Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

‘Now,’ he said, ‘as I was about to say before DC Holmes brought up the subject of my lady-wife’s limbs, the second factor is that there just isn’t enough evidence to offer a court. He wouldn’t even need a barrister; any smart-arse from a cut-price Legal Clinic would get it chucked out at the Magistrate’s Hearing.’

‘But but but,’ I said lucidly, ‘but but but! I mean, dash it! Look, we’ve got Means: the murder weapon or deodand is on your very desk in that envelope. We’ve got Opportunity: the five furtive minutes in Bronwen’s bucket-seat in the hotel garage. We’ve got his insistence on circular lenses from the optician; we’ve got her irrational fears about Reds under her herring which were supposed to throw us off the scent; and we’ve got Motive.’

‘What motive?’

‘Oh, come on , Chief; every married man has an occasional desire to murder his wife, this is common knowledge. I mean, that’s what meat-cleavers are for, isn’t …’ I tailed off, for I realised that I was in the midst of a gritty sort of silence; the silence of a gravel drive which no-one is walking on. My hand, unbidden, flew to my moustache.

‘What I mean,’ I gabbled, ‘what I mean, of course, is that separated married couples have a lot of stresses and strains, and, ah, strains and, well, stresses. I mean, one of them wants to give it another try, perhaps, while the other is intent on a full divorce.’ By sheer will-power I forced my hand away from the guilty apple-orchard of my upper lip. The silence went on, more benignly now, but I was damned if I was going to be the first to break it. I like silences, I cultivate and collect them, but I mutely prayed to whomever might be listening that someone would say something. I should have remembered the only sensible thing St Teresa ever said: ‘It is those of our prayers which are answered which cause us to shed tears.’

‘Tell him, Holmes,’ said the DCI.

‘DCI’s right, sir. You couldn’t shop a Liberal MP on that evidence these days. Like he says, it’d hardly get past the Magistrate’s Ear-ring. Mind you, if Fellworthy was smart, he’d elect for trial by jury and get a top “brief.” At quarter-sessions, right after the prosecutor’s openers, the “brief” would get up and submit there was no case to answer. The judge (the good old bloodthirsty breed is all dead or retired now) would so instruct the jury. Jury’d be packed with women – and you know women think that doctors are the nearest thing to God …’ The DCI broke in:

‘Good thinking, Holmes; once he was acquitted in full court he couldn’t be tried again for the murder, no matter what evidence we might find afterwards. He could walk around shouting “I done it, I done it” and we could only touch him for Disorderly Behaviour. No Charlie, we’ve got to have something more. If we can’t get his neck for sure …’

‘… they’ll have yours,’ I said. ‘Very well; I’ve got a bit of a ploy in mind. Take notes, please, Holmes. “A” – have you written that down? Good. “A:” in a few days from now a large, ugly man with a glass eye will appear at the counter of this cop-shop. He will be carrying a package to be delivered to the DCI or, should the DCI be out for lunch, to you. He will hand it to no-one else. Pray tell all of your colleagues who might be on duty at the cash-desk that he will be about his lawful occasions. You see, he is, even to the untrained eye, a member of the criminal classes and it is important that he should be neither molested nor harassed. He answers to the name of Mr Strapp. His only fault is that he dearly loves to hit people, especially uniformed ones, and, strange as it may seem, he’s afraid of no-one but me.’ Holmes gave me one of those long, careful looks which only good policemen know how to give.

‘I wouldn’t say that was all that strange, sir.’ I almost blushed; my silly-arse mask must have slipped a little.

‘Chhrrmm,’ I said. ‘What I mean is, see that he is allowed to hand the package by hand, so to say, to the DCI or yourself and that no-one gives him any “aggro.” His skin is exceptionally sensitive and exhibits a strong allergy to fingerprint-ink. He will leave Oxford by the next town drain, I assure you. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Abundantly, sir. Indeed, I’ll see that he’s given a cup of tea.’

‘Oh dear no, I wouldn’t do that, really. No stimulants. Just let him go in peace. Now, Chief,’ I turned to the Chief, ‘this package must be passed to me at Scone College – hand to hand – just as soon as human foot or car can convey it. Will you see to that, please? This is of the essence , as French motorists say.’

‘Right.’

‘Next, “B:” what sort of jurisdiction or influence do you have amongst your country colleagues in Dr Fellworthy’s bit of Buckinghamshire, eh?’

‘Ah, well, sir – sorry – Charlie, that point is a bit moot. In fact I’d say it was highly moot. I mean, we’re all Thames Valley Police nowadays and we take turns manning the Regional Crime Squad and that, but old habits die hard. Like, if some jack from Thame came clumping into our manor in hot pursuit of a shop-lifter, he’d get a root up the sump, see? I mean, we collaborate amicably. Like Stalin and Churchill.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said. In fact I said ‘Oh dear’ again, for this made my plans look like a plate of ill-forked spaghetti.

‘Anyway,’ said the DCI, ‘what do you want a lot of Bucks. flatties in muddy wellies clumping about with you for? You’ve got DC Holmes, haven’t you? You’re only going to see one inoffensive murderer tomorrow, right?’

‘Well, no, not tomorrow really. I’m not going to see the Dr until the aforementioned package arrives; you can see that, I’m sure. I just want to do a bit of snooping and sleuthing while I wait for it.’ Holmes breathed in and out in a respectful way. The DCI made a noise like a bull-terrier with catarrh.

‘Special Inspector Mortdecai,’ he said, in just those saccharine tones that a Princess uses to a press photographer at a puissance trial, ‘I am well aware that your brains are big enough to stuff a goose with – from either end – but I do think that AS YOUR FUCKING SUPERIOR OFFICER it is high time you let me in on all this roly-moly about mysterious packages and, and – all that.’

‘Oh, dammit, Chief, I’m awfully sorry; I’m not a trained policeman, you know that, haven’t put the facts in the right order. This is what I had in mind.’ I told them what I had in mind. When it was in his mind it churned around a little, then he nodded. It was an almost entirely ungrudging nod, as nods go – and I reckon myself a pretty good judge of a nod.

‘Going back to the Bucks. alleged Constabulary,’ he said, ‘despite my previous remarks I should point out that, although I have nothing that you could call hegemony over that, er, admirable body of men, it does just so happen that my brother-in-law is the Superintendent at Prince’s Risborough. Married to my sister,’ he explained.

‘How nice,’ I said. He gave me an odd look.

‘She is a Primitive Baptist; her husband drinks beer and has been seen playing darts on Sunday.’

‘Whew!’ I said.

‘But she loves her brother: me , see? So any little favour he can do for me becomes a pleasure and a privilege for him. I’ll ring him in a minute, tell him that a, a, a Trusted Subordinate of mine will be calling on him first thing in the morning. Right?’

‘Splendid,’ I said, ‘very kind. Just one thing, though: “first thing in the morning” might mean anything really, mightn’t it. And I’m not what you’d call a dedicated early riser – often up with the lark, yes, but only when I’m on my way home to bed. Suppose we say “first thing after lunch,” eh? Catch him in the well-known post-prandial glow, d’you see? And if it wouldn’t interfere with your duty-roster too much, perhaps DC Holmes could wheel me over there; then, while I’m chatting up your bro-in-law the Super, Holmes could be collecting a bit of back-stairs stuff from the rank and file in the Duty Room over a dish of tea – you know, the sort of stuff which might not have filtered up to the higher echelons, so to say, eh? The gossip I mean, not the tea.’