The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(93)

‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she bellowed. Johanna took the slip of paper and shook her head, passed it to me.

‘It’s a map-reference,’ I said in my cold, war-experienced, adjutant’s voice. ‘LSE64 is the sheet number, Ordnance Survey. H6 is the kilometre square. 625975 is the ground reference.’ The Commandant snatched it and pressed a tit on her buzzer-console, asked for ‘Library’ and told someone called Annie to find sheet LSE64 and that right speedily. We waited, in silence and various degrees of fraughtness. Apart from Mr Ho, the least agitated member of our tea-party was the Chinese prisoner, who was gazing absorbedly up the Commandant’s skirt. I was glad to note that his penis had unshrivelled itself a goodish bit. Ah well, whatever turns you on. For my part, I’d hate to go to eternal bliss with the memory of an old bull-dyke’s directoire knickers imprinted on my retina for all eternity but that’s what makes horse-races, isn’t it?

Annie the Librarian brought in the map. Johanna and the Commandant looked at it. Rather in the way they had looked at me.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Johanna.

‘Oh, shit,’ said the Commandant in her coarse way. ‘They know where, er, our man er you-know-who is.’ She tried to work out the six-figure reference and snarled. I explained that the first figures go laterally, the others vertically. ‘You must put it across a woman before you can get it up her,’ I explained, quoting an old Army mnemonic. They glared at me but let me find the spot. It was an ANCIENT FORT overlooking a main road in a featureless waste of Yorkshire moorland.

‘Mortdecai must go,’ said the Commandant briskly. ‘He’s expendable.’

‘Hoy!’ I protested.

‘Sibyl didn’t mean it like that, Charlie dear,’ said Johanna worriedly.

‘Also he’s crafty; a survivor; can shoot a bit,’ added the Commandant, hoping to mollify me. She addressed herself to her buzzer-console again: ‘Sandwiches for two days please, kitchen: high-protein ones, none of your fancy egg-and-salad; one litre flask of strong black coffee, no sugar; one litre bottle of Scotch whisky. To be in Mr Mortdecai’s car, which will be at the door in five minutes exactly.’

‘How do you know I don’t take sugar?’ I asked rebelliously.

‘No gentleman takes sugar in black coffee. Besides, it’s bad for you. No, I’m not talking about your disgraceful waistline. Sugar and alcohol together trigger off your insulin and give you hypoglycaemia – symptoms are faulty judgment, undue fatigue, anxiety, inner trembling.’

‘I get the last two when ordered to go and find people called you-know-who on lonely Yorkshire moors at five minutes notice,’ I retorted. ‘Anyhow, how do I recognize this chap, how will he recognize me and what do I do if I find him?’

‘He will be on foot, if we’re lucky,’ she said cryptically. ‘He answers to the name of Freddie. Just tell him what has happened and he’ll know you’re genuine.’

‘Thank God I don’t have to approach a complete stranger and whisper to him that the moon is shining brightly and wait for him to say that the price of fish and chips is going up,’ I quipped.

‘Try not to babble, Charlie dear.’

‘If possible, get him out of there fast, and back here in one piece. If he can’t come, take a message. If he’s, ah, unable to speak, search him.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said simply.

‘I see.’

‘Now, pop upstairs, get warm clothes, stout shoes and a couple of clips of cartridges. The real ones.’

‘What about him?’ I asked, indicating the patient prisoner. ‘He’s heard all this; probably understands English. And shouldn’t someone see to his poor eye?’

‘Irrelevant,’ she said absently, ‘he’s been promised a quick death – a kindness really, because if we were to let him go his friends would give him a slow and exceedingly nasty one. Mr Ho?’

She gave Ho a half-tumbler of raw vodka which he handed to the naked chap. The chap tossed it off in one gulp, nodded appreciatively. Mr Ho gave him a lighted cigarette. He took two deep and happy drags then ground it out on the carpet (in his place I’d have said I was trying to give them up, of course; I couldn’t have wasted such an opportunity). Then he lay down again on the Pak-a-Mak and made not a tremor as Ho knelt beside him, measured off one hand’s-breadth below the left nipple and, finding the space between the appropriate ribs, positioned the point of the six-inch nail, holding it in place with an index finger on its head. Then Ho turned to me and politely said, ‘Prease, he try to kill you – you wanna kill him?’

‘Goodness, no,’ I gabbled, ‘I mean thanks awfully, kind of you, very, but I’ve already killed one chap today and I’m trying to …’

‘Mr Ho,’ said the Commandant, ‘I think it might be better if you did it outside. You’ll find a girl called Fiona at the kennels, she’ll show you where the graves are.’

Mr Ho left the room in a marked manner – a little hurt, I fancy – the prisoner folded the Pak-a-Mak neatly, bobbed politely to the company and trotted off behind him.

I hope that, when my own three oranges turn up on the Celestial fruit-machine, I shall accept the jackpot of mortality with as much dignity.