The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(2)

The SPG – or SOGPU as I’ve heard it called – needs have no further truck with the Civil Service except for one horrified little man in the Treasury; and its Mandate instructs – if you please instructs – Commissioners of Police to afford them ‘all administrative facilities without disciplinary obligations or clerical formalities’. The regular police love that bit, naturally. The SPG is answerable only to the Queen’s First Minister through its Procurator, who is a belted Earl and a Privy Councillor and hangs about public lavatories late at night.

Its actual, executive head is a former colonel of paratroops who was at school with me and has the curious rank of Extra Chief Superintendent. Very able chap, name of Martland. Likes hurting people, a lot.

He would clearly have liked to hurt me a bit there and then, in an inquiring sort of way, but Jock was hovering outside the door, belching demurely now and then to remind me that he was on call if required. Jock is a sort of anti-Jeeves: silent, resourceful, respectful even, when the mood takes him, but sort of drunk all the time, really, and fond of smashing people’s faces in. You can’t run a fine-arts business these days without a thug and Jock is one of the best in the trade. Well, you know, was.

Having introduced Jock – his surname escapes me, I should think it would be his mother’s – I suppose I had better give a few facts about myself. I am Charlie Mortdecai. I mean, I was actually christened Charlie; I think my mother was perhaps getting at my father in some obscure way. The Mortdecai tag I am very happy with: a touch of ancientry, a hint of Jewry, a whiff of corruption – no collector can resist crossing swords with a dealer called Mortdecai, for God’s sake. I am in the prime of life, if that tells you anything, of barely average height, of sadly over-average weight and am possessed of the intriguing remains of rather flashy good looks. (Sometimes, in a subdued light, and with my tummy tucked in, I could almost fancy me myself.) I like art and money and dirty jokes and drink. I am very successful. I discovered at my goodish second-rate Public School that almost anyone can win a fight if he is prepared to put his thumb into the other fellow’s eye. Most people cannot bring themselves to do it, did you know that?

Moreover, I’m a Hon., for my daddy was Bernard, First Baron Mortdecai of Silverdale in the County Palatine of Lancaster. He was the second greatest art dealer of the century: he poisoned his life trying to overprice Duveen out of the field. He got his barony ostensibly for giving the nation a third of a million pounds’ worth of good but unsaleable art, but actually for forgetting something embarrassing he knew about someone. His memoirs are to be published after my brother’s death, say about next April, with any luck. I recommend them.

Meanwhile, back at the Mortdecai bunkhouse, old straw boss Martland was fretting, or pretending to. He is a terrible actor, but then he is pretty terrible when he’s not acting, so it’s often difficult to tell, if you follow me.

‘Oh, come on, Charlie,’ he said petulantly. I gave just enough flicker of the eyebrow to indicate that we had not been at school together all that recently.

‘How do you mean, “Come on”?’ I asked.

‘I mean, let’s stop playing silly buggers.’

I considered three clever retorts to that one but found that I couldn’t really be bothered. There are times when I am prepared to bandy words with Martland, but this was one of the other times.

‘Just what,’ I asked reasonably, ‘do you think I might give you that you think you might want?’

‘Any sort of a lead on the Goya job,’ he said in his defeated Eeyore voice. I raised an icy eyebrow or two. He squirmed a bit.

‘There are diplomatic considerations, you know,’ he moaned faintly.

‘Yes,’ I said with some satisfaction, ‘I see how there might be.’

‘Just a name or an address, Charlie. Or anything, really. You must have heard something.’

‘And where would the old cui bono enter in?’ I asked. ‘Where is the well-known carrot? Or are you leaning on the old school spirit again?’

‘It could buy you a lot of peace and quiet, Charlie. Unless, of course, you happened to be in the Goya trade yourself, as a principal.’

I pondered ostentatiously awhile, careful not to seem too eager, thoughtfully guzzling the real Taylor ’31 which was inhabiting my glass.

‘All right,’ I said at last. ‘Middle-aged, rough-spoken chap in the National Gallery, name of Jim Turner.’

The Martland ballpoint skittered happily over the regulation notebook.

‘Full name?’ he asked briskly.

‘James Mallord William.’

He started to write it down, then froze, glaring at me evilly.

‘1775 to 1851,’ I quipped. ‘Stole from Goya all the time. But then old Goya was a bit of a tea leaf himself, wasn’t he?’

I have never been so near to getting a knuckle-sandwich in my life. Luckily for what’s left of my patrician profile, Jock aptly entered, bearing the television set before him like an unabashed unmarried mum. Martland let prudence rule.

‘Har har,’ he said politely, putting the notebook away.

‘Tonight is Wednesday, you see,’ I explained.

‘?’

‘Professional wrestling. On the telly. Jock and I never miss it; so many of his friends play. Won’t you stay and watch?’

‘Good night,’ said Martland.