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Authors: Kyril Bonfiglioli
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much?’
‘Yes, Mr Charlie.’
‘Oh dear. Not …?’
‘Nah. Nuffing that a good dentist couldn’t put right in a coupla munce. And, uh, I don’t reckon he’ll feel like doing any
courting
for a bit, either, see what I mean.’
‘Poor little chap,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Jock. ‘Goodnight, Mr Charlie.’
‘One other thing,’ I said crisply. ‘I am disturbed at the state of hygiene in the canary’s cage. Could you see that it’s cleaned out soon, please?’
‘I already done it, Mr Charlie. While you was out at lunch.’
‘Oh. Everything all right?’
‘Yeah. ’Course.’
‘Oh, well, thanks, Jock. Goodnight.’
I didn’t sleep very well that night.
If either Krampf
or
Gloag had departed from the agreed plan I could have borne it with fortitude, but two idiots in a team of three seemed excessive. I had told Hockbottle Gloag when he first approached me that I had no intention of helping him to blackmail his august Chum – introducing Hockers to Krampf was as far as I was prepared to go. Later, when Krampf had suggested to me that the photograph could be used, not for coarse money squeezing, but for facilitating the export, to him, of hot works of art, I had let him wring from me my slow consent, but only on condition that I should write the script, and play both the lead and the comic relief. But, as Schnozzle Durante never tired of saying, ‘Everybody wants to get in on the act.’ Gloag had already paid the price for this foot-light fever and it looked as though Krampf was at least getting a pro forma invoice.
6
Still, what if I approach the august sphere
Named now with only one name, disentwine
That under-current soft and argentine
From its fierce mate …?
Sordello
The telephone woke me at a most
inconvenient
hour on Monday. A honeyed American voice asked if it could speak to Mr Mortdecai’s secretary.
‘One moooment please,’ I crooned, ‘I’ll put you throooo.’ I stuffed the telephone under my pillow and lit a cigarette, musing the while. Finally I rang for Jock, briefed him and gave him the telephone. Holding it between hairy thumb and forefinger, pinky delicately crooked, he fluted, ‘Mr Mortdecai’s seckritry ’ere.’ Then he got the giggles – disastrous after yesterday’s feast of beans – and so did I and the telephone got dropped; the Honeyed American Voice must have thought it all
most
peculiar. It turned out that it – the H.A.V. – was a Colonel Blucher’s secretary at the American Embassy, and that Colonel Blucher would like to see Mr Mortdecai at ten o’clock. Jock, properly shocked, said that there was no chance of Mr Mortdecai being out of bed at that hour and that he never received gentlemen in bed. (More giggles.) The voice, no whit less honeyed, said that, well, Colonel Blucher had in fact envisaged Mr. Mortdecai calling on
him
and would ten thirty be more convenient. Jock fought a stout rearguard action – in a curious way he’s ratherproud to work for anyone as slothful as me – and finally they struck a bargain for noon.
As soon as Jock put the instrument down I lifted it again and dialed the Embassy (499 9000, if you want to know). One of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard answered – a furry, milky contralto which made my coccyx curl into ringlets. It quite distinctly said:
‘Care to embrace me?’
‘Eh?’ I gobbled, ‘what’s that what’s that?’
‘American Embassy’ – this time in rather more sanitary tones.
‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Silly of me. Ah, what I wanted to know was whether you have a Colonel Blucher working there.’
There was a click or two, a muted electric ‘grrr’ and before I could do anything about it I was once more in communication with the original Honeyed (honied?) Voice. She didn’t say she was Colonel anyone’s secretary this time, she said she was the War Room, CumQuicJac or SecSatSix or some such mumbo-jumbo. What
children
these warriors are.
I couldn’t very well say that I was just
‘Yes, Mr Charlie.’
‘Oh dear. Not …?’
‘Nah. Nuffing that a good dentist couldn’t put right in a coupla munce. And, uh, I don’t reckon he’ll feel like doing any
courting
for a bit, either, see what I mean.’
‘Poor little chap,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Jock. ‘Goodnight, Mr Charlie.’
‘One other thing,’ I said crisply. ‘I am disturbed at the state of hygiene in the canary’s cage. Could you see that it’s cleaned out soon, please?’
‘I already done it, Mr Charlie. While you was out at lunch.’
‘Oh. Everything all right?’
‘Yeah. ’Course.’
‘Oh, well, thanks, Jock. Goodnight.’
I didn’t sleep very well that night.
If either Krampf
or
Gloag had departed from the agreed plan I could have borne it with fortitude, but two idiots in a team of three seemed excessive. I had told Hockbottle Gloag when he first approached me that I had no intention of helping him to blackmail his august Chum – introducing Hockers to Krampf was as far as I was prepared to go. Later, when Krampf had suggested to me that the photograph could be used, not for coarse money squeezing, but for facilitating the export, to him, of hot works of art, I had let him wring from me my slow consent, but only on condition that I should write the script, and play both the lead and the comic relief. But, as Schnozzle Durante never tired of saying, ‘Everybody wants to get in on the act.’ Gloag had already paid the price for this foot-light fever and it looked as though Krampf was at least getting a pro forma invoice.
6
Still, what if I approach the august sphere
Named now with only one name, disentwine
That under-current soft and argentine
From its fierce mate …?
Sordello
The telephone woke me at a most
inconvenient
hour on Monday. A honeyed American voice asked if it could speak to Mr Mortdecai’s secretary.
‘One moooment please,’ I crooned, ‘I’ll put you throooo.’ I stuffed the telephone under my pillow and lit a cigarette, musing the while. Finally I rang for Jock, briefed him and gave him the telephone. Holding it between hairy thumb and forefinger, pinky delicately crooked, he fluted, ‘Mr Mortdecai’s seckritry ’ere.’ Then he got the giggles – disastrous after yesterday’s feast of beans – and so did I and the telephone got dropped; the Honeyed American Voice must have thought it all
most
peculiar. It turned out that it – the H.A.V. – was a Colonel Blucher’s secretary at the American Embassy, and that Colonel Blucher would like to see Mr Mortdecai at ten o’clock. Jock, properly shocked, said that there was no chance of Mr Mortdecai being out of bed at that hour and that he never received gentlemen in bed. (More giggles.) The voice, no whit less honeyed, said that, well, Colonel Blucher had in fact envisaged Mr. Mortdecai calling on
him
and would ten thirty be more convenient. Jock fought a stout rearguard action – in a curious way he’s ratherproud to work for anyone as slothful as me – and finally they struck a bargain for noon.
As soon as Jock put the instrument down I lifted it again and dialed the Embassy (499 9000, if you want to know). One of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard answered – a furry, milky contralto which made my coccyx curl into ringlets. It quite distinctly said:
‘Care to embrace me?’
‘Eh?’ I gobbled, ‘what’s that what’s that?’
‘American Embassy’ – this time in rather more sanitary tones.
‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Silly of me. Ah, what I wanted to know was whether you have a Colonel Blucher working there.’
There was a click or two, a muted electric ‘grrr’ and before I could do anything about it I was once more in communication with the original Honeyed (honied?) Voice. She didn’t say she was Colonel anyone’s secretary this time, she said she was the War Room, CumQuicJac or SecSatSix or some such mumbo-jumbo. What
children
these warriors are.
I couldn’t very well say that I was just
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