The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

by Kyril Bonfiglioli

  Fair words enough a man shall find:

  They be good cheap, they cost right nought.

  Their substance is but only wind:

  But well to say and so to mean,

  That sweet accord is seldom seen.

  ‘Jock,’ I said to the grizzled retainer as he lowered the tea-tray onto my unwilling lap the next morning, ‘look me in the eye if you dare! Is this your idea of gratitude for my keeping you out of the nick all these years? You know jolly well that reveille in this bedroom is at 11 a.m. I’m prepared to offer long odds that it is now little more than 10 ditto. What do you mean by harrying me out of blameless slumber in the grey light of dawn? Eh?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Charlie, I cooden book you on the after-lunch flight, it’s full up, so I had to get you on the 12.05. You check in at 11.30.’

  ‘My God!’ I cried, aghast, ‘my luncheon …!’

  ‘ ’Salright, Mr Charlie, Cookie’s packed you a lovely lunch: ’arf a chicken, ’arf a dozen gull’s eggs, ’arf a bottle of white Burgundy and ’arf a pound of Mr B.’s special shooting-cake.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ I hmphed, ‘I suppose I can rough it for once. We old campaigners, you know … but see that there is a sustaining breakfast ready for me in twenty-five minutes. And fill the larger of my pocket-flasks.’

  ‘Right, Mr Charlie.’

  ‘Carry on, Jock.’

  As he drove me to the airport I said, ‘Jock, lend me your ears.’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘I mean, pay attention carefully; memorise the following as though it were the Judges’ Rules: as soon as you have shovelled me onto the aircraft you are to proceed to Bellingham’s courteous travel agency – let me see, it’s the 15th inst., right? – and book yourself on a late afternoon flight to Heathrow or Gatwick on the 17th and the three following days. During that period – the 17th until the 20th – you must at all costs stay within earshot of the telephone until, let’s say, 6 p.m. On one of those days, probably the first of them, Mr Bates, the amiable eye-ball engineer whom I visited yesterday, will phone, asking for you by name and saying that all is ready. You will throw your overnight-bag into the car and make all speed to Mr Bates, who will hand you a package. Hop on the plane, make your way to Oxford and go straight to the cop-shop (oh, do keep your eyes on the road, Jock and stop boggling – this cop-shop will do you no harm, I swear, they won’t even take your fingerprints). At the said cop-shop you will hand the packet personally to the Detective Chief Inspector or to a Detective Constable called Holmes. It is better that you do not attempt to get in touch with me; it would be insecure. Take a room in some modestly priced Temperance Hotel suitable to your station in life, talk to no-one, and do not, on any account, get into any bar-room brawls. Then make your way back to Jersey first thing in the morning. Right, Jock?’

  ‘Right, Mr Charlie.’ I gave him some money, enough to keep him out of trouble but not enough to get him into any.

  At Oxford station there were, needless to say, no taxis to be had. What there was, however, was a shiny black limousine and a uniformed copper holding the door open for me. Long and bitter experience has given me a rooted distrust of shiny black limousines so I startled the driver by asking for his warrant-card. Well, I’d rather be taken for a twit by a genuine policeman than taken for a ride by a bogus one, wouldn’t you?

  ‘However did you know I’d be on this train?’ I asked as we drifted toward Christ Church.

  ‘DC Holmes figured it out, sir. Lovely set of brains he’s got. Nice with it too. Even with villains, unless they get above themselves.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Gives them a little friendly lesson in karate. He’s got one of them black belts. Never leaves a mark on ’em, either.’

  The DCI beamed at me across his desk, but it was the beam of a man who has just been munching a moody fingernail.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ I cried heartily. ‘Did you work out what Dr F. was doing when he wasn’t reading in his wife’s car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  My face fell disappointedly.

  The DCI seemed to be battling with his conscience. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I didn’t actually figure it out myself; it was DC Holmes. He reckons Fellworthy was, as he puts it, frigging with his wife’s glasses.’

  ‘My word! Is there no end to that chap’s resourcefulness?’ And then, to salve his pride, ‘I must say you train your squad admirably, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you, most kind; we try to do our best. But what about those bloody glasses?’

  ‘Look, before we start, I’d better say that what I’ve got in mind is possibly going to need the assistance of a real policeman – and possibly one who can use a little tactful violence. I wondered whether you’d consider sort of putting Holmes on stand-by call for me if I should need him. It would hardly interfere with his usual duties – just an hour or so at odd times during the next ten days or so …?’

  ‘You couldn’t have picked a better man,’ he said handsomely. ‘He’s got brains, brawn and balls – like the ideal President the Americans never get.’

  ‘Is he close-mouthed?’

  ‘A veritable oyster.’

  ‘Then I suggest we have him in, now, so that he’s in the picture. Might do the wrong thing if he didn’t know what it was all about.’ He gnawed a nail or two, then intercommed. DC Holmes clockwork-soldiered in, was told to sit.

  ‘Look here, young Holmes,’ said the DCI, ‘this is so confidential that I’m putting myself at risk letting you in on it. To put it bluntly, we common jacks have been warned off the Fellworthy case by some conniving political pignuts. BUT I’M NOT HAVING MURDER GOT AWAY WITH IN MY BLOODY MANOR! The Chief Constable feels the same way as I do, which is why he’s demi-officially given Special Inspector Mortdecai a brief to dig around tactfully. By giving him assistance I’m disobeying my orders from Whitehall. Right, I’ve put my head on the block – if you want to shop me you can have me in charge of traffic-control on the Norfolk Broads next week. I don’t think you’re that kind of a man.’

  ‘Correct, sir. I call it a compliment you trusting me, sir. And anyway, if I did the dirty on you I’d never be trusted by anyone in the Force again, would I?’ The DCI chuckled.

  ‘Yes, I thought that would occur to you. By the way, I believe you passed your Detective Sergeant’s exams?’

  ‘Yessir. Twice, sir.’ The unspoken promise floated delicately to the floor between them.

  ‘Right, Mr Mortdecai. Now tell us.’

  ‘First,’ I said, plonking the envelope on his desk, ‘these are the mortal remains of Bronwen’s glasses, exactly as you gave them to me but now, as you see, sealed up, certified by the optician who prescribed and fitted them and counter-signed by Special Inspector Me. Now, sir—’ He raised a protesting hand – all sirring had hitherto been in the other direction.

  ‘Well, look,’ I said, ‘you are my, ah, demi-official superior now and I can’t keep calling you “Detective Chief Inspector,” it makes my tongue ache. What would one of your own Inspectors call you?’

  ‘ “Chief” usually. Only “sir” if I was giving him a going-over.’

  ‘Right, Chief. And please call me Charlie. You,’ I said, turning to Holmes sternly, ‘may continue to call me “sir.” ’

  ‘Yessir,’ he said. The momentary twinkle in his eye was by no means insubordinate.

  ‘Now, Chief,’ I continued, ‘I submit that you might care to date-stamp this envelope, initial the stamp and pop the whole thing into your safest safe. We shan’t need it until the trial.’

  ‘But won’t you need to take the glasses with you when you visit Fellworthy?’

  ‘I’ll be coming to that presently. Now, this is how the murder was committed …’ and I told them all. Well, almost all. Certainly all that was good for them. When I had finished, I summed it all up incisively: ‘Well,’ I said, ‘and there you are, aren’t you?’

  Holmes looked at me applaudingly but said, ‘Bloody twit. They’re all the same, ar
en’t they, sir?’ He was addressing the DCI and I bridled for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ said the DCI heavily, ‘they’re all the same. Villain does a lovely £50,000 job with a thermic lance – no dabs, a new modus operandio, nothing for us to go on at all. Next week he buys his tart a mink, and bing-bong-willy-wong, we’ve got him. Same as this Fellworthy: perfect murder, Crime of the Century, no-one would ever know it was a murder even, but he has to—’ I broke in courteously:

  ‘He has to draw your attention to himself by making a fuss about the wretched glasses and arouse your suspicions, Chief, eh?’ He shot me a furtively grateful glance.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘If he’d never mentioned them he’d have got them back by now. Rightly does DC Holmes call him a twit. When I think of all that ingenuity going into his caper and then it all being spoiled by mere human frailty – well, it makes me despair of criminal nature.’

  ‘Amateurs,’ murmured Holmes.

  ‘Even the pros are amateurs,’ snapped the DCI; ‘we’re the only professionals, we do it for a living. Villains make a quick tickle, laughing their heads off at Old Bill, then spend ten years in the slammer, thinking up another caper.’ He turned to me. ‘We sent a bloke “up the stairs” – that’s our vulgar way of saying The Old Bailey – last month. He drew “During her Majesty’s Pleasure.” Fifty years old and he’s spent twenty-five of them in the nick. Probably still thinks he’s smart.’

  ‘Ah well, Chief,’ I said, trying to lighten his mood, ‘this was a one-off job and you’ve got him, ah, dead to rights, haven’t you, what?’

  ‘No,’ he said morosely.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. First, I’ve had orders from On High to leave the whole mess alone, as you well know. Oh, I could bash it through all right, ’specially now the political thing turns out to be a load of old moody, but it’d still be me for the Norfolk Broads. My missus has these lovely long legs, you see,’ he went on irrelevantly, ‘and she can’t bear gumboots.’ I tried once again, in my foolish way, to lighten his mood.

  ‘Never marry a woman with lovely long legs, Chief, she’s liable to walk out on you, hah hah …’

  ‘So could one with ugly short legs,’ said the logical Holmes.

  ‘Ah, but who would care?’

  The intercom buzzed and a female voice, evidently coming from a mouth full of hairpins, said that Dr Fellworthy wished to speak to the DCI. Chiefy arranged his features, adopted an unctuous voice.

  ‘No, Doctor, the spectacles under advisement have not yet emerged to the surface, as you might say, but I have two men, pro bono as we say, checking pawnshops, old-gold dealers and such this very minute.’ He span the dial an inch, to give the impression that he was making a connection to the Information Room, then scowled and winked hideously at Holmes.

  ‘Sergeant!’ he barked, ‘any word yet on the pair of lady’s gold-rimmed glasses?’ Holmes – what an admirable man! – turned away, stuck two fingers in his mouth and bellowed. ‘Not yet, sir, but we have high hopes. We covered all likelies in the city centre; moving into outlying suburbs tomorrow. Reckon they must be in the vicinity: not enough gold to peddle them in London. They’ll turn up, sir.’

  ‘Are you still there, Doctor?’ soaped the DCI. ‘We are confident of finding your dear departed’s memento moria; I realise how much such small relicts mean to a bereaved person. Yes, sir, I understand perfectly … yes … yes … and I hope you are bearing up, sir; always bear in mind that these things are sent to try us, aren’t they?’ As he put the telephone back on its cradle he homed in on my quizzical eyebrows. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said, ‘that last sentence was a bit inopportune, wasn’t it?’ I shrugged. He pulled himself together.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘as I was about to say before DC Holmes brought up the subject of my lady-wife’s limbs, the second factor is that there just isn’t enough evidence to offer a court. He wouldn’t even need a barrister; any smart-arse from a cut-price Legal Clinic would get it chucked out at the Magistrate’s Hearing.’

  ‘But but but,’ I said lucidly, ‘but but but! I mean, dash it! Look, we’ve got Means: the murder weapon or deodand is on your very desk in that envelope. We’ve got Opportunity: the five furtive minutes in Bronwen’s bucket-seat in the hotel garage. We’ve got his insistence on circular lenses from the optician; we’ve got her irrational fears about Reds under her herring which were supposed to throw us off the scent; and we’ve got Motive.’

  ‘What motive?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Chief; every married man has an occasional desire to murder his wife, this is common knowledge. I mean, that’s what meat-cleavers are for, isn’t …’ I tailed off, for I realised that I was in the midst of a gritty sort of silence; the silence of a gravel drive which no-one is walking on. My hand, unbidden, flew to my moustache.

  ‘What I mean,’ I gabbled, ‘what I mean, of course, is that separated married couples have a lot of stresses and strains, and, ah, strains and, well, stresses. I mean, one of them wants to give it another try, perhaps, while the other is intent on a full divorce.’ By sheer will-power I forced my hand away from the guilty apple-orchard of my upper lip. The silence went on, more benignly now, but I was damned if I was going to be the first to break it. I like silences, I cultivate and collect them, but I mutely prayed to whomever might be listening that someone would say something. I should have remembered the only sensible thing St Teresa ever said: ‘It is those of our prayers which are answered which cause us to shed tears.’

  ‘Tell him, Holmes,’ said the DCI.

  ‘DCI’s right, sir. You couldn’t shop a Liberal MP on that evidence these days. Like he says, it’d hardly get past the Magistrate’s Ear-ring. Mind you, if Fellworthy was smart, he’d elect for trial by jury and get a top “brief.” At quarter-sessions, right after the prosecutor’s openers, the “brief” would get up and submit there was no case to answer. The judge (the good old bloodthirsty breed is all dead or retired now) would so instruct the jury. Jury’d be packed with women – and you know women think that doctors are the nearest thing to God …’ The DCI broke in:

  ‘Good thinking, Holmes; once he was acquitted in full court he couldn’t be tried again for the murder, no matter what evidence we might find afterwards. He could walk around shouting “I done it, I done it” and we could only touch him for Disorderly Behaviour. No Charlie, we’ve got to have something more. If we can’t get his neck for sure …’

  ‘… they’ll have yours,’ I said. ‘Very well; I’ve got a bit of a ploy in mind. Take notes, please, Holmes. “A” – have you written that down? Good. “A:” in a few days from now a large, ugly man with a glass eye will appear at the counter of this cop-shop. He will be carrying a package to be delivered to the DCI or, should the DCI be out for lunch, to you. He will hand it to no-one else. Pray tell all of your colleagues who might be on duty at the cash-desk that he will be about his lawful occasions. You see, he is, even to the untrained eye, a member of the criminal classes and it is important that he should be neither molested nor harassed. He answers to the name of Mr Strapp. His only fault is that he dearly loves to hit people, especially uniformed ones, and, strange as it may seem, he’s afraid of no-one but me.’ Holmes gave me one of those long, careful looks which only good policemen know how to give.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that was all that strange, sir.’ I almost blushed; my silly-arse mask must have slipped a little.

  ‘Chhrrmm,’ I said. ‘What I mean is, see that he is allowed to hand the package by hand, so to say, to the DCI or yourself and that no-one gives him any “aggro.” His skin is exceptionally sensitive and exhibits a strong allergy to fingerprint-ink. He will leave Oxford by the next town drain, I assure you. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Abundantly, sir. Indeed, I’ll see that he’s given a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh dear no, I wouldn’t do that, really. No stimulants. Just let him go in peace. Now, Chief,’ I turned to the Chief, ‘this package must be passed to me at Scone College – hand to hand – just as soon as
human foot or car can convey it. Will you see to that, please? This is of the essence, as French motorists say.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Next, “B:” what sort of jurisdiction or influence do you have amongst your country colleagues in Dr Fellworthy’s bit of Buckinghamshire, eh?’

  ‘Ah, well, sir – sorry – Charlie, that point is a bit moot. In fact I’d say it was highly moot. I mean, we’re all Thames Valley Police nowadays and we take turns manning the Regional Crime Squad and that, but old habits die hard. Like, if some jack from Thame came clumping into our manor in hot pursuit of a shop-lifter, he’d get a root up the sump, see? I mean, we collaborate amicably. Like Stalin and Churchill.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. In fact I said ‘Oh dear’ again, for this made my plans look like a plate of ill-forked spaghetti.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the DCI, ‘what do you want a lot of Bucks. flatties in muddy wellies clumping about with you for? You’ve got DC Holmes, haven’t you? You’re only going to see one inoffensive murderer tomorrow, right?’

  ‘Well, no, not tomorrow really. I’m not going to see the Dr until the aforementioned package arrives; you can see that, I’m sure. I just want to do a bit of snooping and sleuthing while I wait for it.’ Holmes breathed in and out in a respectful way. The DCI made a noise like a bull-terrier with catarrh.

  ‘Special Inspector Mortdecai,’ he said, in just those saccharine tones that a Princess uses to a press photographer at a puissance trial, ‘I am well aware that your brains are big enough to stuff a goose with – from either end – but I do think that AS YOUR FUCKING SUPERIOR OFFICER it is high time you let me in on all this roly-moly about mysterious packages and, and – all that.’

  ‘Oh, dammit, Chief, I’m awfully sorry; I’m not a trained policeman, you know that, haven’t put the facts in the right order. This is what I had in mind.’ I told them what I had in mind. When it was in his mind it churned around a little, then he nodded. It was an almost entirely ungrudging nod, as nods go – and I reckon myself a pretty good judge of a nod.