Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Moreover, she was in a bad state of nerves already; in fact she’d been living in terror of her life for many days before it happened.’

‘Poor woman,’ he murmured. He didn’t ask any questions, he’s not like that. I thought for a while then asked him for a stout envelope and some Scotch tape.

‘Please write this on the envelope, Mr Bates: “I certify that this pair of spectacles and case were supplied by me in perfect order to Mrs Bronwen Fellworthy on such and such a date and that they are now in the exact condition as when Special Inspector Mortdecai showed them to me today, on such and such a date, signed etc.” Now, I’ll countersign, witnessing your signature and we’ll seal all the edges and stick Scotch tape across all the writing. Thanks. Now, I must ask you to help me some more.’

I told him what I wanted. He said it would take at least a week. I said three days at the outside. ‘Go to London or Paris or wherever necessary, go in person if that would help: expense is no object. You know what is involved. When you’re ready, ring my home number and ask for Mr Strapp, he’s my, ah, driver. He’ll fly the package straight to me – I’ll be in Oxford. I’ll explain it all to you just as soon as I’m free to do so.’

Jock was double-parked outside. He scowled when I said that I was going to let the dentist down: I hated to disappoint him but I’d had enough violence for one day. What I needed was a sedative, such as Scotch whisky, and a telephone.

At the house and suitably sedated, I applied myself to the telephone. The DCI was off duty but I reached the excellent DC Holmes.

‘Look, Holmes,’ I said, ‘I know this sounds a bit potty but do you think you could find out what the weather was like on that day? You know, that Monday. The one we were discussing yesterday.’ He chuckled.

‘Don’t need to look that one up, sir; we’d had nigh on a month of grey sky and drizzle. It didn’t let up till that particular Monday, just about lunch-time; then the sun came out a fair treat. Why I remember exactly was, it was my day off and I had to take my landlady’s kids to their school Sports Day.’

‘You’re a ruddy marvel, Holmes,’ I marvelled. ‘Now, can you take down a message for the DCI, please. Top secret. Tell him our suspicions are fully confirmed, that I’ll see him latish tomorrow afternoon and, yes, tell him that the good doctor was not reading when he was sitting in his wife’s car in the hotel garage. Tell him to try that on his pianola. Right?’

‘Yessir.’

I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening congratulating myself on my infinite resource and sagacity; planning and mentally rehearsing my visit to Dr Fellworthy when the time should be ripe; whizzing through the crossword at an unprecedented speed; taking an aperitif now and then to limber up for the dinner which lay in the offing or oven; paying a duty visit to the moult-stricken feathered friend; and wondering whether Johanna would telephone. She didn’t, of course; they never do, do they?

Dinner, however, healed all wounds and since I was doomed to an indefinite number of Scone High Table’s poisoned pottages, I allowed myself, for once, to eat heartily, like some dromedary ship of the desert tanking up at an oasis. (Not, I hasten to say, that I actually drank any water: I never do, you don’t know where it’s been.)

I took Vol. IV of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire to bed with me and in no time I was sleeping righteously.

‘Jock,’ I said to the grizzled retainer as he lowered the tea-tray onto my unwilling lap the next morning, ‘look me in the eye if you dare! Is this your idea of gratitude for my keeping you out of the nick all these years? You know jolly well that reveille in this bedroom is at 11 a.m. I’m prepared to offer long odds that it is now little more than 10 ditto. What do you mean by harrying me out of blameless slumber in the grey light of dawn? Eh?’

‘Sorry, Mr Charlie, I cooden book you on the after-lunch flight, it’s full up, so I had to get you on the 12.05. You check in at 11.30.’

‘My God!’ I cried, aghast, ‘my luncheon …!’

‘ ’Salright, Mr Charlie, Cookie’s packed you a lovely lunch: ’arf a chicken, ’arf a dozen gull’s eggs, ’arf a bottle of white Burgundy and ’arf a pound of Mr B.’s special shooting-cake.’

‘Oh, very well,’ I hmphed, ‘I suppose I can rough it for once. We old campaigners, you know … but see that there is a sustaining breakfast ready for me in twenty-five minutes. And fill the larger of my pocket-flasks.’

‘Right, Mr Charlie.’

‘Carry on, Jock.’

As he drove me to the airport I said, ‘Jock, lend me your ears.’

‘Yer what?’

‘I mean, pay attention carefully; memorise the following as though it were the Judges’ Rules: as soon as you have shovelled me onto the aircraft you are to proceed to Bellingham’s courteous travel agency – let me see, it’s the 15th inst., right? – and book yourself on a late afternoon flight to Heathrow or Gatwick on the 17th and the three following days. During that period – the 17th until the 20th – you must at all costs stay within earshot of the telephone until, let’s say, 6 p.m. On one of those days, probably the first of them, Mr Bates, the amiable eye-ball engineer whom I visited yesterday, will phone, asking for you by name and saying that all is ready. You will throw your overnight-bag into the car and make all speed to Mr Bates, who will hand you a package. Hop on the plane, make your way to Oxford and go straight to the cop-shop (oh, do keep your eyes on the road, Jock and stop boggling – this cop-shop will do you no harm, I swear, they won’t even take your fingerprints). At the said cop-shop you will hand the packet personally to the Detective Chief Inspector or to a Detective Constable called Holmes. It is better that you do not attempt to get in touch with me; it would be insecure. Take a room in some modestly priced Temperance Hotel suitable to your station in life, talk to no-one, and do not, on any account, get into any bar-room brawls. Then make your way back to Jersey first thing in the morning. Right, Jock?’

‘Right, Mr Charlie.’ I gave him some money, enough to keep him out of trouble but not enough to get him into any.

At Oxford station there were, needless to say, no taxis to be had. What there was, however, was a shiny black limousine and a uniformed copper holding the door open for me. Long and bitter experience has given me a rooted distrust of shiny black limousines so I startled the driver by asking for his warrant-card. Well, I’d rather be taken for a twit by a genuine policeman than taken for a ride by a bogus one, wouldn’t you?

‘However did you know I’d be on this train?’ I asked as we drifted toward Christ Church.

‘DC Holmes figured it out, sir. Lovely set of brains he’s got. Nice with it too. Even with villains, unless they get above themselves.’

‘And then?’

‘Gives them a little friendly lesson in karate. He’s got one of them black belts. Never leaves a mark on ’em, either.’

The DCI beamed at me across his desk, but it was the beam of a man who has just been munching a moody fingernail.