‘Naturlich,’ she said in tones of frosty sweetness. ‘Es scheint mir dass du versucht hast von deiner Frau eine Freischute zu bekommen, und ich kann mir auch denken für was.’
‘What what what?’ I asked reasonably.
‘I mean, does she say it’s OK to screw?’
‘Oh dear, oh God,’ I thought, ‘I used my real name on the bloody telephone.’
‘Ho ho,’ I said aloud, archly, and for want of anything more sensible to do or say I enfolded her in my arms and kissed her passionately. She had re-zipped herself – all the weary work to do again – but as my fingers tugged at the rip-cord she stood up.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ she said.
‘How do you mean, “goodnight”?’
‘Well, I suppose I mean sort of “goodnight”.’
‘But but but … ’
‘Yes, it would have been such fun but I mean to go on living.’
‘Eh?’
‘I mean I don’t want to get killed this week. Or any week. Here is your hat and umbrella. Please do not think hardly of me; I think you are cute, I have always loved stupid men. Oh and darling, do button yourself up in front – the nights are cold, you might catch chilblains.’
The porter was reading behind his desk in the foyer. His face was benignly blank but it seemed to me that his eyebrows rose a fraction as I shambled past him.
‘Goodnight,’ I mumbled.
‘Goodnight, sir,’ he answered puzzledly and went back to his copy of Forum. He had probably been reading about premature ejaculation.
At home, Johanna, too, raised an eyebrow, far lovelier and more damaging than that of the porter.
‘Home so soon, Charlie dear?’
I snarled in a muffled sort of way and poured myself one of the largest whiskies-and-soda of my career. I did not punish the soda-water syphon too hard. Wordlessly, Johanna handed me two E capsules from a little gold drageoir. I swallowed them sulkily.
‘I’m blown,’ I said at length.
‘Blown, Charlie? You mean Loretta …?’
‘No, no; I mean my cover is blown – don’t you ever read spy-stories? Loretta knows who I am, the bitch speaks German. Better than I do, in fact.’ She seemed to smother a smile.
‘But of course she does, dearest; she is German, you see.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘You should have asked.’ I restrained the words which sprang to my lips for I was not one to use vile language in front of women, never having been married before, you understand.
‘Anyway,’ I said, when the blessed whisky had got a firm foothold on my bloodstream, ‘the operation failed. I got nothing out of her.’
‘Nor, uh, into …?’
‘I cannot bear coarseness in women.’
‘Don’t be so stuffy, Charlie; I didn’t for one moment expect her to prattle. She is very highly-trained indeed. As a matter of fact it was you I was checking out, not her. A kind of initiative test, you know?’ I digested this, along with another whisky and s., which might have been the big brother of the previous one. My blood boiled with chagrin and frustration while many a bitter reflection on the nature of womankind occurred to me. It seemed to me that the only way to retain my tatters of self-respect was to stalk off to my bed in a marked manner.
‘I think I shall go to bed,’ I said in the distant tones of a man who has drunk both Armagnac and Scotch whisky and who has, moreover, been thwarted in the very act of a passionate encounter.
‘Bed?’ she said. ‘Great! Can I come?’ I studied her with a slight stirring of grudged admiration. She stood up with a little movement, shrugging off her peignoir to reveal a shameless little creation in black lace which seemed to be precariously supported only by her out-thrust breasts. The black lace ended just where her long and lovely legs began; had she not been a natural blonde one might have been at a loss to detect the hem-line. My look of admiration changed subtly into one of affection – I was reminded of my earlier rôle of ‘heavy investor’.
‘Can I?’ she repeated meekly.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I’m pretty certain that I could.’
She trotted towards the bedroom. I am not a lustful man but there is something about the sight of a beautiful woman trotting upstairs before me, clad in that kind of night-attire, which arouses the beast in me, I know not why.
‘Charlie?’ she said, a few moments later, ‘Charlie?’
‘Mm-hmm?’ I panted, engrossed.
‘Charlie, are you pretending that I am Loretta?’
‘Certainly not,’ I lied. ‘I am thinking of my fag at school, if you want to know.’
‘You are vile and base,’ she murmured happily.
‘Charlie,’ she said the next morning.
‘Oink.’
Firmly extricating my face from between her breasts she repeated the name.
‘Yes yes,’ I said petulantly, ‘this is still I. Whom did you expect it to be? Onassis?’
‘Listen, Charlie – no, stop that – just for a moment anyway; I have to talk to you. Your date with Loretta last night was only your second assignment but you must admit you made a bit of a cock-up of it, didn’t you?’
‘Don’t admire your turn of phrase,’ I grumbled sleepily.
‘You know quite well what I mean. Now, if you are to be really useful to me – no, stop it, I didn’t mean that – you must be trained.’
‘Rubbish. I am trained. By experts. In the War.’
‘Yes, I know; I have your War Office dossier in the desk downstairs. It cost me two hundred pounds.’ (I awoke at this point.) ‘You scored very high in unarmed combat and sabotage and shooting people but that was twenty-five years ago, right? And you never took the subversion course, did you?’
‘Forget,’ I said, feigning a sleepiness which I no longer felt.
‘Well, you didn’t. They tried to get you into that scene just after the War and you gave them some flippant reply about flat feet and cowardice.’
‘The cowardice bit was true.’
‘Well, dear, you are booked in this very evening to start a course at our very own Training College.’
‘Oh no I’m not and anyway, what do you mean “our”? Who is this “we”?’
‘Yes you are, darling. And “we” is me and some girl-friends of mine; I’ll tell you all about it one day soon. You’ll love the College, Charlie.’
‘Oh no I shan’t, because I’m not bloody going.’
‘Lovely old house near Leighton Buzzard.’
‘I’m going back to sleep.’
‘Are you sure, darling? About going back to sleep?’ I did not, as it turned out, go back to sleep until some eight minutes later, after she had wrung from me my slow consent, to name but one.
Since I am incapable of telling falsehoods I must confess that, when I married Johanna, I had been keenly relishing the prospect of a great battle for power between her and Jock. Alas, Jock had fallen under Johanna’s spell and was by now a mere pawn, anticipating her lightest wish. Had I, in my bachelor days, requested breakfast at half-past noon, which was when it was requested that day, Jock would have summoned a cab and sent me off to the nearest Lyons Corner House. Today, his only comment as he brought on the corn-flakes, the kippers, the kidneys and the kedgeree was a genteel request about when Madam would require luncheon.
‘Why are you making those weird, growling noises, Charlie?’ asked Johanna. ‘You sound like the Big-Cat House in the Zoo!’
‘It is the smell of these kippers which makes you think of that zoological enclave,’ I said, hoping that Jock would hear me and suffer a little. In a little while, crammed with kedgeree and strong, sweet coffee, I felt emboldened to reopen the subject of the Training College for Young Ladies, making it clear that any assent wrung from me while under the influence of natural blondes was inadmissible under English law. In short, I was not going there.
‘Look,’ I explained in a reasonable voice, ‘all that rubbishy, reach-me-down judo and karate that they te
ach silly women at night-classes is junk. The women believe they are achieving results because, while they are striking absurd Kung-fu attitudes, waving their podgy hands about in absurder ways and making ultimately absurd noises with their mouths, the well-paid instructor is not about to step forward and deliver a round-house left into her belly while he delivers an old-fashioned right hand into her lipstick, is he? Although I bet he would often like to do so. But he is held back by the gentlemanly instincts which say that you do not strike ladies in vulnerable places, which is most places in ladies. I have never quite understood these prejudices myself because I am not a true-born Englishman, but they exist nonetheless.
‘Your common rapist or mugger,’ I went on, ‘has no such compunction. He does not wait politely while the lady waves her hands at him in minatory ways, nor is he daunted by any Oriental noises she may emit. He simply steps forward and gives the object of his desire a bunch of fives in the moosh – regardless of the valuable crockery implanted there by her dentist – and follows it up by a similar punch just below her cross-my-heart living-bra. This never fails. (Policewomen, of course, know a trick or two; this means that they stay conscious maybe thirty seconds longer and spend maybe thirty days longer in hospital.)
‘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.
‘You have just time to bathe, sir. We do not change for dinner. Allow me to take your hat and coat.’ He took them, also my umbrella. As I advanced gratefully to the great log-fire blazing in the fireplace of the ball I saw the butler leap at me, whirling my umbrella in the general direction of my lower jawbone. I ducked, of course, for ducking is one of my more polished skills, and took the umbrella away from him by roiling it over his thumb, then I dropped (but stay, let me explain: experts never whack at people with sticks, umbrellas and things, for the movement is a clumsy one, easily out-manoeuvred and incapable of doing any damage unless the stick be a right heavy one, which makes the manoeuvre even clumsier. No, the use of such a makeshift weapon is to lunge, stiff-armed, at the midriff: even if the ferrule does not pierce the skin it can be relied upon to smarten up the liver, spleen or diaphragm in an agonizing and often lethal way.) I dropped, as I was about to say, into a stiff-armed lunge at the midriff, calculated to do great harm to the sturdiest butler, but at the very latest split-second I perceived to my dismay that he, the butler, was in fact a she-butler and my point wavered, passing over her hip. She snatched it en passant and twitched it further, so that I staggered towards her in time to receive a raised knee. The knee was clumsily timed, I was able to take it harmlessly on my chest and, as I stumbled past, seized the ankle and threw her. Keeping my grip on the ankle I twirled it vigorously so that she rolled over and over and pitched up with a satisfying noise against the wainscot. Face down. I placed a foot in the small of her back.
‘Freeze,’ I snarled angrily, for I was angry. ‘Freeze or I’ll stamp on yo
ur kidneys until they pop like rotten tomatoes.’
‘Oh well done, Mortdecai, awf’lly well done!’ boomed a voice from the minstrel’s gallery. ‘Ethel, you may get up now – but extra combat-classes for you all this week, I’m afraid, dear. You made an awful nonsense of that attack, didn’t you?’
By now the owner of the voice was descending the great staircase; she was a massive creature, all beef down to the ankles, just like a Mullingar heifer. She advanced towards me, hand outstretched in a jovial way. I made to take the hand but hers slipped upwards and caught my thumb in an iron grip, bending it cruelly backwards. Well, I remembered how to deal with that, of course: you sit down, roll backwards and kick the offending hand away with the flat of both feet.
‘Capital, capital!’ she boomed. ‘Shan’t have much to teach you in the dirty-fighting class. Now, you see, we run a taut ship here and you must be on the qui vive at all times. For your own good, you know. But since this is your first night there’ll be no more surprises until after breakfast tomorrow. Honour bright.’ I relaxed. She smashed a great fist into the pit of my stomach and I subsided, whooping for breath, onto the carpet.
‘Subversion Lesson Number One,’ she said amiably, ‘don’t trust anyone. Ever. No, please, no lower-deck language; some of the girls are prudes.’ I stood up warily, planning a move. ‘No, Mr Mortdecai, you are not allowed to strike me, I am the Commandant. You call me Madam. Have you a gun?’
I pretended, snobbishly, to misunderstand. ‘A shot-gun?’ I said heavily, ‘No, I did not bring one. I was not told that you would be offering me any shooting.’
‘I mean, as you well know, a side-arm – a pistol if you prefer.’
‘No. I do not commonly come armed when invited to country houses.’ I spoke as stiffly as I could.
‘Then we must fit you up. What do you fancy? I always use this’ – and she plucked out a horrid old cannon – ‘but then I’m old-fashioned, you see.’ I sneered at the weapon.
The Mortdecai Trilogy Page 26
