The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(75)



“A friend of mine …’ I began.

‘Oh, ah,’ he sneered.

A friend of mine,’ I repeated firmly, ‘does a little commercial poaching – or culling – of deer in the Highlands of Scotland the Brave. He has a large standing order for venison from an hotel whose name I seem to forget. The police have taken his rifle away said are being stuffy about giving it back. He needs another. What have you got, Ginge?’

‘Nuffink,’ he said.

‘He’s a bit particular about his guns,’ I went on. ‘He likes something with a bit of class. And it’s got to be a stopper, a high-velocity job, something with real clout.’

‘I got nuffink like that.’

‘And the ammunition must be fresh; no stale old ex-army rubbish.’

‘I gotter go now, mate.’

‘And, of course, a good telescopic sight.’

‘Fuck off.’

So far, the dialogue was going well, the protocol was in the best tradition. Dealing with chaps like Ginge is extraordinarily like negotiating with a Soviet Trade Delegation. I fished out the flat half-bottle of whisky and tossed it to him. He drank from the bottle, dirty dog, and didn’t pass it back. He belched, thrust a hand into his underpants and scratched thoughtfully.

‘Got a Mannlicher,’ he grunted after another swig. I made a sympathetic face and suggested a course of penicillin. He ignored that.

‘Pre-war.’

‘No.’

‘Clip holds three.’

‘Useless.’

‘Belonged to a Count.’

‘A what?’

‘Count. What they call a Graf. Got a coat of arms on the lock-plate, all in gold and stuff.’

‘Worse and worse.’

‘And it ain’t never been in no trouble. Guarantee.’

‘You begin to half-interest me, Ginge.’

‘Two hundred and eighty quid. Cash.’

I stood up. ‘Next millionaire I meet I’ll tell him about it. Cheers, Ginge.’

‘Lovely Zeiss ’scope on it, x 2?.’

‘x 2?!’ I squeaked (you try squeaking the phrase ‘ x 2?’). ‘That’s no use, is it?’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you need more than that on ’scope you don’t want a rifle, you want a bleeding anti-aircraft gun.’

I began to sulk in good earnest and he sensed it instantly; he has that sixth sense which stands Armenian carpet-dealers in such good stead. He stole out and returned with a slim, elegant leather case which he dumped into what I still like to call my lap. It contained the Mannlicher in three easily assembled parts; the sniperscope, a fitted torch for shooting crocodiles or mistresses by night, and two hundred pounds of pretty fresh 7.65 mm ammunition, not to mention a rosewood cleaning-rod, a silver oil-bottle, a crested silver sandwich-box, a roll of 4″ × 2″ flannelette and a tool-kit complete with the thing for picking Boy Scouts out of Girl Guides’ knickers. It was quite beautiful; I longed to own it.

‘You could get a fortune for this from an antique-dealer,’ I yawned, ‘but my friend wants something to shoot things with. No one has used a toy like this since Goering roamed the primeval swamps.’

‘Two hundred and seventy-five quid,’ he said, ‘that’s me last word.’

Twenty minutes, two bursts of ill temper and half a bottle of Scotch later, I left owning the rifle and having paid two hundred pounds, which we had both known all along was what I was going to pay.

‘What’s that old load of rubbish for then?’ asked Jock surlily when I brought it home.

‘It’s what we’re going to do that job with.’

‘You can. I’m not,’ he said.

‘Jock!’

‘I’m British. By the way, it’s me night off, innit, and I’m off playing dominoes. There’s some cold pork in the fridge. Madam’s out, gorn to some pub called the Clarence House.”

I waved an icy, dismissive hand. Things were bad enough without having to bandy words with uppity servants who couldn’t muster up enough loyalty to join their indulgent masters in so traditional an old English practice as a spot of regicide.

The cold pork in the fridge was wilting at the edges; it and I exchanged looks of mutual contempt, like two women wearing the same hat in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. I changed into a slightly nattier suit and went off to Isow’s, where I ate more than was good for me. One always does at Isow’s, but it’s worth it.

I retired early to the narrow bed in my dressing-room, for I needed to digest and furiously to muse and plan. I heard Johanna open the door a fraction – I made convincing zizzing-noises and she crept away. I heard the merest rattle and clink as she dropped her tiara into the jewel-box, then all was silence.

I continued to muse and plan. By the time I fell asleep I had formulated a tripartite plan:

(1) Obtain an impenetrable disguise.

(2) Select a sniper’s post.

(3) Arrange an escape-route.

Something attempted, something done had earned a night’s repose and a night’s repose was what I got, broken only by those contented noises from the digestive tract familiar to all who have dined at Isow’s. Well, I had some nasty dreams, too, but I have always maintained that relating one’s dreams is the third most boring a man can do. I need not tell you what the other two are.

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