The Mortdecai Trilogy Read Free Page B

the
concierge’s
tongue, not to be borne. Poor Martland, I thought happily.
    Perhaps I should explain that –
    (a) The SPG people obviously carry no identification and take care not to be known to the ordinary police, for some of their work consists in sorting out naughty coppers
    (b) Certain rats of the underworld have recently, with singular providence, done some deliberately clumsy and nasty ‘jobs’ while posing as SPG
    (c) The ordinary police are not particularly keen even on
real
SPG men and
    (d) The mindless bullies in my Security firm always release their pepper guns, two-way radios, aniline dye sprays, Dobermann Pinscher dogs and rubber coshes long before they ask any questions.
    Goodness, what a mess it must have been. And thanks to the little camera I would certainly get the whole flat handsomely redecorated by Mrs. Spon – long overdue, I must say – at someone else’s expense.
    Goodness, too, how cross Martland must be.
    Yes, that was the bad bit, of course. He snapped me one pale glare as he bounded noiselessly (fat men move with surprising grace etc.) up the steps, dropped his keys, dropped his hat, stood on it, and finally preceded us into the house. No good for C. Mortdecai was what I reckoned all that boded. Plug Ugly II, as he stood aside to let me pass, looked at me so kindly that I felt my breakfast frothing in the small intestine. Clenching my buttocks bravely I sauntered in and with a tolerant snigger surveyed what he probably called The Lounge. I had not seen curtains of that pattern since I seduced the House Mother in my Approved School; the carpet was a refugee from a provincial cinema foyer and the wallpaper had little silver-grey flock
fleurs-de-lis
. Yes, truly. All spotlessly clean, of course. You could have eaten your dinner off them, if you kept your eyes closed.
    They said I could sit down, in fact they urged me to. I could feel my liver, heavy and sullen, crowding my heart. I no longer wanted any luncheon.
    Martland, reappearing reclothed, dry, was quite himself again and full of fun.
    ‘Well well well,’ he cried, rubbing his hands, ‘well, well.’
    ‘I must be off now,’ I said firmly.
    ‘No no no,’ he cried, ‘why, you’ve only just come. What would you like to drink?’
    ‘Some whisky, please.’
    ‘Jolly good.’ He poured himself a big one but me none. ‘Har, har,’ I thought.
    ‘Har, har,’ I said, out loud, brave.
    ‘Ho, ho,’ he riposted archly.
    We sat in silence then for quite five minutes, they obviously waiting for me to start to babble protestingly, me determined to do nothing of the kind, but just worrying a little about making Martland any crosser. The minutes wagged on. I could hear a large, cheap watch ticking in the waistcoat of one of the Plug Uglies, that’s how old-fashioned they were. A little immigrant child ran past on the pavement outside shrieking ‘M’Gawa! M’Gawa!’ or words to that effect. Martland’s face had relaxed into the complacent smirk of the master of a lordly house, surrounded by friends and loved ones, sated with port and good talk. The hot, itchy, distant-traffic-buzzing silence fretted on. I wanted to go to the lavatory. They kept on looking at me, politely, attentively. Capably.
    Martland at last lumbered to his feet with surprising grace etc. and put a record on the turntable, fastidiously balancing the output to the big Quad stereo speakers. It was that lovely record of trains going by, the one we all bought when we could first afford stereo. I never tire of it.
    ‘Maurice,’ he said politely to one of his hooligans, ‘would you kindly fetch the twelve-volt high-tension motor-car battery from the charging bench in the basement?
    ‘And Alan,’ he went on, ‘would you please draw the curtains and take Mr Mortdecai’s trousers down?’
    Now just what can one do when this sort of thing happens? Struggle? What expression can one wear on the well-bred face? Contempt? Outrage? Dignified unconcern? While I was