Mortdecai Page #2

in Her Majesty's hole.

God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...

That's not natural.

What do you think?

I think this woman

has need of a chiropractor.

Bronwen Fellworthy,

Oxford art restorer. Did you know her?

Slightly. I do recall

a vague memory of her having once,

involuntarily, one would hope,

releasing a fart of such frightening

power and timbre

that I feared she had done herself

a horrible mischief.

Cheese.

Thank you.

Three months ago, a small Spanish museum

sent her a Goya to be cleaned.

Last night she was killed.

Painting has disappeared.

Sad news, particularly for her.

But I don't see

what it has to do with me.

Well, if my men start asking questions,

then the Goya disappears without a trace.

But you, a known trafficker of stolen art,

well, you could make some inquiries.

Why would MI5 be interested

in the theft of a middling Goya?

Emil Strago.

Fundamentalist, revolutionary.

Trained in Syria, fought in Senegal.

An expert in special warfare.

He's linked to a number of terror attacks

all around the world.

All right, he's unpleasant.

What of him?

Well, we believe he entered the country

with the purpose of finding that painting.

- Why?

- We don't know why.

But if Strago is involved,

well, suffice it to say,

it's a matter

of urgent national security.

And you would like me

to find it before he does?

Precisely.

I've given you a lot of rope

over the years, Charlie.

But now you're dangling

off the end of it.

Help me find that painting,

or I'll have the magistrate open that file

and prosecute at random.

It was a catalogue of some

of my more unseemly escapades.

The file was fat and well-handled,

like a Welsh barmaid.

It is apparent that you

are well-versed in the stick.

But what of the well-known carrot?

- What's in it for me, as they say?

- Good God, man!

We're talking about a bloodthirsty extremist

threatening the lives of your countrymen.

Well, if you won't do it for me,

do it for Queen and Country.

No!

All right, Queen and Country, travel

and living expenses, reasonable overhead.

Ten percent, sir.

And 10 percent of the insurance money

as a finder's fee.

Done.

Oh, and incidentally,

I asked for some cheese,

not an instrument

of biological warfare.

Score one for Martland.

Martland... What else

can you tell me about Strago?

Well, he's colorblind

and he's allergic to cashews.

Goody. Every subject of the Crown and every

cashew in the Kingdom shall sleep safely.

Johanna, you look lovely.

Alastair.

You do look lovely, darling.

So absolutely lovely.

- I thought that was you.

- Radiant...

Martland also met Johanna at school.

After a three-year courtship,

he finally worked up the courage

to express his feelings to her.

In verse.

Johanna, do you...

Rotten timing for him.

- Martland.

- Hello!

Would you mind terribly,

dear boy, the door?

Of course, I'll just...

I'll shut the door.

Now, what's all this

about a missing Goya?

Oh, it's the house. Terribly vast.

Echo-ey, don't you know?

Well, that's classified information,

I'm afraid.

You know, state secrets

and what have you.

My husband is trying to reclaim his youth

by growing that horrible moustache.

Do inform him

that that ship has sailed.

Every Mortdecai man

before me has had one.

And I will have you know that some members

of the fairer sex

do find it quite appealing.

Whom exactly?

No one in particular, of course.

Metaphoric woman... women.

Metaphorically... general... you know.

If you are growing that excrement

on your lip to please another, know this:

I will kill her.

Oh, Alastair. It's so lovely.

Do come back.

It's so wonderful to have someone

of reasonable intelligence to converse with.

I'd be delighted.

Do I detect a slight crack

in the marital armor?

A mere tiff, old bean. Nothing more.

Oh, really? Seems like

more than a tiff to me.

My wife needs to come around

to a certain viewpoint. That is all.

Well, good luck, mate.

See what you can dig up about that Goya.

Usual channels.

We'll meet in London tomorrow.

Of course.

I had the painting in my hand.

Someone must have known I was coming.

Milton Krampf? The American?

Then it must have been his dealer.

Krampf's dealer, what is his name?

Mortdecai.

Johanna, my darling.

My... My love. My...

My only true love. My... love beast.

My rumpus room rascal.

You have no idea the beast

you are about to receive.

Johanna?

Are you all right in there, darling?

It is I, Charlie.

Your husband.

- What is it?

- Moon of my delight.

This is your own personalized Sheik of Araby

who seeks admission into your tent.

I have come to carry you off

to the burning desert,

and work my greasy will upon you...

under the tropical stars.

Send your camel to bed, damn it!

My Sheik,

does this mean you have excommunicated

that moustache of the Prophet?

I'll trim it.

Darling,

I am embarking

on a very dangerous escapade

from which I may not well return.

And it is customary

in these situations for, you know...

a proper send-off.

Quick session of congress.

Sink the Bismarck, if you will.

And by the way, did I mention...

it is a matter of national security.

It's very difficult for me

as well, you know,

this thing that's come between us.

I know, darling.

No, no. Steady yourself.

I beg you, darling, please. You know

I have a sympathetic gag reflex.

Oh, God. It's unbearable.

- You will get used to it. I promise.

- Why should I have to?

I'm invested in it.

Why can't you invest in saving us

from financial ruin?

Or do you want me

to sort it out for you?

Heavens, no.

You needn't worry yourself.

I have things firmly...

in hand.

My love, you are killing me. Please.

It looked like you have

a vagina on your face.

Surely you mean the pubic hair

above a vagina.

I simply cannot get my head

around that image.

- Oh, Charlie...

- However,

now that you've mentioned it,

I'm unable to steer my mind away from it.

Go stuff a mattress with that thing!

The moustache, I mean.

Sheamus is able to do with a steel

chair in hand. Here we go.

Jockie,

what if...

it isn't just a tiff?

What if this is the well-known "it,"

as it were?

- That'd be awful.

- Jock?

Are you coming back to bed?

Yeah, give us a minute, love.

Hi.

Hello.

And myself sleeping alone.

How do you think

this makes me feel, man?

I dunno, sir.

Dash it all, I am resolved.

If it is money we need,

then it is money we shall have.

Jock?

That's me.

Tomorrow we shall sell off the Rolls

to that vulgar American, Milton Krampf,

and we will find that painting

if it is the last thing we do.

Right-y-oh. I'll call Spinoza

in the morning.

- Yes, do.

- Good night, sir.

- Jock?

- Yes, sir?

Do you think it will be

all right in the end?

I couldn't say, sir.

My first stop was to see

Sir Graham Archer,

rival art dealer and Goya specialist.

A permanent fixture at Sedgwick's

Auction House in Kensington.

I will meet you

at Spinoza's in one hour.

Right you are, sir.

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