The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(175)

‘I seen the photo of you, sir, but I ’aven’t what you might call perused the entire article, ’aving been called out on this case, eh?’

‘Take another look at the lady’s tummy,’ I said, ‘I think you’ll find the word is Sécaire.’

I rose wearily, feeling as old as sin.

‘Ah well,’ I sighed, ‘back to the grind.’

‘Oh good,’ said Johanna. ‘Race you to bed?’

‘I did not mean that.’

‘You were meaning it just now.’

‘Just now I was in early middle age. At this moment I feel ready for the Tom and Geriatric ward.’

‘All right, we’ll play patients and nurses: you shall chase me upstairs, but very slowly; to husband your strength.’

‘Oh, very well,’ I said.

My heart was not really in it but I appreciated the fact that she wanted to help. For some reason, you see, we can’t talk to each other properly.





14





Not utterly struck spiritless

For shame’s sake and unworthiness

Of these poor forceless hands that come

Empty, these lips that should be dumb,

This love whose seal can but impress

These weak word-offerings wearisome

Whose blessings have not strength to bless

Nor lightnings fire to burn up aught

Nor smite with thunders of their thought.





Epilogue





A hideous wailing penetrated my grimly dreams: I awoke shuddering. It was only Jock mounting the stairs with my tea-tray, singing ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’ in his best falsetto. He does it rather well but there is a time and place for Shirley Temple.

‘This aubade or mattinata must not occur again, Jock. It hurts me in the liver. “Cursed is he who greets his brother with a loud voice in the morning” as Deuteronomy was so fond of pointing out.’

Vengefully, he allowed some tea to slop into my saucer as he handed it to me, then deliberately mopped it up with a well-ripened pocket-handkerchief. Game, set and match to him. The tea, when I could bring myself to sample it, tasted like waters of Babylon which had been too freely wept in.

‘How is the canary this morning?’

‘Got a bad leg.’

‘Then summon the best vet money can buy, spare no expense. A Mr Blampied is well spoken of.’

‘He’s bin. Said the leg’ll ’ave to come orf.’

‘Nonsense. I am not a rich man, I cannot afford to keep wooden-legged canaries in idle luxury.’

‘He’s a singer, Mr Charlie, not a bleedin’ dancer. Oh, yeah, and Mr Davenant and Mr Breakspear are waiting for you downstairs.’

‘Oh dear, oh Christ, are they really? Er, they seem in a jolly sort of mood, I dare say?’

‘Bloody diabolical.’

‘Oh. They’ll have heard about the new incident, then?’

‘Yeah.’

Jock’s gift for language had not failed him: ‘diabolical’ was the only word to express the moods of George and Sam. They stared at me, as I good-morninged them, as though they were a brace of Lady Macbeths confronted with one of the less acceptable kinds of damned spot. I crinkled my mouth into a wry smile. Their mouths stayed grim. I toyed with the idea of telling them a funny story, then discarded it.

‘Drinks?’ I asked. ‘Scotch? Gin and tonic? Bottled beer?’

‘Mortdecai,’ said George, ‘you are a four-letter man.’

‘D’you know, I’ve never quite known what that meant.’

Sam told me; in four letters. I allow no one to speak to me like that.

‘Sam,’ I began heavily.

He repeated the word.

‘Well,’ I conceded, ‘there may be something in what you suggest. But consider: the rapist – if this incident is his work – may not have had time to read yesterday’s Jersey Evening Post; it had not been long on the streets.’

‘Then how do you account for the word Sécaire?’

‘Oh. You heard about that bit.’

‘Yes, we heard. And it seems to us that your perverse and crack-brained scheme has not only disgraced us and put us in jeopardy of gaol but, worst of all, it has not worked. The man is clearly laughing at us.’

‘Early days to be certain of that, surely? I mean, it’s just possible that it might really work, you know. In his subconscious or something …’ I tailed off lamely.

‘Rubbish. We must simply resume the ambushes – every night from now on. The new incident confirms our view that the targets are always likely to be Englishwomen in their thirties and living in this neighbourhood. It’s just a matter of time now, and vigilance.’

‘And staff-work,’ grunted George.

‘And loyalty.’

‘I see. Very well. We start tonight, I take it? Or do we leave it a night to let the chap re-charge his, ah, batteries?’

‘Tonight,’ they said with one voice.

‘I suppose you’re right; chap like that probably doesn’t run off batteries – glands like nuclear reactors, I should think.’

‘Unfunny. And I suppose you know that we’re all due at the Police Station in forty minutes: I dare say you might care to offer us a drink before we leave.’