘Thankyou, yes,’ he replied. My attack was wiped out. I felt just like an infantry subaltern who has thrown away a platoon against a machine-gun emplacement he forgot to mark on his map. (Listening to the Colonel’s remarks afterwards is not nearly so unpleasant as sitting down to write twenty letters to next-of-kin while the people in the Orderly Room pretend you’re not there. The worst bit is when your batman brings you your dinner to the foxhole or bivvy-tent, saying ‘Thought you might be too tired to dine in Mess tonight. Sir.’ But I reminisce.)

Having delivered the devastating ‘thankyou, yes,’ Mr Lee or Ree fell silent, studying me again. I did not break this silence; I felt that it was his move.