The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(51)

We drove on, south and east, stopping for a horrid lunch at a place called Fort Stockton, where I surreptitiously bought a map and studied it, locked in the used-beer department. Then we drove some more, across the Pecos river toward Sonora. (Just place names now, all magic gone.) Just before Sonora I said to Krampf, ‘I’m sorry, my dear chap, but we can’t after all stay with you this weekend.’ He kept his hands on the wheel but boggled at me sideways.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Something came up, you see.’

‘I don’t get it – what could have come up?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve just received a cable.’

‘You’ve just receive a c…?’

‘Yes, reminding me of a subsequent engagement. So perhaps you’d be awfully kind and turn north at Sonora?’

‘Mr Mortdecai, I know this is some kind of a joke so I’m just going to keep right on for the Gulf, heh heh. Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘if I didn’t know your pistol was back in the forensic laboratory I’d be tempted to take you seriously, heh heh.’

‘Jock, show Dr Krampf the Luger.’ Jock showed him, leaning over from the back seat. Krampf looked at it carefully; he saw, if he knew about Lugers, the little Geladen indicator sticking up above the breech; then he accelerated, a sensible thing to do, for no one gives the gesnickschuss to a chap driving at seventy m.p.h.

‘Jock, the point of the left shoulder, please.’ Jock’s great fist, brass-shod, came down like a steam hammer and I steadied the wheel as Krampf’s arm went dead.

He slowed down and stopped: you can’t drive properly when you’re crying. I changed places with him rapidly and we continued – I had a feeling you’re not allowed to loiter on Interstate Highway 10. He just sat there beside me nursing his arm, saying nothing, looking straight ahead through his tears. A sure confirmation of naughty intent, for an honest man would be protesting volubly, wouldn’t he?

Abilene is a hundred and fifty miles north of Sonora; we did a lot of those miles in the next two hours and Krampf still just sat there, apparently unafraid; his faith in the power of a hundred million dollars still unshaken. After San Angelo – I sang ‘E lucevan le stelle’ as we passed through: opera lovers will know why – I started looking about for likely spots, for the evenings were drawing in, and soon after crossing the Colorado I found one, an unnumbered dirt road which followed the bed of a dry river. Satisfied that we could not be overlooked, I got out, urging Krampf before me.

‘Krampf,’ I said, ‘I fear you wish me ill. At present it is no part of my plans to have Krampfs after my blood as well as everyone else, so I must thwart your designs on my person. Do I make myself clear? I propose to leave you here, securely bound, warmly clad but without any money. At the airport I shall write to the police telling them where to look for you and enclosing your money, for I am not that kind of a thief. You are unlikely to die before they find you. Any questions?’

He looked at me levelly, wondering whether he could get my liver out with his fingernails. He didn’t say anything, nor did he spit.

‘Wallet,’ I said, snapping my fingers. He brought out a slim snakeskin job and tossed it rudely at my feet. I picked it up, I’m not proud. It contained a driving licence, several of the better sort of credit cards, photographs of some hideous children and a portrait of Madison. The portrait, of course, was on a thousand dollar bill.

‘No small money?’ I asked. ‘No, I suppose not. You wouldn’t like handling it, you’d know where it had been. And you don’t look like a heavy tipper.’

‘Mr Charlie,’ said Jock, ‘rich blokes over here don’t keep ordinary money in their wallets, they have it in their trousers in a sort of clip made out of a gold coin.’

‘You’re right, Jock, full marks. Krampf, the bill-clip, please.’

He reached grudgingly for his hip pocket, too grudgingly, and suddenly I realized what else was there: I aimed a swift kick at his goolies, he stepped back, stumbled and dragged out the Lilliput pistol as he fell. I didn’t hear the shot but my left arm seemed to be torn out by the roots and as I fell I saw Jock’s boot connecting with Krampf’s head.

I must have faded out for a few moments; the pain was excruciating. When I came to, Jock was dabbing at my armpit with a dressing from the car’s first-aid kit; the little bullet had passed along my armpit, shredding it horridly but missing the axillary artery by enough millimetres for safety. It was a very good first-aid box: when we had stanched the bleeding and done an adequate bandage job we turned our attention to the motionless Krampf.

‘Tie him up now, Jock, while he’s still out.’

A long pause.

‘Uh, Mr Charlie, uh, would you have a look at him?’

I looked. The side of his head felt like a bag of Smith’s Potato Crisps. Another generation of Krampfs had carried its bat to the Eternal Pavilion to have a word with the Great Scorer.

‘Really, Jock, you are too bad,’ I snapped. ‘That’s twice in two days. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a dozen times, I will not have you killing chaps all the time.’

‘Sorry, Mr Charlie,’ he said sulkily. ‘But I di’n’t mean to, did I? I mean, I was saving your life, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, Jock, I suppose you were. I’m sorry if I spoke hastily – I am in some pain, you realize.’