Mortdecai Page #3

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.

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