The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(111)

‘Well,’ he growled into my ear, just loudly enough to overcome the roosting-starlings noise of next year’s gang-bang material, ‘Well, give me the dirt, Mr Mortdecai.’

‘You’re going to think I’m an idiot,’ I began.

He looked at me strangely. ‘I wouldn’t touch a straight line like that to save my soul,’ he said.

I pretended not to have heard. ‘You see, that package of powder, the one I collected from the aircraft; well, I sort of took out a little life insurance. I made up a duplicate package full of baby-powder – how they stared in the drug-store! – and put them both into envelopes and posted them by special delivery to a safe place. When I was satisfied that the chap who contacted me was the right chap I got them out of the safe place and gave one to the chap in question as arranged.’ I wasn’t watching Blucher’s face but I swear I could hear his eyes narrowing. ‘Which package?’ he asked in a narrow-eyed sort of voice.

‘That’s the trouble,’ I wailed convincingly, ‘I don’t know. You see, I marked them “A” and “B” – respectively – but when it came to the crunch I simply couldn’t remember which was “A”. Nor, if it comes to that, which was “B”.’ We fell silent. The schoolmarm was droning on usefully about Palma Vecchio although the picture she was discussing was clearly labelled Palma Giovane. It didn’t matter: no one was listening. The nymphets were ganging up on us quite terrifyingly, I began to realize what hell it must be to be a pop-singer. Blucher had one hand pressed to his jacket, where the shoulder-holster lives, another on the zip of his trousers or pants.

‘The awful thing is,’ I went on, ‘that the original package, as I think you pointed out, may well only have been tooth-powder in the first place, so there is a fair chance that my er contact …’

‘Mr Lee,’ he interjected helpfully.

‘Or Ree,’ I agreed, ‘is going to be very very cross with me and that you too are going to suspect that I have not played a straight bat.’

‘Yes,’ he said. That was all he said.

The teacher moved on to another work of some choice and master spirit, shooting hateful glances at us and a few despairing ones at her pupils. We followed. I murmured into Blucher’s ear almost all of what Mr Ree had told me. He turned and stared.

‘And you believe that?’ he asked in an incredulous voice.

‘Well, it fits all the facts so far,’ I said, swatting behind me at a gently-nurtured teenager who was being impertinent to me with an electrical vibrator, ‘but if you have a more plausible scenario I shall be delighted to hear it.’ He thought, then started – nay leapt into the air as though a great insight had come to him.

‘An insight?’ I asked in my polite voice.

‘No, a schoolgirl. Let’s please get to hell out of this place, please, please? I never knew that schoolgirls could be like this, did you?’

‘Well, yes, I did; but then I read dirty books, you see, Colonel.’

There’s nothing in a remark like that for chaps like Blucher. He boggled a moment then reiterated his request that we should get out. I fell in with his wishes. We got. We also took a taxi-cab – I let him choose it this time – to an eating-place where they solds us things to eat which tasted like dead policemen on toast. Blucher, clearly, was musing as he ingested his share of the garbage (the coffee in such places is often good; drink lots of it with your food; it’s hell on the ulcers but it takes away the taste). I, too, was musing as frantically as a man can muse, for it was evident to my trained mind that the Blind Fury with the Abhorrèd Shears was sharpening them up for a snip at the Mortdecai life-span. I say again that I am not especially afraid of death, for the best authorities tell us that it is no more painful and undignified than birth, but I do feel that I’d like to have a say in the when and where and how. Particularly the ‘how’.

‘Blucher,’ I said, pushing away my tepid and scarcely-touched platter, ‘Blucher, it seems to me that there are few, if any, chaps with an interest in keeping me alive. I wish to stay alive, for reasons which I shall not trouble you with at present. Your suggestions would be welcome.’ He turned his face to me, gave one last chew at whatever was in his mouth and looked at me gravely. There was a trickle of greasy gravy on his chin.

‘There is a trickle of greasy gravy on your chin,’ I murmured. He wiped it off. ‘What was that again?’ he asked.

‘I said,’ I said, ‘that it would be nice to stay alive and could you perhaps give me a few ideas.’ This time he looked blank, then almost friendly. He turned to the short-order cook or assistant-poisoner and called for more coffee and a toothpick. Then he turned back to me. His face was now benign – I’d never have dreamed that he could command so many expressions in so short a time. ‘You know, Mr Mortdecai, I like you, I really do. We could use a few hundred guys like you in this country.’ With that, he reached out and kneaded my shoulder in a brotherly sort of a way. His hand was large and hard but I did not wince nor cry aloud.

‘About the staying-alive thing … ?’ I asked. His face went grave again and he shook his head slowly and compassionately.

‘No way,’ he said.





19 Mortdecai finds himself in possession of some art-work which he could well do without and learns about policemen’s widows and fishcakes