P G Wodehouse - Man Upstairs

by Man Upstairs

  "I am not good at riddles," said Mr. Keith, comfortably, "but I can answer that one. I would not put back dinner. I would not put back dinner for the King."

  Elsa did not come back for dinner. Nor was hers the only vacant place. Mr. Barstowe had also vanished. Even Mr. Keith's calm was momentarily ruffled by this discovery. The poet was not a favourite of his-it was only reluctantly that he had consented to his being invited at all; and the presumption being that when two members of a house-party disappear simultaneously they are likely to be spending the time in each other's society, he was annoyed. Elsa was not the girl to make a fool of herself, of course, but-He was unwontedly silent at dinner.

  Mrs. Keith's anxiety displayed itself differently. She was frankly worried, and mentioned it. By the time the fish had been reached conversation at the table had fixed itself definitely on the one topic.

  "It isn't the car this time, at any rate," said Mr. Keith. "It hasn't been out to-day."

  "I can't understand it," said Mrs. Keith for the twentieth time. And that was the farthest point reached in the investigation of the mystery.

  By the time dinner was over a spirit of unrest was abroad. The company sat about in uneasy groups. Snooker-pool was, if not forgotten, at any rate shelved. Somebody suggested search-parties, and one or two of the moustache-tuggers wandered rather aimlessly out into the darkness.

  Martin was standing in the porch with Mr. Keith when Keggs approached. As his eyes lit on him, Martin was conscious of a sudden solidifying of the vague suspicion which had been forming in his mind. And yet that suspicion seemed so wild. How could Keggs, with the worst intentions, have had anything to do with this? He could not forcibly have abducted the missing pair and kept them under lock and key. He could not have stunned them and left them in a ditch. Nevertheless, looking at him standing there in his attitude of deferential dignity, with the light from the open door shining on his bald head, Martin felt perfectly certain that he had in some mysterious fashion engineered the whole thing.

  "Might I have a word, sir, if you are at leisure?"

  "Well, Keggs?"

  "Miss Elsa, sir."

  "Yes?"

  Keggs's voice took on a sympathetic softness.

  "It was not my place, sir, to make any remark while in the dining-room, but I could not 'elp but hoverhear the conversation. I gathered from remarks that was passed that you was somewhat hat a loss to account for Miss Elsa's non-appearance, sir."

  Mr. Keith laughed shortly.

  "You gathered that, eh?"

  Keggs bowed.

  "I think, sir, that possibly I may be hable to throw light on the matter."

  "What!" cried Mr. Keith. "Great Scott, man! then why didn't you say so at the time? Where is she?"

  "It was not my place, sir, to henter into the conversation of the dinner-table," said the butler, with a touch of reproof. "If I might speak now, sir?"

  Mr. Keith clutched at his forehead.

  "Heavens above! Do you want a signed permit to tell me where my daughter is? Get on, man, get on!"

  "I think it 'ighly possible, sir, that Miss Elsa and Mr. Barstowe may be on the hisland in the lake, sir."

  About half a mile from the house was a picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and a little less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and densely wooded island. It was a favourite haunt of visitors at the house when there was nothing else to engage their attention, but during the past week, with shooting to fill up the days, it had been neglected.

  "On the island?" said Mr. Keith. "What put that idea into your head?"

  "I 'appened to be rowing on the lake this morning, sir. I frequently row of a morning, sir, when there are no duties to detain me in the 'ouse. I find the hexercise hadmirable for the 'ealth. I walk briskly to the boat-'ouse, and-"

  "Yes, yes. I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Out out the athletic reminiscences and come to the point."

  "As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I 'appened to see a boat 'itched up to a tree on the hisland. I think that possibly Miss Elsa and Mr. Barstowe might 'ave taken a row out there. Mr. Barstowe would wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic."

  "But you say you saw the boat there this morning?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's kept them all this while?"

  "It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr. Barstowe, if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons, and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied. Or"-his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on Martin's-"some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus."

  "Untied it on purpose?" said Mr. Keith. "What on earth for?"

  Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realising his limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human actions.

  "I thought it right, sir, to let you know," he said.

  "Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on that island by that long-haired-Here, come along, Martin."

  He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment gazing fixedly at the butler.

  "I 'ope, sir," said Keggs, cordially, "that my hinformation will prove of genuine hassistance."

  "Do you know what I should like to do to you?" said Martin slowly.

  "I think I 'ear Mr. Keith calling you, sir."

  "I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and-"

  "There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? Quite distinct it was."

  Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster Abbey.

  "I should 'urry, sir," suggested Keggs, respectfully. "I think Mr. Keith must have met with some haccident."

  His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his host seated on the ground in evident pain.

  "Twisted my ankle in a hole," he explained, briefly. "Give me an arm back to the house, there's a good fellow, and then run on down to the lake and see if what Keggs said is true."

  Martin did as requested-so far, that is to say, as the first half of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he took it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr. Keith to his room, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the hands of a group of his fellow-guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa's feeling towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but it might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten

  him. He had been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa's frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's.

  The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the porch.

  It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he was lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:

  "It's all right. We've found them."

  Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.

  Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a day had passed since she had taken to her bed.

  "How are you feeling to-day, dear?"

  "Has he gone, mother?"

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Barstowe?"

  "Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his publisher in London."

  "Then I can get up," said Elsa, thankfully.

  "I think you're a little hard on poor Mr. Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an accident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away."

  "It was, it was, it was!" cried Elsa, thumping the pillow malignantly. "I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read me his horrid poetry without my having a chance to e
scape. I believe that's the only way he can get people to listen to it."

  "But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musical voice."

  "Musical voice!" The pillow became a shapeless heap. "Mother, it was like a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics. It was awful! If he had been even the least bit upset himself I think I could have borne up. But he enjoyed it! He revelled in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley's Epipsychidion, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on and read and read and read till my head began to split. Mother"-her voice sank to a whisper-"I hit him!"

  "Elsa!"

  "I did!" she went on, defiantly. "I hit him as hard as I could, and he-he"-she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter-"he tripped over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn't think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And it stopped him talking."

  "But, Elsa, dear! Why?"

  "The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see the resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And he said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that was when I hit him."

  "Elsa!"

  Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I'll get up. It looks lovely out."

  Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs. Keith had assured him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tried, but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near the terrace.

  "Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?" she said.

  "I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were."

  "How nice of you! Why don't you sit down?"

  "May I?"

  Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.

  "You know, you're a very restful person, Martin. You're so big and outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so lazy."

  Martin took the magazine.

  "What shall I read? Here's a poem by-"

  Elsa shuddered.

  "Oh, please, no," she cried. "I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what I should love-the advertisements. There's one about sardines. I started it, and it seemed splendid. It's at the back somewhere."

  "Is this it-Langley and Fielding's sardines?"

  "That's it."

  Martin began to read.

  " 'Langley and Fielding's sardines. When you want the daintiest, most delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, "Langley and Fielding's, please!" You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smoked sardines, packed in the purest olive oil.' "

  Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure curving her mouth.

  "Go on," she said, dreamily.

  " 'Nothing nicer,' " resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence as the theme began to develop, " 'for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probably your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price fivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!" '

  "Isn't it lovely?" she murmured.

  Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes.

  "Don't stop reading," she said. "I never heard anything so soothing."

  "Elsa!"

  He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing.

  "Elsa, I-"

  "Mr. Keith," said a quiet voice, "desired me to say-"

  Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon them stood Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence.

  "Mr. Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would come and sit with him for a while."

  "I'll come at once," said Elsa, stepping from the hammock.

  The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching him as he moved across the terrace.

  "What a saintly old man Keggs looks," said Elsa. "Don't you think so? He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has?"

  "I wonder!" said Martin.

  "He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he came up?"

  Pots O' Money

  Owen bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr. Sheppherd, and with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and twiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before the influence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and Suburban Bank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average of thirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged by the astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurred that, if you have got to have young men to chant "We are merry and gay, tra-la, for this is Bohemia," in the Artists' Ball scene, you might just as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He had not been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-class cricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to a googly bowler who had done well in the last 'Varsity match; but he had been one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which is known as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr. Sheppherd that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found himself suffering exactly the same symptoms.

  From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took the heart out of him. Mr. Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through the air, urged by Mr. Sheppherd's boot, his transit indicated by a dotted line and a few stars.

  Mr. Sheppherd's manner was inclined to bleakness.

  "This is most unfortunate," he said. "Most unfortunate I have my daughter's happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father." He paused. "You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that your uncle-? Surely, with his influence-?"

  "My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished him, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not his only nephew, you know. There are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds."

  Mr. Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feeling more than a little aggrieved.

  He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr. Sheppherd did not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing with the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it was sharp practice on Owen's part to accept his invitation to call, and, having called, to continue calling long enough to make the present deplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been in better taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved more like a bank-clerk and less like an heir.

  "I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr. Bentley," he said, "but you will understand that I cannot-It is, of course, out of the question. It would be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see my daughter again-"

  "She's waiting in the passage outside," said Owen, simply.

  "-after to-day. Good-bye."

  Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of the door. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they always did, at the sight of her.

  "Well?" she said.

  He shook his head.

  "No good," he said.

  Audrey considered
the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an idea.

  "Shall I go in and cry?"

  "It wouldn't be any use."

  "Tell me what happened."

  "He said I mustn't see you again."

  "He didn't mean it."

  "He thinks he did."

  Audrey reflected.

  "We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the telephone. That isn't seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?"

  "Yes. But-"

  "That's all right, then. I'll ring you up every day."

  "I wish I could make some money," said Owen, thoughtfully. "But I seem to be one of those chaps who can't. Nothing I try comes off. I've never drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn't win a thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing a novel. Nothing came of that, either."

  "What novel?"

  "A thing called White Roses, by a woman named Edith Butler."

  Audrey looked up quickly.

  "I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?"

  "I didn't know her at all. I'd never met her. I just happened to buy the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to send it back or even to acknowledge receipt."

  "Perhaps she never got it?"

  "I registered it."

  "She was a cat," said Audrey, decidedly. "I'm glad of it, though. If another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of jealousy."

  Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting with Mr. Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing schemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it, sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink and its customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting out rainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glow faded and hopelessness grew.

  If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more than fulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang him up at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which was noted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head of his department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing his subordinates' work for them.