The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(166)

‘Takin’ up chemistry?’ asked George.

‘I have been gargling,’ I said stiffly. ‘I have a sore throat.’

‘To name but a few, I’d say,’ said Sam.

‘Shall we go?’ I said. ‘Eric, you’ll be able to amuse yourself, won’t you? Jock will show you where everything is. Ask for a map if you want to go for a stroll; a man can get lost for months in these Jersey lanes.’

We drove towards St Helier. Where we were going was to the Headquarters of the Paid Police, situated in a street called, bafflingly, Rouge Bouillon. Our purpose was to do a delicate deal with a senior officer recommended for his discretion by our sturdy Centenier.

My conscience had been clear for nearly eighteen months, but still I felt a certain unease at entering this Cop-shop; an unease, I must say, soon dispelled by the friendly courtesy extended to us on every hand, with scarcely a chink from a hip-pocketed handcuff. Courteously refusing many an offer of cups of tea, we found ourselves presently in the office of the senior officer in question. I knew him at once for an honest man: my trained eye priced his suit at ￡40 and dated it as five years old. Bent policemen the world over may hide their guilty gains in the very vaults of Zurich itself, but they cannot resist the mohair suitings, the hand-made shoes. Experto crede.

His nostrils twitched delicately.

‘My friend has been gargling,’ said Sam. ‘He has a sore throat.’

‘Bad luck,’ he said to George.

‘Not me; him,’ said George, pointing rudely.

‘Oh. Well. Now, what can I do to help? It’s about these rapes, I understand.’

With a glance at the others, I took it upon myself to be spokesman. He quite liked our reasoning about the rapist’s motivation and selectiveness and made a few notes. He explained how his activities were curtailed by the protocol between the Paid and Honorary police – whom he seemed rather to approve of.

‘Obviously,’ he said, ‘there’s a bit of friction and frustration; it’s natural between professionals and amateurs, but we could never police the country areas in the way that they do – they’ve got what amounts to a complete Secret Service out there in the cotils – and their, ah, summary way of sorting out minor felonies saves us an enormous amount of time and trouble. Every time one of my officers has to testify in court I have to change the whole bloody duty-roster, do you realize that? But I can’t interfere in Parish affairs without being asked, any more than Scotland Yard can send men down to a country murder until the local flatfoots admit they’re baffled. Having trodden all over the evidence first,’ he added bitterly.

Then I told him about our proposed vigilante scheme, carefully omitting to mention our first, abortive try. His brow darkened a bit but he admitted that, there again, it wasn’t his business.

‘Unless, of course,’ he said distinctly, ‘anyone was foolish enough to carry weapons on such an expedition.’

We raised hands in horror at the very thought.

Then I broached the real subject of our visit: what we were going to do that night – and what we wanted him to do about it. He laughed at first, then he scowled, then he went a bit purple and raised his voice. I cannot truthfully say that he raved, but he certainly threw himself about a goodish bit. I just went on remorselessly reiterating the logic of the plan, the trifling harm it could do, the possible prophylactic effect, the willingness of the Honorary Police to cooperate if he would join in, the credit which would redound to his Force. He began to see reason; he was not really an unimaginative man. He stuck at one thing, however; he had to have a better indemnity for himself. It was, after all, his career, you understand.

That was when George surprised me – not for the first time.

‘Use your phone?’ he asked. ‘Thanks. Hullo? No, not his secretary, thanks. No, nor his aide-de-camp. Just say it’s George Breakspear and that it’s urgent. What? Ah, hello, Porky, sorry to wake you up, ha ha; look, you remember that nonsense I told you we were thinking of trying on? Well, Mortdecai’s got a man over who understands all about such rubbish and we’re all set but the Commander of Detectives here quite naturally feels he needs a bit of higher clearance. Would you have a word with him?’

He had a word with him. The Commander did not actually stand to attention but one felt that, had he been alone, he might have done so. His end of the conversation consisted of seventeen ‘yessirs’, eight ‘of course, sirs’ and three ‘thank you, sirs’. Then he hung up the telephone and looked at us sternly.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘your friend seems to agree with me that perhaps something might be arranged on the lines you suggest.’ We kept our faces solemn. Then we got down to battle-orders, liaised with Connétables and people on the telephone, arranged time-schedules.

‘Above all,’ I said as we were leaving, ‘see that your men do not attempt to arrest the large, ugly man called Jock. First, he would hurt them badly and second, he is not in on the deal.’

‘Did I agree to that?’

‘Surely it was understood. He’s only my servant, you see.’

‘Has he any record on the Island?’

‘None whatever, I promise you. Just hates having his fingerprints taken.’

‘Hmph. All right.’

As we were leaving the main entrance a uniformed sergeant neatly cut me out of the mob and asked whether I could give the Commander a few minutes more of my time – alone. Quaking with guilt and terror I told the others that I would take a taxi home, then I followed the broad-based sergeant back to the C of D’s office.