The Mortdecai Trilogy (17 page)

‘Well, at least give us something to sit on, couldn’t you: I mean,
look
at the floor – and this suit cost me, ah, four hundred dollars.’

That fetched him, it was something he could understand. He came closer and studied my apparel carefully. Desperate for his sympathy, I straightened up and pirouetted, arms outstretched.

‘Son,’ he said finally, ‘you was robbed. Why, you could buy that same suit in Albuquerque for a hunnerd-eighty-fi’.’

But he did pass a handful of newspapers through the bars to us before he left, shaking his head. He was one of Nature’s gentlemen, I daresay.

We spread the papers on the least squamous section of the floor and lay down; the smell was not so bad at ground level. Sleep coshed me mercifully before I could even begin to dread the morrow.

My first thought was, he lied in every word.

 

Childe Roland

 

The sun rose like a great, boozy, red face staring into mine. On closer inspection it proved to be a great, boozy, red face staring into mine. It was also smiling stickily.

‘Wake up, son,’ the night deputy was saying, ‘you got a visitor – and you got bail!’

I sprang to my feet and sat down again promptly, squealing at the pain in my kidneys. I let him help me up but Jock managed by himself – he wouldn’t take the time of day from a policeman. Behind the deputy there gangled a long, sad man trying hard to smile out of a mouth designed only for refusing credit. He paid out a few yards of arm with a knobbly hand on the end of it which shook mine unconvincingly. For a moment I thought I recognized him.

‘Krampf,’ he said.

I studied the word but could make nothing of it as a conversational opening. In the end I said, ‘Krampf?’

‘Dr Milton Krampf III,’ he agreed.

‘Oh, sorry. C. Mortdecai.’

We let go of each other’s hands but went on mumbling civilities. Meanwhile the night deputy lumbered round me, brushing off bits of nastiness from my suit.

‘Piss off,’ I hissed at him finally – a phrase well-adapted to hissing.

Jock and I needed to wash; Krampf said he would complete the formalities of bail and collect our belongings while we did so. In the washroom I asked Jock whether he had yet recovered the key to the suitcase.

‘Christ, Mr Charlie, I only swallowed it dinnertime, di’n’t I, and I haven’t
been
since then.’

‘No, that’s right. I say, you couldn’t sort of try now, could you?’

‘No, I couldn’t. I just been thinking about whether I could and I can’t. I expect it’s the change of water, always binds me.’

‘Rubbish, Jock, you know you don’t drink water. Did you have much chilli sauce with your hamburgers?’

‘What, that hot stuff? Yeah.’

‘Oh good.’

The night deputy was dancing about in agony of apology: it appeared that one of the deputies had taken my pistol with him, so as to drop it off at the forensic laboratory in the morning. This was bad news, for our only other weapon was Jock’s Luger in the suitcase, whose key was, as it were,
in petto
. He offered to telephone for it but I had no wish to tarry: there was a teleprinter in the outer office and at any moment the British Embassy would be replying to the inquiries which someone must have put in train. The Ambassador had made it clear, you will recall, that the protection of the grand old British flag was not for me and, once repudiated, my diplomatic passport was about as valid as a nine-shilling note.

Outside, the night was as black as Newgate’s knocker and the rain was crashing down; when it rains in those parts it really puts its heart into the job. We dived into Krampf’s big pale car – with a nice social sense he shunted Jock into the back seat with suitcase. I asked him civilly where he was thinking of taking us.

‘Why, I thought you might care to come visit with me a little,’ he said easily. ‘We have this kind of very private summer residence on the Gulf Coast – mine now, I guess – and that’s where the pictures are. Especially the special ones, you know? You’ll want to see them.’

‘Oh Christ,’ I thought, ‘that’s all I need. The mad millionaire’s secret hideaway full of hot old masters and cool young mistresses.’

‘That will be delightful,’ I said. Then, ‘May I ask you how you contrived to rescue us so opportunely, Dr Krampf?’

‘Surely, it was easy. Yesterday I was a pretentious
kunstkenner
with a rich daddy – in my whole life I have earned maybe a hundred
dollars by art history. Today I am a hundred million dollars – give or take a few million which Johanna gets – and that sort of money gets anybody out of jail here. I don’t mean you bribe with it or anything like that, you just have to have it. Oh, I guess you mean how did I come to be
here
? That’s easy, too; I flew in about noon to the ranch to arrange about shipping the body, it’ll be on its way as soon as the police are finished with it. Family mausoleum is up in Vermont; good thing it’s summer – in winter the ground gets so hard up there they just sharpen one end and hammer you into the ground, ha, ha.’

‘Ha ha,’ I agreed. I never liked my father, either, but I wouldn’t have spoken of him as ‘it’ the day after his death.

‘The police at the rancho heard about the Rolls and, uh, the other auto piling up and later they heard you’d been apprehended. Two guys from the FBI or some other Federal setup were there by then and they left soon after, said they were coming on here. I followed as soon as I’d sorted things out, in case they were being stupid. I mean, I knew that a man with your views on Giorgione couldn’t be all bad, ha ha. Yeah,
sure
I know your work, I read
Burlington Magazine
every month, it’s essential reading. I mean, for instance, you can’t fully understand the achievement of Mondrian until you understand how Mantegna paved the way for him.’

I gagged quietly.

‘Which reminds me,’ he went on, ‘I believe you were bringing my father a certain canvas; would you like to tell me where it is? I guess it’s mine now?’

I said I guessed it was. The Spanish Government, of course, probably held a different view, but then they think they own Gibraltar too, don’t they?

‘It’s in the Rolls, lined into the soft-top. I’m afraid you’ll have a little difficulty retrieving it but at least it’s safe for the time being, what? Oh, by the way, there’s a little formality at the box office which your father didn’t live to complete.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Sort of, fifty thousand pounds, really.’

‘Isn’t that rather cheap, Mr Mortdecai?’

‘Ah, well, you see the chap who actually swiped it has already been paid; the fifty thou is just my own little sort of
pourboire
.’

‘I get it. Well, how and where do you want it? Swiss bank, numbered account, I guess?’

‘Goodness, no, I should hate to think of it lying there in amongst all that chocolate and horid Gruyére cheese and Alps. Do you think you could get it to Japan for me?’

‘Surely. We have this development firm in Nagasaki; we’ll retain you as, oh, aesthetic consultant on a five-year contract at, say, £11,000 a year. O.K.?’

‘Six years at £10,000 would suit me just as well.’

‘You have a deal.’

‘Thank you very much.’

He shot me such an honest glance that I almost believed he meant it. He didn’t, naturally. I don’t mean that he begrudged me the fifty thousand – he hadn’t been rich long enough to start being stingy about money. No, what I mean is that, quite clearly, I was now surplus to his requirements in all sorts of ways and allowing me to live much longer could form no part of his programme. Having sound views on Giorgione didn’t carry with it the privilege of staying alive; why, I might linger on for years, a misery to myself and a burden to others.

We chatted on.

He didn’t seem to know much about the relining process – surprising, really, in an authority on the Moderns, when you consider that the average modern picture is in need of attention within five years of the paint drying; indeed, many of them are cracking or flaking off the canvas long before that.

It’s not that they couldn’t learn proper techniques if they wanted to; I think it’s because they’re sort of subconsciously
shy
about posterity seeing their work.

‘Are you sure,’ Krampf kept saying, ‘that this, uh, process will not have damaged the picture?’

‘Look,’ I said at last, ‘pictures aren’t damaged that way. To damage a picture thoroughly you need a stupid housewife with a rag and some ammonia, or methylated spirits, or a good proprietary picture-cleaning fluid. You can slash a picture to ribbons and a good liner and restorer will have it back as good as new before you can cough – remember the Rokeby Venus?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Suffragette with an axe, wasn’t it?’

‘And you can paint another picture over it and the restorer – perhaps centuries later – will clean back to the original – no bother. Remember your father’s Crivelli?’

His ears pricked up and the car wobbled.

‘Crivelli? No. What Crivelli? Did he have a Crivelli? A good one?’

‘It was a very good one, Bernardo Tatti said so. Your father bought it somewhere in the Veneto in 1949 or ’50. You know how they sell Old Masters in Italy – the important ones hardly ever go through commercial galleries. As soon as someone with serious money makes it known that he’s in the market for serious works of art he will find himself invited to a palazzo for the week-end. His titled host will very delicately indicate that he has to pay a lot of taxes in the near future – and
that’s
a joke in Italy – and may be forced, even, to sell an Old Master or two.

‘Your father bought the Crivelli like that. It bore certificates by the greatest experts: they always do, of course.
You
know. The subject was the Virgin and Child with a bare bottom and lots of pears and pomegranates and melons – quite lovely. Like the Frick Crivelli, but smaller.

‘The Duke or Count hinted that he wasn’t
quite
certain of his title to the picture but he could see that your father wasn’t a man to fuss about such trifles – it had to be smuggled out in any case, because of the law against export of works of art. Your father took it to an artist friend in Rome who gave it a coat of size then daubed a piece of Futurist-Vorticist rubbish on top. (Sorry, forgot that was your field.) Boldly signed and dated 1949, it went through the customs with no more than a pitying glance.

‘Back in the States, he sent it to the best restorer in New York with a note saying, “Clean off modern overpaint; restore and expose original.” After a few weeks he sent the restorer one of his cables – you know – “REPORT IMMEDIATELY PROGRESS ON QUOTE MODERN UNQUOTE PAINTING.”

‘The restorer cabled back, “HAVE REMOVED QUOTE MODERN UNQUOTE PAINTING STOP HAVE REMOVED QUOTE CRIVELLI UNQUOTE MADONNA STOP AM DOWN TO PORTRAIT OF MUSSOLINI STOP WHERE DO I STOP QUERY.’”

Dr Krampf didn’t laugh. He looked straight ahead, his knuckles tight on the wheel. After a while I said diffidently, ‘Well, your father came to think it very funny indeed after the first shock. And your father was not easily amused.’

‘My father was a simple-minded, sex-crazed jerk,’ he said evenly. ‘What had he given for the picture?’ I told him and he winced. Conversation flagged. The car went a little faster.

After a while Jock cleared his throat sheepishly.

‘Excuse me, Mr Charlie, could you ask Dr Crump to stop somewhere soon? I got to go to the bog. Call of nature,’ he added, by way of a grace note.

‘Really, Jock,’ I said sternly, to conceal my pleasure, ‘you should have thought of that before you came out. It’s all that chilli sauce, I expect.’

We stopped at an all-night diner attached to a motel. Twenty minutes later, crammed with distressful fried eggs, we decided that we might as well spend what was left of the night there. Jock passed me the suitcase key, as good as new: I had expected to see it pitted and corroded by his powerful digestive juices.

I locked my door although I was pretty sure Krampf would bide his time until he had us in his kind-of-very-private summer residence. As I climbed into bed I decided that I must make a careful, objective analysis of my situation in the light of facts alone. ‘If hopes were dupes,’ I told myself, ‘fears may be liars.’ Surely the razor-keen Mortdecai brain could think its way out of this nasty, but after all primitive, mess.

Unfortunately the razor-keen brain fell asleep as soon as its container hit the pillow.
Most
unfortunately, really, as it turned out.

And, thus we half-men struggle. At the end,
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.

 

Andrea del Sarto

 

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is an awakening without tea! Jock, honest fellow, brought me all sorts of motel provender but tea was not amongst those present. If Paris, as Galiani says, is the café of Europe, then the US of A must be the hot-dog stand of the world. ‘Faugh!’ I said, but I ate some to please Jock.

It was nearly noon; I had slept a solid eight hours. Bathed, shaved and dressed in my nattiest, I sallied out into the morning sunshine, full of the spirit of Sir Percy Blakeney-Mortdecai,
le Bouton Ecarlate. ‘A la lantern
with Citoyen de Krampf’, I murmured, flicking a speck of snot from the irreproachable Méchlin lace of my jabot.

There was a powder-blue Buick outside.

A.L. Rowse once said that making a really important historical discovery is very like sitting, inadvertently, on a cat. I felt, at that moment, like just such an historian – and, indeed, like just such a cat. Dr Krampf, who was in the driving seat, cannot have failed to notice my standing high jump and my strangled squeal, but he elaborately gave no sign of surprise. Jock and I got in, for it was evidently the car we had arrived in, and after a certain amount of good-morning swapping we set off.

This way and that, like Odysseus on so many occasions, I divided my swift mind. The suitcase key, the fruit of Jock’s honest labours, was twice blessed: it had furnished me with clean underwear and Jock with his friendly neighbourhood Luger – a pretty strong partnership. My diplomatic passport would probably pass muster in most smaller airports for perhaps another twenty-four hours, though hardly longer. We were two, Krampf at present but one. I was pretty certain that he was thinking of abolishing me – owners of powder-blue Buicks could be no friends of mine and I knew far too much about the provenance of his newly inherited collection and little things like who-killed-daddy – but he cannot have known for certain that we knew this. He, it was clear, had to get us to ground of his own choosing before he could fit us for cement overcoats – if that’s the phrase I want – but we were now in a position to dissuade him.

We drove on, south and east, stopping for a horrid lunch at a place called Fort Stockton, where I surreptitiously bought a map and studied it, locked in the used-beer department. Then we drove some more, across the Pecos river toward Sonora. (Just place names now, all magic gone.) Just before Sonora I said to Krampf, ‘I’m sorry, my dear chap, but we can’t after all stay with you this weekend.’ He kept his hands on the wheel but boggled at me sideways.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Something came up, you see.’

‘I don’t get it – what could have come up?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve just received a cable.’

‘You’ve just receive a c…?’

‘Yes, reminding me of a subsequent engagement. So perhaps you’d be awfully kind and turn north at Sonora?’

‘Mr Mortdecai, I know this is some kind of a joke so I’m just going to keep right on for the Gulf, heh heh. Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘if I didn’t know your pistol was back in the forensic laboratory I’d be tempted to take you seriously, heh heh.’

‘Jock, show Dr Krampf the Luger.’ Jock showed him, leaning over from the back seat. Krampf looked at it carefully; he saw, if he knew about Lugers, the little
Geladen
indicator sticking up above the breech; then he accelerated, a sensible thing to do, for no one gives the
gesnickschuss
to a chap driving at seventy m.p.h.

‘Jock, the point of the left shoulder, please.’ Jock’s great fist, brass-shod, came down like a steam hammer and I steadied the wheel as Krampf’s arm went dead.

He slowed down and stopped: you can’t drive properly when you’re crying. I changed places with him rapidly and we continued – I had a feeling you’re not allowed to loiter on Interstate Highway 10. He just sat there beside me nursing his arm, saying nothing, looking straight ahead through his tears. A sure confirmation of naughty intent, for an honest man would be protesting volubly, wouldn’t he?

Abilene is a hundred and fifty miles north of Sonora; we did a lot of those miles in the next two hours and Krampf still just sat there, apparently unafraid; his faith in the power of a hundred million dollars still unshaken. After San Angelo – I sang ‘
E lucevan le stelle
’ as we passed through: opera lovers will know why – I started looking about for likely spots, for the evenings were drawing in, and soon after crossing the Colorado I found one, an unnumbered dirt road which followed the bed of a dry river. Satisfied that we could not be overlooked, I got out, urging Krampf before me.

‘Krampf,’ I said, ‘I fear you wish me ill. At present it is no part of my plans to have Krampfs after my blood as well as everyone else, so I must thwart your designs on my person. Do I make myself clear? I propose to leave you here, securely bound, warmly clad but without any money. At the airport I shall write to the police telling them where to look for you and enclosing your money, for I am not that kind of a thief. You are unlikely to die before they find you. Any questions?’

He looked at me levelly, wondering whether he could get my liver out with his fingernails. He didn’t say anything, nor did he spit.

‘Wallet,’ I said, snapping my fingers. He brought out a slim snakeskin job and tossed it rudely at my feet. I picked it up, I’m not proud. It contained a driving licence, several of the better sort of credit cards, photographs of some hideous children and a portrait of Madison. The portrait, of course, was on a thousand dollar bill.

‘No small money?’ I asked. ‘No, I suppose not. You wouldn’t like handling it, you’d know where it had been. And you don’t look like a heavy tipper.’

‘Mr Charlie,’ said Jock, ‘rich blokes over here don’t keep ordinary money in their wallets, they have it in their trousers in a sort of clip made out of a gold coin.’

‘You’re right, Jock, full marks. Krampf, the bill-clip, please.’

He reached grudgingly for his hip pocket, too grudgingly, and suddenly I realized what else was there: I aimed a swift kick at his goolies, he stepped back, stumbled and dragged out the Lilliput pistol as he fell. I didn’t hear the shot but my left arm seemed to be torn out by the roots and as I fell I saw Jock’s boot connecting with Krampf’s head.

I must have faded out for a few moments; the pain was excruciating. When I came to, Jock was dabbing at my armpit with a dressing from the car’s first-aid kit; the little bullet had passed along my armpit, shredding it horridly but missing the axillary artery by enough millimetres for safety. It was a very good first-aid box: when we had stanched the bleeding and done an adequate bandage job we turned our attention to the motionless Krampf.

‘Tie him up now, Jock, while he’s still out.’

A long pause.

‘Uh, Mr Charlie, uh, would you have a look at him?’

I looked. The side of his head felt like a bag of Smith’s Potato Crisps. Another generation of Krampfs had carried its bat to the Eternal Pavilion to have a word with the Great Scorer.

‘Really, Jock, you are too bad,’ I snapped. ‘That’s twice in two days. If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a dozen times, I
will
not have you killing chaps all the time.’

‘Sorry, Mr Charlie,’ he said sulkily. ‘But I di’n’t mean to, did I? I mean, I was saving your life, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, Jock, I suppose you were. I’m sorry if I spoke hastily – I am in some pain, you realize.’

We buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning, as you might say. Then we listened for a long time, drove quietly back to the main road and on to Abilene.

There were planes from Abilene that night to Denver and to Kansas City; Jock and I took one each.

‘See you in Quebec, then, Jock,’ I said.

‘O.K., Mr Charlie.’