Read Online The Mortdecai Trilogy by Kyril Bonfiglioli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kyril Bonfiglioli
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checking to see whether Col. Blucher was real or just a Heartless Practical Joke, could I? In the end, after a bit of spluttering, I said that I had an appointment with her guv’nor, d’ye see, at sort of noon really, and what number in Grosvenor Square was the Embassy. This should have been a heavy score to me – lovely footwork you must admit – but she was a fast, damaging counterpuncher.
‘Number twenty-four,’ she warbled unhesitatingly, ‘that’s two, four.’
I rang off after a mumbled civility or two. Rolled up, horse, foot and guns. I mean, fancy a bloody great place like that
having
a street number, for God’s sake.
Jock averted his gaze: he knows when the young master has taken a bit of stick.
I pushed my breakfast moodily round the plate for a while then told Jock to give it to the deserving poor and bring me in its stead a large glass of gin with both sorts of vermouth in it and some fizzy lemonade. A quick actor, that drink, gets you to where you live in no time.
Sucking a perfumed cachou, I walked to Grosvenor Square, soberly clad and musing madly. The musing was to no avail; mymind was as blank as the new, soft fallen mask of snow upon the mountains and the moors. The cachou lasted as far as the portals of the Embassy, within which stood a capable-looking military man, standing at what is laughingly called ease. The jut of his craggy jaw made it clear to the trained eye that he was there to keep out Commie bastards and anyone else who might be plotting to overthrow the Constitution of the United States. I met his eye fearlessly and asked him if this was number twenty-four and he didn’t know, which made me feel better.
A succession of well-designed young ladies took charge of me, wafting me ever deeper into the building. Each one of them was tall, slim, hygienic, graceful and endowed with amazingly large tits: I’m afraid I probably stared rather. I fetched up all standing (nautical term) at the outer office of Col. Blucher, where sat the Voice itself. She, as was fitting, had the finest endowment of all. I should think she had to type at arm’s length. In the twinkling of an eye – and I mean that most sincerely – I was shunted into the inner office, where a lean, wholesome, uniformed youth gave me a chair.
I recognized the chair as soon as I applied my bottom to it. It was covered with shiny leather and the front legs were half an inch shorter than the back legs. This gives the sitter a vague feeling of unease, impermanence, inferiority. I have one myself, for seating chaps on who are trying to sell paintings to me. On no account was I going to take crap of this kind; I arose and made for the sofa.
‘Forgive me,’ I said sheepishly, ‘I have these piles, you know? Haemorrhoids?’
He knew. Judging from the smile he cranked on to his face, I should say he had just developed them. He sat down behind the desk. I raised an eyebrow.
‘I have an appointment with Colonel Blucher,’ I said.
‘I am Colonel Blucher, sir,’ replied the youth.
I’d lost that rally, anyway, but I was still ahead on the chair-to-sofa move, he had to twist his neck and raise his voice when he spoke to me. He looked extraordinarily young to be a colonel and, curiously, his uniform didn’t fit. Have you ever seen an American officer – nay, an American
private
even – with an ill-fitting uniform?
Tucking this thought away into a mental ticket pocket, I addressed the man.
‘Oh, ah,’ was the phrase I selected.
Perhaps I could have done better, given more time.
He picked up a pen and teased a folder which lay on his shining, empty desk. The folder had all sorts of coloured signals stuck on to it, including a big orange-coloured one with an exclamation mark in black. I had a nasty feeling that perhaps the file was labelled ‘Hon C Mortdecai’ but on second thoughts I decided that it was just there to frighten me.
‘Mr Mortdecai,’ he said at last, ‘we have been asked by your Foreign Office to
‘Number twenty-four,’ she warbled unhesitatingly, ‘that’s two, four.’
I rang off after a mumbled civility or two. Rolled up, horse, foot and guns. I mean, fancy a bloody great place like that
having
a street number, for God’s sake.
Jock averted his gaze: he knows when the young master has taken a bit of stick.
I pushed my breakfast moodily round the plate for a while then told Jock to give it to the deserving poor and bring me in its stead a large glass of gin with both sorts of vermouth in it and some fizzy lemonade. A quick actor, that drink, gets you to where you live in no time.
Sucking a perfumed cachou, I walked to Grosvenor Square, soberly clad and musing madly. The musing was to no avail; mymind was as blank as the new, soft fallen mask of snow upon the mountains and the moors. The cachou lasted as far as the portals of the Embassy, within which stood a capable-looking military man, standing at what is laughingly called ease. The jut of his craggy jaw made it clear to the trained eye that he was there to keep out Commie bastards and anyone else who might be plotting to overthrow the Constitution of the United States. I met his eye fearlessly and asked him if this was number twenty-four and he didn’t know, which made me feel better.
A succession of well-designed young ladies took charge of me, wafting me ever deeper into the building. Each one of them was tall, slim, hygienic, graceful and endowed with amazingly large tits: I’m afraid I probably stared rather. I fetched up all standing (nautical term) at the outer office of Col. Blucher, where sat the Voice itself. She, as was fitting, had the finest endowment of all. I should think she had to type at arm’s length. In the twinkling of an eye – and I mean that most sincerely – I was shunted into the inner office, where a lean, wholesome, uniformed youth gave me a chair.
I recognized the chair as soon as I applied my bottom to it. It was covered with shiny leather and the front legs were half an inch shorter than the back legs. This gives the sitter a vague feeling of unease, impermanence, inferiority. I have one myself, for seating chaps on who are trying to sell paintings to me. On no account was I going to take crap of this kind; I arose and made for the sofa.
‘Forgive me,’ I said sheepishly, ‘I have these piles, you know? Haemorrhoids?’
He knew. Judging from the smile he cranked on to his face, I should say he had just developed them. He sat down behind the desk. I raised an eyebrow.
‘I have an appointment with Colonel Blucher,’ I said.
‘I am Colonel Blucher, sir,’ replied the youth.
I’d lost that rally, anyway, but I was still ahead on the chair-to-sofa move, he had to twist his neck and raise his voice when he spoke to me. He looked extraordinarily young to be a colonel and, curiously, his uniform didn’t fit. Have you ever seen an American officer – nay, an American
private
even – with an ill-fitting uniform?
Tucking this thought away into a mental ticket pocket, I addressed the man.
‘Oh, ah,’ was the phrase I selected.
Perhaps I could have done better, given more time.
He picked up a pen and teased a folder which lay on his shining, empty desk. The folder had all sorts of coloured signals stuck on to it, including a big orange-coloured one with an exclamation mark in black. I had a nasty feeling that perhaps the file was labelled ‘Hon C Mortdecai’ but on second thoughts I decided that it was just there to frighten me.
‘Mr Mortdecai,’ he said at last, ‘we have been asked by your Foreign Office to
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