The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(6)

Martland at last lumbered to his feet with surprising grace etc. and put a record on the turntable, fastidiously balancing the output to the big Quad stereo speakers. It was that lovely record of trains going by, the one we all bought when we could first afford stereo. I never tire of it.

‘Maurice,’ he said politely to one of his hooligans, ‘would you kindly fetch the twelve-volt high-tension motor-car battery from the charging bench in the basement?

‘And Alan,’ he went on, ‘would you please draw the curtains and take Mr Mortdecai’s trousers down?’

Now just what can one do when this sort of thing happens? Struggle? What expression can one wear on the well-bred face? Contempt? Outrage? Dignified unconcern? While I was selecting an expression I was deftly divested of the small clothes and all I registered was funky panic. Martland tactfully turned his back and busied himself coaxing a few more decibels out of the stereo equipment. Maurice – I shall always think of him as Maurice – had tucked the first terminal cosily into place half a minute before Martland signalled lewdly for the second to be clipped on. Beautifully timed, the Flying Scotsman whooped stereophonically for a level crossing. I competed in mono.

And so the long day wore on. Not for many minutes, I must admit. I can stand anything but pain; moreover, the thought that someone is deliberately hurting me, and not minding, upsets me badly. They seemed to know instinctively the point at which I had decided to cry capivi for when I came round after that time they had put my trousers back on and there was a great glass of whisky three inches from my nose, with beaded bubbles winking at the brim. I drank it while their faces swam swooningly into focus; they looked kind, pleased with me, proud of me. I was a credit to them, I felt.

‘Are you all right, Charlie?’ asked Martland, anxiously.

‘I must go to the lavatory now,’ I said.

‘So you shall, dear boy, so you shall. Maurice, help Mr M.’

Maurice took me down to the children’s loo; they wouldn’t be back from school for another hour, he told me. I found the Margaret Tarrant squirrels and bunnies soothing. I needed soothing.

When we got back to the Lounge the gramophone was dispensing Swan Lake, if you please. Martland has a very simple mind: he probably puts Ravel’s Bolero on the turntable when seducing shopgirls.

‘Tell me all about it,’ he said gently, almost caressingly, his impression of a Harley Street abortionist.

‘My bottom hurts,’ I whined.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘But the photograph.’

‘Ah,’ I said sagely, wagging my head, ‘the phokodarts. You have given me too much whisky on an umpty stemach. You know I haven’t had any lunch.’ And with that I gave them some of the whisky back rather dramatically. Martland looked vexed but I thought the effect on his sofa cover was something of an improvement. We got through the next two or three minutes without too much damaging the new-found amenities. Martland explained that they had indeed found a photograph behind a Turner in the National Gallery at 5.15 that morning. It was tucked behind Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus (No. 508). He went on in his court-room voice –

‘The photograph depicts, ah, two consenting adult males, ah, consenting.’

‘Having congress, you mean?’

‘Just so.’

‘And one of the faces had been cut out?’

‘Both of the faces.’

I got up and went over to where my hat was. The two louts did not move but looked sort of alert. I was not really in any shape to dive out of windows. I pulled down the sweatband of the hat, tore back some of the buckram and offered Martland the tiny oval of photograph. He looked at it blankly.

‘Well, dear boy,’ he said softly, ‘you mustn’t keep us in suspense. Who is the gentleman?’

It was my turn to look blank.

‘Don’t you really know?’

He looked at it again.

‘Much hairier in the face nowadays,’ I prompted.

He shook his head.

‘Chap called Gloag,’ I told him. ‘Known to his friends as “Hockbottle” for some obscene reason. He took the photograph himself. At Cambridge.’

Martland, suddenly, inexplicably, looked very worried indeed. So did his mates, who clustered around, passing the tiny picture from hand to grubby hand. Then they all started nodding, tentatively at first and then positively. They looked rather funny but I was feeling too tired to enjoy it really.

Martland wheeled on me, his face evil now.

‘Come on, Mortdecai,’ he said, all urbanity gone, ‘tell me it all this time. Fast, before I lose my temper.’

‘Sandwich?’ I asked diffidently. ‘Bottle of beer?’

‘Later.’

‘Oh. All right. Hockbottle Gloag came to see me three weeks ago. He gave me the cut-out of his face and said to keep it very safe, it was a free pardon for him and money in the bank for me. He wouldn’t explain but I knew he wouldn’t be trying to con me, he’s terrified of Jock. He said he’d ring me up every day from then on and if he missed a day it would mean he was in trouble and I was to tell you to ask Turner in the National Gallery. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the Goya so far as I know – I just seized that opportunity to slip you the word. Is Hockbottle in trouble? Have you got him in that bloody Cottage Hospital of yours?’

Martland didn’t answer. He just stood looking at me, rubbing the side of his face, making a nasty soft rasping sound. I could almost hear him wondering whether the battery would coax a little more truth out of me. I hoped not: the truth had to be delivered in carefully spaced rations, so as to give him a healthy appetite for later lies.