The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(7)

Perhaps he decided that I was telling the truth, as far as it went; perhaps he simply decided that he already had enough to worry about.

He had, in fact, no idea how much he had to worry about.

‘Go away,’ he said, finally.

I collected my hat, tidied it, made for the door.

‘Don’t leave town?’ I prompted in the doorway.

‘Don’t leave town,’ he agreed, absently. I didn’t like to remind him about the sandwich.

I had to walk miles before I found a taxi. It had all its door handles. I fell soundly asleep, the sleep of a good, successful liar. Goodness, the flat was in a mess. I telephoned Mrs. Spon and told her that I was at last ready to redecorate. She came round before dinner and helped us tidy the place up – success has not spoiled her – and afterward we spent a happy hour in front of the fire choosing chintzes and wallpapers and things and then we all three sat round the kitchen table and tore into an enormous fry-up such as very few people can make today.

After Mrs. Spon had left I said to Jock, ‘Do you know what, Jock?’ and he said, ‘No, what?’

‘I think Mr Gloag is dead.’

‘Greedy, I expect,’ said Jock, elliptically. ‘Who d’you reckon killed him, then?’

‘Mr Martland, I fancy. But I think that for once he rather wishes he hadn’t.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes. Well, good night, Jock.’

‘Good night, Mr Charlie.’

I undressed and put a little more Pomade Divine on my wounds. Suddenly I felt shatteringly tired – I always do after torture. Jock had put a hotty in my bed, bless him. He knows.





3





Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick

Of mischief happened to me, God knows when –

In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,

Progress this way. When, in the very nick

Of giving up, one time more, came a click

As when a trap shuts – you’re inside the den!





Childe Roland





Dawn broke for me, at ten o’clock sharp, with one of the finest cups of tea I have ever been privileged to toy with. The canary was in splendid voice. The snail, once again, was on the thorn and showed no signs of dismounting. I hardly winced as the blisters from Martland’s battery made themselves felt, although I did, at one stage, find myself longing for Pantagruel’s goose’s neck.

I had a long chat on the telephone with my insurance brokers and explained to them how they could put the bite on Martland’s ear for the damage to my decorations and promised them the photographs of the intruders as soon as Jock had developed them.

Then I put on a dashing little tropical-weight worsted, a curly-brimmed coker and a pair of buckskins created by Lobb in a moment of genius. (My tie, if I recall correctly, was a foulard, predominantly merde d’oie in colour, though why you should be interested I cannot imagine.) Thus clad – and with my blisters well Vaselined – I sauntered to the Park to inspect the pelican and other feathered friends. They were in great shape. ‘This weather,’ they seemed to be saying, ‘is capital.’ I gave them my benison.

Then I went a-slumming through the art-dealing district, carefully keeping my face straight as I looked in the shop windows – sorry, gallery windows – at the tatty Shayers and reach-me-down Koekkoeks. Heigh-ho. After a while I was sure that I had no tail (remember that bit, it matters) neither in front nor behind, and popped into Mason’s Yard. There are galleries there too, of course, but I was bent on seeing Mr Spinoza, who is only an art dealer in one very specialized sort of way.

Moishe Spinoza Barzilai is, as a matter of fact, Basil Wayne & Co., the great coach builders of whom even you, ignorant readers, must have heard, although not point one per cent of you will ever afford his lovely panel beating, still less his princely upholstery. Unless, of course, you are reading below your station in life and happen to be an Indian Maharajah or a Texan oil-field proprietor.

Mr Spinoza creates very special one-off bodies for the great cars of the world. He has heard of Hooper and Mulliner and speaks kindly, if a little vaguely, of them. He will restore or re-create the occasional vintage Rolls, Infanta or Mercedes if he feels like it. Bugattis, Cords, Hirondelles and Leyland Straight-Eights will be considered. So will about three other marques. But ask him to tart up a Mini with basketwork and silver condom dispensers or to build flip-back fornication benches into a Jaguar and he will spit right into your eye. I mean really! What he most loves is a Hispano-Suiza – an ‘Izzer-Swizzer.’ Can’t understand it myself, but there.

He also dabbles in crime. It’s a sort of hobby with him. He can’t need the money.

Currently, he was rebuilding for my best customer a latish Silver Ghost Rolls Royce, which was what I had come to inspect, in a way. My customer, Milton Krampf (yes, truly), had bought it from a right villain who had found it in a farmyard chocked up and running a chaff cutter and turnip slicer after a long career as stock truck, hearse, station wagon, shooting brake, baronial wedding present and mobile shagging station; in the reverse order, of course. Mr. Spinoza had found six perfectly right artillery wheels for it at one hundred pounds apiece, had built a scrupulously exact Roi des Belges open tourer body and painted it with sixteen coats of Queen Anne white, each one rubbed down wet-and-dry, and was now finishing the olive-green crushed Levant Morocco upholstery and free-handing with the fitch the lovely arabesques of the carrosserie lines. He wasn’t doing the work himself, of course; he’s blind. Was, rather.