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 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.