The Hunting Trip (42 page)

Field Marshal Percy Dingo jumped to his feet, stamped them, and barked, “Sir!”

“Better,” the generalissimo said, and then turned to Phil, “You had a question?”

“I was wondering if when the heavy yoke of colonialism lay across your native land, you ever ran into a young officer of the Scottish Light Lancers by the name of Charles William George Michael—”

“Bertram,” the generalissimo picked up. “Indeed I did. Ol' Bertie's the one who taught me and the field marshal here how to read and write. Jolly good chap! I've always wondered what happened to ol' Bertie.”

“Generalissimo, what if I told you I know where ol' Bertie is and would take you to see him right now, or in the morning—”

“Excuse me,” Lieutenant Colonel Sir Brathwaite T. Smythe said. “That would be a little difficult, as I happen to know that Charles William George Michael Bertram the Earl of Abercrombie is in Scotland and there's no way we could go there tonight.”

“Yes, there is,” Ginger said. “My private plane is at Heathrow and
will take my Phil and anyone he wants to take with him anywhere in the world it would please his precious heart to go to.”

“You were saying, Phil?” the generalissimo asked, and then added, “Why don't you call me Sir Montague?”

“What I was saying, Sir Montague, what if I both took you to see our mutual friend ol' Bertie and taught you how to do what I did to the field marshal? What would you do for me?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well, off the top of my head, first things first, that you award my beloved Ginger the Order of Montague Obango First Class. I think that purple sash you mentioned will go nicely with her lovely blond hair.”

“Done!”

“And that you . . . Tell me, Sir Montague, do you believe in cold-hearted revenge?”

“Phil, how do you think I rose to be generalissimo and president for life? By kissing babies? What's on your mind?”

“Well, that we get out of here, get in all three Buck House Rollses, and roll back to Claridge's Hotel and have a nightcap in the bar. As we walk to the lobby, we will pass through parallel lines of women who may curtsy. You will ignore them. Or give them a look of distain.”

“Is Percy or Ethelbert going with us?” Montague interrupted. “One or the other, or both?”

“Both are essential to my plan,” Phil said.

“Pray continue.”

“We will have a final taste of Famous Pheasant in the bar. Ginger and I need some rest for reasons I don't wish to get into at this time and will retire. Then you and Percy and Ethelbert will leave. You will notice that the ladies in the parallel lines are not only still there, but have increased greatly in number. This is because while we were having our nightcap, the original ladies will—having noticed the purple
sashes Ginger and I will be wearing, and of course your splendiferous uniforms—have notified the other Ladies and Dames that since some really important people have gone into the hotel, some really important people will shortly be coming out, and they should be there to curtsy.”

“And then Percy, Ethelbert, and I again look at them with disdain?”

“Not quite. This time, while you look at them with disdain, Percy will go down the left, the Ladies' side, and Ethelbert will go down the right, the Dames' side. They will stop before each Lady and Dame, grasp them firmly by the arms and kiss them as wetly as possible on the mouth, each time saying, ‘With the very best wishes of Mr. Randolph C. Bruce, who would do this himself if he wasn't too drunk, again, to stand.'”

“Phil,” Montague asked. “Have you considered the possibility they might be offended to be kissed wetly on the mouth by two officers to whom they have not been properly introduced?”

“I'm counting on just that, Sir Montague.”

“Phil, that's an absolutely rotten thing to do to Randy,” Ginger said, then grinned and added, “You're a genius!”

“I knew that he was a genius when I read the first three paragraphs of
Love and Lust in the Kremlin Necropolis
,” Sir Montague said. “Field Marshal, sound ‘Boots and Saddles.'”

XVII

BONNY SCOTLAND, FINALLY

[ ONE ]

London, England

Wednesday, September 17, 1975

T
he day that was remembered for a long time by many people as That Day in Scotland actually began that day for Phil and Ginger in Claridge's Hotel, which is located at the corner of Brook Street and Davies Street in Mayfair, in London, England.

It began when Phil and Ginger awoke in the emperor-sized bed in the Maharaja Jaswant Singh of Marwar Suite, looked into one another's eyes, and then had what one might call “one more for the road.”

Then they had a shower, which included the washing of their hair, which they then of course had to dry. Since Ginger had far, far more hair than Phil, he knew this would take some time, and he decided to take advantage of this by calling Moses Lipshutz and advising him of his, and of course Ginger's, travel plans.

Mrs. Rachel Lipshutz answered the phone.

“Rachel, this is Phil. May I speak to Moses, please?”

“Well, I guess. But thank God they didn't find you. Or that blonde you were last seen with.”

“Is someone looking for me, or us? And ‘that blonde,' Rachel, has a name. Miss Ginger Gallagher.”

“That's not what the people looking for you with blood in their eyes and evil intent in their hearts are calling her. And since I'm a lady, I can't say out loud what they're calling you.”

“And who exactly are these people?”

“Well, leading the howling horde is our acquaintance Mr. Randolph C. Bruce. Howling on his heels are the Ladies of The Tuesday Luncheon Club and the Dames of Magna Carta. I shudder to think what the latter two groups will do to you after Randy carries out his promise to disembowel you. What I can't understand is why they haven't found you. They've been prowling the hotel's corridors all night and have staked out the lobby, other entrances to the hotel, and Heathrow Airport.”

“That's probably because Ginger and I are in the Maharaja Jaswant Singh of Marwar Suite, which is on the fifth, or Aristocratic, floor, the corridors of which are off-limits to riffraff.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Rachel, I don't think you want to know.”

“That's what Moses and I thought you would be doing, but we didn't know where you and the blonde . . .”

“That's Ginger, Rachel. Please. She holds a special place in my heart.”

“. . . and
Ginger
were doing it.”

“Well, now you know.”

“My position on that subject, and Moses's position, Phil, is, as the British would say, ‘Bully for you!' You're entitled. We're fully aware of how Madame Brunhilde has been treating you over the years.”

“Thank you, Rachel.”

“If you're planning on escaping the country, which would presume your getting out of the hotel alive and un-disemboweled, which seems very unlikely, I think I should warn you that two of the Luncheon Ladies are staking out the International Departure Terminal at Heathrow.”

“What I called to tell Moses, Rachel, is that we, Ginger and me, are going to Scotland. I'm not through getting even with Randy, and—”

“You're clearly not thinking clearly, Phil. These people want to kill you—and yet you insist that you want to carry on with the hunting trip? At which all these murderous people will be outfitted with very expensive, and very deadly, shotguns?”

“I just had a chilling thought.”

“What? Worse than an angry mob of females with loaded shotguns?”

“I'm going to have to think it through, Rachel,” Phil said. “When I do, I'll tell you about it in Scotland.”

“Didn't you hear what I just said about the Luncheon Ladies waiting with blood in their eyes and murder in their hearts at the International Departure Terminal at Heathrow hoping you appear there?”

“My Ginger and I will be departing through the Terminal for Rich People With Private Jets at Heathrow, so that will not be a problem.”

“Only if you can get out of the hotel alive, which is extremely doubtful.”

“I'll think of something, Rachel. I'm Machiavellian. I look forward to seeing you and Moses in Bonny Scotland!”

—

Ginger came out
of the bath moments later brushing her now dry long blond hair. She was wearing only her intimate lower undergarment
embroidered, this one identical to the one previously described, with hearts pierced by Cupid's arrow and the legend
My Heart Belongs to Phil!
, but in a different color, suggesting she may have a suitcase full of same.

This caused Phil to ask Ginger if she didn't agree with his premise that if “one more for the road” was a good thing, wouldn't it follow that “two or more for the road” would be an even better thing?

After thinking it over for perhaps three seconds, Ginger enthusiastically agreed that it would and they had at it, so to speak.

After which Phil telephoned George the Doorman in Chief and explained their dilemma.

George, not surprisingly, had an immediate solution.

Two minutes later, two bellmen appeared at the double doors of the Maharaja Jaswant Singh of Marwar Suite and escorted Phil and Ginger to the service elevator, which they rode down to the second subbasement.

There they were loaded in the back of a Thames close-sided one-half-ton lorry, “lorry” being what the British call trucks. On the side of the closed-side lorry was the legend London Five Star Hotels Lost and Found Baggage Delivery Service.

The luxury hotels of London had learned that when their guests couldn't find their luggage, it was because it had usually been sent to the wrong five-star hotel. So they formed a cooperative much like the one developed to deliver parcels in New York City by Mr. Gimbel of Gimbels Department Store with a peer at Macy's Department Store and which they called UPS, which meant United Parcel Service.

In the present instance, the London Five Star Hotels Lost and Found Baggage Delivery Service lorry made its way around London picking up misplaced luggage and seeing to it that it was placed where it was supposed to have been placed in the first place.

As the lorry drove away from Claridge's Hotel onto Brook Street, Phil, who happened to be sitting uncomfortably on a matched set of six Louis Vuitton ostrich-hide suitcases, happened to peer out the rear window of the lorry and saw that Dr. Waldo Pfefferkopf was standing with the fire ax- and shotgun-armed Ladies and Dames who were hoping to catch him if he tried to escape Claridge's Hotel. And he naturally wondered, yet again, what the distinguished Viennese Austrian wanted to talk with him about regarding Madame Brunhilde.

Ten minutes later, they were at London's famed Savoy Hotel, which is located in the City of Westminster, which is also in the City of London, which sometimes confuses people.

There three Buck House Rolls-Royces were waiting to roll Generalissimo and President for Life Sir Montague Obango, Field Marshal Percy Dingo, and General of the Army Ethelbert Jones—and of course Lieutenant Colonel Sir Brathwaite T. Smythe—off with Phil and Ginger to Heathrow.

All five of the generalissimo's wives, who were not going along, stood on the sidewalk and wailed piteously and pulled their hair out as the motorcade drove off.

An hour and a half later, five minutes after they finally got to Heathrow, Ginger's jet
Kill V
went wheels-up and then pointed its glistening nose toward Scotland.

[ TWO ]

Castle Abercrombie

Outside Dungaress, Scotland

Wednesday, September 17, 1975

F
orty-five minutes after that, Ginger's jet
Kill V
went wheels-down and landed on the ancient cobblestoned runway of Castle Abercrombie.

Phil, peering out the window, said, “Somebody must have told ol' Bertie we were coming, baby.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Have a look,” Phil said, and while she was looking, he explained: “That's a bagpipe band, the Scottish equivalent of a brass band. And Bertie and Maggie are all dolled up.”

Charles William George Michael Bertram, the Earl of Abercrombie, was in the Luncheon Mess Dress uniform of the Her Majesty's Own Scottish Light Lancers, which is to say a shirt with a lace collar worn under a scarlet red jacket worn over a kilt, which was woven in the pattern of Clan Abercrombie.

The bagpipe band, as it was actually the regimental band of Her Majesty's Own Scottish Light Lancers, was similarly attired, except for the two men who had the Regimental Goat, whose horns were painted gold, on a leash. They were wearing trousers woven in the pattern of Clan Abercrombie because the Regimental Goat had an annoying habit of, given any opportunity at all, sticking his cold black nose and rather sharp teeth up under kilts for a sniff and a nip at what the old goat knew was under there.

The countess, as she stood beside the earl, was wearing a simple
black ankle-length dress designed for her by M'sieu André of Paris, a red sash, and in her hair a tiara containing all of the Abercrombie family jewels but two.

“He's the big guy in the skirt? Next to the redhead with that bejeweled thing in her hair?”

“That's a kilt, baby, but aside from that you're right on the money.”

“I'm going to get you one of those, Precious. You have much nicer knees than your pal Bertie.”

“I better go say ‘hi,'” Phil said, and went to the Citation's door, which he then opened and leaned out of while cheerfully crying, “Tally
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
ho, Bertie!”

To which the earl replied, “Hi-Yo,
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
Silver! Away yourself, old chap!”

“Bertie, have I got a surprise for you,” Phil called.

The countess motioned for the earl to lower his head to hers so that she could whisper in his ear.

“Bertie, darling,” she whispered, “somehow I don't think ol' Phil is going to surprise us with the six Dames of Runnymede and their husbands, which group of Americans is dumb enough to pay £1,102.00 sterling, plus tax, per day, per person, or a daily total of £13,224.00 sterling, plus tax, for the privilege of sleeping under our somewhat leaky roof.”

“Now that you mention it, that would be a bit odd, wouldn't it, my love?”

“What I suspect is that his surprise for you is going to be that bloody Austrian ballet dancer he married when he was, I deeply suspect, deeply in his cups.”

“That does seem to be a more likely possibility, doesn't it?”

“If that is the case, you'll be sleeping with that bloody regimental goat, and not your countess, until death do us part.”

“I take your point, my love,” the earl said, and straightened up.

“Phil, old chap, could you give me a wee hint about the surprise you have for me?”

“Montague Obango,” Phil replied. “How's Montague Obango for a surprise?”

“I thought her name was Brunhilde,” the countess said.

“Montague Obango? Surely you jest, old chap!”

“I
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
you not, Bertie. Generalissimo and President for Life Sir Montague Obango in the
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
flesh, of which there is quite a bit, as you know.”

The generalissimo then deigned to stand at the doorway. He stomped his feet, which caused the plane to teeter dangerously, and saluted in the British manner, and barked, “Sergeant Major Montague Obango reporting once again to Sub Lieutenant Charles William George Michael Bertram, sir!”

The earl crisply returned the salute, and with his voice breaking with emotion, called out an order: “Bandmaster! Sound the ‘Regimental March'!”

The band had played it often, so they knew it by heart, so they could and did immediately break into the regimental march of Her Majesty's Own Scottish Light Lancers, which is the old Scottish tune “When Scottish Eyes Are Smiling” arranged for eight bagpipes, two tubas, two bass drums, the jawbone of an ass, and a flute.

The generalissimo came down the door stairs, followed by Field Marshal Percy Dingo, and General of the Army Ethelbert Jones, and of course Lieutenant Colonel Sir Brathwaite T. Smythe. They took up positions and raised their hands in salute as the band played and the earl marched across the field to join them.