The Mortdecai Trilogy

by Bonfiglioli, Kyril

  The windiness of Chicago is grossly over-described: I was much windier myself. On the journey to my hotel I strained my eyes out of the taxi’s windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of some mobsters cutting-down dirty, double-crossing rats with ‘typewriters’ or blasting their molls with ‘pineapples’ but none was to be seen. When I complained of this to the cabbie he chuckled fatly.

  ‘Nixon we got,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘who needs Capone?’ I pretended to understand. Well, I’d heard of Capone of course: he’ll have a place in history, won’t he?

  My hotel was really just the same hotel that I’ve stayed in all over the world except that it was a bit taller than most. They’ll never take the place of Claridge’s or the Connaught; still less the duplex penthouse suite in the Bristol (that’s in Paris, France) but at least you know where you are in these new ones. You know exactly the size and springiness of your bed, exactly what the room-service will be like if you can get them to answer the phone – and you know better than to put your shoes outside the door.

  I visited the loo or toilet – who would not? – and found the porcelain pan protected by the usual strip of ‘sanitized’ paper. (This reassures Americans that they may sit safely, for Americans are terrified of germs, everyone knows that. Hotel-managers love it for its ‘cost-effectiveness’: whipping a piece of paper around the receiver and giving a blast of aerosol takes far less time than actually cleaning it. Only Arabs are not fooled: they stand on the seat.) Then I had a brisk shower (the shower was programmed to scald you or freeze you; you didn’t stay under it long – ‘cost-effectiveness’ again, you see) and, having put on a fresh clothe or two, I had a brisk debate with myself. The upshot was that I telephoned Blucher before Johanna, for reasons which will occur to you. Blucher seemed full of merriment.

  ‘How full of merriment you seem, to be sure,’ I said sourly.

  ‘Well, Mr Mortdecai, to tell the truth I just took a call from a Chinese gentleman – he doesn’t exactly work for me but he sometimes throws me a bit of news just for laughs, you know? – and he tells me that you sat on his lap when you were about forty minutes out from Paris, France.’

  ‘An unexpected air-pocket. I rebuked the conducteur – sorry, the pilot – for his clumsy driving.’

  ‘An air-pocket at 30,000 feet? Yeah, of course. And the screwdriver bit – don’t tell me you tried the old toilet-inspection-panel routine? You did? You really did?’ Had I not known him for a humourless man I might almost have thought that he was stifling a laugh.

  ‘Hey,’ he went on, ‘did you taste the stuff since you retrieved it? I mean, it may really be tooth-powder now, huh?’

  ‘It may very well have been that in the first place, for all I know.’

  ‘Hunh? Oh. Yes, that’s good thinking. Well, I’d say you should just call your lady now and do exactly what she tells you. Some of our fellows will be sort of close at hand with fresh diapers for you but you won’t see them. And don’t call me again until you get back to the UK unless something comes up that you really can’t handle. OK?’

  ‘You mean, like death?’

  ‘Oh, golly, no,’ he said seriously. ‘If you get dead do not on any account call us; we’d have to disown you, that’s the ground-rules, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said with equal seriousness. Then I said, ‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘Right,’ he said. I hung up. Then I called Johanna.

  ‘Darling!’ she cried when I told her the news, ‘Wonderful! Now, just you sit there by the telephone with a drink and I’ll have someone come and see you.’

  ‘Do you know what time it is here?’ I squeaked, outraged.

  ‘I know what time it is here, Charlie; what time do you have there in Chicago?’

  ‘Dinner-time,’ I snarled, for the Spartan boy’s fox was indeed gnawing at my very vitals.

  ‘Well, just sit there with two drinks, dear; the person who’s coming to see you will give you a lovely dinner, I promise.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ I said, as I have so often said before. Another revolt quelled, another outpost surrendered. Why do nations pay great salaries to Generals when women can do the job just as well without even using an army? I decided on a spot of toothbrushing – as well as the drink, of course, not instead of.

  ‘Why, why, why Mortdecai?’ I asked myself as I burnished the teeth still extant (my initials are, in fact, C.S.v.C. Mortdecai, but let it pass, let it pass), ‘why are you suffering these slings and arrows?’

  The answer was simple, for the question was merely rhetorical: suffer these slings and arrows or lose my end of the life-death trade-in I had agreed to with Blucher. I have no particular objection to death as such; it pays all bills and lays on others the chore of hiding the pornograms, the illegal firearms, the incriminating letters: all these things become of little importance when you have six feet of sod o’er you. On the other hand – I distinctly remember saying ‘on the other hand’ gravely to my toothbrush as I rinsed it – on the other hand, d’you see, death was not something I was actually craving just then. For one thing, I was not in a state of grace and, more to the point, I was burning with desire for revenge upon the perfidious Johanna who had played that horrid prank with the quartz-decay capsule implant. (On the ’plane I had thought of asking the stewardess to listen to my vesiculae seminales and tell me if she could hear anything ticking, but once again my command of French had failed me. In any case, it is possible that she might have thought it an odd request.)

  ‘Heigh-ho!’ I thought, then trotted briefly down to the hotel’s drug-store where I made a purchase or two. I don’t think they had ever before been asked for half a kilo of baby-powder. I also bought some stout envelopes and stamps. Lots of stamps. A brief trip back to my room, another to the post office and soon I was relaxing in an arm-chair, my jet-lag symptoms reacting well to the treatment I was pouring into them but my hunger unabated. Only such a man of iron as I could have resisted the temptation to ring for a sandwich or two but I placed my trust in Johanna: if she says there is a good dinner in the offing, then the offing is what the said dinner is in.

  Not that I didn’t feel a twinge of trepidation as I awaited my host. By the time the door-bell rang I had arranged the odds in my mind: seven to three said a Mafioso with padded shoulders who would frisk me before treating me to spaghetti oi vongole plus deep-fried baby zucchini with the flowers still attached and lots of fried piperoni on the side, while ten would get you seven that it would be a slinky she-sadist who would frisk me only with contemptuous eyes before making me take her to Sardi’s or somewhere like that and buy her pheasant under glass – the most boring grocery in the world.

  I was wrong, not for the first time. Who oozed into my suite when I answered the bell was none other than the portly Chinese gentleman upon whose lap I had roosted for a while in the Boeing 747.

  ‘Harrow,’ he said civilly. I glanced at his tie.

  ‘Surely you mean Clifton? Oh, yes, sorry, I see; harro to you, too. Have a drink?’

  ‘Thankyou, no. I bereave you are hungry? Come.’

  I came. Went, rather.

  You will hardly be surprised to learn that it was a Chinese meal with which I was regaled, but in a Chinese restaurant of no common sort, nor of the nastiness I would have expected from my first impressions of Chicago – a city which seemed intent upon finding how low a lowest common denominator can be. (I hasten to say that some of my best friends may well be Chicagoans – without actually advertising the fact – but have you ever snuffed the scent of the Chicago River as it slides greasily under the nine bridges in the centre of the Windy City? Alligators have been known to flee, holding perfumed handkerchiefs to their noses. As for the carrion gusts from Lake Michigan itself, ‘Faugh!’ is too mild a word by half.)

  This restaurant, as I was saying before I caught ecology, was not one of those where oafs stir three or four dishes together and eat the resultant mess with chips and soy sauce, while the waiters wa
tch inscrutably, thinking their own thoughts. No, it was one of those rare ones which has no menu – people just bring you a succession of tiny dishes of nameless things to be eaten one at a time and without soy sauce. I tried not to disappoint these dedicated waiters and gifted cooks; tried, too, to earn a reputation for being the fastest chopstick in the Northern Mid-West.

  My host’s name proved to be either Ree or Lee: my uncertainty about this is perfectly genuine. At Oxford we had a Korean professor who trilled his name unmistakably as ‘Ree’ but insisted on writing ‘Lee’. He saw no anomaly in this.

  As we dabbled in the finger-bowls, my courteous host murmured courteously that he bereaved I had a package for him. I dabbled thoughtfully.

  ‘That may well be,’ I said guardedly, ‘or, perhaps, not. What?’

  He gazed at me civilly. I replied with equal civility.

  ‘You see, I have no instructions about lashing out samples of toothpowder or dentifrice to one and all, however delectable the dinner they give.’

  ‘Mr Mortdecai,’ he said heavily, or as heavily as chaps like that can, ‘you are surely experienced enough to know that in this particurar rine of business it is not considered porite, or even safe, to pray, ah, sirry buggers. We have, you understand, certain resources, ah?’

  ‘Oh, goodness, yes,’ I hastened to say, ‘goodness yes. Indeed, I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of meeting your Mr Ho. Ah? That’s really why I’ve sort of taken out insurance. I mean, I’ve a simple-minded sort of mind, you understand, no trace of a death-wish or any of that rubbish: self-preservation is so much more fun than self-destructiveness, don’t you agree? Eh? Or rather, “Ah”, eh?’

  ‘What sort of precautions have you taken, Mr Mortdecai?’

  ‘Oh, well, I’ve sort of entrusted the toothpowder to the US Mails: an incorruptible lot, I’m told. Neither frost nor sleet nor trade unions prevents these messengers from etc. And it’s gone to a safe address. Old-fashioned, I know, but the best I could think of at the time. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Mr Mortdecai,’ he murmured suavely, pouring me another cup of delicious tea, ‘if you have met my subordinate, Mr Ho, you must surely rearize that this safe address can be ericited from you in ress time than it takes to say what I am saying.’

  ‘Oh, my word, yes; I quite understand that, but the address is no secret at all, you may have it for the asking. It’s the Commercial Attaché at the British Embassy in Washington – he doubles in security co-ordination or whatever they call it now, as I’m sure you know. Old school-friend of mine; knows my face, you see. I sort of worked for him in the 1940s if you know what I mean. He’s quite potty about security, wouldn’t dream of handing the package to anyone but me. And I mean, me unaccompanied, of course. And if I didn’t say the right sort of words he’d give me a cosy bedroom in the Embassy for as long as I needed it. You see?’

  He thought a while but without ostentation.

  ‘I see,’ he said. (An English chap would have said ‘Yes, I see, I see,’ but your actual Oriental is economical with words.)

  ‘How much do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Money?’ I asked disdainfully. ‘Nothing at all. Still less, God forbid, any part of that costly tooth-powder, for I fancy I know what happens to people who own such things when other people wish to own them. No, all I wish is a little information. I have become tired and vexed, you see, at being used as a cat’s-paw in matters about which I know nothing. This prodding from random directions insults my intelligence. I am prepared to fight under almost any flag if the money is good, but I do need to have a squint at the flag first. I am too overweight to play, ah, silly buggers.’

  I could tell by the way he mused over this that he was a clever man. How much cleverer than me he was, of course, remained an open question.

  ‘That is quite understandable, Mr Mortdecai,’ he said at last, ‘and it seems to me that your case-officer has been running you without a proper regard for your interrigence and, ah, other quarities. I agree that you should be given a view of the frag under which you are fighting – but you rearise that I must first get a little crearance. Ah?’

  ‘Ah,’ I agreed. He invited me to his office. We entered. That sounds easy, but entering the office of a clandestine Chinese gentleman seems to involve being goggled at through peepholes, scanned by metal-detectors and listening to the office-owner murmur into voice-sensitive locks – all that stuff which so destroys the quality of life nowadays. Death, too, now I come to think of it. He gave me a glass of the actual John Smith’s Glenlivet to sip while he dialled a number so prodigal in digits that it had to be somewhere far, far away. His polite stare at me while he waited for his connection bore no trace of hostility but it had the effect of making me feel far, far away from home and loved ones; one would have thought that he was costing me out in terms of coffin-wood – or perhaps concrete and baling-wire. I let my tummy sag out fully, hoping to make myself look less cost-effective. The telephone crackled at last.

  ‘Harro!’ he said. ‘ … may make more noise,’ I murmured, for I can never resist finishing a quotation. His stare at me sharpened and he switched into a language which sounded like a malicious send-up of a Welsh newsreader but was, I suppose, one of the many brands of Chinese. He clacked and grunted and fluted awhile then listened intently while similar noises from his interlocutor made the instrument positively vibrate in his hand. This went on for a time then, in beautifully-modulated but outdated French, he said, ‘D’accord. Au’voir, re copain.’ Showing off, I suppose. Having replaced the receiver he said to me, ‘Would you rike to wash your hands, Mr Mortdecai?’ I inspected said members: they were indeed sweating profusely. How had he known?

  Returning from his richly but curiously appointed lavatory, I moved into the attack.

  ‘Well, Mr Ree?’ were the stormtrooper words which spearheaded my attack.

  ‘Thankyou, yes,’ he replied. My attack was wiped out. I felt just like an infantry subaltern who has thrown away a platoon against a machine-gun emplacement he forgot to mark on his map. (Listening to the Colonel’s remarks afterwards is not nearly so unpleasant as sitting down to write twenty letters to next-of-kin while the people in the Orderly Room pretend you’re not there. The worst bit is when your batman brings you your dinner to the foxhole or bivvy-tent, saying ‘Thought you might be too tired to dine in Mess tonight. Sir.’ But I reminisce.)

  Having delivered the devastating ‘thankyou, yes,’ Mr Lee or Ree fell silent, studying me again. I did not break this silence; I felt that it was his move.

  ‘Mr Mortdecai,’ he said after a demoralizing interval, ‘are you a discreet man? No, prease do not repry, that was not a question but a warning. A rittre more Grenrivet? Good. I keep it for speciah occasions.’ Those words ‘speciah occasions’ hung delicately in the air between us.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘my friend has agreed that I should tell you enough to exprain a rittle of our work – just enough to encourage you not to pray any more games with goods worth a great sum of money. The conditions are that you do not mention this conversation to your derightful rady wife; that you do not speak of it to any American Coroners you may happen to know (yes, we know about that but we bereave your rady wife does not) and, of course, you make no expranations to your Embassy friend in Washington, who is, forgive me, prease, a fool. In any case, his office is bugged.’

  ‘Tut!’ I said, frowningly. He raised a hand.

  ‘We did not bug it’ he said reprovingly. ‘The Americans did. They are even sirrier than the Engrish. We bug their bugs after they have instorred them. Much cheaper.

  ‘Now, prease pay attention more crosery. If you were to tell any of these people what I shall now tell you, three very powerful organizations would be offended with you. Offended.’

  I sighed. How life repeats itself, to be sure. *

  ‘Do go on,’ I murmured nonchalantly. My hands were sticky with sweat again.

  ‘First, your rady wife is very fond of you but in such circumstance
s she would have to rate you “insecure” and pass you over to her people for disposah. Fiona, the dog-girl at the Correge, would bury you. Probabry your wife has enough infruence to ensure that you would be dead before buriah; I do not know.’

  I did not shudder, I never let foreigners see me shudder, but he must have seen that the beads of sweat were popping out of my forehead like ping-pong balls.

  ‘Next, once you had given this information to a certain American Coroner, you would now be expendabah and he could prease many of his superiors – who have never approved of his keeping you arive – by “terminating you with extreme prejudice” as he would say. Naturarry, you would be interrogated first and this would hurt.’

  ‘Quite,’ I quavered. I don’t mind telling you that I detest being hurt.

  ‘Last, you would now be an enemy, in the third crass, of my own organization.’

  ‘Only third class?’ I asked in the indignant tones which Queen Victoria surely used when she received the Abyssinian Order of Chastity, Second Class; ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means we would not kill you.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  A muscle in his face twitched, almost as though he were a British cavalry officer who is trying to puzzle out whether someone has made a joke and, if so, whether or not it would be good form to smile.

  ‘No,’ he went on, having clearly dismissed any intention of smiling, ‘We would not kill you. We do not kill enemies of the third crass. But after a rittle time you would be asking us most poritery for death. We would not feel able to obrige. After another two or three days – this would depend on your stamina and vitarity – let us say two days – we would rerease you conveniently crose to a rairway-bridge. With a white walking-stick – you would of course by then have lost your sight – which would be taped to what would remain of your hand, and a tendorrar note between your teeth. Sorry, yes, gums – you would no ronger have any teeth, naturarry.’