The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(119)

Jock really is a compassionate man when he sets his mind to it: it was not until I was under the shower that he slipped me the bad news.

‘Mr Charlie,’ was how he phrased it, ‘Mr Charlie, there’s two gemmun downstairs waiting to see you.’

‘Two gentlemen?’ I said, soaping freely the parts which I can still reach, ‘Two? Nonsense, Jock, I only know three gentlemen altogether; one of them is serving a life-sentence for murdering an unwanted mistress, another deals in rare books in Oxford and the third has gone to the bad … publishing, something like that.’ He heard me out patiently; he knows the difference between prattle and orders; then he said, ‘I di’n’t mean gemmun when I said gemmun, Mr Charlie, I only said gemmun because you don’t like me to say –’

‘Quite right, Jock,’ I said, raising a soapy hand. ‘Are you trying to say that they are art-dealers?’ He wagged a regretful head.

‘Nar. They’re fuzz. Big Brass Fuzz.’ I turned the shower to cold; this never fails to make the intellect surge around.

‘Have we any tea-bags in the kitchen? We have? Really? Well, make them some tea and tell them that I shall be down presently.’

‘Ah, Jaggard, Blackwell!’ I cried as I bounced into the drawing-room a few moments later, ‘Got some tea, eh?’ The two men turned and looked at me. They had no tea, nor were they Jaggard and Blackwell. Nor did they get up. They were large, blank-faced, empty-eyed coppers, but for some reason my ‘lighthouse’ started to flicker a bit. They were almost like coppers but not quite.

‘Mr Mortdecai?’ asked one of them.

‘True,’ I said.

‘Interpol. Robinson, London.’ He pointed to the other chap. ‘Hommel, Amsterdam.’ That made sense; the lighthouse ceased to flash. Interpol are not like other boys and Dutch fuzz does not look like English fuzz.

‘How can I help you?’ I asked.

‘Get your hat, please.’ I thought about that.

‘Warrant cards?’ I said diffidently. They gave me the world-weary look which policemen give to clients who have read too many thrillers. I strolled about aimlessly until I could get a squint down the Dutchman’s jacket. Sure enough, he was wearing a shoulder-holster bursting with what looked like the good old Browning HPM 1935 – a pistol which contains 14 rounds of 9mm Parabellum and weighs a couple of pounds unloaded, a splendid weapon for slapping people on the side of the head with but nevertheless an odd choice of ironmongery for anyone who isn’t expecting an invasion.

‘I’ve got one, too,’ said the English jack.

‘Am I under arrest,’ I asked, ‘and if so, what for?’ The Dutchman allowed himself a sigh, or it may have been a yawn.

‘Yost get the hat, Mr Mortdecai,’ he said. ‘Please.’ At that point Johanna entered the room and gave a startled glance at our visitors – a glance of recognition, I’d have said.

‘Don’t go with these men, Charlie,’ she said sharply.

‘They are armed,’ I explained.

‘So am I,’ growled Jock from the other doorway, his beefy hand full of Luger.

‘Thank you, Jock, but please put it down now. The gentleman on the sofa is holding a gun under his mackintosh and I fancy it’s pointing at my gut. Also, Mrs Mortdecai is present.’ I watched Jock slowly figuring out the odds, praying that he would make the right decision. I often boast that I am not especially afraid of dying but on the other hand I have this heavy addiction to life and I’m told that the withdrawal symptoms are shocking. Finally he placed the Luger on the floor – you do not drop automatic pistols – and, at a gesture from the Dutch chap, kicked it across the carpet. He kicked it in such fashion that it slid far under the big break-front bookcase: he is not just an ugly face, you know.

One of them ushered Johanna and Jock into the kitchen and locked them in; the other didn’t rip out the telephone cord, he unscrewed the mouthpiece, took out the diaphragm and put it in his pocket.

‘Extension?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In the bedroom.’ He walked me there and repeated the procedure. He was good. Then we went. Their motor-car was a sensible, Rover-like vehicle and I was made to sit in the front, beside the Dutchman who was driving. The English copper – well, I was still not sure that he wasn’t – leaned forward and said that I must not do anything foolish because his pistol was pointed at my left kidney. Now, every schoolboy knows that if a man means to shoot you he does so there and then, without shilly-shallying. Clearly, they wanted me alive, so the threat was idle. I hoped it was idle. I craned over my shoulder for a glimpse of the sidearm in question: he snarled at me to face the front. The pistol was there all right and I had had just enough time to see that it was one of those monstrous US Government Colt.45 automatics which can blow a hole through a brick wall. What was nice about this particular weapon was that it was not wearing a silencer; to let off such a thing in a car would stop the traffic for miles. That was the third mistake they had made. I applied myself to thought.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked idly.

‘Home,’ said the Dutchman. This was probably meant to be a joke. We sped eastward. As we passed St Paul’s I courteously pointed out its beauties to the Dutchman.

‘Shot op,’ he said.