Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

‘Tell me all about it,’ she urged. I told all of it that was fit for her gently-nurtured ears. Agog is what she was as she drank in the narrative. It was evident to the trained eye that she lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d and I lov’d her that she did pity them.

‘And how was S. Tropez?’ I asked. ‘Did you have fun?’ She levelled the aforementioned huge eyes at me again – and once again they were brimming with many a happy tear.

‘Oh, Charlie dearest, I meant to be unfaithful to you, out of spite I guess, but when it came to the crunch I just couldn’t. Anyway, all the men were so lean and muscular and bronzed and, well, I guess I’ve kind of got used to a cuddly guy. Oh, Charlie darling, I’d love to cuddle up with you right this moment and smother you with burning kisses and eat you all up, every scrap.’

She lowered her splendid eyelashes demurely.

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ I murmured. ‘I see no obstacle to such a course.’ She did not answer, but a shadow passed over her face and she flicked a reproachful glance at the hedge-like obstacle. In an instant the moustache and my libido were locked in a death-struggle, a desperate battle of wills. The former was hopelessly outclassed, of course; no moustachio has ever won such a contest, the Old Adam is always victorious. Soon I had that moustache on its knees, whining for mercy, pleading that it was too young to die. But I was Adamant.

‘No quarter!’ I said, sternly.

‘How do you mean, Charlie dear?’ asked Johanna, knitting her lovely brows.

‘Never mind. Just press the bell for Jock, please.’

‘Jock,’ I said when he entered, ‘is there plenty of hot water? Good. Is there a stout pair of scissors in the bathroom? And a razor and my larger badger-hair shaving-brush?’ His eyes seemed to sparkle; it was the eye of a man who scarcely dares hope – a thug who cannot believe the witness of his cauliflower ear.

‘Yes, Jock, you have guessed aright. I intend to prune this floribunda right back to its parent lip. I shall raze it to the ground, leaving not a wrack behind. Cartago delenda est !’

‘Right, Mr Charlie,’ he said in hushed tones. ‘Want any help?’

‘No, Jock. I appreciate your offer but there are some things a sahib has to face alone.’

Johanna and I fled upstairs hand in hand and soon I was standing before the mirror, looking my last on Tiger Clemenceau – and at Johanna’s reflection in the glass as she slithered out of her costly raiment in a way which sent my blood-pressure right up into the paint-cards. Twice I raised the glittering executioner’s blade to my upper lip and twice it fell from my nerveless fingers. Johanna stole up to me and nibbled lovingly in my ear.

‘Infirm of purpose,’ she murmured. ‘Give me the scissors.’

I believe it was on the following Monday that I was sitting in the kitchen, munching my elevenses and exchanging civilities with the canary.

‘Shaving the upper lip,’ I remarked, ‘is a curse which canaries and women have been spared.’ It cocked its ear. ‘Except of course, certain aunts,’ I added, evoking a squawk of alarm from the feathered f.

‘On the other hand,’ I mused, fondling the bare ruined choir where once the sweet-briar sprang, ‘you and they will never know the bliss of being freshly shaven.’

Jock brought in the mail. Continuing to munch, I picked out of the bundle one of those big, costly envelopes such as only American Embassies can nowadays afford. The contents read as follows, to wit:

Sir,

I am directed to require you, immediately on receipt of this letter, to return the Temporary Accreditation Wallet issued to you by the undersigned.

This return should be made by hand of officer or, failing that, by British Registered Mail.

I am further directed to express the thanks of the Section concerned of the Department concerned for your friendly co-operation in the recent academic research. That Section is given to understand that if at any time in the future you should be in Washington, DC and cared to sign the Visitor’s Book in the Guard Room of the White House, you would receive an invitation to join the President and the First Lady at the Cocktail Hour.

‘You all right, Mr Charlie?’ asked Jock crossly.

‘Yes, Jock. Sorry, just giggling.’

‘Well, you’re upsetting the canary, aren’t you. You know what his bowels are like.’

‘Yes,’ I said, continuing to read.

You will appreciate that only subjects of general and unspecific interest are discussed at the Cocktail Hour.

Cordially,

H. Blucher

Colonel, US Army

P.S. Hey Charlie, you old sod, you know that doctor who did an auto-destruct while you waited? We ran the usual routine checks and, would you believe it, your Special Branch had a file on him. He emigrated to Britain in 1946; naturalised 1948, changed name by deed poll 1949. Original name: Nikolai Djugashvili Ulianov. How about that?

I stared at the words. ‘Yeah,’ I said, turning to the canary. ‘How about that, hunh?’

It shrugged its shoulders and went on catching the crumbs from my bacon sandwich.

Don’t Point That Thing at Me

The Hon. Charlie Mortdecai is up to his earlobes in trouble. A Goya painting has gone missing and the authorities seem to think he knows something about it. He does. If he and his thuggish manservant Jock are not very careful, some very nasty men with guns are liable to make them very dead.

After You With the Pistol

It’s been made clear to Charlie that he has to marry the beautiful, sex-crazed and very rich Johanna Krampf. The only fly in the ointment is that she seems determined to involve him in her crazy schemes of monarch-assassination and heroin smuggling. Perhaps it’s all in a good cause—if only he can live long enough to find out.

Something Nasty in the Woodshed

Charlie has decamped to Jersey after a spot of bother in London, and is hoping to lie low with his manservant and his new bride. But then a friend’s wife is attacked, and for once he takes on the role of pursuer rather than pursued.

All the Tea in China

After an act of lechery that anyone but a close relative might forgive, Karli Mortdecai Van Cleef, a distant relative of the Hon. Charlie Mortdecai, throws in his lot with an opium clipper bound for China. So begins a staggering adventure. It runs in the family …

KYRIL BONFIGLIOLI (1928-85) was an art dealer, accomplished fencer, a fair shot with most weapons, and a serial marrier of beautiful women. He claimed to be “abstemious in all things except drink, food, tobacco, and talking,” and “loved and respected by all who knew him slightly.”

Jacket artwork by Luke Pearson

No, not you ; ‘readers’ is a cardsharks’ word for marked cards.