The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(84)

‘My advice,’ I went on didactically, ‘to any woman assailed by rapist or mugger would be as follows. In the case of a rapist: instantly lie on your back, raise your heels in the air and cry, “Take me, take me, I want you.” This will disconcert almost all rapists, especially if the lady happens to be the kind of lady that only a rapist would look at twice. If he is so intent upon his purpose as not to be cowed by this simple ploy but persists in his purpose, why there is little harm done; lie quite still, try to enjoy it. The choice is a simple one: a brief and possibly not unpleasant invasion of one’s physical privacy – or a painful bashing causing the loss of one’s good looks and perhaps one’s life. Who, after all, misses a slice from a cut cake, eh? In any event, on no account endeavour to have the rapist apprehended, for his lawyer will certainly convince many of the jury that you led him on and the trial will be more painful than the ravishment itself.

‘In the case of a mugger, instantly hand him your purse – for you will scarcely be so stupid as to be carrying anything valuable in it – kick off your shoes and run. Run like the wind, screaming loudly. Scream like a steam-whistle; such chaps are most averse to noise when about their chosen trade. My life-long study of the art of warfare has taught me that running away is certainly the most cost-effective type of fighting. It doesn’t win many battles but it saves you a lot of troops. Ask any Italian general if you catch him out of his hair-net. Or, indeed, if you can catch him at all.’

Having delivered those few, well-chosen words I reached for a kipper in the manner of a lecturer about to take a sip of water.

‘Charlie,’ she said mildly, ‘our College isn’t really much like those night-classes in judo. You’ll find out when you get there.’

‘But my dear, haven’t I just made it clear that I am not going to your beastly College? Must I say it again? I am not going to the College.’

That evening, on my way to the College, I stopped at St Alban’s to drink a little beer and purchase a couple of flat half-bottles of Scotch, in case the College should prove to be teetotal. I also made a telephone call to Blucher – after that assassination fiasco, he had conceded it might be more ‘secure’ to give me a number and ‘procedure’ for getting in touch with him in emergencies. I dialled the memorized number, let it ring the prescribed twelve times, hung up, counted out thirty seconds then dialled again. A warm voice answered instantly, saying that it was the Home and Colonial Stores – a likely story, I must say.

‘Please may I speak to Daddy,’ I asked, gagging over the childish mumbo-jumbo, ‘Mummy’s very poorly.’

‘Oh dear, what a shame. Are you far away?’ I gave her the number of the call-box; hung up; lit a cigarette. A fat harridan loomed outside the kiosk, glaring at me and pointing at her wristwatch. I recked not of her. She rapped on the glass, displaying a fistful of coppers and mouthing at me. I leered at the money and commenced to unbutton my top-coat. She went away. The telephone rang.

‘Hullo,’ said Blucher’s voice, ‘this is Daddy. Who is this?’

‘Willy here,’ I said from between clenched teeth.

‘Why, hi, Willy. Are you at a secure telephone?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Look, I’m on my way to some kind of a Training College, it’s called Dingley Dell if you’ll believe that. It’s near … ’

‘I know where it’s near. Say, what’s that dingus you Britishers wear when you’re playing cricket?’

‘I don’t understand. We wear lots of things when we play cricket.’

‘I mean the thing you wear under your pants, to kind of protect your family jewels, you know?’

‘You mean a “box”, I suppose. But what the hell …?’ Had I not known him to be a humourless man I might have supposed him to be amused.

‘Is there a sports store there in St Alban’s?’

‘I could not say. But if there is one it will certainly be closed by this time of the evening.’

‘Gosh, that’s tough. Oh well, good luck, Willy. Keep in touch.’ He hung up. I drove off, musing furiously. My breast was seething with many an emotion but jollity was not among those present.





11 Mortdecai takes a bit of stick and drops the phrase ‘gentler sex’ from his vocabulary





I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,

‘The Legend of Good Women’, long ago

Sung by the morning star of song, who made

His music heard below.





A Dream of Fair Women





Dingley Dell, for all its preposterous name, was indeed a stately pile so far as I could see in the dusk. As I navigated the stately drive an inordinate number of stately floodlights bathed both it and me in the radiance of some half a million Watts. A chunky girl in breeches met me at the foot of the steps.

‘Mr Mortdecai? Oh, super. Now I can let the dogs out as soon as you’re safely indoors. My name’s Fiona, by the way. Just leave your keys in the car, I’ll put it away.’

I carried my own bags up the steps to where a plumpish butler was silhouetted against the light.

‘Welcome to College, Mr Mortdecai,’ said the silhouette in what I took to be effeminate tones.

‘Yes,’ I said.