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.
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.
Sir Graham has been the rudest man
in England for years.
Recently, he's been working
his way up to the wickedest.
Looks like something curled up
and died on your lip.
It's not herpetic, I hope.
Hello, Sir Graham, you old member.
Who are you hiding in your belly?
I see you've put your Sheridan up
in next week's sale. Hard times, old boy?
No, no, no, no. Just getting rid of some
choice items while the market's right.
What do you make of
this Bronwen business?
Ghastly affair. One always bemoans
the loss of a great restorer.
Old bag. She should have
put locks on her doors.
You used her frequently, didn't you?
Not lately. She's been unavailable
for three months.
The Goya she was cleaning...
rather simple job, wouldn't you say?
Usual dirt and grime
one finds on the Spaniards.
Haven't the foggiest
why it took her so long.
What's your sudden interest,
if I may ask?
A client with a mild curiosity,
that's all.
We must go shooting again.
Jock has fully recovered.
There's only one reason you might be
interested in a museum-owned Goya,
and that's because
there's money involved.
You are mistaken, sir.
There's a great deal of money involved.
I've always admired your rapacity, sir.
I say, Sir Graham, I wonder,
your... protrusion...
Might it be possible to swing
the old fellow north, as it were?
Who's the client?
Terribly sorry, sworn to secrecy.
Perhaps a brisk walk down the stairs
will do some good.
Yes.
So it's that sort of Goya.
Romanov.
That painted lady
you've been searching for,
I believe she may be in play.
I want that painting.
- Johanna!
- Alastair.
So glad you called.
I've asked for a Chardonnay.
That is your drink, isn't it?
Oh, you remembered.
Thank you.
Oh, God. How thoughtless of me.
You're on duty.
And in charge, thank you very much.
To what do I owe the pleasure?
I was just in the neighborhood
and thought I'd pop 'round,
and see how you secret agent men
run the world.
Not nearly.
Although it is terribly vital work.
It's not all chardonnay
and afternoon trysts.
Is this a tryst?
No, no. No, no, no.
No, no, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no. No, no, no.
- No, I was just...
- Of course you were.
How are things at home?
You've touched a nerve.
You've sensed it, Alastair.
You always were the sensitive one.
- You've got a difficult chap.
- Beastly.
- Bit of a moron, actually.
- Maybe I should have an affair.
- Wouldn't that be funny?
- Hilarious.
- Do you think I could keep it a secret?
- Yes!
Well then, what's the point?
Now, tell me, what are you and my husband
working on at the moment?
Oh...
Well, in vague terms
there's a very bad man
who wants what I want,
and I'm trying to stop him.
And what does a missing Goya
have to do with national security?
In vague terms.
Johanna...
You think poor Miss Fellworthy
stumbled into something,
- and that's why she got killed.
- I really can't say.
This is interesting.
Creates quite a market when a painting
with a little mystery goes missing.
So much to do. What was the name
of Bronwen's college at Oxford?
Johanna, I simply can't.
Right. Sorry.
Oh, golly. Look at the time.
I really must be going.
It was lovely to see you, Alastair.
Thank you ever-so-much
for letting me confide in you.
I feel that I could share
anything with you.
Don't you feel the same?
That you could share with me?
Bronwen's college?
You're rather monstrous.
Of course you're aware of that.
- Blackfriar's Hall.
- We must do this again.
Hopeless.
Besides being the finest garage man
in Western Civilization,
Spinoza was the best
art smuggler in the business,
and the eyes and ears
of the art world's underbelly.
Hello, Spinoza, you handsome devil!
It's a fine day to be alive, what?
You bloody chicken, bloody monkey,
so good-for-nothing pot of piss, innit?
Spinoza, you silver-tongued scallywag.
What's the matter with you?
You one book short of a library, you maggot?
You one megabyte short of a RAM?
The rest was a bit rude,
so I won't quote him verbatim.
But what vexed him so was a matter
of some overdue bills on the Rolls,
which I had now asked him to package
and ship off to America on credit.
You mother-loving bastard! Hello.
Right. Spinoza, I did not come here
to discuss my relationship with my mother,
nor my relationship to your mother.
No. We have two items of business.
Item one: The Rolls-Royce,
which I have reluctantly agreed to sell
to that thick-fingered American, Krampf.
Item the second:
I need to ascertain whether any
unsavory types have enlisted you
to smuggle a painting
out of the country recently.
And for your information,
I am holding up
a 50-pound note.
Never mind about that.
You should treat
a jam jar car like this
with more respect when you drive it
down the frog and toad road.
- It's not some Toyota Clitoris.
- No, no.
No! Is a Rolls... The bloody Silver,
the whacking Cloud, the bollock Royce!
Someone shooting at the bloody car!
Someone shooting at me!
I'm armed!
- Oh, Jock!
- Yeah.
I should probably mention that this
was not the first time I had shot Jock.
Come on, you little bastards.
Come out and get it.
Afraid I'm all thumbs
with these damn things!
- I believe I've just shot Jock.
- Quite.
Man down! Man down!
- Could you give me the gun, please?
- This bit?
Yes, most... No, no.
Oh, and poor Spinoza...
You should go, sir,
before the shooter circles 'round.
- I'll handle things on this end.
- Quite.
- Cover me, as it were?
- Yes, sir.
- That's the old feudal spirit, Jock.
- Get in.
Oh, dear!
- Oh, Jock. Jock?
- Yeah?
The door? Please?
Right. Gosh, it's been ages.
Goodness, that's awkward.
It's all right, sir. It's all right.
It's just a cracked rib.
Please, sir, if you wouldn't mind
leaving out the back. On foot.
- By myself?
- Please, sir. Just leave.
Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear,
oh, dear, oh, dear...
- Give me the painting.
- What makes you think I have it?
Give me the painting!
That is a superb Hulihee sans sideburn,
I must say.
- I was admiring your Franz Joseph.
- Oh, thank you very much.
- I'll have it on my wall.
- Jock?
Oh, well done.
- What should I do now?
- Run, sir!
- Again?
- Yes!
Run, I shall, like a bloody gazelle!
The Mortdecai men have always been
in tip-top shape, don't you know?
Fit as a fiddle!
Oh, it's burning...
I... I can't go on...
Want to die...
No, I don't.
Sir!
I'm on the bonnet!
Get in the car, sir!
I don't like it!
Hello!
Jockie! Advise?
- Get in the back seat, sir!
- Okay!
Foreigner!
- No!
- Out you go!
Oh, Jock!
Don't worry, sir.
I'm all right. I am all right.
No, no, man! My little sproutling.
- What?
- Has it been compromised?
- Well done, Jock.
- It's a privilege, sir.
Didn't take long for you
to make a mess of things.
Oh, you listen here, you do-gooder!
Your Emil Strago just killed my garage man
and physically assaulted my person.
- He seems to think that I have the painting.
- What have you found?
Well, I will tell you that there is
more here than meets the eye.
No painting takes
three months to clean,
so I believe that Bronwen
was working on the Goya
and discovered something underneath.
I should like to see
her studio immediately.
- In the cars, quickly. Maurice, Oxford.
- Yes, sir.
I've been helpin' out Miss Fellworthy
goin' on five years now.
Just keepin' the place
tidy and whatnot.
You have been grossly overcompensated.
- Her lover was no help.
- Lover? Bronwen?
Yeah, a Duke.
No help whatsoever, randy bugger.
"Love... your...
Bunny."
Love your Bunny?
A child! She spawned a child!
The woman bred! What an odious thought.
Don't imbibe the crime scene.
I found her here, sprawled over the table,
with an arrow out of her back.
Course you did, man,
because the assailant fired from here.
- No, from the window.
- With a spear gun.
- With a crossbow.
- He was left-handed.
Jesus Christ.
Is this how she was found?
- What are you doing?
- Oh, no. To the left a bit.
- Like this?
- Sorry, I meant to the right.
Like this? Like this?
Are you quite finished buggering around?
No.
Because I have a question
for you, old bean.
Will I be given a badge,
nestled in some sort of cheap,
leather encasement, just like on telly?
- Maurice?
- Sir?
Show him the photographs. Excuse me.
These were found in her camera.
Yeah, like I told
the lady earlier today,
Miss Bronwen would take photos
of each stage of her work, bless her.
Which lady?
Well, the lady with the hair and brain.
I may have mentioned Bronwen
to Johanna at lunch today.
You were luncheoning with my wife?
- Let's look at the photographs.
- Yes, let's look at the photographs.
Horrible composition.
Lighting positively medieval.
This one taken by accident,
utterly useless...
Hang on a tic.
- That is not your Goya.
- What do you mean?
That is not the same painting
as the others.
Where have I seen that hand
before in the background?
Finger pointing down. Ring.
Good Lord! It couldn't be!
- Couldn't be what?
- To the library, chaps!
There has never been
an accurate reproduction because...
it vanished after the unveiling, but...
I do remember that there was an etching
or some such hint of... There it is.
The Duchess of Wellington.
Bronwen has found the lost Goya.
Goya was commissioned by Charles IV
of Spain to paint her in 1792.
She was said to be
his greatest masterpiece.
Unfortunately,
she was also said to have been
the King's mistress.
The Queen was unamused.
Humiliated, she ordered
the painting to be burned.
But instead it was stolen
and secreted away.
Some say that Goya himself
engineered the theft.
For 200 years, the painting
was sought by collectors,
craved by the mighty,
and became the stuff of legend.
- And is the legend true?
- Does it matter?
The truth is nice,
but a rumor is priceless.
What does Strago want with it?
If it does exist, it belongs to Spain.
If anyone tried to sell it,
they'd be arrested on the spot.
Yes, well, that is where the story
gets interesting, you see.
The Duchess pops up again
in France in 1943,
looted from some sealed room in an
unpronounceable chateau by the jerrys.
Hermann Goering was said to have been
obsessed with the painting,
and there are rumors
that he inscribed on it
the codes to his numbered
Swiss bank account.
Untold riches and all that, what?
But...
when the allies captured Goering...
Out of the way, out of the way.
There was no mention of the painting.
It had vanished
once again into history,
and the secret bank accounts
along with it.
- What are we talking about here?
- Hundreds and hundreds of millions,
surrounded by all that Gruyere,
chocolate, and fine wines.
- Well, that's what Emil's after.
- The fine wine?
No, the fortune to fund
violent worldwide revolution.
Right!
Multiple attacks over the years to come,
countless lives are at stake.
- That painting should be destroyed.
- Yeah.
Fingers crossed, chaps,
you find it first. I'm off for a wee.
I'm deeply, deeply flattered, young man.
However, I myself do not swing that...
Oh, Golly! I have read about this.
I sunk into an uneasy slumber,
interspersed curiously
with erotic dreams.
Lady Mortdecai,
the Duke is expecting you.
This way.
Her Lady Mortdecai
to see you, Your Grace.
The Duke of Asherboroughdon.
Your Grace. So kind of you to see me.
Lady Mortdecai.
You'll forgive me
just a moment, I'm sure?
Of course.
Lady Mortdecai.
Johnson! Who is this woman Mortdecai
and what does she want?
Well, I don't know. I don't know.
Why wasn't I told?
She's so damned attractive.
Hello? Hello?
Water bailiff.
Had to speak to the water bailiff
about my water.
Fishing tomorrow, you know.
Hate it. Sit.
Bloody nuisance.
Your Grace, I... I understand
you were close with Bronwen Fellworthy.
- Yes.
- I'm very sorry.
Her gardener gave me your name,
and I wondered...
The painting she was
working on in the end...
What?
No, I can't understand a word she says.
I've been trying to get rid of her,
but she's so damned attractive.
Sorry. You were saying?
- You served in the War then, Your Grace?
- Poor old gal.
Done to death with malice
aforethought and so forth.
Poor Bronwen.
The painting, Your Grace.
Did she ever mention
The Duchess of Wellington?
Oh. Beautiful woman.
- Bronwen?
- Must to the lavatory.
Would you care to come
and take a peek at it?
An exquisite invitation, Your Grace,
but I'm afraid I must decline.
- Let's get back to the Duchess.
- Bunny has it.
- I beg your pardon?
- During the War. Nazi bastards.
Bunny rolled it up in a carpet
and didn't tell a soul.
- Bunny is a soldier in your unit?
- 7th Army, 2nd Division.
Captured Goering.
First man in the room.
Do you think that Bunny
still has the painting now?
Must to the W.C.
Do have a look?
I'm afraid I must be going, Your Grace.
Thank you very much for your time.
And you are?
The water bailiff, Your Grace.
Fishing tomorrow's been cancelled.
Thank heaven.
What's that? Funny.
Right. I demand some explanations.
No, no. Change that.
I need a restorative.
How 'bout some finger sandwiches?
Just the usual, you know.
Egg cress, prawn mayonnaise,
possibly a gallon of your finest whisky
just to start the day properly.
You know how it is, gentlemen.
Oh, I see.
Actually, make that caviar.
Some warmed blinis, creme fraiche,
boiled egg whites,
and vodka so ice cold
you need gloves to handle it.
And don't forget the herringbone spoon.
We're not savages, after all, are we?
Welcome to Russia, Mr. Mortdecai.
- And you are?
- Roman Romanov.
Romanov. Sir Graham's client.
So I have him to thank for this.
Oh, that's unpleasant.
Where's the Goya?
- I don't know.
- But you know about art.
A bit. You have a Turner of the Loire,
which cannot be right
because the original is hanging
in the D'Orsay. Terribly sorry.
A magnificent Callow of about 1840,
a polychrome James Bourne, rare,
a pair of rather flashy Varleys
from his last period,
and the finest Edridge
I have ever seen.
Yes. Where is the Goya?
Well, where is the last place you saw it?
Have you looked under your couch?
Yeah, because when I've lost something,
sometimes I say to myself,
"Charlie, where could it be?"
God! That wasn't nice!
Oh, no! No.
For 17 years, I pursued this painting.
You know why?
Because I want, I will have.
This will be easier and much
less painful if you please to tell me.
Where is the painting?
But why does everyone seem to think...
Oh! You pretended to be gentle,
but you weren't!
Milton Krampf tells everyone
he is getting painting.
You're his dealer,
so you have painting!
I am very sorry. I simply don't know.
Dmitri, please to fetch
12-volt high-tension car battery.
I am afraid you are barking up
the wrong Englishman, comrade.
Vladimir, please to take
Mr. Mortdecai's trousers down.
Perhaps we can work something out.
What if I find it for you?
Say, 30% finder's fee, what?
Open your balls.
I shan't! What does that even mean?
I'll go to 20.
Balls.
10% seems exploitive!
That's not cricket!
Oh, Jock...
Jump! Oh, dear, sweet, resourceful Jock.
It's my manservant.
It appears he's requesting
my immediate self-defenestration.
Balls!
Forgive me, Vladimir.
No balls.
Thank you so much, Vladimir.
Oh, I see...
- Hello! I'm outside.
- Come on, sir.
- I wish to use your telephone!
- Head toward the bike.
Oh, I love motorcycles.
They're very fast.
- Sir? Sir?
- What, Jock?
Your trousers. It's a little unseemly.
The trousers... Jock, you know,
it's entirely possible...
- ...that I've bumped my head...
- You think?
Have you heard the expression,
"Open your balls"?
- No, sir.
- It made me feel dirty.
Hang on, sir!
Bloody good show, Jock!
You really are a cut above!
Where would you like to go, sir?
The only safe ground is English soil.
To the Embassy, chop-chop.
Jock?
Keep your head down, sir!
- Hang on, sir!
- Okay!
- Jock?
- Yes, sir?
- Will it be all right in the end?
- I couldn't say, sir!
No, not the stairs!
A bit of noise, sir!
There we go!
- Oh, it was dashed exhilarating.
- Where to, sir?
Well, it was long ago,
and she was underage,
but I do believe
the embassy is that way.
- Right you are, sir.
- Right.
- Jockie?
- Yes, sir?
- "Open your balls"?
- I have no idea.
Is it that you actually know
and don't want to tell me?
Yes, sir.
They've got him.
Ambassador's residence in Moscow.
They're putting him
on the next flight to Heathrow.
- Thank you.
- And his wife is on line six for you.
Thank you!
Thank you, Maurice.
Maurice?
Shut the door.
Yes, sir.
Hello, Johanna. We've found him.
He's on his way home.
Thank heavens. This place is an absolute
mausoleum on one's own.
- Do you feel unsafe?
- A bit.
I could park outside for the night.
Oh, I couldn't ask.
But how about tomorrow?
Do come in, of course. Say, 8:00?
You, me, and Charlie?
Well, of course, Alastair. Wouldn't do,
the two of us here alone, would it?
No, I suppose not. Still...
if he can't make it, he can't make it.
May I bring anything?
Perhaps there is something
you could bring.
A bottle of Chardonnay?
A complete regimental listing
of the British 7th Army,
2nd Division, June of 1945.
- Very well, Johanna.
- 'Til tomorrow. Ta!
Well, maybe he won't
be able to make it.
- Uppy, uppy, Jock!
- You are uppy, sir.
Am I? Where are we?
You should see the other fellow.
The fact that you're as drunk
as a fiddler's bitch
in no way obviates the fact that you very
nearly caused an international incident.
A man your age has no excuse
for looking or behaving like a fugitive
from a home for alcoholic
music hall artistes.
I will have you know
that I am not an alcoholic.
I am a drunk,
and there is a vast difference.
In my defense,
I was not drinking until the plane.
- And in the car, sir.
- And a bit in the car.
- And the Ambassador's residence.
- And at the Ambassador's residence.
The only advice I offer is you do not apply
to another of our embassies for help
if and when you outrage the laws
of the United States, once you are there.
Stop! Stop!
Are you suggesting
that I go to the Colonies?
Perish the vile thought.
I couldn't possibly.
The sale of your Rolls-Royce to Krampf
will offer you a perfect cover.
Find out if he's got that painting.
Get behind the gates of his estate
and poke around a bit.
The car has been loaded
upon a cargo flight to Los Angeles,
and is halfway across the Atlantic.
You will follow.
California? Oh, icky!
Your bags have been packed and checked,
and your flight leaves... Now.
On your feet, soldier.
Hang on to me.
I should like to ring my wife because
she's probably quite worried about me.
Oh, don't worry about her.
I've been keeping her filled in.
I say, old bean!
Go to America and see Krampf.
Do what it takes to bring the painting back,
and leave Johanna to me.
Jock? Come here.
I'm frightened.
Do you think that Johanna is thawing
on the subject of the moustache?
Hi.
Hello.
Sorry, there was a queue.
Good God, man!
Jockie! Focus, man!
There are but five days to insolvency.
- Two, sir.
- No, today's, what, Monday?
- Thursday, sir.
- Well done. Carry on.
Jock. Dear, sweet, sperm-heavy Jock.
Behold this America, this new colossus,
this fair land of the free!
What kind of hell-place is this?
I feel as though
we've made a wrong turn
and arrived on the set
of a pornographic film.
Have we taken a wrong turn and arrived
on the set of a pornographic film?
Checking in?
I am Mortdecai, Lord of Silverdale.
I should like to request a bucket of ice,
"Do Not Disturb" sign, and a bulldozer.
- Checking in?
- Yeah, we're checking in.
I suspect I may need to redecorate.
Room 326, overlooks the pool.
So all I must do is show up,
and I'm presented with a credit card.
No wonder your country's
in financial ruin.
Do you need help with your bags?
No, I do not need help with my bags.
I have a fucking manservant.
Strange country.
Hello.
Hold it.
Thanks.
Hey.
Hello...
It's like listening
to bloody orangutans!
Oh, really, why? Why?
Hello, American?
The rooms here are made of cement.
Very good in case of an air raid.
But for those of us trying
to get a bit of rest
after an arduous crossing,
a bit of an acoustic nightmare.
So would you please stop
grunting like wildebeests
and allow me to get some sleep, man?
Please! Please!
Sorry, sir. We'll try and keep it down.
Good God, Jock!
Put that thing away, man!
Hello?
Apple of my eye. The love of my life.
Everything here makes me think of you.
Who is this?
It is I, your beloved.
Your husband, Charlie.
Where are you?
Oh, a terribly vulgar place
called Los Angeles.
Apparently located
in the far West colonies.
Well, what are you doing there?
Well, I'm delivering the Rolls
to that grotesque Milton Krampf
and retrieving a certain something
in the process.
Stay away from Krampf's daughter.
She's a well-known nymphomaniac.
Is she? How do you know such things?
Johanna, we seem to be out of ice.
Should I send for some?
It's my husband on the line.
Oh, is he still alive?
Has he got the painting yet?
- Is that Martland?
- I'll just be a moment, Alastair.
That Judas! That Ajax! That Paris!
Or was it Agamemnon?
Oh, you know who I mean.
That ghastly chap
who stole Helen of Troy and started
all that nasty business in Greece.
- Done!
- Finally!
Charlie? Why are people achieving
climax in your immediate vicinity?
Well, I think I'm staying in some
sort of cement brothel, my love.
- Say that again.
- You look here, I will have you know
that I too am capable of being desirable
to a certain type of woman!
- Charlie!
- Yes, oh, yes!
Some women go blind batting their lashes
for mustachioed men such as I!
Charlie Mortdecai,
you are on very dangerous ground!
Tell me the name
of that nympho daughter of Krampf's!
Perhaps she would render
an opinion on the issue!
Never mind. I've found a cold Latour
which we might enjoy...
Johanna?
Oh, balls.
Jock and I set off to deliver the Rolls
to my client, Milton Krampf.
Ruthless billionaire, art collector,
and the rumored possessor
of the lost Goya.
I was hot on the scent,
and a teensy bit curious
about his nympho daughter.
Yes... Right.
We must secure the painting,
escape this nightmare posthaste
and you should interrupt me
as soon as you can.
Yes, sir.
Lucky saddle.
Yes! The fine life-giving
drinks tray manifests itself.
- A mint julep, sir.
- Anything will do, I thank you.
I'm Georgina Krampf.
Oh! How do you do?
You must be Mortdecai.
Yes, indeed I am he.
Are you not having
a little something to drink?
No, I never drink alcohol.
I don't like to blunt my senses.
How awful.
Oh, I feel wonderful.
Feel me.
Feel? Oh.
- Oh, yes.
- No, not there, stupid. Here.
- Charlie Mortdecai, you son of a bitch...
- I was not squeezing the breasts...
The Rolls.
So, I was a mule!
Right. You know, Bronwen called me
when she discovered the Goya,
and I called Spinoza,
and then he arranged for everything,
including the smuggling
of the painting in your Rolls.
Yes, but someone found out
about the plan,
and now Bronwen is as stiff
as my Uncle Richard's hatband.
- Art restoring is a nasty business.
- You are a nasty business, sir.
Just look at her. Isn't she a beauty?
- Yes, she is.
- My God...
- She's exquisite.
- So good...
The expert brushstrokes,
the smooth lines...
Doesn't she look like my mother?
Can you see a resemblance?
I never met your mother.
No, not in her, in me.
She's got prominent lips like me...
and those far-searching eyes...
Don't you think so?
Oh, yes. Do you mind?
I was just looking for something...
else.
Okay.
Branspath? Okay. Thank you so much.
- In my study, please.
- Very good, sir.
Thank you. No hard feelings.
I hope you'll stay with me tonight.
I'm throwing a party.
I'm gonna unveil the Duchess,
and watch every art world snob
in town drool all over her.
We'll have your things sent over
from the hotel. Go upstairs and freshen up.
You smell like a horse!
And if you're quick about it,
you might have time to couple
with Georgina before dinner.
She's been through
half the staff already.
Sir, you're staring at your liquor.
So I am.
Jock, I fear we are
in the eleventh hour, man.
Our very future rests on getting
our hands on that blasted painting.
And therefore it's imperative
that we devise a plan.
And it will have to be
a fiendishly clever plan.
- Well, sir... I've been thinking...
- And I mean dizzyingly complex,
replete with feints and distractions
and calibrated movements
of the Swiss watch type.
What? Thoughts?
During the party, we steal it
while no one's looking.
Ingenious. Once again?
You go down,
get your face seen a bit...
then you meet me 'round the back later,
we climb up the side of the building,
break through the window,
grab the painting.
Oh, diabolical.
Let's review it
a few more times, shall we?
It's just the old
smash-and-grab routine, sir.
Of course it is. This is just
the old smash-and-grab business.
Smash-and-grab.
- Jock?
- Yes, sir?
- I am so very proud of you.
- Thank you, sir.
- And, Jock?
- Yes, sir?
- You know, I've always been fond of you.
- Thank you, sir.
- Jock?
- Yup?
- Will it be all right in the end?
- How the fuck should I know?
Unremarkable.
Keep the Englishman busy.
I create distraction.
No problem.
Hi.
- That's my bottom.
- Dance with me.
Starburst!
Oh! So much! So much to look at!
Have me.
Oh, my dear, I'm so tired.
And so married and so tired.
And so married... Oh!
And I'm married and tired, you know.
I...
Darling! Whatever brings you here?
This is not a breast in my hand!
I was unhappy with our last conversation,
so I got on the next plane. Surprised?
Oh, pleasantly.
Aren't you going to introduce us?
Johanna, my dear,
this is Milton Krampf's nymph...
Daughter Georgina.
And she was, well, we were having
a discussion about three...
Sometimes, you know, how it's like a...
My, my, look at the time!
Carry on!
A beast... A beast...
Yes, yes, yes. Good hungry doggie...
Weenie, weenie, weenie, weenie...
Weenie, weenie, weenie, weenie,
weenie, weenie, weenie...
I met a beast...
Krampf's window
is the second one on the left.
- No, no. I met a beast!
- Get on that ladder!
And what, pray tell, might you be doing
whilst I'm engaged in thus heroics?
Beast! Beast! Beast...
How I long for the rain
and indifference of Europe.
- Well done, Jock!
- It's a privilege, sir!
Well then, Mr. Krampf.
I suppose since you're here
and I'm here,
it's time for you and I to talk turkey.
Oh, I see.
Oh, I see.
Bad news for you, Strago.
There are no bank codes on that painting.
I think we both know that there are.
Invisible ink, no?
Stop right there!
Sit down. Sit!
I... I warn you, Georgina. You have
no idea what you're getting involved with.
Despite his man purse,
Strago is very dangerous.
- Darling, they are in cahoots.
- How do you know?
Oh, that's gross!
We are in love.
Drop the gun!
Emil!
- Alastair!
- Do it now!
Good show, Martland!
Bit redundant, really, as he's dead.
- Alastair, what are you doing here?
- I followed you.
Wouldn't do to have you walking into all
this mess on your own, now, would it?
Jock, give me the painting.
- Sit down!
- Drop the knife! I will shoot you.
Yes, most likely by accident.
None of you will ever know what it's like
to make love to a man with principles.
Well, in my case,
I can safely say you are correct.
However, I never went to Eton
where buggery is rampant.
Oh, you were at Eton,
weren't you, Martland?
Yes, yes, I was. Yes, I was!
Please don't be sick!
Please don't be sick!
It's the shellfish!
- You have it? Do you have it?
- Go! Go!
I go, I go, I go!
Valet!
- Oh, I don't like that. I don't like it.
- Close your eyes, sir.
- Give me the keys. Keys to the Rolls.
- Come on, let's go.
Well, at least none of us
had the shellfish.
Jock, please!
My sympathetic gag reflex.
Have you lost your bearings, man?
Shellfish at a catered affair?
I will have you two know that I had a firm
grasp on things before you showed up.
You certainly had
a firm grasp on something!
You dare to cast aspersions?
I am not the one entertaining
at all hours with a failed poet!
At least my focus at university
wasn't plagiarism!
Oh, stay out of it!
Oh, I've got a sensitive tummy!
There's more, there's more, there's more.
- No more, no more, no more.
- I swallowed it.
At least I have the good taste
to hide my indiscretions
and not parade them
under everyone's nose!
- So you admit there were indiscretions?
- I admit nothing!
- Then I deny nothing.
- Oh, shut up!
Questionable attack, Jock.
Spirited, though.
I'm done.
- There's their car!
- Where?
There!
Now we wait. Thirty seconds.
Twenty-nine...
- Twenty-eight...
- Don't count.
Better out than in. All right.
I shall secure the perimeter.
Why, this is an outrage!
There's not an ocean vista
- within miles of this establishment.
- Please don't be tiresome. Jock!
Are you quite finished
with your barrage of insults?
Now we heat the surface,
reveal the codes and transfer the money.
Get the blowtorch.
Nobody make a move.
I really wouldn't, you know,
he's trained and sexually frustrated.
Those bank codes won't fall
into the wrong hands again.
- Back away from the painting.
- Oh, don't do that!
- For heaven's sake.
- For England!
Oh, dear.
- Everyone out!
- Okay.
The local authorities were displeased.
Strago and Georgina fled,
leaving the rest of us to answer
some rather pointed questions.
I recounted the sordid tale
as best I could...
This may be a customary greeting
in America. I don't know.
All the while,
my thoughts were only of home.
If indeed Johanna and I
still had a home to go to.
I'm not sure if Jock has mentioned it,
but I am very, very sorry
about everything.
Darling? Please?
I suppose that we will have
to open the house to tours.
I'll have Jock fix up
the servants quarters for us.
Do you think that Jockie will stay on
without pay or lodging?
Don't be daft. This isn't finished yet.
That painting was a fake.
A fake? How do you know?
A chap called Bunny's got the real one.
- Bunny?
- Bronwen lied from the start.
She never found the lost Goya.
She painted it.
Of course!
Bronwen makes a fake, and calls Krampf.
Am I interested? I'm wildly interested.
Krampf calls Spinoza.
Georgina finds out about it
and tells Emil,
who goes to steal the painting
from Bronwen.
But Spinoza's already there.
He boffs Emil on the bean
and takes the painting.
Spinoza then secrets
the painting into the Rolls
and I unwittingly smuggle it to Krampf.
The Duke told me that Bunny
has the painting, but I can't find him.
- Which Duke?
- Of Asherboroughdon. Bronwen's lover.
Bunny.
"Love, your Bunny!"
Oh! The note in the studio.
It was not from a child,
it was from him.
The Duke is Bunny.
- And it wasn't his tadger.
- Come again?
The Duke kept trying to get me
to go into his lavatory
- to look at his John Thomas.
- Oh. Randy bugger.
Only that wasn't it at all! He was trying
to show me the real painting.
The Duchess of Wellington
is in Bunny's loo.
- Oh, my.
- Oh, my.
- Oh, my.
- Oh, my!
- Oh, my.
- Oh, my.
Well, the water bailiff
won't bother him now.
- Terribly sorry for your loss, madam.
- How very kind.
Would you mind ever so much
if we used the lavatory?
It's this way.
Oh, you beautiful breadwinner.
- Darling, please, you are killing me.
- Right.
- Out the window with it?
- Quite.
However...
I do have the slightest of queries.
What do we do next?
Because if Martland should get
his grubby hands on that painting,
he would destroy a magnificent work of art.
And we will be out a finder's fee.
If it falls into Strago's hands,
he will unleash his unpleasantness
to disastrous effect upon the world.
And if we try to sell it to Romanov,
he will kill us and simply take it instead.
And yet we must find a way to pay
eight million in back taxes.
Quite, quite, yes, indeed, quite.
Quite a conundrum, this. I shall need
a moment to think this through, I'm afraid.
Yes, do. Do think.
Just bear in mind, I'm standing on a loo,
holding a dead man's Goya.
Our painting is entered in Sedgwick's
Friday auction, is it not?
- Yes.
- Perfect.
We are going to enter the Goya into
the auction, disguised as our Sheridan.
But it's already at Sedgwick's.
It's been authenticated.
We'll make a switch.
But first we must convince our buyers
that the Goya's back in play.
They won't take our word for it.
They'll want to see it themselves.
Then we'll show it to them.
What the situation requires now
is a well-spun rumor.
Sir Graham. A message for you, sir.
What is all this nonsense?
You know I'm not interested
in your flaccid Sheridan.
Darling?
Interested now?
Very.
- But I watched it burn.
- It's Mortdecai, sir.
Chatter is he's found a dashedly
clever way to move it on the open market.
- The auction starts at 5:00 p.m.
- I want that painting.
The auction got it.
Good luck!
I believe he still owes me a finger.
- Hello, pookie.
- Hello, darling.
- I nicked one of their passkeys.
- Well done. We're Lot Seven.
I shall need 30 seconds to make the switch
once it's announced. Do not delay.
I know this building like the back
of my hand. You will have your time.
Good luck.
Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.
Welcome to Sedgwick's
Autumn Master's Sale.
We shall begin with Lot One.
Barnyard Friends.
A lovely Helen Allingham,
depicting two horses,
an ass, and several cocks.
There's a lovely sky here.
Shall we start the bidding
at 17,000 pounds?
Seventeen thousand pounds,
thank you very much.
Stealthy, man, stealthy.
Like a jungle cat.
Hello, Vladimir. So good
to see you out and about.
Tell us where painting is,
or you have big hole in your head.
You will have hole in your balls!
Why is Dmitri obsessed with testicula?
Your mother and father only met once.
And money changed hands.
Probably less than a 20.
And they say she was dressed
as a man at the time.
I wouldn't, mate.
I really wouldn't.
Sold to the gentleman
in the fuchsia ascot.
Moving on to Lot Two.
All right. There. You won't be
needing this anymore, will you? Will you?
My God.
Oh, dash it all, Jock, man, your hand!
It's all right, sir, I've got another.
You know, remarkably, this is not
the first time I've shot Jock.
Sir, the switch. The switch, sir.
Oh, quite right. No time to dally.
I'll meet you inside, sir.
And we move on to Lot Four.
Fernand Just Quignon's Lavender Field.
Isn't it charming?
Thirty-five thousand pounds...
Forty thousand pounds?
40,000? 45, isn't it?
Forty-five, thank you, sir.
45, 50, back on the...
Give me the painting.
What painting?
I see that you have been schooled
in the... fine art of fencing.
Alas,
so have I.
An essential part
of every gentleman's education.
And as a gentleman,
I should warn you...
that my coup d'arret
is still whispered about
in hushed tones to this very day.
I don't like it, I don't like it,
I don't like it, I don't like it!
Twenty-five thousand pounds.
Lot Five. Smiling Woman in a Chair.
Sold for 210,000 pounds.
And now, moving on to Lot Six.
Oh, dear.
I would like to humbly
and unreservedly offer my deepest...
Truce?
Ladies and gentlemen,
if you would please remain calm.
Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please
remain in your seats, I would be grateful.
Where is Mortdecai?
Well, come on, then.
God.
Going on to Lot Seven.
- Colonel Blucher with Hounds near Twineham.
- But quietly. Quietly.
A lovely Sheridan offered
by the Mortdecai estate.
Shall we start the bidding
at 100,000 pounds?
One hundred thousand pounds.
Thank you, Sir Graham.
Fang wants finger.
Must go and bid. Must go and bid.
Must go and bid.
Where is Mortdecai? Tell me.
He's not here, mate. He sent me.
- Where is he?
- It's just me, mate.
Oh, God!
Dear, sweet, heroic Jock.
Two hundred. Very good.
Do we have three?
Three.
Yes, well, in future, if you could
please use your paddles.
I will take your finger.
I couldn't help overhearing
some discussion about your finger.
Oh, don't worry about that, sir,
I've got nine more.
I feel simply awful, man,
but I must get to the auction.
- I'll be all right, sir.
- We need eight million.
Now, can we go to 500?
500, ladies and gentlemen.
There he is. Now don't cause a panic.
Just get him.
Five hundred thousand.
Five hundred thousand.
- Hold. Hold.
- Thank you, madam, 500,000.
Do I have 600? 600,000 pounds,
ladies and gentlemen.
- Bid.
- What?
A bid from Lady Mortdecai, who seems
to be bidding on her own painting.
Just taking the horse for a trot out
to London and back, are we?
- Yeah.
- Very well. 600 then.
I'll make it up to you, Jockie.
Oh, I know you will, sir.
You always do.
Well done, sir.
It is a privilege, Jock.
Are we all done at 900,000?
Go bid!
Fair warning at 900,000 pounds...
from Sir Graham.
Last chance.
- And we are...
- Darling.
Yes, Lord Mortdecai?
Would you also like to make a bid?
Ten million pounds.
Ten million pounds
from Lord Mortdecai himself.
Move!
Come on! Twenty million, you swine!
Twenty-five million.
Twenty-five and a half!
26 and a quarter!
- Thirty million. Final offer!
- Is that our final bid?
Are we all done at 30 million pounds?
Sold.
There you are. 2,642 pounds.
I do beg your pardon.
Maths were never my strong suit.
But there was mention of 30 million,
so you take that.
Less commission, carrying,
handling, and transfer taxes,
left a total of just over
eight million pounds.
Which I am sorry to report has been...
Garnished by Her Majesty's government
in settlement of your tax bill, Charlie.
Can you think of a good reason
why I shouldn't arrest you right now?
I eschew discomfort?
Any blame here should fall on me.
Dear Alastair,
if I led you to believe
there was anything between us,
it was merely to find out
about the case and protect my husband.
Can you forgive me?
Of course, Johanna.
Charlie?
It was a damned good try, old bean.
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
"the saddest are these,
'It might have been'."
Thank you, Maurice.
Poor Jock. He was frantic with worry.
But I knew everything
would be all right in the end.
Magnificent.
Do you think the codes
are really there?
They most certainly are, darling.
And I gave them to the authorities.
Anonymously, of course.
We may be flat broke, my darling,
but we are not desperate.
I do hope Romanov doesn't come down
too hard on Sir Graham,
when he finds out
he bought the wrong fake.
Lights.
That is disappointing.
Very disappointing.
Open your balls.
Bollocks.
Now...
tell me about that tramp on the horse.
Oh, my darling, I tried desperately
to be unfaithful to you, I really did.
But I just couldn't do it.
It's a terrible moment
when you find yourself
falling in love
with your own spouse, isn't it?
Now, that is the look that softens
every bone in my body, except one.
Do you mean you are ready?
I see no obstacle to such a course.
My love, surely you recall
I have already been circumcised.
Charlie?
Mrs. Mortdecai, as you well know,
I am a man of few words.
I deeply, deeply love...
my moustache.
But... I have discovered...
that I love you...
more.
Proceed.
Would you really do that for me?
For you,
there is nothing I would not do.
Well, in that case, Mr. Mortdecai,
I should be very pleased
if you would keep it.
Really?
I mean...
Oh, darl...
Your gag reflex.
Try me.
Pookie.
I have never been so...