The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(49)

Outside, the night was as black as Newgate’s knocker and the rain was crashing down; when it rains in those parts it really puts its heart into the job. We dived into Krampf’s big pale car – with a nice social sense he shunted Jock into the back seat with suitcase. I asked him civilly where he was thinking of taking us.

‘Why, I thought you might care to come visit with me a little,’ he said easily. ‘We have this kind of very private summer residence on the Gulf Coast – mine now, I guess – and that’s where the pictures are. Especially the special ones, you know? You’ll want to see them.’

‘Oh Christ,’ I thought, ‘that’s all I need. The mad millionaire’s secret hideaway full of hot old masters and cool young mistresses.’

‘That will be delightful,’ I said. Then, ‘May I ask you how you contrived to rescue us so opportunely, Dr Krampf?’

‘Surely, it was easy. Yesterday I was a pretentious kunstkenner with a rich daddy – in my whole life I have earned maybe a hundred dollars by art history. Today I am a hundred million dollars – give or take a few million which Johanna gets – and that sort of money gets anybody out of jail here. I don’t mean you bribe with it or anything like that, you just have to have it. Oh, I guess you mean how did I come to be here? That’s easy, too; I flew in about noon to the ranch to arrange about shipping the body, it’ll be on its way as soon as the police are finished with it. Family mausoleum is up in Vermont; good thing it’s summer – in winter the ground gets so hard up there they just sharpen one end and hammer you into the ground, ha, ha.’

‘Ha ha,’ I agreed. I never liked my father, either, but I wouldn’t have spoken of him as ‘it’ the day after his death.

‘The police at the rancho heard about the Rolls and, uh, the other auto piling up and later they heard you’d been apprehended. Two guys from the FBI or some other Federal setup were there by then and they left soon after, said they were coming on here. I followed as soon as I’d sorted things out, in case they were being stupid. I mean, I knew that a man with your views on Giorgione couldn’t be all bad, ha ha. Yeah, sure I know your work, I read Burlington Magazine every month, it’s essential reading. I mean, for instance, you can’t fully understand the achievement of Mondrian until you understand how Mantegna paved the way for him.’

I gagged quietly.

‘Which reminds me,’ he went on, ‘I believe you were bringing my father a certain canvas; would you like to tell me where it is? I guess it’s mine now?’

I said I guessed it was. The Spanish Government, of course, probably held a different view, but then they think they own Gibraltar too, don’t they?

‘It’s in the Rolls, lined into the soft-top. I’m afraid you’ll have a little difficulty retrieving it but at least it’s safe for the time being, what? Oh, by the way, there’s a little formality at the box office which your father didn’t live to complete.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Sort of, fifty thousand pounds, really.’

‘Isn’t that rather cheap, Mr Mortdecai?’

‘Ah, well, you see the chap who actually swiped it has already been paid; the fifty thou is just my own little sort of pourboire.’

‘I get it. Well, how and where do you want it? Swiss bank, numbered account, I guess?’

‘Goodness, no, I should hate to think of it lying there in amongst all that chocolate and horid Gruyére cheese and Alps. Do you think you could get it to Japan for me?’

‘Surely. We have this development firm in Nagasaki; we’ll retain you as, oh, aesthetic consultant on a five-year contract at, say, ￡11,000 a year. O.K.?’

‘Six years at ￡10,000 would suit me just as well.’

‘You have a deal.’

‘Thank you very much.’

He shot me such an honest glance that I almost believed he meant it. He didn’t, naturally. I don’t mean that he begrudged me the fifty thousand – he hadn’t been rich long enough to start being stingy about money. No, what I mean is that, quite clearly, I was now surplus to his requirements in all sorts of ways and allowing me to live much longer could form no part of his programme. Having sound views on Giorgione didn’t carry with it the privilege of staying alive; why, I might linger on for years, a misery to myself and a burden to others.

We chatted on.

He didn’t seem to know much about the relining process – surprising, really, in an authority on the Moderns, when you consider that the average modern picture is in need of attention within five years of the paint drying; indeed, many of them are cracking or flaking off the canvas long before that.

It’s not that they couldn’t learn proper techniques if they wanted to; I think it’s because they’re sort of subconsciously shy about posterity seeing their work.

‘Are you sure,’ Krampf kept saying, ‘that this, uh, process will not have damaged the picture?’

‘Look,’ I said at last, ‘pictures aren’t damaged that way. To damage a picture thoroughly you need a stupid housewife with a rag and some ammonia, or methylated spirits, or a good proprietary picture-cleaning fluid. You can slash a picture to ribbons and a good liner and restorer will have it back as good as new before you can cough – remember the Rokeby Venus?’