The Mortdecai Trilogy Read Online Free Page A

three weeks ago. He gave me the cut-out of his face and said to keep it very safe, it was a free pardon for him and money in the bank for me. He wouldn’t explain but I knew he wouldn’t be trying to con me, he’s terrified of Jock. He said he’d ring me up every day from then on and if he missed a day it would mean he was in trouble and I was to tell you to ask Turner in the National Gallery. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the Goya so far as I know – I just seized that opportunity to slip you the word.
Is
Hockbottle in trouble? Have you got him in that bloody Cottage Hospital of yours?’
    Martland didn’t answer. He just stood looking at me, rubbing the side of his face, making a nasty soft rasping sound. I could almost hear him wondering whether the battery would coax a little more truth out of me. I hoped not: the truth had to be deliveredin carefully spaced rations, so as to give him a healthy appetite for later lies.
    Perhaps he decided that I was telling the truth, as far as it went; perhaps he simply decided that he already had enough to worry about.
    He had, in fact, no idea how much he had to worry about.
    ‘Go away,’ he said, finally.
    I collected my hat, tidied it, made for the door.
    ‘Don’t leave town?’ I prompted in the doorway.
    ‘Don’t leave town,’ he agreed, absently. I didn’t like to remind him about the sandwich.
    I had to walk miles before I found a taxi. It had all its door handles. I fell soundly asleep, the sleep of a good, successful liar. Goodness, the flat was in a mess. I telephoned Mrs. Spon and told her that I was at last ready to redecorate. She came round before dinner and helped us tidy the place up – success has not spoiled her – and afterward we spent a happy hour in front of the fire choosing chintzes and wallpapers and things and then we all three sat round the kitchen table and tore into an enormous fry-up such as very few people can make today.
    After Mrs. Spon had left I said to Jock, ‘Do you know what, Jock?’ and he said, ‘No, what?’
    ‘I think Mr Gloag is dead.’
    ‘Greedy, I expect,’ said Jock, elliptically. ‘Who d’you reckon killed him, then?’
    ‘Mr Martland, I fancy. But I think that for once he rather wishes he hadn’t.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Yes. Well, good night, Jock.’
    ‘Good night, Mr Charlie.’
    I undressed and put a little more Pomade Divine on my wounds. Suddenly I felt shatteringly tired – I always do after torture. Jock had put a hotty in my bed, bless him. He knows.

3
     
     
Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when –
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts – you’re inside the den!
     
    Childe Roland
     
     
    Dawn broke for me, at ten o’clock sharp, with one of the finest cups of tea I have ever been privileged to toy with. The canary was in splendid voice. The snail, once again, was on the thorn and showed no signs of dismounting. I hardly winced as the blisters from Martland’s battery made themselves felt, although I did, at one stage, find myself longing for Pantagruel’s goose’s neck.
    I had a long chat on the telephone with my insurance brokers and explained to them how they could put the bite on Martland’s ear for the damage to my decorations and promised them the photographs of the intruders as soon as Jock had developed them.
    Then I put on a dashing little tropical-weight worsted, a curly-brimmed coker and a pair of buckskins created by Lobb in a moment of genius. (My tie, if I recall correctly, was a
foulard
, predominantly
merde d’oie
in colour, though why you should be interested I cannot imagine.) Thus clad – and with my blisters well Vaselined – I sauntered to the Park to inspect the pelican and other feathered friends. They were in great shape. ‘Thisweather,’ they seemed to be saying, ‘is capital.’ I gave them my