The Mortdecai Trilogy (44 page)

‘God blast it, Charlie, you do try a man’s patience. I was in no mood to look at the thing’s legs. I just snatched it up and threw it.’

‘Where?’

He half rose, murder in his eyes, then thought better of it.

‘I think I threw it into the waste-paper basket,’ he said, in the strangled sort of voice you use when you want people to know that no further questions will be answered.

‘Johanna,’ I said, ‘will you please go and find it?’

She went. She found it. It wasn’t greenish-yellow with long legs, it was brown and naevous and squat.

‘It’s a
toad
,’ I said.

‘So?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Sod you too.’

‘I think there is no one here,’ I said gently ‘who would not be the better for a drink.’

Sam got up in a robotical sort of way and started to dish out the liquor; courteously assisted by me, for I feared that, in his distress, I might receive the wrong brand of Scotch, which would have quite spoiled my evening.

We guzzled our drinks silently, respectfully, like distant cousins helping themselves to baked ham after the funeral.

‘Oh, one other thing Violet said,’ said Johanna. We stopped guzzling: Johanna can make most people stop doing most things when she chooses, without even raising her voice. I wonder why that is.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ she went on, ‘she said she recognized the man’s voice.’

‘What?’ shouted two of the three of us.

‘Yes.’ Her lovely eyes danced innocently, aimlessly around the room, alighting on everything and everyone except Sam. ‘Well, to be exact, in the midst of some alarming chatter about her mother and so on she suddenly said, “I could tell that voice anywhere,
anywhere
; I couldn’t be wrong” or something like that.’ She paused; too long.

‘Well, who, for God’s sake?’ George growled at last.

‘She didn’t say. Perhaps she only meant that she would know it again.’

My ensuing silence was puzzled; George’s and Sam’s silences appeared to be merely disgusted, but you never can tell.

Why I was puzzled was because Johanna was using the warm, true,
real
voice which she only uses when she is lying. Which isn’t often, naturally; with all those looks and all that money, why should she bother?

I had the feeling, intensely, that a lot of complicated reactions were taking place in the room which I wasn’t quite following because I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’m not at all sure that Johanna knew, either, but it was clear to me that she was less at sea than I was. I gave up after a while with a mental ‘heigh-ho’ or two and applied myself to Sam’s Scotch.

Like a good guest, I saw to it that Sam, too, ingested enough of the delicious fluid to ensure him a good night’s rest in spite of everything; then we slunk away.

Johanna went to bed; kissing me but not fondly.

Jock was up, brewing ‘Sergeant-Major’s’ which is the sort of tea you used to relish when coming off guard-duty in a January dawn: it is the cheapest Indian tea
boiled-up
with sugar and condensed milk. It is not at all like tea as you and I know it but it is very good indeed. I gazed at it longingly.

‘You don’t want none of that, Mr Charlie,’ said Jock, ‘you’ll be wanting to get off to boo-boo’s.’ I glared.

‘Have you been listening at keyholes?’ I demanded.

‘ ’Course not. I’ve heard Madam use the phrase in public, frequently.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Yeah.’

I turned away.

‘Mr Charlie,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘That mate of mine I was teaching dominoes – the one you scragged.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He was going on about toads. He reckons the Jerseys think a lot of them, which is why they don’t like being called them.’

‘You put that beautifully, Jock.’

‘Yeah. He got on about it because the old geezer who’s come to do the garden just buried one alive in a pickle-jar to make the flowers grow.’

‘To make the flowers grow? Do go on.’

‘They all do it here, he reckons. It doesn’t seem to bother the toads, they’re nearly always alive when they dig them up in the autumn. Funny, innit? You’d think they’d get hungry.’

‘Or thirsty?’

‘Yeah. Anyway, a lot of the Jerseys, specially the old ones, reckon a toad’s sort of holy and they don’t like people taking the mickey about it.’

I took a gulp of his tea.

‘You should put a little rum in this,’ I advised.

‘Well, I haven’t got any rum, have I?’

‘Do you mean you have forgotten how to pick the lock of the drinks cupboard?’

He maintained an injured silence. I went to fetch the rum, while he made some more Sergeant-Major’s.

When we were firmly seated astride the tea and certain Welsh Rabbits which Jock had conjured up to help it down, I waxed informative, a vice of mine which I can by no means cure.

‘Jock,’ I said, ‘did you know that for fifteen centuries people believed that the toad had a precious jewel inside its skull?’

‘Reelly?’ he said. ‘What give them that idea, then?’

‘Pliny or Aristotle or one of those chaps who wrote it in a book.’ Jock munched and golluped awhile.

‘Well, didn’t nobody think to chop one open and take a look?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Fucking ignorant, all them wops, aren’t they,’ he said, obscurely. I couldn’t find it in my heart to contradict him.

‘He went on about hares, too,’ Jock went on. ‘Seems there aren’t supposed to be any hares on the Island but a few years back there was a right big bugger seen and the farmers reckoned it sucked all the milk out of them funny little cows they have here. So they laid up for it and shot it and better-shot it but it wasn’t no use, so one of them put a silver button in his gun and shot it in the bum and the hare goes off limping and the next day this creepy old tart who lives nearby has a bandage on her leg.’

‘That is probably one of the oldest stories in the world,’ I told him, for indeed it is.

I was too tired to take a shower that night: all I wanted was to go to boo-boo’s. I brushed my teeth, of course. As I did so I realized why the nice chap at the Pistol and Rifle Club had been so keen on introducing me to the chap who would cast bullets in anything.

Silver
was what he had had in mind.

I said ‘she must be swift and white,
And subtly warm, and half perverse,
And sweet, like sharp soft fruit to bite,
And like a snake’s love lithe and fierce.’
Men have guessed worse.

 

Felise

 

We had another conference the next morning. Sonia, it seemed, was bearing up and getting about a little, but Violet’s case was worse: she had quite stopped speaking and, although she followed you with her eyes, she moved no other part of herself. Sam had got one spoonful of Brand’s celebrated Calves’ Foot Jelly into her; the second time she had bitten the spoon. After that she wouldn’t open her mouth at all. The doctor had mumbled about some sort of psychotic withdrawal which he himself clearly wasn’t on very good terms with, and had given her another generous needleful of sedative.

‘He didn’t quite say “go on taking the tablets”,’ said Sam, ‘but you could see the words on the tip of his tongue. If she hasn’t snapped out of it tomorrow I’m getting a second opinion.’

We all nodded and made kindly murmuring sounds, except George who said ‘bloody swine’ several times.

Sam asked me if I could recommend a good pistol and how should he go about getting one. I told him, and advised a good vintage piece which would be an investment. He didn’t seem too interested in
that aspect, he wanted something which could be depended upon to punch large and painful holes into rapists.

‘Calm yourself,’ I urged. ‘The best and most modern pistol won’t make even a tiny hole in anyone at whom it is not accurately pointed. Most pistols are only for frightening people and making loud noises. The thing is to have it
handy
. Chaps like you and me only need a pistol perhaps once in our lives’ – I wasn’t being quite truthful there – ‘but then we want it in a great hurry indeed. Take my advice and buy a capable, vintage one which you can make a profit on when all this has died down. There is, for instance, a very splendid old Mauser 7.65 mm not five miles away, which can be bought for £150; it’s the sort with a wooden scabbard which clips onto the pistol-butt to form a stock and transforms it into a small carbine. It is a most reliable pistol and if you can point it straight it will knock an ox over at half a mile. It is also rather a beautiful object in an ugly sort of way.’ He grumbled a bit but took my advice and the Mauserchap’s telephone number.

‘Yes, yes,’ said George, ‘that’s all very well about the small-arms issue but this is supposed to be an O-Group and we should be doing an Appreciation of the Situation.’

(Those of you who haven’t had the luck to serve in the Army should be told that an O-Group is a conference called by an infantry leader below field rank who is finally facing the fact that he is lost and wants his junior officers and senior NCOs to admit that they, too, are lost. An O-Group is always held out of ear-shot of the men, naturally, although the men have known that their officers were lost
hours
before the O-Group is summoned; their idea of a good officer is simply one who calls an O-Group at a time when they want
tea
. Soldiers, up to and, sometimes, including the rank of major, are capital chaps: join
now
– you’re too late to have a crack at the Japs but the Irish are good for years yet.)

‘I have here,’ said George in an efficient sort of voice, ‘a list of all nubile women within a mile’s radius of this house. I propose we lie out at night, turn and turn about, watching their houses and ready to blow the arse off the filthy hog when he next tries to, er, strike.’

‘George,’ I said gently. ‘George? Who furnished you with this list?’

‘The Centenier – he spent hours with his Vingteniers drawing it up.’ I let one of those long silences develop, so that all of us could see the daftness of that. Then I said:

‘Good. Yes. But we are only three, you know, and have premises and wives of our own to guard – and we don’t really know the terrain awfully intimately. More to the point, if you kill a chap even in your own
house
nowadays, with one of his fists in your safe and the other in your wife, you’re facing a murder charge and the court will be told by hired psychiatrists that the offender is a poor, disturbed lad who has been upset by a nasty film he saw at the Odeon last week but he’s a lovely son to his old mother. Old mothers are marvellous in the witness box, born actors every one, they can even make policemen weep, I’ve seen it, it’s as good as the television. They would give you a very bad time.’

George snarled and gargled a while; he wasn’t very cogent but we got the impression that, if he were let loose for a few hours with a Vickers Medium Machine-Gun, the world would be a better place and all potential rapists would be queuing up in Cathedral Closes, applying for jobs as counter-tenors.

Sam and I watched him curiously: I think we both felt that this was not the quiet, capable George we both knew and, in some sort, respected – the George whose most interesting feature was his dullness. We put it down, I suppose, to his recent ordeal and Sam doubtless, although he was showing a surprisingly better front to the world, had a fellow-feeling for him. (I myself gave up having fellow-feelings in my last term at school because I was working hard for University entrance; I like to think that I am a
prude
at heart.)

‘I think,’ I said, when the noise had died down, ‘that I’d better go to Oxford.’

Sam mustered a flash of his old spirit.

‘Is this really the best time to consider completing your education, Charlie? Is the call of the cloisters suddenly so strong? What will you read – Divinity?’

‘Tush,’ I replied. ‘I shall go and see my old tutor, who knows more about witchcraft, demonology and kindred nonsense than any man living. It is perfectly clear that we have a disgusting situation here where some vile sub-human is committing outrages for ancient and nasty reasons which we do not comprehend. We cannot stamp him out until we know what he thinks he is doing, and why. I shall go to ask my old tutor. Has anyone any better suggestions?’

No one had any better suggestions.

‘My own wife,’ I went on, ‘has not yet, to my best knowledge, been ravished, so you will see that my mission is pretty disinterested. In the circumstances, and since giving hospitality to dons in Oxford comes wickedly dear, I fancy you may care to split my expenses with me.’

They made fumbling gestures in the direction of their chequebook pockets but I waved them away.

‘Payment by results,’ I said. ‘If we get any good of my trip I shall submit an expense-sheet.’

‘But what about Johanna?’ came a tragic voice from half-way up the stairs. It was Sonia: pallid, voluminously wrappered, with just a tactful hint of make-up here and there which most chaps –
nice
chaps – would not have noticed. We all leaped to our feet and surged about getting her chairs, cushions, foot-stools and assorted restoratives. (I made a slight restorative for myself while I was about it, for George did not seem to be on form as a host that night.)

‘What about Johanna?’ she asked again, ‘hadn’t she better stay here while you’re away so that I can protect her?’

I looked at her kindly.

‘You’re very kind,’ I said, ‘but Jock, too, is no slouch in the art of defence. They call it Martial Arts nowadays but when Jock was at Borstal it was known, quite simply, as a “flying drop-kick at the wedding-tackle”. I’d back Jock against the finest Kung-fu artist ever groomed by Mr Metro-Goldwyn. He has a gift for it, you see.’

She nodded wisely. She knows she’s not clever but she thinks I am, poor deluded bitch.

‘Yes, but d’you trust the chap?’ asked George.

This annoyed me but I decided I should give a civil answer.

‘Jock is true as steel,’ I said carefully. ‘He has been in love with Shirley Temple since he was fourteen and will not lightly change. He is no butterfly. Second, he owes me a favour or perhaps two and crooks like Jock hold that sort of thing much more sacred than honest men do. Third – and I know this sounds absurd – I am the only man that Jock is afraid of.’

Sam and George shifted uneasily in their seats, they didn’t know how to cope with rubbish like that. Sonia said:

‘Oh, I think that’s absolutely beautiful. I mean, to have a relationship like that, I mean, based on wonderful mutual um …’

I looked at her kindly again. Perhaps a little kindlier than last time. You see, we anti-feminists don’t dislike women in the least; we prize, cherish, and pity them. We are compassionate. Goodness, to think of the poor wretches having to waddle through life with all those absurd fatty appendages sticking out of them; to have all the useful part of their lives made miserable by the triple plague of constipation, menstruation and parturition; worst of all, to have to cope with these handicaps with only a kind of fuzzy half-brain – a pretty head randomly filled, like a tiddly-winks cup, with brightly-coloured scraps of rubbish – why, it wrings the very heart with pity. You know how your dog sometimes gazes anguishedly at you, its almost human eyes yearning to understand, longing to communicate? You remember how often you have felt that it was on the very brink of breaking through the barrier and joining you? I think that’s why you and I are so kind to women, bless ’em. (Moreover, you scarcely ever see them chasing cats or fouling the footpaths.)

‘Yes,’ I answered her.

Just as we were leaving, Sonia rushed out to the door, still playing the mobled queen.

‘Charlie,’ she cried, ‘will someone look after your dear little canary while you’re away?’

‘Probably,’ I said, vaguely.

‘What my old nanny used to say,’ grumbled George, ‘was that people shouldn’t have pets if they weren’t prepared to look after them properly.’

‘Just what I always say about wives,’ I answered brightly. Well, perhaps it wasn’t in the best of taste. I never signed any promises about good taste, I’d as soon join the Temperance League.

Johanna went to bed without saying good night. Jock was out, probably hitting people, he never tires of it. I didn’t worry about that, he’s careful now: people he quarrels with usually walk away – carrying their teeth in their hat. I made some telephone calls to travel-agents and old Oxford tutors then went sulkily to bed, taking with me a volume of Beatrix Potter to comfort my sad heart; it was
The Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle
, it never fails to please.