The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(112)

Gigantic daughter of the West,

We drink to thee across the flood …





Hands All Round





I am not one to whimper, for I have found that it does one no good. I did not even wet myself, although the provocation was intense. I lit a nonchalant cigarette, using only four matches and only slightly burning my valuable Sulka necktie. Blucher, clearly impressed by my British sang-froid, offered a sturdy word or two of comfort.

‘Until I contact the Controller of my Agency,’ he said, ‘I have no orders to, uh, effect termination on you. Like I said, I kind of like you. I’d say you had maybe eighty or ninety minutes before any such orders reach me. Until then, you can reckon that anyone shooting at you is on the side of the bamboo-shoot and water-chestnut princes.’

‘Goodbye,’ I said, rising.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

Outside on the pavement I felt curiously naked; I had never before felt so keen a desire for a pair of blue spectacles, a false nose and a large ginger beard, but it was now too late to regret such elementary precautions. A courteous cab sped me to the airport in something less than a hundred years. By the time I had retrieved my suitcase and booked into a London flight my hair had, I was sure, whitened noticeably around the roots.

So far as I could see there was not a single Chinese person on the aircraft. It was not until just before take-off that Mr Lee and a young compatriot boarded. Neither of them looked at me. If it comes to that, I didn’t look at them after the first time, I glared straight ahead like a driver who has been stopped for speeding and doesn’t much want the policeman to get a sniff of his breath.

I offered myself all sorts of explanations. They can’t have known that I’d be on that particular flight, could they? Could they? Or perhaps Johanna had asked them to be my bodyguard, how about that? Perhaps Mr Lee took that flight every day or perhaps he was hastening back to Soho for the Chinese New Year, his bag stuffed with goodies for his grandchildren. He was clearly the kind of chap who would have any number of grandchildren, all of whom he would dote on. Perhaps it wasn’t Mr Lee at all: it is well known that all these chaps look alike. My fevered imagination fantasized away until we were thoroughly airborne and the Captain’s voice came crackling out of the public address system with the usual wonderfully sincere wishes for an enjoyable flight. ‘Ha ha,’ I said bitterly, drawing a nasty look from the obviously teetotal lady sitting next to me. The loudspeaker went on to tell us that we would be cruising at large numbers of thousands of feet (aircraft drivers are the last bastion against metrication) and that our air-speed would be an immense number of mph. I felt like complaining at this excessive speed for I was in no great hurry to reach the end of the journey – it is better to travel hopelessly than to arrive.

When the stewardess arrived to take our orders for drinks my neighbour asked for a glass of iced water; I confirmed her worst suspicions by ordering two large brandies, one bottle of dry ginger ale and no ice. I was proud to note that there was scarcely a quaver in my voice. When the wench brought the life-giving potations I heard myself asking her whether she happened to know the date of Chinese New Year’s Day.

‘Why, no sir, I guess I don’t, I’m sorry. But hey, there’s two Chinese gentlemen sitting right there in front; just let me finish with the drinks and I’ll go ask them.’

‘No no no no,’ I squeaked, ‘I wouldn’t dream of –’

‘It’s no trouble, sir. You’re very welcome.’

Soon I saw her leaning over the seats of the two Chinese gentlemen, brightly pointing back to where I sat quaking. They did not look around. She tripped back and said, ‘You’re out of luck, sir, they say it was three weeks ago. Oh, and they said they were real sorry you missed out.’

‘Thank you. How kind.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Officious bitch. I unfolded my Times with studied nonchalance, laid it on my briefcase and applied myself to the crossword. I am not one who completes this crossword while his breakfast egg boils to medium-soft but on a good day a medium-hard puzzle lies stricken at my feet in half an hour or so. This was one of the other days. I readily solved ‘One who uses public transport – a target, exterminated (9,6)’ and wrote in ‘passenger pigeon’ with a hollow laugh, but after that I seemed unable to concentrate. I blamed this on my briefcase, which did not seem to be affording the usual flat surface. Indeed, it did not seem to be flat at all. I gave it a petulant palpation: sure enough, there seemed to be a fat, cylindrical bulge lying diagonally inside it. Distraught as I was, I was nevertheless certain that I owned no object of that shape and dimensions, or, if I did, it certainly could not be in my briefcase. I undid the catch of the flap and had a cautious grope inside; sure enough, my questing fingers found a stiff cardboard cylinder, measuring some eighteen inches in length and four niches in diameter. I closed the flap and – quaking now as I had never quaked before – reached for the unexpended portion of the brandy. It dashed past my uvula, tonsils, larynx and pharynx without touching the sides. Then I lay back in my reclining seat, regulated my breathing and applied myself to frenzied thought. A bomb or similar anti-Mortdecai device? Surely not: Mr Lee was on that very aircraft. Moreover, the metal-detectors of the security men at the airport would have detected anything of the kind. A monstrous tube of Smarties’ chocolate beans from a well-wisher? But I could think of no well-wisher.