Mortdecai

As you may well know, I am many things.

An arts dealer, an accomplished fencer,

fair shot with most weapons.

I am loved and respected

by all who know me...

slightly.

But I have always felt

there's something missing, you see.

Some final piece of my personal puzzle.

I needed something bold, distinctive.

Thank you.

The work of art with which

I could declare to the heavens,

I am Lord Charlie Mortdecai,

and this little bit of magic

is my moustache.

I see. Shall we to business then, Fang?

Would you mind?

"Find," you said.

And find, I have done.

The Qianlong vase.

Very, very rare.

Low-fired with an immersion glaze?

None of the southern

Yangtze ceramics are low-fired.

But you know that. You're testing me.

I'm so terribly sorry.

Mosquito. You see it?

Why don't you test the vase instead?

I am sure that you will agree it is

a bargain at two million pounds.

Everyone knows you're broke.

You will take one million.

Golly, that was a big one!

Well, have it your way, Fang.

One million pounds.

I trust that you have

brought the treasuries?

I think I'll keep the money.

And the vase.

You cheated me in our last deal.

I paid three million for that tapestry,

then found out it is worth only one!

You took from me.

Now I will take from you.

Now, you look here, Fang!

Fat. Fang Fat.

I'm an art dealer, not a charlatan.

A rogue, perhaps, a scamp

or scoundrel, I will grant you.

But never an outright mountebank.

Enough!

You owe me. I believe a finger

would be fair. Don't you?

No!

Jock!

I wouldn't, mate. I really wouldn't.

Jockie, thank heavens!

Where have you been, man?

Right behind you as always, sir.

Jock!

Well done, Jockie.

It's a privilege, sir!

Jock, you're ablaze!

- Well, I think our work here is done.

- Time to go, sir.

Jock laid out the state

of our financial affairs.

Basically, they involved debt.

Massive, crushing debt.

We hurried back to Mortdecai Manor,

where my beloved wife, Johanna,

having heard of our financial distress,

was arriving home to sell off

some of my prized possessions.

Even my horsey picture

was on the block.

But I was hopeful my new moustache

would cheer her up.

Darling!

Oh, God, I missed you terribly.

Johanna. Love of my life.

Apple of my eye.

I so wish you had been there.

Can you imagine the two of us

in that frigid city,

only our passions keeping us...

Whoa! What is that?

Just a little something I cooked up

whilst you were away, my darling.

I do believe it was

Maggie Thatcher who said

that kissing a man without a moustache

is rather like eating an egg

without salt.

- Oh, don't point that thing at me.

- Told ya.

I have put no inconsiderable thought

and effort into this endeavor.

You see, the domain of a man's

upper lip is his sovereign ground...

- You have five minutes to shave it off.

- Every Mortdecai man before me

had the same. Why can't I?

Oh, I happen to be terribly fond of it,

and I have had every intention

of seeing it through.

You mean it's going to get bigger?

It will come to fruition, yes.

Oh, darling...

You really won't shave it off?

I can't, my duck. Not at this juncture.

It's not even fully corked. It's a baby.

- Jock?

- Yes, madam?

Please, will you make up

the guest bedroom for Mr. Mortdecai?

Already have, madam.

And I shan't be having dinner

downstairs this evening.

I'll just have a supper tray

in my room.

Very good, madam.

I do believe Jock has informed you

that we are staring down

the barrel of insolvency.

What do you plan to do about it?

Right. Yes, well...

That... Well... Quite.

First thing we're doing

is selling off that Sheridan.

My sweet little love beast,

I am sure that we will come up with the

necessary funds by the end of the month.

- What is today, the fifth!

- The 26th, sir.

- All right. That gives us six...

- Four days, sir.

Jock? Please can you take the Sheridan

up to London in the morning?

I'm entering it in the Autumn

Masters Auction.

- Right you are, madam.

- Come, come. Let's not be rash.

We cannot go about selling off

family heirlooms willy-nilly.

I'm afraid I shall have

to put my foot down, darling.

Sorry?

With your permission, of course.

Bugger it. Oh, there he is.

She'll come around, Jock.

How could she not?

She's only human, sir.

A quick aside about Jock.

In addition to being

my manservant and thug,

he also maintains an enviable rate

of sexual intercourse,

which can be occasionally problematic.

Recently, after we'd concluded the sale

of a painting to a wealthy turkey farmer...

What was that?

- Get your head down, sir.

- What have you done now, man?

Onward, Jock! Onward!

Don't shoot, farmer!

Dad! What the hell are you doing?

Jock! Jock, wait! Jock!

I have me own apartment!

Crikey, man! The farmer's daughter?

I only gave her the once-over.

- Where do you find the time?

- Sorry, twice-over.

Dear, sweet, simple Jock.

Every man should have a Jock,

don't you think?

Meanwhile, not far away,

our fortunes were about

to become intertwined

with one of the art world's

greatest mysteries.

And a dead hag.

Bull's-eye.

Miss Bronwen? Everything all right?

Get back behind the tape!

Excuse me. This is a crime scene.

Hello?

Who is this guy?

You and your men have done an admirable job

stomping all over the place.

Your services are no longer required.

Sorry, Inspector Martland, sir.

Sorry, sir. I had no idea, sir.

Can I have all Thames Valley

police officers back in their cars, please?

There's been a jurisdictional change.

That painting could be

anywhere by now, sir.

Yes, I suppose it could.

You know we're going to

have to ring him, don't you, sir?

No, I do not know that, Maurice.

No one knows the filthy underside

of the art world better than he, sir.

He is the filthy underside.

Why did it have to be art?

Inspector Alastair Martland. MI5.

Martland and I met at Oxford.

Once in a while I provide him

with some off-the-record help

with the seedier side

of art collecting.

And in exchange, he gives me

a wide berth to ply my craft.

He is also desperately in love

with my wife.

Rather annoying, really.

What?

Inspector Martland, sir.

What does that blighter want?

Tell him to ring back when my marriage

isn't falling apart.

- No, he's here, sir.

- He is?

Oh, all right. Wheel him in.

- Don't get up.

- I wasn't going to.

Beware the carafe on the top shelf.

It contains water.

Ignoring some of the more

inviting bottles on the drinks tray,

he reached underneath

for the big decanter,

and poured himself a gross amount

of what he thought was my Taylor '31.

Score one for Mortdecai,

for I had filled it with an invalid port

of unbelievable nastiness.

- Oh, excellent.

- Score two.

Bit of cheese to go with that?

I should think the special one, Jock.

What is that infernal thing

on your lip?

Is there a purpose to your presence?

You're in the hole

to Her Majesty's government

to the tune of eight million

quid, old boy.

I had no idea I was so deep

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