The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(178)

We studied the front page. The Jersey Evening Post had been fair, nay, kindly to us in the report of the trial but the photograph taken of us on the pavement outside the Court was unfortunate to say the least. We three shambling offenders huddled guiltily together, surrounded by venal shysters, mopping and mowing. George was glaring at the camera in a way that could only be called homicidal; Sam looked like an expletive deleted from a Watergate tape while I had been caught scratching my behind and sniggering over my shoulder. All most unfortunate.

We looked at each other; or to be exact, they looked at me while I shiftily avoided their eyes.

‘I know,’ I said brightly, ‘let’s all get drunk!’

They stopped looking at me and looked at each other. Sonia reappeared, looked at the photograph and promptly got a fit of the giggles. This can be quite becoming in some women but Sonia has never learned the art: her version is too noisy and she tends to fall about on sofas and things, displaying her knickers. Where applicable. George made his displeasure clear to her and she went back to the real love of her life – her washing-up machine; nasty, noisy thing.

Sam and George started to re-enact the ‘let’s all look at Charlie in a hateful way’ scene, so I rose. I can be hurt, you know.

‘I am going home to watch the television,’ I said stiffly.

‘Oh no you’re not,’ snapped George. ‘You’re going home to change into dark clothes, soft shoes and a weapon, and you’re reporting back here in fifteen minutes with Jock, similarly clad.’

Now, I may choose to make myself seem a bit of a craven at times, when it suits my book, but I don’t take crap like that – even from retired brigadiers. Especially from retired brigadiers. I turned to him and gave him a slow, insubordinate stare.

‘It will take twenty minutes at least,’ I said insubordinately, ‘because, things at home being what they are, I shall have to look out the clothes myself.’

‘Do your best,’ said George, not unkindly.

In the event, I was back there in twenty-eight minutes.

‘Right,’ said George. ‘Here’s the plan. Since these idiots will not let us lie up in their houses we shall have to patrol outside their houses – from now until midnight. I shall move between Hautes Croix and this house; Jock will drop Sam at La Sergenté from where he will make his way to St Magloire’s Manor and so, past Canberra House, back here; Jock himself, since both Sonia and Johanna are alone and unguarded, will work between Wutherings and Les Cherche-fuites; you, Charlie, will cover the lanes between here and Belle Etoile Bay. None of us will use metalled roads. Any questions?’

There weren’t any questions.





15





There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,

Drew bitter and perilous breath;

There torments laid hold on the treasure

Of limbs too delicious for death;

When thy gardens were lit with live torches;

When the world was a steed for thy rein;

When the nations lay prone in thy porches,

Our Lady of Pain.





Dolores





A cold coming I had of it, I don’t mind telling you, just the worst time of the year for a vigilante patrol. I believe I’ve already given you my views about the month of May in the British Isles. This May night, as I picked my glum way down to Belle Etoile Bay, was cold and black as a schoolgirl’s heart and the moon – in its last quarter and now quite devoid of the spirit of public service – reminded me only of a Maria Teresa silver dollar which I had once seen clenched between the buttocks of a Somali lady who was, I fancy, no better than she should be. But enough of that.

Down I stole to Belle Etoile Bay. The sea breathed hoarsely, like a rapist out of training. Back I stole, breathing like a middle-aged vigilante who has neither pocket-flask nor sandwich-case about him because his wife isn’t speaking to him. As I entered Chestnut Lane (La Rue des Chataigniers), nearing the end of my beat for the first time round, a chataignier or chestnut tree quietly divided itself into two chatagniers or chestnut trees and one of the component parts drifted in my direction. I am often asked what to do when things of this kind happen to you and I always divided my advice into several alternative parts; viz, either

a. blubber, or

b. run, or

c. drop on to your marrow-bones and beg for mercy.

If, of course, you belonged, as I did, to an absurd Special Something Unit in the war – yes, that 1939–45 one – then you can do better. What I did was to drop silently to the ground and roll over several times. This accomplished, I plucked out my pistol and waited. The tree-person froze. After a long time he spoke.

‘I can’t see your face,’ he said, ‘but I can see your great arse. I’m putting a Lüger bullet into it in about three seconds flat unless you gimme a good reason why not.’

I stood up, coaxing my lungs back into service.

‘Jock,’ I said, ‘I am recommending you for the Woodcraft Medal. Your impersonation of a tree was most plausible.’

‘ ’Ullo, Mr Charlie.’

‘What do you have on your person, apart from that machine-pistol which I have repeatedly told you not to carry?’

‘Got a flat half-bottle of brown rum.’

‘Faugh,’ I said. ‘I’m not as thirsty as that. When you are next at the Wutherings end of your beat, be so good as to find and fill my pocket-flask; I shall patrol back to Belle Etoile Bay and meet you here again in, say, thirty minutes.’