The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(19)

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said politely, ‘I read your article on “Nineteenth Century British Travellers to the American Frontier.” It was very very fascinating.’

There was a distinct draft up my sleeve where the card had been, and a nasty feeling that someone had been doing a little research into C. Mortdecai.

‘We are puzzled,’ he went on, ‘that anyone should want to seal diplomatically an empty automobile. I take it that it will, in fact, be empty, Mr Mortdecai?’

‘It will contain my personal effects; viz., one case of gents’ natty suitings, one ditto of costly haberdashery, a canvas bag of books to suit every mood – none of them very obscene – and a supply of cigarettes and old Scotch whisky. I shall be happy to pay duty on the last if you prefer.’

‘Mr Mortdecai, if we accept your diplomatic status’ – did he linger a moment at that point? – ‘we shall of course respect it fully. But we have, as you know, this theoretical right to declare you persona non grata; although we exercise it very rarely toward representatives of your country.’

‘Yes,’ I babbled, ‘old Guy slipped through all right, didn’t he?’

He pricked his ears; I bit my tongue.

‘Did you know Mr Burgess well?’ he asked, inspecting his pen closely for defects in its manufacture.

‘No no no,’ I cried, ‘no no no no no. Hardly ever met the feller. Probably had a jar of sherbet with him once in a while: I mean, you couldn’t live in the same city with Guy Burgess and not find yourself in the same bar sometimes, could you? Matter of statistics, I mean.’

He opened the folder and read a few lines, raising one eyebrow in a disturbing way.

‘Have you ever been a member of the Communist or Anarchist parties, Mr Mortdecai?’

‘Good Lord no!’ I cried gaily, ‘filthy capitalist, me. Grind the workers’ faces, I say.’

‘When you were at school?’ he prompted gently.

‘Oh. Well, yes, I think I did take the Red side in the debating society at school once or twice. But in the Lower Sixth we all got either religion or Communism – it goes with acne you know. Vanishes as soon as you have proper sexual intercourse.’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. I suddenly saw that he had acne. Strike two, as I believe they say over there. And how on earth had they dredged up all this dirt about me in a couple of days? A more unnerving thought: had it only been dredged in the last couple of days? The folder looked fat and well-handled as a Welsh barmaid. I wanted to go to the lavatory.

The silence went on and on. I lit a cigarette to show how unperturbed I was but he was ready for that one, too. He pressed a button and told his secretary to ask the janitor for an ashtray. When she brought it she turned the air conditioner up as well. Strike three. My turn to pitch.

‘Colonel,’ I said crisply, ‘suppose I give you my word of honour as a nobleman’ – that was a spitball – ‘that I am totally uninterested in politics and that my mission has nothing to do with drugs, contraband, currency, white slavery, perversion or the Mafia, but that it does concern the interests of some of the Highest in the Land?’

To my amazement it seemed to work. He nodded slowly, initialled the front of the file and sat back in his chair. Americans have some curious pockets of old-fashionedness. One could feel the atmosphere of the room relaxing; even the air conditioner seemed to have changed its note. I cocked an ear.

‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but I think that your wire recorder has run out of wire.’

‘Why, thank you,’ he said and pressed another button. The mammiferous secretary slithered in, changed the spool and slithered out again, giving me a small, hygienic smile en route. An English secretary would have sniffed.

‘Do you know Milton Krampf well?’ Blucher asked suddenly. Clearly, the ball game was still on.

‘Krampf?’ I said. ‘Krampf? Yes, to be sure, very good customer of mine. Hope to spend a few days with him. Very nice old sausage. Bit potty of course but he can afford to be, can’t he, ha ha.’

‘Well, no, Mr Mortdecai, I in fact was referring to Dr Milton Krampf III, Mr Milton Krampf Junior’s son.’

‘Ah, there you have me,’ I said truthfully, ‘never met any of the family.’

‘Really, Mr Mortdecai? Yet Dr Krampf is a well-known art historian, is he not?’

‘News to me. What’s his field supposed to be?’ The Colonel flipped through the file – perhaps it was the Krampf file after all.

‘He seems to have published numerous papers in American and Canadian journals,’ he said, ‘including “The Non-Image in Dérain’s Middle Period,” “Chromato-Spacial Relationships in Dufy,” “Léger and Counter-Symbolism” …’

‘Stop!’ I cried, squirming. ‘Enough. I could make up the rest of the titles myself. I know this sort of thing well, it has nothing to do with art history as I know it; my work lies with the Old Masters and I publish in the Burlington Magazine – I am quite a different sort of snob from this Krampf, our scholarly paths would never cross.’

‘I see.’

He didn’t see at all but he would have died rather than admit it. We parted in the usual flurry of insincerities. He still looked young, but not quite as young as when I had come in. I walked home, musing again.