STIFF UPPER LIP, JEEVES

by Keep A Stiff Upper Lip Jeeves

  23

  It was that soft cough of Jeeves's which always reminds me of a very old sheep clearing its throat on a distant mountain top. He coughed it at me, if you remember, on the occasion when I first swam into his ken wearing the Alpine hat. It generally signifies disapproval, but I've known it to occur also when he's about to touch on a topic of a delicate nature. And when he spoke, I knew that that was what he was going to do now, for there was a sort of hushed note in his voice.

  'I wonder if I might have a moment of your time, miss?'

  'Of course, Jeeves.'

  'It is with reference to Mr. Wooster.'

  'Oh, yes?'

  'I must begin by saying that I chanced to be passing the door when Lord Sidcup was speaking to you and inadvertently overheard his lordship's observations on the subject of Mr. Wooster. His lordship has a carrying voice. And I find myself in a somewhat equivocal position, torn between loyalty to my employer and a natural desire to do my duty as a citizen.'

  'I don't understand you, Jeeves,' said Madeline, which made two of us.

  He coughed again.

  'I am anxious not to take a liberty, miss, but if I may speak frankly -'

  'Please do.'

  'Thank you, miss. His lordship's words seemed to confirm a rumour which is circulating in the servants' hall that you are contemplating a matrimonial union with Mr. Wooster. Would it be indiscreet of me if I were to inquire if this is so?'

  'Yes, Jeeves, it is quite true.'

  'If you will pardon me for saying so, I think you are making a mistake.'

  Well spoken, Jeeves, you are on the right lines, I was saying to myself, and I hoped he was going to rub it in. I waited anxiously for Madeline's reply, a little afraid that she would draw herself to her full height and dismiss him from her presence. But she didn't. She merely said again that she didn't understand him.

  'If I might explain, miss. I am loath to criticize my employer, but I feel that you should know that he is a kleptomaniac.'

  'What!'

  'Yes, miss. I had hoped to be able to preserve his little secret, as I have always done hitherto, but he has now gone to lengths which I cannot countenance. In going through his effects this afternoon I discovered this small black figure, concealed beneath his underwear.'

  I heard Madeline utter a sound like a dying soda-water syphon.

  'But that belongs to my father!'

  'If I may say so, nothing belongs to anyone if Mr. Wooster takes a fancy to it.'

  'Then Lord Sidcup was right?'

  'Precisely, miss.'

  'He said Mr. Wooster tried to steal my father's umbrella.'

  'I heard him, and the charge was well founded. Umbrellas, jewellery, statuettes, they are all grist to Mr. Wooster's mill. I do not think he can help it. It is a form of mental illness. But whether a jury would take that view, I cannot say.'

  Madeline went into the soda-syphon routine once more.

  'You mean he might be sent to prison?'

  'It is a contingency that seems to me far from remote.'

  Again I felt that he was on the right lines. His trained senses told him that if there's one thing that puts a girl off marrying a chap, it is the thought that the honeymoon may be spoiled at any moment by the arrival of Inspectors at the love nest, come to scoop him in for larceny. No young bride likes that sort of thing, and you can't blame her if she finds herself preferring to team up with someone like Spode, who, though a gorilla in fairly human shape, is known to keep strictly on the right side of the law. I could almost hear Madeline's thoughts turning in this direction, and I applauded Jeeves's sound grip on the psychology of the individual, as he calls it.

  Of course, I could see that all this wasn't going to make my position in the Bassett home any too good, but there are times when only the surgeon's knife will serve. And I had the sustaining thought that if ever I got out from behind this sofa I could sneak off to where my car waited champing at the bit and drive off Londonwards without stopping to say goodbye and thanks for a delightful visit. This would obviate - is it obviate? - all unpleasantness.

  Madeline continued shaken.

  'Oh dear, Oh dear!' she said.

  'Yes, miss.'

  'This has come as a great shock.'

  'I can readily appreciate it, miss.'

  'Have you known of this long?'

  'Ever since I entered Mr. Wooster's employment.'

  'Oh dear, Oh dear! Well, thank you, Jeeves.'

  'Not at all, miss.'

  I think Jeeves must have shimmered off after this, for silence fell and nothing happened except that my nose began to tickle. I would have given ten quid to have been able to sneeze, but this of course was outside the range of practical politics. I just crouched there, thinking of this and that, and after quite a while the door opened once more, this time to admit something in the nature of a mob scene. I could see three pairs of shoes, and deduced that they were those of Spode, Pop Bassett and Plank. Spode, it will be recalled, had gone to fetch Pop, and Plank presumably had come along for the ride, hoping no doubt for something moist at journey's end.

  Spode was the first to speak, and his voice rang with the triumph that comes into the voices of suitors who have caught a dangerous rival bending.

  'Here we are,' he said. 'I've brought Sir Watkyn to support my statement that Wooster is a low sneak thief who goes about snapping up everything that isn't nailed down. You agree, Sir Watkyn?'

  'Of course I do, Roderick. It's only a month or so ago that he and that aunt of his stole my cow-creamer.'

  'What's a cow-creamer?' asked Plank. 'A silver cream jug, one of the gems of my collection.'

  'They got away with it, did they?'

  'They did.'

  'Ah,' said Plank. 'Then in that case I think I'll have a whisky and soda.'

  Pop Bassett was warming to his theme. His voice rose above the hissing of Plank's syphon.

  'And it was only by the mercy of Providence that Wooster didn't make off with my umbrella that day in the Brompton Road. If that young man has one defect more marked than another, it is that he appears to be totally ignorant of the distinction between meum and tuum. He came up before me in my court once, I remember, charged with having stolen a policeman's helmet, and it is a lasting regret to me that I merely fined him five pounds.'

  'Mistaken kindness,' said Spode.

  'So I have always felt, Roderick. A sharper lesson might have done him all the good in the world.'

  'Never does to let these fellows off lightly,' said Plank. 'I had a servant chap in Mozambique who used to help himself to my cigars, and I foolishly overlooked it because he assured me he had got religion and everything would be quite all right from now on. And it wasn't a week later that he skipped out, taking with him a box of Havanas and my false teeth, which he sold to one of the native chiefs in the neighbourhood. Cost me a case of trade gin and two strings of beads to get them back. Severity's the only thing. The iron hand. Anything else is mistaken for weakness.'

  Madeline gave a sob, at least it sounded like a sob.

  'But, Daddy.'

  'Well?'

  'I don't think Bertie can help himself.'

  'My dear child, it is precisely his habit of helping himself to everything he can lay his hands on that we are criticizing.'

  'I mean, he's a kleptomaniac.'

  'Eh? Who told you that?'

  'Jeeves.'

  'That's odd. How did the subject come up?'

  'He told me when he gave me this. He found it in Bertie's room. He was very worried about it.'

  There was a spot of silence - of a stunned nature, I imagine. Then Pop Bassett said 'Good heavens!' and Spode said 'Good Lord!' and Plank said, 'Why, that's that little thingummy I sold you, Bassett, isn't it?' Madeline gave another sob, and my nose began to tickle again.

  'Well, this is astounding!' said Pop. 'He found it in Wooster's room, you say?'

  'Concealed beneath his underwear.'

  Pop Bassett uttered a sound like the wind
going out of a dying duck.

  'How right you were, Roderick! You said his motive in coming here was to steal this. But how he got into the collection room I cannot understand.'

  'These fellows have their methods.'

  'Seems to be a great demand for that thing,' said Plank. 'There was a young slab of damnation with a criminal face round at my place only yesterday trying to sell it to me.'

  'Wooster!'

  'No, it wasn't Wooster. My fellow's name was Alpine Joe.'

  'Wooster would naturally adopt a pseudonym.'

  'I suppose he would. I never thought of that.'

  'Well, after this -' said Pop Bassett.

  'Yes, after this,' said Spode, 'you're certainly not going to marry the man, Madeline. He's worse than Fink-Nottle.'

  'Who's Fink-Nottle?' asked Plank.

  'The one who eloped with Stoker,' said Pop.

  'Who's Stoker?' asked Plank. I don't think I've ever come across a fellow with a greater thirst for information.

  'The cook.'

  'Ah yes. I remember you telling me. Knew what he was doing, that chap. I'm strongly opposed to anyone marrying anybody, but if you're going to marry someone, you unquestionably save something from the wreck by marrying a woman who knows what to do with a joint of beef. There was a fellow I knew in the Federated Malay States who -'

  It would probably have been a diverting anecdote, but Spode didn't let him get on with it any further. Addressing Madeline, he said:

  'What you're going to do is marry me, and I don't want any argument. How about it, Madeline?'

  'Yes, Roderick. I will be your wife.'

  Spode uttered a whoop which made my nose tickle worse than ever.

  'That's the stuff! That's how I like to hear you talk! Come on out into the garden. I have much to say to you.'

  I imagine that at this juncture he must have folded her in his embrace and hustled her out, for I heard the door close. And as it did so Pop Bassett uttered a whoop somewhat similar in its intensity to the one that had proceeded from the Spode lips. He was patently boomps-a-daisy, and one could readily understand why. A father whose daughter, after nearly marrying Gussie Fink-Nottle and then nearly marrying me, sees the light and hooks on to a prosperous member of the British aristocracy is entitled to rejoice. I didn't like Spode and would have been glad at any time to see a Peruvian matron spike him in the leg with her dagger, but there was no denying that he was hot stuff matrimonially.

  'Lady Sidcup!' said Pop, rolling the words round his tongue like vintage port.

  'Who's Lady Sidcup?' asked Plank, anxious, as always, to keep abreast.

  'My daughter will shortly be. One of the oldest titles in England. That was Lord Sidcup who has just left us.'

  'I thought his name is Roderick.'

  'His Christian name is Roderick.'

  'Ah!' said Plank. 'Now I've got it. Now I have the whole picture. Your daughter was to have married someone called Fink-Nottle?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then she was to have married this chap Wooster or Alpine Joe, as the case may be?'

  'Yes.'

  'And now she's going to marry Lord Sidcup?'

  'Yes.'

  'Clear as crystal,' said Plank. 'I knew I should get it threshed out in time. Simply a matter of concentration and elimination. You approve of this marriage? As far,' he added, 'as one can approve of any marriage.'

  'I most certainly do.'

  'Then I think this calls for another whisky-and-soda.'

  'I will join you,' said Pop Bassett.

  It was at this point, unable to hold it back any longer, that I sneezed.

  'I knew there was something behind that sofa,' said Plank, rounding it and subjecting me to the sort of look he had once given native chiefs who couldn't grasp the rules of Rugby football. 'Odd sounds came from that direction. Good God, it's Alpine Joe.'

  'It's Wooster!'

  'Who's Wooster? Oh, you told me, didn't you? What steps do you propose to take?'

  'I have rung for Butterfield.'

  'Who's Butterfield?'

  'My butler.'

  'What do you want a butler for?'

  'To tell him to bring Oates.'

  'Who's Oates?'

  'Our local policeman. He is having a glass of whisky in the kitchen.'

  'Whisky!' said Plank thoughtfully, and as if reminded of something went to the side table.

  The door opened.

  'Oh, Butterfield, will you tell Oates to come here.'

  'Very good, Sir Watkyn.'

  'Bit out of condition, that chap,' said Plank, eyeing Butterfield's retreating back. 'Wants a few games of Rugger to put him in shape. What are you going to do about this Alpine Joe fellow? You going to charge him?'

  'I certainly am. No doubt he assumed that I would shrink from causing a scandal, but he was wrong. I shall let the law take its course.'

  'Quite right. Soak him to the utmost limit. You're a Justice of the Peace, aren't you?'

  'I am, and intend to give him twenty-eight days in the second division.'

  'Or sixty? Nice round number, sixty. You couldn't make it six months, I suppose?'

  'I fear not.'

  'No, I imagine you have a regular tariff. Ah, well, twenty-eight days is better than nothing.'

  'Police Constable Oates,' said Butterfield in the doorway.

  24

  I don't know why it is, but there's something about being hauled off to a police bin that makes you feel a bit silly. At least, that's how it always affects me. I mean, there you are, you and the arm of the Law, toddling along side by side, and you feel that in a sense he's your host and you ought to show an interest and try to draw him out. But it's so difficult to hit on anything in the nature of an exchange of ideas, and conversation never really flows. I remember at my private school, the one I won a prize for Scripture Knowledge at, the Rev. Aubrey Upjohn, the top brass, used to take us one by one for an educational walk on Sunday afternoons, and I always found it hard to sparkle when my turn came to step out at his side. It was the same on this occasion, when I accompanied Constable Oates to the village coop. It's no good my pretending the thing went with a swing, because it didn't.

  Probably if I'd been one of the topnotchers, about to do a ten years stretch for burglary or arson or what not, it would have been different, but I was only one of the small fry who get twenty-eight days in the second division, and I couldn't help thinking the officer was looking down on me. Not actually sneering, perhaps, but aloof in his manner, as if feeling I wasn't much for a cop to get his teeth into.

  And, of course, there was another thing. Speaking of my earlier visit to Totleigh Towers, I mentioned that when Pop Bassett immured me in my room, he stationed the local police force on the lawn below to see that I didn't nip out of the window. That local police force was this same Oates, and as it was raining like the dickens at the time, no doubt the episode had rankled. Only a very sunny constable can look with an indulgent eye on the fellow responsible for his getting the nastiest cold in the head of his career.

  At any rate, he showed himself now a man of few words, though good at locking people up in cells. There was only one at the Totleigh-in-the-Wold emporium, and I had it all to myself, a cosy little apartment with a window, not barred but too small to get out of, a grille in the door, a plank bed and that rather powerful aroma of drunks and disorderlies which you always find in these homes from home. Whether it was superior or inferior to the one they had given me at Bosher Street, I was unable to decide. Not much in it either way, it seemed to me.

  To say that when I turned in on the plank bed I fell into a dreamless sleep would be deceiving my public. I passed a somewhat restless night. I could have sworn, indeed, that I didn't drop off at all, but I suppose I must have done, because the next thing I knew sunlight was coming through the window and mine host was bringing me breakfast.

  I got outside it with an appetite unusual with me at such an early hour, and at the conclusion of the meal I fished out an old e
nvelope and did what I have sometimes done before when the bludgeonings of Fate were up and about to any extent - viz. make a list of Credits and Debits, as I believe Robinson Crusoe used to. The idea being to see whether I was ahead of or behind the game at moment of going to press.

  The final score worked out as follows:

  Credit Debit

  Not at all a bad breakfast, that. Don't always be thinking of your

  Coffee quite good. I was sur- stomach, you jailbird,

  prised.

  Who's a jailbird? You're a jailbird.

  Well, yes, I suppose I am, if you More than your face is.

  care to put it that way. But I am

  innocent. My hands are clean.

  Not looking my best, what? You look like something the cat

  brought in.

  A bath will put that right. And you'll get one in prison.

  You really think it'll come to Well, you heard what Pop Bassett

  that? said.

  I wonder what it's like, doing You'll hate it. It'll bore you stiff,

  twenty-eight days? Hitherto, I've

  always just come for the night.

  I don't know so much. They give What's the good of a cake of soap

  you a cake of soap and a hymn- and a hymnbook?

  book, don't they?

  I'll be able to whack up some

  sort of indoor game with them. And

  don't forget that I've not got to

  marry Madeline Bassett. Let's

  hear what you have to say to that.

  And the Debit account didn't utter. I had baffled it.

  Yes, I felt, as I hunted around in case there might be a crumb of bread which I had overlooked, that amply compensated me for the vicissitudes I was undergoing. And I had been musing along these lines for a while, getting more and more reconciled to my lot, when a silvery voice spoke, making me jump like a startled grasshopper. I couldn't think where it was coming from at first, and speculated for a moment on the possibility of it being my guardian angel, though I had always thought of him, I don't know why, as being of the male sex. Then I saw something not unlike a human face at the grille, and a closer inspection told me that it was Stiffy.