by Unknown
‘Quite all right, Uncle Percy.’
‘It is not all right. It is outrageous. I advise you in future, officer, to be careful, very careful. And as for that warrant of yours, you can take it and stick it . . . However, that is neither here nor there.’
It was good stuff. Indeed, I can’t remember ever having heard better, except once, when I was a stripling and Aunt Agatha was ticking me off for breaking a valuable china vase with my catapult. I confidently expected Stilton to cower beneath it like a worm in a thunderstorm. But he didn’t. It was plain that he burned, not with shame and remorse but with the baffled fury of the man who, while not quite abreast of the run of the scenario, realizes that dirty work is afoot at the crossroads and that something swift is being slipped across him.
‘Ho!’ he said, and paused for a moment to wrestle with his feelings. Then, with generous emotion: ‘It’s a bally conspiracy’ he cried. ‘It’s a lowdown, hornswoggling plot to defeat the ends of justice. For the last time, Lord Worplesdon, will you sign this warrant?’
Nothing could have been more dignified than Uncle Percy’s demeanour. He drew himself up, and his voice was quiet and cold.
‘I have already indicated what you can do with that warrant. I think, officer, that it would be well if you were to go and sleep it off. For the kindest interpretation which I can place upon your extraordinary behaviour is that you are intoxicated. Bertie, show the constable the door.’
I showed Stilton the door, and he took a sort of dazed look at it, as if it was the first time he had seen the bally thing. Then he navigated slowly through, and disappeared, not even pausing to say ‘Ho’ over his shoulder. The impression I received was that his haughty spirit was at last crushed. Presently we heard the sound of his violin cases tramping away down the garden path.
‘And now, my boy,’ said Uncle Percy, as the last echoes died away, ‘for the herring-bone tweed. Also a bath and a shave and a cup of strong black coffee with perhaps the merest suspicion of brandy in it. And perhaps it would be as well, when I am ready to start for the Hall, if you were to accompany me, to add your testimony to mine regarding my spending last night under this roof. You will not falter, will you? You will support my statement, will you not, in a strong resonant voice, carrying conviction in every syllable? Nothing on these occasions creates so unfortunate an impression as the pause for thought, the hesitating utterance, the nervous twiddling of the fingers. Above all things, remember not to stand on one leg. Right, my boy. Let us go.’
I escorted him to my room, dug out the suit, showed him the bathroom and left him to it. When I got back to the dining-room, Boko had gone, but Nobby was still there, chatting with Jeeves. She greeted me warmly.
‘Boko’s gone to fetch his car,’ she said. ‘We’re going to run up to London and get married. Wonderful how everything has come out, isn’t it? I thought Uncle Percy was terrific.’
‘Most impressive,’ I agreed.
And what words that tongue could utter could give even a sketchy idea of how one feels about you, Jeeves.’
‘I am deeply gratified, miss, if I have been able to give satisfaction.’
‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – there’s nobody like you.’
‘Thank you very much, miss.’
I think this might have gone on for some time, for Nobby was plainly filled to the back teeth with girlish enthusiasm, but at this point I interrupted. I would be the last man ever to deprive Jeeves of his meed of praise, but I had a question of compelling interest to put.
‘Have you shown Florence that letter of mine, Nobby?’ I asked.
A sudden cloud came over her eager map, and she made a clicking noise.
‘I knew there was something I had forgotten. Oh, Bertie, I’m so sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, filled with a nameless fear.
‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. When I got up this morning, I couldn’t find that letter anywhere, and I was looking for it, when Edwin came along and told me he had done an act of kindness last night by tidying my room. I think he must have destroyed the letter. He generally does destroy all correspondence when he tidies rooms. I’m most awfully sorry, but I expect you’ll find some other way of coping with Florence. Ask Jeeves. He’s sure to think of something. Ah,’ she said, as a booming voice came from the great open spaces, ‘there’s Boko calling me. Good-bye, Bertie. Good-bye, Jeeves. I must rush.’
She was gone with the wind, and I turned to Jeeves with a pale, set face.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you think of a course to pursue?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You are baffled?’
‘For the moment, sir, unquestionably. I fear that Miss Hopwood overestimated my potentialities.’
‘Come, come, Jeeves. It is not like you to be a . . . what’s the word . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue.’
‘Defeatist, sir?’
‘That’s right. It is not like you to be a defeatist. Don’t give it up. Go and brood in the kitchen. There may be some fish there. Did you notice any, when you were there yesterday?’
‘Only a tin of anchovy paste, sir.’
My heart sank a bit. Anchovy paste is a slender reed on which to lean in a major crisis. Still, it was fish within the meaning of the act, and no doubt contained its quota of phosphorus.
‘Go and wade into it.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Don’t spare the stuff. Dig it out with a spoon,’ I said, and dismissed him with a moody gesture.
Moody was the word which would have described my aspect, as a few moments later I left the house and proceeded to the garden, feeling in need of a bit of air. I had kept up a brave front, but I had little real hope that anchovy paste would bring home the bacon. As I stood at the garden gate, staring sombrely before me, I was at a pretty low ebb.
I mean to say, I had been banking everything on that letter. I had counted on it to destroy the Wooster glamour in Florence’s eyes. And, lacking it, I couldn’t see how she was going to be persuaded that I was not a king among men. Not for the first time, I found myself musing bitterly on young Edwin, the fons et origo – a Latin expression – of all my troubles.
And I was just regretting that we were not in China, where it would have been a simple matter to frame up something against the child, thus putting him in line for the Death of the Thousand Cuts, when my reverie was interrupted by the ting of a bicycle bell, and Stilton came wheeling up.
After what had passed, of course, it was not agreeable to be closeted with this vindictive copper, and I am not ashamed to say that I backed a pace. In fact, I would probably have gone on backing, had he not reached out a hand like a ham and grabbed me by the slack of my coat.
‘Stand still, you blasted object,’ he said. ‘I have something to say to you.’
‘You couldn’t write?’
‘No, I could not write. Don’t wriggle. Listen.’
I could see that the man was wrestling with some strong emotion, and could only hope that it was not homicidal. The eyes were glittering, and the face flushed.
‘Listen,’ he said again. ‘You know that engagement of yours?’
‘To Florence?’
‘To Florence. It’s off.’
‘Off?’
‘Off,’ said Stilton.
A sharp exclamation passed my lips. I clutched at the gate for support. The sun, which a moment before had gone behind a cloud, suddenly came shooting out like a rabbit and started shining like the dickens. On every side, it seemed to me, birds began to tootle their songs of joy. It will give you some rough indication of my feelings when I tell you that not only did all Nature become beautiful, but even for an instant Stilton.
Through a sort of pink mist, I heard myself asking faintly what he meant. The question caused him to frown with some impatience.
‘You can understand words of one syllable, can’t you? I tell you your engagement is off. Florence is going to marry me. I met her, as I came away from this pest house, and
had it out with her. After that revolting exhibition of fraud and skulduggery in there, I had decided to resign from the Force, and I told her so. It removed the only barrier there had ever been between us. Questioned, she broke down and came clean, admitting that she had always loved me, and had got engaged to you merely to score off me for something I had said about modern enlightened thought. I withdrew the remark, and she fell into my arms. She seemed not to like the idea of breaking the news to you, so I said I would do it. “And if young blasted Wooster has anything to say,” I told her, “I will twist his head off and ram it down his throat.” Have you anything to say, Wooster?’
I paused for a moment to listen to the tootling birds. Then I raised the map, and allowed the beaming sun to play on it.
‘Not a thing,’ I assured him.
‘You realize the position? She has returned you to store. No ruddy wedding bells for you.’
‘Quite.’
‘Good. You will be leaving here fairly soon, I take it?’
‘Almost at once.’
‘Good,’ said Stilton, and sprang on his bicycle as if it had been a mettlesome charger.
Nor did I linger. I did the distance from the gate to the kitchen in about three seconds flat. From the window of the bathroom, as I passed, there came the voice of Uncle Percy as he sluiced the frame. He was singing some gay air. A sea chanty, probably, which he had learned from Clam or one of the captains in his employment.
Jeeves was pacing the kitchen floor, deep in thought. He looked round, as I entered, and his manner was apologetic.
‘It appears, sir, I regret to say, that there is no anchovy paste. It was finished yesterday.’
I didn’t actually slap him on the back, but I gave him the dickens of a beaming smile.
‘Never mind the anchovy paste, Jeeves. It will not be required. I’ve just seen Stilton. A reconciliation has taken place between him and Lady Florence, and they are once more headed for the altar rails. So, there being nothing to keep us in Steeple Bumpleigh, let’s go.’
‘Very good, sir. The car is at the door.’
I paused.
‘Oh, but, dash it, we can’t.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve just remembered I promised Uncle Percy to go to the Hall with him and help him cope with Aunt Agatha.’
‘Her ladyship is not at the Hall, sir.’
‘What! But you said she was.’
‘Yes, sir. I fear I was guilty of a subterfuge. I regretted the necessity, but it seemed to me essential in the best interests of all concerned.’
I goggled at the man.
‘Egad, Jeeves!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Faintly from the distance there came the sound of Uncle Percy working through his chanty.
‘How would it be,’ I suggested, ‘to zoom off immediately, without waiting to pack?’
‘I was about to suggest such a course myself, sir.’
‘It would enable one to avoid tedious explanations.’
‘Precisely, sir.’
‘Then shift ho, Jeeves,’ I said.
It was as we were about half-way between Steeple Bumpleigh and the old metrop, that I mentioned that there was an expression on the tip of my tongue which seemed to me to sum up the nub of the recent proceedings.
‘Or, rather, when I say an expression, I mean a saying. A wheeze. A gag. What, I believe, is called a saw. Something about Joy . . .’
But we went into all that before, didn’t we?
IN ARROW BOOKS
If you have enjoyed Jeeves and Wooster, you’ll love Blanding
FROM
Uncle Fred in the Springtime
The door of the Drones Club swung open, and a young man in form-fitting tweeds came down the steps and started to walk westwards. An observant passer-by, scanning his face, would have fancied that he discerned on it a keen, tense look, like that of an African hunter stalking a hippopotamus. And he would have been right. Pongo Twistleton – for it was he – was on his way to try to touch Horace Pendlebury-Davenport for two hundred pounds.
To touch Horace Pendlebury-Davenport, if you are coming from the Drones, you go down Hay Hill, through Berkeley Square, along Mount Street and up Park Lane to the new block of luxury flats which they have built where Bloxham House used to be: and it did not take Pongo long to reach journey’s end. It was perhaps ten minutes later that Webster, Horace’s man, opened the door in answer to his ring.
‘What ho, Webster. Mr Davenport in?’
‘No, sir. He has stepped out to take a dancing lesson.’
‘Well, he won’t be long, I suppose, what? I’ll come in, shall I?’
‘Very good, sir. Perhaps you would not mind waiting in the library. The sitting-room is in some little disorder at the moment.’
‘Spring cleaning?’
‘No, sir. Mr Davenport has been entertaining his uncle, the Duke of Dunstable, to luncheon, and over the coffee His Grace broke most of the sitting-room furniture with the poker.’
To say that this information surprised Pongo would be correct. To say that he was astounded, however, would be going too far. His Uncle Alaric’s eccentricities were a favourite theme of conversation with Horace Davenport, and in Pongo he had always found a sympathetic confidant, for Pongo had an eccentric uncle himself. Though hearing Horace speak of his Uncle Alaric and thinking of his own Uncle Fred, he felt like Noah listening to someone making a fuss about a drizzle.
‘What made him do that?’
‘I am inclined to think, sir, that something may have occurred to annoy His Grace.’
This seemed plausible, and in the absence of further data Pongo left it at that. He made his way to the small apartment dignified by the name of library, and wandering to the window stood looking out on Park Lane.
It was a cheerless prospect that met his eyes. Like all English springs, the one which had just come to London seemed totally unable to make up its fat-headed mind whether it was supposed to be that ethereal mildness of which the poet sings or something suitable for ski-ers left over from the winter. A few moments before, the sun had been shining with extraordinary brilliance, but now a sort of young blizzard was raging, and the spectacle had the effect of plunging Pongo into despondency.
Horace was engaged to marry his sister Valerie, but was it conceivable, he asked himself, that any man, even to oblige a future brother-in-law, would cough up the colossal sum of two hundred potatoes? The answer, he felt, was in the negative, and with a mournful sigh he turned away and began to pace the room.
If you pace the library of Number 52 Bloxham Mansions, starting at the window and going straight across country, your outward journey takes you past the writing-table. And as Pongo reached this writing-table, something there attracted his eye. From beneath the blotter the end of a paper was protruding, and on it were written the intriguing words:
Signed
CLAUDE POTT
(Private Investigator)
They brought him up with as round a turn as if he had seen a baronet lying on the floor with an Oriental paper-knife of antique design in his back. An overwhelming desire came upon him to see what all this was about. He was not in the habit of reading other people’s letters, but here was one which a man of the nicest scruples could scarcely be expected to pass up.
The thing was cast in narrative form, being, he found on examination, a sort of saga in which the leading character – a star part, if ever there was one – was somebody referred to as The Subject. From the activities of this individual Claude Pott seemed unable to tear himself away.
The Subject, who appeared to be abroad somewhere, for there was frequent mention of a Casino, was evidently one of those people who live for pleasure alone. You didn’t catch The Subject doing good to the poor or making a thoughtful study of local political conditions. When he – or she – was not entering Casino in comp. of friends (two male, one female) at 11.17 p.m., he – or she, for there was no clue as to whether this was a story with a hero or a heroine – was p
laying tenn., riding h’s, out on the golf links, lunching with three f’s, driving to Montreuil with one m., or dancing with party consisting of four m’s, ditto f’s, and in this latter case keeping it up into the small hours. Pongo was familiar with the expression ‘living the life of Riley,’ and that it was a life of this nature that The Subject had been leading was manifest in the document’s every sentence.
But what the idea behind the narrative could be he found himself unable to divine. Claude Pott had a nice, crisp style, but his work was marred by the same obscurity which has caused complaint in the case of the poet Browning.
He had begun to read it for the third time, hoping for enlightenment, when the click of a latchkey came to his ears, and as he hastily restored the paper to its place the door opened and there entered a young man of great height but lacking the width of shoulder and ruggedness of limb which make height impressive. Nature, stretching Horace Davenport out, had forgotten to stretch him sideways, and one could have pictured Euclid, had they met, nudging a friend and saying. ‘Don’t look now, but this chap coming along illustrates exactly what I was telling you about a straight line having length without breadth.’
Farthest north of this great expanse there appeared a tortoise-shell-rimmed-spectacled face of so much amiability of expression that Pongo, sighting it, found himself once again hoping for the best.
‘What ho, Horace,’ he said, almost exuberantly.
‘Hullo, Pongo. You here? Has Webster told you about my uncle’s latest?’
‘He did just touch on it. His theory is that the old boy was annoyed about something. Does that seem to fit the facts?’
‘Absolutely. He was annoyed about quite a number of things. In the first place, he was going off to the country to-day and he had been counting on that fellow Baxter, his secretary, to go with him. He always likes to have someone with him on a railway journey.’
‘To dance before him, no doubt, and generally entertain him?’
‘And at the last moment Baxter said he would have to stay on in London to do some work at the British Museum in connection with that Family History Uncle Alaric has been messing about with for years. This made him shirty, for a start. He seemed to think it came under the head of being thwarted.’
