Mr. Mulliner Speaking

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Osbert boiled from his false wig to the soles of his feet with a passionate fury. So this was the sort of thing that went on the moment his back was turned, was it? There were heavy curtains hiding the window, and behind these he crept. It was his intention to permit the feast to begin and then, stepping forth like some avenging Nemesis, to confront his erring manservant and put it across him in no uncertain manner. Bashford Braddock and Major-General Sir Masterman Petherick-Soames, with their towering stature and whipcord muscles, might intimidate him, but with a shrimp like Parker he felt that he could do himself justice. Osbert had been through much in the last forty-eight hours, and unpleasantness with a man who, like Parker, stood a mere five feet five in his socks appeared to him rather in the nature of a tonic.

  He had not been waiting long when there came to his ears the sound of footsteps outside. He softly removed his wig, his nose, his whiskers and his blue spectacles. There must be no disguise to soften the shock when Parker found himself confronted. Then, peeping through the curtains, he prepared to spring.

  Osbert did not spring. Instead, he shrank back like a more than ordinarily diffident tortoise into its shell, and tried to achieve the maximum of silence by breathing through his ears. For it was no Parker who had entered, no frivolous lady-friend, but a couple of plug-uglies of such outstanding physique that Bashford Braddock might have been the little brother of either of them.

  Osbert stood petrified. He had never seen a burglar before, and he wished, now that he was seeing these, that it could have been arranged for him to do so through a telescope. At this close range, they gave him much the same feeling the prophet Daniel must have had on entering the lions' den, before his relations with the animals had been established on their subsequent basis of easy camaraderie. He was thankful that when the breath which he had been holding for some eighty seconds at length forced itself out in a loud gasp, the noise was drowned by the popping of a cork.

  It was from a bottle of Osbert's best Bollinger that this cork had been removed. The marauders, he was able to see, were men who believed in doing themselves well. In these days when almost everybody is on some sort of diet it is rarely that one comes across the old-fashioned type of diner who does not worry about balanced meals and calories but just squares his shoulders and goes at it till his eyes bubble. Osbert's two guests plainly belonged to this nearly obsolete species. They were drinking out of tankards and eating three varieties of meat simultaneously, as if no such thing as a high blood-pressure had ever been invented. A second pop announced the opening of another quart of champagne.

  At the outset of the proceedings, there had been little or nothing in the way of supper-table conversation. But now, the first keen edge of his appetite satisfied by about three pounds of ham, beef and mutton, the burglar who sat nearest to Osbert was able to relax. He looked about him approvingly.

  'Nice little crib, this, Ernest,' he said.

  'R!' replied his companion – a man of few words, and those somewhat impeded by cold potatoes and bread.

  'Must have been some real swells in here one time and another.'

  'R!'

  'Baronets and such, I wouldn't be surprised.'

  'R!' said the second burglar, helping himself to more champagne and mixing in a little port, sherry, Italian vermouth, old brandy and green Chartreuse to give it body.

  The first burglar looked thoughtful.

  'Talking of baronets,' he said, 'a thing I've often wondered is – well, suppose you're having a dinner, see?'

  'R!'

  'As it might be in this very room.'

  'R!'

  'Well, would a baronet's sister go in before the daughter of the younger son of a peer? I've often wondered about that.'

  The second burglar finished his champagne, port, sherry, Italian vermouth, old brandy and green Chartreuse, and mixed himself another.

  'Go in?'

  'Go in to dinner.'

  'If she was quicker on her feet, she would,' said the second burglar. 'She'd get to the door first. Stands to reason.'

  The first burglar raised his eyebrows.

  'Ernest,' he said coldly, 'you talk like an uneducated son of a what-not. Haven't you never been taught nothing about the rules and manners of good Society?'

  The second burglar flushed. It was plain that the rebuke had touched a tender spot. There was a strained silence. The first burglar resumed his meal. The second burglar watched him with a hostile eye. He had the air of a man who is waiting for his chance, and it was not long before he found it.

  'Harold,' he said.

  'Well?' said the first burglar.

  'Don't gollup your food, Harold,' said the second burglar.

  The first burglar started. His eyes gleamed with sudden fury. His armour, like his companion's, had been pierced.

  'Who's golluping his food?'

  'You are.'

  'I am?'

  'Yes, you.'

  'Who, me?'

  'R!'

  'Golluping my food?'

  'R! Like a pig or something.'

  It was evident to Osbert, peeping warily through the curtains, that the generous fluids which these two men had been drinking so lavishly had begun to have their effect. They spoke thickly, and their eyes had become red and swollen.

  'I may not know all about baronets' younger sisters,' said the burglar Ernest, 'but I don't gollup my food like pigs or something.'

  And, as if to drive home the reproach, he picked up the leg of mutton and began to gnaw it with an affected daintiness.

  The next moment the battle had been joined. The spectacle of the other's priggish object-lesson was too much for the burglar Harold. He plainly resented tuition in the amenities from one on whom he had always looked as a social inferior. With a swift movement of the hand he grasped the bottle before him and bounced it smartly on his colleague's head.

  Osbert Mulliner cowered behind the curtain. The sportsman in him whispered that he was missing something good, for ring-seats to view which many men would have paid large sums, but he could not nerve himself to look out. However, there was plenty of interest in the thing, even if you merely listened. The bumps and crashes seemed to indicate that the two principals were hitting one another with virtually everything in the room except the wall-paper and the large sideboard. Now they appeared to be grappling on the floor, anon fighting at long range with bottles. Words and combinations of whose existence he had till then been unaware, floated to Osbert's ears: and more and more he asked himself, as the combat proceeded: What would the harvest be?

  And then, with one titanic crash, the battle ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

  It was some moments before Osbert Mulliner could bring himself to peep from behind the curtains. When he did so, he seemed to be gazing upon one of those Orgy scenes which have done so much to popularize the motion-pictures. Scenically, the thing was perfect. All that was needed to complete the resemblance was a few attractive-looking girls with hardly any clothes on.

  He came out and gaped down at the ruins. The burglar Harold was lying with his head in the fireplace: the burglar Ernest was doubled up under the table: and it seemed to Osbert almost absurd to think that these were the same hearty fellows who had come into the room to take pot-luck so short a while before. Harold had the appearance of a man who has been passed through a wringer. Ernest gave the illusion of having recently become entangled in some powerful machinery. If, as was probable, they were known to the police, it would take a singularly keen-eyed constable to recognize them now.

  The thought of the police reminded Osbert of his duty as a citizen. He went to the telephone and called up the nearest station and was informed that representatives of the Law would be round immediately to scoop up the remains. He went back to the dining-room to wait, but its atmosphere jarred upon him. He felt the need of fresh air: and, going to the front door, he opened it and stood upon the steps, breathing deeply.

  And, as he stood there, a form loomed through the darkness and a heavy
hand fell on his arm.

  'Mr Mulliner, I think? Mr Mulliner, if I mistake not? Good evening, Mr Mulliner,' said the voice of Bashford Braddock. 'A word with you, Mr Mulliner.'

  Osbert returned his gaze without flinching. He was conscious of a strange, almost uncanny calm. The fact was that, everything in this world being relative, he was regarding Bashford Braddock at this moment as rather an undersized little pipsqueak, and wondering why he had ever worried about the man. To one who had come so recently from the society of Harold and Ernest, Bashford Braddock seemed like one of Singer's Midgets.

  'Ah, Braddock?' said Osbert.

  At this moment, with a grinding of brakes, a van stopped before the door and policemen began to emerge.

  'Mr Mulliner?' asked the sergeant.

  Osbert greeted him affably.

  'Come in,' he said. 'Come in. Go straight through. You will find them in the dining-room. I'm afraid I had to handle them a little roughly. You had better 'phone for a doctor.'

  'Bad are they?'

  'A little the worse for wear.'

  'Well, they asked for it,' said the sergeant.

  'Exactly, sergeant,' said Osbert. 'Rem acŭ tetigisti.'

  Bashford Braddock had been standing listening to this exchange of remarks with a somewhat perplexed air.

  'What's all this?' he said.

  Osbert came out of his thoughts with a start.

  'You still here, my dear chap?'

  'I am.'

  'Want to see me about anything, dear boy? Something on your mind?'

  'I just want a quiet five minutes alone with you, Mr Mulliner.'

  'Certainly, my dear old fellow,' said Osbert. 'Certainly, certainly, certainly. Just wait till these policemen have gone and I will be at your disposal. We have had a little burglary.'

  'Burg—,' Bashford Braddock was beginning, when there came out onto the steps a couple of policemen. They were supporting the burglar Harold, and were followed by others assisting the burglar Ernest. The sergeant, coming last, shook his head at Osbert a little gravely.

  'You ought to be careful, sir,' he said. 'I don't say these fellows didn't deserve all you gave them, but you want to watch yourself. One of these days . . .'

  'Perhaps I did overdo it a little,' admitted Osbert. 'But I am rather apt to see red on these occasions. One's fighting blood, you know. Well, good night, sergeant, good night. And now,' he said, taking Bashford Braddock's arm in a genial grip, 'what was it you wanted to talk to me about? Come into the house. We shall be all alone there. I gave the staff a holiday. There won't be a soul except ourselves.'

  Bashford Braddock released his arm. He seemed embarrassed. His face, as the light of the street lamp shone upon it, was strangely pale.

  'Did you—' He gulped a little. 'Was that really you?'

  'Really me? Oh, you mean those two fellows. Oh, yes, I found them in my dining-room, eating my food and drinking my wine as cool as you please, and naturally I set about them. But the sergeant was quite right. I do get too rough when I lose my temper. I must remember,' he said, taking out his handkerchief and tying a knot in it, 'to cure myself of that. The fact is, I sometimes don't know my own strength. But you haven't told me what it is you want to see me about?'

  Bashford Braddock swallowed twice in quick succession. He edged past Osbert to the foot of the steps. He seemed oddly uneasy. His face had now taken on a greenish tinge.

  'Oh, nothing, nothing.'

  'But, my dear fellow,' protested Osbert, 'it must have been something important to bring you round at this time of night.'

  Bashford Braddock gulped.

  'Well, it was like this. I – er – saw the announcement of your engagement in the paper this morning, and I thought— I – er – just thought I would look in and ask you what you would like for a wedding-present.'

  'My dear chap! Much too kind of you.'

  'So – er – so silly if I gave a fish-slice and found that everybody else had given fish-slices.'

  'That's true. Well, why not come inside and talk it over?'

  'No, I won't come in, thanks. I'd rather not come in. Perhaps you will write and let me know. Poste Restante, Bongo on the Congo, will find me. I am returning there immediately.'

  'Certainly,' said Osbert. He looked down at his companion's feet. 'My dear old lad, what on earth are you wearing those extraordinary boots for?'

  'Corns,' said Bashford Braddock.

  'Why the spikes?'

  'They relieve the pressure on the feet.'

  'I see, well, good night, Mr Braddock.'

  'Good night, Mr Mulliner.'

  'Good night,' said Osbert.

  'Good night,' said Bashford Braddock.

  5 UNPLEASANTNESS AT BLUDLEIGH COURT

  The poet who was spending the summer at the Angler's Rest had just begun to read us his new sonnet-sequence when the door of the bar-parlour opened and there entered a young man in gaiters. He came quickly in and ordered beer. In one hand he was carrying a double-barrelled gun, in the other a posy of dead rabbits. These he dropped squashily to the floor: and the poet, stopping in mid-sentence, took one long, earnest look at the remains. Then, wincing painfully, he turned a light green and closed his eyes. It was not until the banging of the door announced the visitor's departure that he came to life again.

  Mr Mulliner regarded him sympathetically over his hot Scotch and lemon.

  'You appear upset,' he said.

  'A little,' admitted the poet. 'A momentary malaise. It may be a purely personal prejudice, but I confess to preferring rabbits with rather more of their contents inside them.'

  'Many sensitive souls in your line of business hold similar views,' Mr Mulliner assured him. 'My niece Charlotte did.'

  'It is my temperament,' said the poet. 'I dislike all dead things – particularly when, as in the case of the above rabbits, they have so obviously, so – shall I say? – blatantly made the Great Change. Give me,' he went on, the greenish tinge fading from his face, 'life and joy and beauty.'

  'Just what my niece Charlotte used to say.'

  'Oddly enough, that thought forms the theme of the second sonnet in my sequence – which, now that the young gentleman with the portable Morgue has left us, I will . . .'

  'My niece Charlotte,' said Mr Mulliner, with quiet firmness, 'was one of those gentle, dreamy, wistful girls who take what I have sometimes felt to be a mean advantage of having an ample private income to write Vignettes in Verse for the artistic weeklies. Charlotte's Vignettes in Verse had a wide vogue among the editors of London's higher-browed but less prosperous periodicals. Directly these frugal men realized that she was willing to supply unstinted Vignettes gratis, for the mere pleasure of seeing herself in print, they were all over her. The consequence was that before long she had begun to move freely in the most refined literary circles: and one day, at a little luncheon at the Crushed Pansy (The Restaurant With A Soul), she found herself seated next to a godlike young man at the sight of whom something seemed to go off inside her like a spring.'