The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(73)

‘The movie-houses are all closed.’ I couldn’t tell her that she lied, could I? Nor could I explain, in so many words, that an hour or so watching Naughty Knickers or Adventures of a Teenage Window-cleaner might inflame me to the point where I could forget the terrifying wench-mongering trade in which she was about to involve me and summon up enough of the Old Adam to play the part of the lust-crazed bridegroom.

I made her two, or it might have been three, strong – hopefully soporific – drinks, then followed her to bed.





7 Mortdecai is given an order which no decent man would even consider for a moment





It was my duty to have loved the highest:

It surely was my profit had I known:

It would have been my pleasure had I seen.





Guinevere





Later that night, my confidence in the invigorating powers of the vitamins E and B12 once again ratified, I was sinking into a well-earned hoggish slumber when Johanna prodded me and said:

‘Charlie, little stallion, I want you to do something …’

‘Darling, we’ve only just … I mean, I’m not a young man, I’ve explained that before … perhaps in the morning, eh?’

‘Silly, I didn’t mean that; what do you think I am, a nymphomaniac or something?’

I mumbled something sort of reprieved and perhaps ungallant, nuzzling back sleepily between her warm, damp breasts.

‘What I want you to do is something quite different.’ I stirred; the words strained and sifted through the well-earned slumbrousness already referred to. Misgiving took me by the throat; I could almost feel my teeth rattle.

‘Darling Johanna,’ I said in as reasonable a voice as I could muster, ‘wouldn’t tomorrow night be a better time for anything, ah, far-out that you have in mind? I mean …’ she giggled.

‘Yes, Charlie dear, I know that you are no longer a young – although you could fool most people.’ I smirked. ‘In the dark, of course,’ she continued, spoiling it for me. ‘No, I don’t want you to tax your beautiful glands. Well, just the adrenalin ones maybe. I just want you to kill someone for me. OK.?’

‘Kill someone?’ I burbled sleepily. ‘Certainly. Any time. Slay a dragon or two with pleasure, any time. Any time after breakfast, that is. Got to get my sleep now, d’you see.’

She shook my shoulder, which only made me nuzzle more firmly, more determined to sleep. Then she shook a much more vulnerable limb and I awoke indignantly.

‘I say,’ I said, ‘don’t do that! Might damage a chap. And where would you be then, eh? Make a nonsense of your honeymoon, you can see that, I’m sure. G’night.’

She sat up in bed in a peremptory fashion, taking most of the bedclothes with her. There was nothing to do but awake. I awoke. I shall not pretend that my mood was mild.

‘My dear Johanna, this is neither the time nor the occasion for tantrums. All the world over, chaps and their charming bedmates are zizzing away for all they are worth, irrespective of colour or creed, coiling in the tissue-restoring eight or nine hours. You asked something of me which I agreed to accomplish tomorrow. Can’t recall what it was but I’m delighted to fall in with your lightest wish. Tomorrow. Whatever it is.’

‘Oh, Charlie, have you forgotten already? I simply asked you to kill someone for me. It doesn’t seem much to ask one’s bridegroom on one’s honeymoon. However, if it’s too much trouble …’

‘Not at all; don’t be petulant, darling. It’ll be the work of a moment, work of a moment. Just give Jock the feller’s name and address and he’ll see to it the day after tomorrow. Goodnight again, sweetheart.’

‘Charlie!’

‘Oh well, all right, I suppose he could manage it tomorrow night but he’ll have to scout about for a pistol with no history, you understand. I mean, I couldn’t ask him to use his own Luger on this feller, could I? You see that, surely?’

‘Charlie, the person to be killed isn’t a, uh, feller. In fact you’d probably think it improper to call her a person, even.’

‘You speak in riddles, Johanna of my heart,’ I sighed. ‘Who is this august “she” – the Queen of bloody England?’

She clapped her hands together, as pleased as a little girl.

‘Oh Charlie, you guessed, you guessed!’

I distinctly remember saying ‘good-morning’ to Jock next morning.

‘Good morning, Jock’ were the words I selected, for they never fail to please.

‘Morning, Mr Charlie,’ he rejoined, setting the tea-tray down within reach of my quaking hand. ‘Breakfast?’ he asked.

‘Buttered eggs, I think, please.’

‘Right, Mr Charlie. Scrambled eggs.’

‘Buttered eggs,’ I repeated (but Jock will not yield on this point of language) ‘and very runny. Do not agitate them too much, I detest the gravelly appearance: a well-buttered egg should appear as large, soft, creamy clots. Like Roedean schoolgirls, you know.’

‘Toast?’ was all the reaction I got out of him.

‘Well, of course toast. Toast-making is one of your few talents; I may as well get the good of it while you still have possession of your faculties.’