Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

‘Well, well, well!’ I cried heartily. ‘Did you work out what Dr F. was doing when he wasn’t reading in his wife’s car?’

‘Yes.’

My face fell disappointedly.

The DCI seemed to be battling with his conscience. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I didn’t actually figure it out myself; it was DC Holmes. He reckons Fellworthy was, as he puts it, frigging with his wife’s glasses.’

‘My word! Is there no end to that chap’s resourcefulness?’ And then, to salve his pride, ‘I must say you train your squad admirably, Chief Inspector.’

‘Thank you, most kind; we try to do our best. But what about those bloody glasses?’

‘Look, before we start, I’d better say that what I’ve got in mind is possibly going to need the assistance of a real policeman – and possibly one who can use a little tactful violence. I wondered whether you’d consider sort of putting Holmes on stand-by call for me if I should need him. It would hardly interfere with his usual duties – just an hour or so at odd times during the next ten days or so …?’

‘You couldn’t have picked a better man,’ he said handsomely. ‘He’s got brains, brawn and balls – like the ideal President the Americans never get.’

‘Is he close-mouthed?’

‘A veritable oyster.’

‘Then I suggest we have him in, now, so that he’s in the picture. Might do the wrong thing if he didn’t know what it was all about.’ He gnawed a nail or two, then intercommed. DC Holmes clockwork-soldiered in, was told to sit.

‘Look here, young Holmes,’ said the DCI, ‘this is so confidential that I’m putting myself at risk letting you in on it. To put it bluntly, we common jacks have been warned off the Fellworthy case by some conniving political pignuts. BUT I’M NOT HAVING MURDER GOT AWAY WITH IN MY BLOODY MANOR! The Chief Constable feels the same way as I do, which is why he’s demi-officially given Special Inspector Mortdecai a brief to dig around tactfully. By giving him assistance I’m disobeying my orders from Whitehall. Right, I’ve put my head on the block – if you want to shop me you can have me in charge of traffic-control on the Norfolk Broads next week. I don’t think you’re that kind of a man.’

‘Correct, sir. I call it a compliment you trusting me, sir. And anyway, if I did the dirty on you I’d never be trusted by anyone in the Force again, would I?’ The DCI chuckled.

‘Yes, I thought that would occur to you. By the way, I believe you passed your Detective Sergeant’s exams?’

‘Yessir. Twice, sir.’ The unspoken promise floated delicately to the floor between them.

‘Right, Mr Mortdecai. Now tell us.’

‘First,’ I said, plonking the envelope on his desk, ‘these are the mortal remains of Bronwen’s glasses, exactly as you gave them to me but now, as you see, sealed up, certified by the optician who prescribed and fitted them and counter-signed by Special Inspector Me. Now, sir—’ He raised a protesting hand – all sirring had hitherto been in the other direction.

‘Well, look,’ I said, ‘you are my, ah, demi-official superior now and I can’t keep calling you “Detective Chief Inspector,” it makes my tongue ache. What would one of your own Inspectors call you?’

‘ “Chief” usually. Only “sir” if I was giving him a going-over.’

‘Right, Chief. And please call me Charlie. You,’ I said, turning to Holmes sternly, ‘may continue to call me “sir.” ’

‘Yessir,’ he said. The momentary twinkle in his eye was by no means insubordinate.

‘Now, Chief,’ I continued, ‘I submit that you might care to date-stamp this envelope, initial the stamp and pop the whole thing into your safest safe. We shan’t need it until the trial.’

‘But won’t you need to take the glasses with you when you visit Fellworthy?’

‘I’ll be coming to that presently. Now, this is how the murder was committed …’ and I told them all. Well, almost all. Certainly all that was good for them. When I had finished, I summed it all up incisively: ‘Well,’ I said, ‘and there you are, aren’t you?’

Holmes looked at me applaudingly but said, ‘Bloody twit. They’re all the same, aren’t they, sir?’ He was addressing the DCI and I bridled for a moment.

‘Yes,’ said the DCI heavily, ‘they’re all the same. Villain does a lovely £50,000 job with a thermic lance – no dabs, a new modus operandio , nothing for us to go on at all. Next week he buys his tart a mink, and bing-bong-willy-wong, we’ve got him. Same as this Fellworthy: perfect murder, Crime of the Century, no-one would ever know it was a murder even, but he has to—’ I broke in courteously:

‘He has to draw your attention to himself by making a fuss about the wretched glasses and arouse your suspicions, Chief, eh?’ He shot me a furtively grateful glance.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘If he’d never mentioned them he’d have got them back by now. Rightly does DC Holmes call him a twit. When I think of all that ingenuity going into his caper and then it all being spoiled by mere human frailty – well, it makes me despair of criminal nature.’

‘Amateurs,’ murmured Holmes.

‘Even the pros are amateurs,’ snapped the DCI; ‘ we’re the only professionals, we do it for a living. Villains make a quick tickle, laughing their heads off at Old Bill, then spend ten years in the slammer, thinking up another caper.’ He turned to me. ‘We sent a bloke “up the stairs” – that’s our vulgar way of saying The Old Bailey – last month. He drew “During her Majesty’s Pleasure.” Fifty years old and he’s spent twenty-five of them in the nick. Probably still thinks he’s smart.’

‘Ah well, Chief,’ I said, trying to lighten his mood, ‘this was a one-off job and you’ve got him, ah, dead to rights, haven’t you, what?’

‘No,’ he said morosely.

‘ No ?’

‘No. First, I’ve had orders from On High to leave the whole mess alone, as you well know. Oh, I could bash it through all right, ’specially now the political thing turns out to be a load of old moody, but it’d still be me for the Norfolk Broads. My missus has these lovely long legs, you see,’ he went on irrelevantly, ‘and she can’t bear gumboots.’ I tried once again, in my foolish way, to lighten his mood.

‘Never marry a woman with lovely long legs, Chief, she’s liable to walk out on you, hah hah …’

‘So could one with ugly short legs,’ said the logical Holmes.

‘Ah, but who would care ?’

The intercom buzzed and a female voice, evidently coming from a mouth full of hairpins, said that Dr Fellworthy wished to speak to the DCI. Chiefy arranged his features, adopted an unctuous voice.

‘No, Doctor, the spectacles under advisement have not yet emerged to the surface, as you might say, but I have two men, pro bono as we say, checking pawnshops, old-gold dealers and such this very minute.’ He span the dial an inch, to give the impression that he was making a connection to the Information Room, then scowled and winked hideously at Holmes.

‘Sergeant!’ he barked, ‘any word yet on the pair of lady’s gold-rimmed glasses?’ Holmes – what an admirable man! – turned away, stuck two fingers in his mouth and bellowed. ‘Not yet, sir, but we have high hopes. We covered all likelies in the city centre; moving into outlying suburbs tomorrow. Reckon they must be in the vicinity: not enough gold to peddle them in London. They’ll turn up, sir.’

‘Are you still there, Doctor?’ soaped the DCI. ‘We are confident of finding your dear departed’s memento moria ; I realise how much such small relicts mean to a bereaved person. Yes, sir, I understand perfectly … yes … yes … and I hope you are bearing up, sir; always bear in mind that these things are sent to try us, aren’t they?’ As he put the telephone back on its cradle he homed in on my quizzical eyebrows. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said, ‘that last sentence was a bit inopportune, wasn’t it?’ I shrugged. He pulled himself together.