The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(135)

He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, his eyes hooded.

‘Get on, man,’ barked George.

‘So we reckon ’e’s not likely from our Parish but where is ’e from then? Trinity’s the nearest next Parish and they ’aven’t anyone there to compare with us.’

There was a pardonable pride in his voice.

‘They got two or three poofs like we all ’ave and a couple of little tarts on the game – Dirty Gertie and Cutprice Alice and them – but they stick to St Helier, where the money is, eh? Oh, and there’s a geezer who rings up ladies and goes on about what he fancies doing to them but we all know who ’e is and ’e’s a well-liked chap and does no harm, ’e’s terrified of ’is wife. And that’s it.’

‘What about St John’s?’ said George, levelly.

‘Don’t reelly know. Lot of savages there, but nothing like this that I’ve heard of. Old La Pouquelaye, of course, but ’e’s just disgusting. Calves, ’e does it with.’

We sat silently; dazed at this revelation of how the other half lives. I felt that life had passed me by.

‘Have you talked to the Paid Police?’ asked George.

‘Of course, sir. They said they were always glad to hear about our country goings-on but they didn’t see how they could help. Unless me and my Vingteniers could give them something to work on.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, footprints first. Any good ones, they said they’d come and take casts of.’

‘No luck, I’m afraid. I’ve already looked. I sort of landed heavily when pursuing the beggar and must have wiped out his traces under the window. After that he seems to have kept to the gravel. No sign at all.’

‘You sure, sir?’

‘I helped to form the Reconnaissance Corps in 1942.’

‘Ah. I was helping to form the Jersey Resistance just about then meself.’

They gave each other keen, soldierly looks, such as strong men exchange in the works of R. Kipling.

‘Then they said about fingerprints and other clues.’

‘Bad luck there, too. My wife’s maid did the room thoroughly before we were up. Officious bitch. Usually can’t get her to empty an ashtray.’

‘That’s unfortunate, eh?’

‘Very. But I don’t suppose you have much of a fingerprint file on the Island.’

‘Not what you’d call an up-to-date one. Well, the other thing is semen stains. It seems they can get them classified now, like blood.’

‘No,’ said George.

‘So if you could let me have the lady’s sheets, or any garments –’

‘I said no.’

‘Perhaps the doctor took some samples –’

‘Positively bloody NO!’ George bellowed, quite startling us all.

‘Yes, of course, sir. There’s a sort of delicacy –’

George stood up.

The Centenier shut up.

‘You won’t stay to luncheon?’ asked George in a voice from the nineteenth century. ‘No. Well, I must thank you for all your help. Most kind. You hadn’t a hat? No. A fine day, is it not. Goodbye.’

He closed the front door, quite gently. When he was back in the room he eyed us, defying us to grin. At last, he grinned himself.

‘The phrase you are groping for,’ I said carefully, ‘is “Fuck an old rat”.’

‘Fuck an old rat,’ he said. ‘A good cavalry expression. The cavalry has its r?le, after all, in modern life.’

Sam seemed to awake from a heavy slumber.

‘I could eat an old rat,’ he said.

‘There was half a cold duck in the fridge,’ George said apologetically, ‘but I’m afraid I ate it last night just after you men had left. Sonia is in no shape for cooking and the maid cannot tell an Aga from an autoclave. Let us go to Bonne Nuit Bay and eat lobsters.’

‘But will they let Charlie in?’ asked Sam sweetly. ‘I mean, he does look just a little farouche … ’

I gazed at him thoughtfully. His tongue was ever sharp but lately he seemed to have been gargling with acid.

‘I shall go and change,’ I said stiffly. ‘Please order for me. I shall have a medium-sized hen lobster split and broiled with a great deal of butter, three potato croquettes and a salad made with the hearts of two lettuces. I shall dress the salad myself.’

‘Wine?’ said Sam.

‘Thank you, how kind. I shall drink whatever you offer; your judgement in these matters is famous.’

Over lunch we agreed that very little could be done until we had more information. George set up a fighting-fund of ￡100: ten ￡5 bribes to be slipped to gardeners and other venal fellows who might lay their ears to the ground, and five ￡10 rewards for any of them who brought in concrete information. Larger rewards, he shrewdly pointed out, might well provoke imagination rather than hard news.

We parted at three; I, for one, in that state of tentative eupepsia which only a broiled lobster and a bottle of Gewurtztraminer can bestow, augmented by the fact that Sam had, indeed, paid for the wine.

I drove to St Helier and the Library of the Museum of the Société Jersiaise. They said it was private but I murmured the name of a learned Rector and, instantly, red carpets blossomed beneath my feet.