Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  Ruff Puff’s reaction was immediate and unexpected. “Hullo thaylor,” he purred. “Call off tha therch, I geth they found Big Foot after all.” He reached forward and gently stroked Trevelyan’s bare chest. “Who’th tha th’tiff?” he asked, staring at Trevelyan’s dead face. “He’th delectable. Heavenly.”

  “I picked him up at the morgue. But he’s been perfectly preserved in a special plastic spray to prevent decomposition and keep him fresh.”

  “That’th thum cadaver.”

  I did my best to ignore Ruff Puff’s odd behaviour, pushing on with my carefully prepared artistic flim-flam. “I think it’s a tragic, contemplative piece of work. Too challenging for some, unquestionably, but its ultimately rewarding, even life-affirming, if you force yourself to engage with it.”

  “Oh I’m forthing mythelf. I’m engaging. I’m in love. I want it. He’th justht beautiful. But what ith that? Hith hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “It-th thcaring me but I love it! You know whad I’m thaying? You think he’th the right way round? Or th’ud he be fai’th down wi’th hith a’th on dith’play?”

  I was delighted by his reaction. It couldn’t have gone better. Dead Man In A Coffin was a shoo-in for Ruff Puff’s collection and had taken up a prime position in the same room as Lunk’s mother. Now I just had to close the deal and find a way to get Ruff Puff away from the painting long enough for Trevelyan to destroy it.

  First I asked to use the loo and found a small window that led out onto the street. This was how Trevelyan would escape. It would be tight but I reckoned he could get through it if he breathed in. I flushed the chain and left the window ajar, and then went straight back into the gallery. I took a deep breath.

  “Dead Man In A Coffin is yours for ten thousand pounds.”

  Ruff Puff put his glass down and folded his arms. “Ten thouhthand poundths? Who the hell are you anyway? I won’t go a thitch over thwee.”And with that he marched to a bureau and wrote a cheque, which he threw onto the table. “Hthake it or leavth it.”

  I paced thoughtfully for a moment, pretending to consider the deal. I put my hand in the top pocket of my paint-spattered hessian dungarees, and made a play of counting the few pound notes I had. Then I marched over to Ruff Puff to take up the cheque and shook his real hand vigorously.

  “It’s a deal, Mr Kanweller-Sarrascene, but only if you let me buy you a drink to celebrate.”

  He gave me a curious look. “Theriouthly?” he said.

  “I think I owe you a drink for accepting my work. How can I ever thank you? You’ve just made my reputation as an artist.” I said, letting my voice crack with emotion, “it calls for some kind of celebration. I can just about afford a bottle of champagne!”

  This was where our research paid off. Ruff Puff loved champagne nearly as much as he loved gambling. There was no way he would refuse.

  “Uh-oh! You’re a naughdy boy! You juth’d thed tha thee word! Whad a-we waidin fer? Let’ths go!”

  It was on. He grabbed his fedora and whirled passed me to open the door, murmuring something under his breath that I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to hear.

  “And when I get back, mith’der dead-man, I’m taking you to thex town.”

  God, I hoped Trevelyan could get out of this place.

  __________

  I spent the next three hours in The Laughing Swordsman in Capstick Street drinking champagne. Plenty of time for Trevelyan to destroy the picture and make his escape.

  Ruff Puff was pretty good company, and he regaled me with stories about the people he knew, which seemed to be pretty much everyone. If his stories were to be believed then he’d screwed just about every Hollywood leading male from the last decade, as well as single-handedly reinventing the market for modern art. I rather liked the chap and thought it a shame that we were going to have to destroy the Picasso and upset him. I did consider for a moment just coming clean and asking him if we could have it, for a fair price. But I knew a fair price was still too much. Hidden behind Ruff Puff’s playful exterior was a serious businessman. That picture was worth proper money. There was no other way around it. I’d stick with the plan.

  I bought the first bottle of champers, which was gone in moments. Then Ruff Puff dumped a twenty-guinea note on the bar, and called for reinforcements. I was careful about the amount I consumed, but there was no stopping Ruff Puff, whose capacity was legendary. I made sure that he was always topped up, and by the time we left the pub he was reasonably tipsy whereas I still felt sharp. I thanked him again for his sponsorship, bade him farewell and then waited as he walked off back towards his gallery, singing to himself.

  I checked my watch. By now Trevelyan should be back at Scoundrels getting stuck into the 1893 Château La Mission Haut-Brion that I’d asked Marwood to decant in readiness for our success.

  So far everything had gone to plan. Yet something gnawed at the back of my mind. Something told me I should double back to the gallery, just to make sure that Trevelyan had got out.

  __________

  Ruff Puff’s screaming could be heard from the pavement outside. At first I’d put this down to his discovery of the destroyed painting and I was about to walk off, mission accomplished. But just as I was turning away I heard the angry words, “Wha tha hell are you doin’ trathshin’ my gawerwy?”

  I rapped hard on the door. When it swung open Ruff Puff looked insane with rage.“Tha thun of a bitch ith th’tuck in tha window. I’ve goddim.”

  I followed him back into the gallery, feigning deep concern. “I heard you call out, what’s happened?”

  “Vandalithm! Cuwtuwul vandathithm! He’th thotally dethtroyed my Picatho! It’th thabotaged! And now tha fat thod ith th’tuck in my window.” My heart sank. I could see the tattered remnants of Big Lady On A Table hanging off its frame. It had been slashed over and over with a craft knife, just as we’d arranged. However bad this got, I knew our undertaking for Lunk Snr was accomplished, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  But then Ruff Puff led me to the loo. Trevelyan was jammed fast in the window frame. He was just fractionally too big to fit through it. His linen trousers had burst open, and his naked arse was sticking out towards us. He was wriggling like a worm on a hook. He looked ridiculous. I shook my head in despair.

  “I’ve called tha poli’th, you bathtard!” Ruff Puff taunted him.

  The police! That wouldn’t do at all. It would be extremely uncomfortable if they got involved. I knew that Scoundrels’ business often bypassed the usual law and order channels but this was our first mission. Would we be afforded the same privileges?

  Ruff Puff had found a riding crop from somewhere, and was going to town on Trevelyan’s bare arse. He whipped and smacked at his stuck buttocks until they were as tattered as the Picasso canvas, and all the while he screamed about vengeance and trickery. Then Trevelyan came crashing back down inside the loo. He staggered up off the floor and dusted himself down sheepishly. Ruff Puff recognised him right away.

  “Dead Man?” he said almost tenderly. “Whad tha fuck ith going on here?” Our goose was cooked. Ruff Puff looked at me and then back at Trevelyan.

  “You ath-holeth are in thith together! Th’tart talkin’ people or Ruff Puff’th gunna kill thumbody.”

  I was searching for a solution but nothing was coming. Trevelyan was no use either. He simply stared at the ground, a look he’d perfected in our housemaster’s study at Winstowe. Out of nowhere, it came to me. A last ditch plan. It was an awful gamble, but one we had to take. “How about we toss for it?” I said.

  This caught Ruff Puff by surprise. He looked intrigued. “Or whad?”

  “Heads we win. We leave, taking him with us, no questions asked. Tails we lose, paying the full market value for Big Lady.”

  “You could never athord it!”

  I whipped out Ruff Puff�
��s cheque and tore it to pieces. Then I whipped out my own chequebook and using Trevelyan’s back as a table, wrote out an open draft for twenty thousand pounds. I held it up, so that Ruff Puff could see it.

  “I assure you, Sir, I can afford to destroy it, and I can afford to pay for it. You could double your money.”

  I could see in his eyes that he couldn’t resist the sweet, simple beauty of a fifty-fifty game of chance. He was almost shaking when he pulled out the coin from his pocket and nodded his acceptance of the bet.

  The small silver coin rose high into the air, spinning in slow motion as our eyes followed it. Then it dropped. Down, down into Ruff Puff’s good hand. And then, without taking his eyes off me, he flipped it fluidly onto the back of his prosthetic limb. My heart was pounding as he slowly revealed the result. “Headths.”

  Ruff Puff swore and threw the coin across the room as Trevelyan and I let out a sigh of relief. “And with that, Mr Kanweller-Sarrascene, we bid you farewell.”

  Ruff Puff was shell-shocked. “Who are you guyths?” he said.

  “You’ll never know,” I called behind me as we walked out of his gallery and into the cool night air, Trevelyan’s ribboned buttocks dripping blood onto the London cobbles.

  __________

  It was late when we arrived back at the club, and raining. Nevertheless, Aram-Patrel spirited from nowhere to hold an umbrella for us while I tried to tip our cabbie for being decent enough to pick up a penniless artist and a naked, bleeding Neanderthal.

  “No charge for Scoundrels, sir,” the cabbie said.

  Once inside we waited in the drawing room, where a fire was already burning. I’d just poured us both coffee when Lunk Snr appeared.

  “Please sit down gentlemen,” he said, smiling.

  “It’s done,” Trevelyan said confidently as we took our seats.

  “Done?”

  “Destroyed,” I said, equally chipper. “That painting will never see the light of day.”

  “So my mother’s modesty is intact?” he said.

  My thoughts returned to the picture. Modesty wasn’t a word I would have used. I shifted in my seat. “It is,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said clapping his hands together. “Thank you. You have done me a great service, and in the process you have ratified your membership here. Now go and have a drink.”

  And that was it. No debrief, no need for an explanation of how we did it. He didn’t seem interested. I was taken aback that Lunk Snr just accepted our word. We got up to leave.

  Then, just as we were at the door, “by the way,” he said, “out of interest, what would you have done if you’d lost the toss?” We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other, confused. How did he know about the coin toss?

  Then a door opened at the other end of the office and in walked Ruff Puff. “Yeth gentleman, it’th me,” he said leaning coyly on the desk alongside Lunk Snr.

  “Ruff Puff! You were in on it?” I said, suddenly feeling a bit foolish.

  Lunk Snr smiled. “I’d like to introduce you to one of my closest associates, and a true Scoundrel, Jeremy Ruff Puff Kanweller-Sarrascene.” We both nodded. What a performer this man was. We’d never suspected him for a second.

  “That wa’th thum ball’thy move gentleman. Vewy ball’thy. But tell me, leth thuppo’th you loth’t the toth. Whad would you hath done?”

  It felt as if our recruitment wasn’t quite over. We were still being tested, and the next words we said were critical. I kept my eyes on Ruff Puff and without missing a beat I answered. “We’d have killed you.”

  Ruff Puff stared at me stony-faced, and then smiled. “Welcum to the cwub,” he said.

  So there you have it. Our first mission and the start of a wonderful career. Obviously Ruff Puff became a firm friend, and although he lost his other hand in a later bet, he still maintained the same irrepressible spirit.

  It is a source of great sorrow to me that we had to destroy that great piece. I found out from Lunk Snr later that this was the first time Scoundrels used this gambit as a recruitment tool, but that they re-used it many times afterwards. Indeed, Pablo lost count of how many versions of Big Lady On A Table he had to do. He used to bitch and moan about it, you’ll remember. But then he used to bitch and moan about most things, didn’t he?

  What are you going to write up next? Perhaps we should tackle the War.

  Yours sincerely,

  Major Victor Montgomery Cornwall

  Nimbu Towers

  Pullen-under-Lyme

  Gloucestershire

  5th October 2016

  Dear Major,

  It is a measure of Lunk Snr’s commitment to the club that, knowing what a terrible old pervert Pablo was, he allowed his own mother to pose at all. Had that picture been more widely displayed, it would have been as celebrated as La Gioconda or Sunflowers. I remember Big Lady On A Table (I) as profoundly erotic and disturbing, and each subsequent version we commissioned developed these themes still further. Do you remember the saucy, over-the-shoulder stylings of Big Lady On A Table (IV)? Remarkable. We’re guilty of many crimes, Cornwall, but perhaps none so heinous as the destruction of those magnificent artworks.

  Now then, onto the War: ‘39 to ‘45. Did anyone have as entertaining and varied a time as we did? France, Germany, Japan and a few extra stop-offs on the way. I scarcely know where to begin. I think I’ll skip basic training.

  Let’s start at Brize Norton.

  I wonder if you are still in contact with any of our flying pals? Recently I rang up the Stewards’ Office at Hendon to have a natter with the old chaps running the R.A.F. museum. There are three or four old fellows who still remember me, or pretend to, and being called Guv and Ace does bring back the glory of those days very pleasantly.

  The old fellows remember my exploits in the air, dossing about in the mess, playing cricket on the runways, satisfying W.A.A.F.s everywhere. Before long, someone will mention the time my propeller broke over Dogger Bank, and how I made a crude fix in mid-air using a paring knife and a pair of silk undies I found in my breast pocket. Inevitably someone will mention our mission to the Black Forest in 1943. What I wouldn’t give to be back there, even for an hour, garrotting Nazis and infiltrating alpine strongholds. Marvellous days.

  __________

  CHAPTER 8

  The Tackle Chappie

  Brize Norton, Oxfordshire, 1943

  It was a clear day over the airfield, and I was looking forward to getting up into the endless blue. I took care to avoid looking directly at my chief ally, the Sun, although I was pleased he was out today. Sunlight was the marauding Spitfire pilot’s best friend. If one flew out of the Sun towards a German crate, machine guns chirruping from 800ft, there was usually only one result. AKKA-AKKA-AKKA-AKKA – the fearsome noise would build and build, crescendoing in an almighty bang and my enemy’s swirling, fiery death. It gave me no pleasure, but I’d conducted this grim overture twenty-four times so far, and chaps at the War Office were starting to applaud.

  I was an atypical Spitfire pilot. Six foot two inches, as broad as an oak with strong thighs and a great big bell-end like a B.B.C. radio-announcer’s microphone. Normally, Spitfire pilots were pretty underdeveloped, as a large schlong got in the way of joystick manoeuverability in the cramped conditions of the cockpit. So in response I’d developed a device I called the tackle-chappie, which pulled one’s manhood upwards and back, so it lay pointing along one’s abdomen. I’d spent many evenings modelling prototype chappies for the W.A.A.F. girls, who sewed and stitched to provide them for all the over-endowed pilots. It was a simple spark of genius that saved many lives.

  Protocol that spring was simple: get in the air and engage anything flying over our coast. But the previous evening I’d been pulled aside by the A.V.M. and told to be out on the tarmacadam ready to fly at 06:00.

 
I supposed it was something to do with a black Rolls Royce that had swept into the airfield the day before, and disgorged a fellow with sallow cheeks and the furtive expression of a man knocking on a brothel door to retrieve his car keys. He sat all alone in the Mess, clutching a small package wrapped in brown paper. He was given a wide berth by the chaps, and even more so after he broke the arm of a young mechanic who had playfully thrown a boiled potato at him.

  At 06:00 sharp I was waiting with my new crate, Rosie, a brand new Vickers Mark VIII two-seater with a new Rotol four-blade propeller and streamlined fairing over the carburettor intake. Aha! Just as I thought. The fellow appeared from the Mess Hut, and marched over to me a little pompously, and saluted. Then he handed me a brown paper package, with a curt “hold this”. Without another word, he reached up and peeled off half of his face! This surprised me, as I’d never seen Hollywood-style prosthetics before.

  Gone was his grubby moustache and sallow countenance, to be replaced with a different grubby moustache and sallow countenance – of Lieutenant Cornwall himself! My heart lifted a bit. It’s always good to see a fellow Scoundrel, no matter who.

  “I thought you were in North Africa procuring pleasure-camels for Rommel. General Lunk Snr was worried you were enjoying the role a bit too much.”

  Ignoring me, Cornwall nodded towards Rosie. “Are you free to give us a lift?”

  “I’ll give you a lift all right, to thirty thousand feet, you cheeky sod, and then I’ll drop you right off. What’s the sit-rep Cornwall? And don’t try to hold out on me. I always know when you’re lying.”

  Cornwall sighed, and leaned on Rosie’s wing in a way that was over-familiar and disrespectful to her. “No big deal,” he said, insufferably. ”Just going to a party.” Cornwall pulled a small shiny rectangle of paper from his breast pocket, and passed it to me as if it were a Wimbledon centre court ticket. A centre court ticket with an embossed swastika on it! I turned it in my hand and couldn’t believe what I was seeing.