The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(123)

‘Yes, dear.’ That seemed to close that subject. Then I thought of another question.

‘Just what do you expect to draw from this, Johanna?’

‘You, dear.’ I looked wildly around; there was no one else in the room.

‘Me?’ I said.

‘Yes.’ Oh well, I thought, ask a silly question and you’ll get a silly answer. Little did she know that Colonel Blucher had offered me a spot of survival in this vale of tears in exchange for infiltrating whatever organization Johanna thought she was running; little did Blucher know how abject a dog’s breakfast I had made of it all. I rose and made courteous noises to the effect that I had to go and see a chap in Jule’s Bar in Jermyn Street.

‘Yes, do go and have a little fun, dear; I know you’ll forgive me if I don’t join you tonight.’ Game, set and match against me, as usual.





22 Mordecai learns the truth, kicks the slats out of a kitchen cupboard and finds solace in bread and jam





Oh selfless man and stainless gentleman!





Merlin and Vivien





It’s odd how one drinks different things in different places. For instance, although I hate champagne cocktails, I always accept a couple from one particular mistress because a champagne cocktail, as anyone will tell you, gets to you where you live very fast and two such drinks enable me to ignore the grotesque schnozzle with which this particular lady has been endowed and to concentrate upon her other charms, which are of great distinction. To take other examples, there are some pubs where I just naturally order a scoop of Guiness and a ‘half ’un’ of Paddy on the side; there is one in Jersey where they always put a large whisky into a split of fresh orange-juice, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the other customers; another place where, even if I have been absent for a year, they draw me a pint of the very best bitter and lay beside it a ball-point pen because they know that I have come there to solve a crossword-puzzle. There is an Italian place in Oxford, which I used to pop into of a morning on my way home, where they are too tactful to greet me, they simply mix a massive brandy and soda and compassionately help me to fold my fingers around it. There is even a place, many miles from anywhere, where I drink something which I think is called Margarita; it comes in a filth-encrusted bottle without a label and seems to be 140-proof tomato ketchup. I could multiply examples but what I am driving at is that, for some reason, when I am in Jule’s in Jermyn Street, which is arguably the best pub in the world, I always order Canadian rye whisky with ginger ale. Then I send a glass of wine to the pianist with a courteous message and he flicks a courteous glance at me and plays it. Ingrid Bergman never comes in but a man can dream, can’t he?

Having gone through the ritual, and having summoned up the second drink, I made my way to the telephone and dialled Blucher’s ‘secure’ number.

‘This is the Home and Colonial Stores,’ fluted the familiar voice.

‘And my prick’s a bloater,’ I snarled, for I was in no mood to be paltered with.

‘Indeed?’ said the voice. ‘Then I suggest you get in touch with the Royal College of Surgeons, where you may learn something to your advantage.’

‘Grrrr,’ I said. She replaced the receiver. I found another coin, dialled again.

‘Please may I speak to Daddy?’ I grated between clenched teeth.

‘Why, sir?’ I remembered the rest of the absurd password.

‘Mummy’s poorly.’ There were clicks and scrambler-noises and at last Blucher was on the line.

‘I want to speak to you,’ I said. ‘Now. I’ve had it up to here.’

‘Where’s here?’ I told him. He was there in rather less than five minutes, which indicated that his Agency, whatever it was, was squandering prodigious sums of US tax-payers’ money on addresses far above their station in life. Moreover, he was carrying an umbrella, which did not even begin to make him look like an Englishman.

I ordered a drink for him, although it went against the grain. He was, after all, my guest.

‘Just two questions,’ I murmured thinly. ‘Exactly who have I been working for? And has it finished now? And, if so, do I stay alive?’

‘That’s three questions, Mr Mortdecai.’ (You may recall that, early in our acquaintanceship, I had rebuked him for using my Christian name.)

‘Very well, three,’ I snapped. ‘So you can count up to three. I know women who can count up to nine. Just start at question one and move gently down the list, using your own words.’

‘I have an auto – sorry, a car – outside. Let’s drive around a little, hunh? Then I’ll take you home.’ I thought about that a while, then agreed. I had, after all, telephoned him because I felt that extermination by his Agency would at least be efficient and hygienic; infinitely preferable to being made lethal sport of by female terrorists or Chinese gentlemen bearing grudges.

His car was not one of those great, black limousines that people are taken for rides in; it was a little ‘topolino’ Fiat with nothing sinister about it but a parking-ticket on the windscreen. He drove, as discreetly as a Rural Dean who has had two helpings of sherry-trifle and dreads being asked to puff into a breathalyser, to Grosvenor Square. To No. 24, Grosvenor Square, to be exact. That’s the American Embassy, as if you didn’t know.