The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 1:

by P. G. Wodehouse

  I swallowed a trifle.

  ‘What exactly would you say the odds were, for and against?’

  She mused awhile.

  ‘I’m trying to remember if Father is a Southerner or not.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I know he was born at a place called Carterville, but I can’t recollect if it was Carterville, Kentucky, or Carterville, Massachusetts.’

  ‘What the dickens difference does it make?’

  ‘Well, if you smirch the honour of a Southerner’s family, he’s apt to shoot.’

  ‘Would your father consider it smirched the family honour, your being here?’

  ‘Bound to, I should think.’

  I couldn’t help agreeing with her. It did seem to me offhand that a purist might consider the smirching pretty good, but I hadn’t time to weigh the point, because the knocker got going again with renewed vim.

  ‘Well, dash it,’ I said, ‘wherever this ghastly parent of yours was born, I shall have to go down and talk to him. That door will be splitting asunder soon.’

  ‘Don’t get closer to him than you can help.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘He was a great wrestler when he was a young man.’

  ‘You needn’t tell me any more about your father.’

  ‘I only meant, I wouldn’t let him get hold of you, if you can help. Is there anywhere I can hide?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know why not,’ I replied, a little curtly. ‘They don’t build these country cottages with secret rooms and underground passages. When you hear me open the front door, stop breathing.’

  ‘Do you want me to suffocate?’

  Well, of course, a Wooster does not put such thoughts into words, but I’m bound to say this struck me as a jolly good idea. Forbearing the reply, I hurried down the stairs and flung open the front door. Well, when I say flung, I opened it a matter of six inches, not omitting to keep it on the chain.

  ‘Hallo?’ I said. ‘Yes?’

  I don’t know when I’ve felt such a chunk of relief as surged over me the next moment.

  ‘Oy!’ said a voice. ‘Taken your time, haven’t you? What’s the matter with you, young man? Deaf or something?’

  It wasn’t in its essentials a musical voice, being on the thick side and a shade ropey. If I’d been its owner, I’d have given more than a little thought to the subject of tonsils. But it had one supreme merit which out-weighed all its defects. It wasn’t the voice of J. Washburn Stoker.

  ‘Frightfully sorry,’ I said. ‘I was thinking of this and that. Sort of reverie, if you know what I mean.’

  The voice spoke again, not without a pretty goodish modicum of suavity this time.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you was the young man Brinkley.’

  ‘Brinkley’s out,’ I said, feeling that if he ever returned I would have a word to say to him about the hours at which his pals paid social calls. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sergeant Voules, sir.’

  I opened the door. It was pretty dark outside, but I could recognize the arm of the Law all right. This Voules was a bird built rather on the lines of the Albert Hall, round in the middle and not much above. He always looked to me as if Nature had really intended to make two police sergeants and had forgotten to split them up.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant!’ I said.

  Careless, debonair. Not a thing on Bertram’s mind, you would have supposed, but his hair.

  ‘Anything I can do for you, Sergeant?’

  My eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness by this time, and I was enabled to spot certain objects of interest by the wayside. The principal one was another policeman. Tall and lean and stringy, this one.

  ‘This is my young nephew, sir. Constable Dobson.’

  Well, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a social reunion, and I could have wished that the sergeant, if he wanted to make me one of the family and all pals together, so to speak, had selected some other time, but I inclined the bean gracefully in the constable’s direction and uttered a kindly ‘Ah, Dobson!’ I rather think, if I remember, that I also said something about its being a fine night.

  But apparently this wasn’t just one of those chummy gatherings which recall the old-time salon.

  ‘Are you aware, sir, that there’s a window broke at the back of your residence? My young nephew here spotted it and thought best to wake me up and have me investigate. A ground-floor window, sir, with a whole pane of glass gone from it.’

  I simpered slightly.

  ‘Oh, that? Yes, Brinkley did that yesterday. Silly ass!’

  ‘You knew about it, then sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Quite all right, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well, you know best if it’s quite all right, sir, but I should say there was a danger of marauders getting through.’

  At this juncture the chump of a constable, who had hitherto not spoken, shoved his oar in.

  ‘I thought I did see a marauder getting through, Uncle Ted.’

  ‘What! Then why didn’t you tell me before, you young mutton-head? And don’t call me Uncle Ted when we’re on duty.’

  ‘No, Uncle Ted.’

  ‘You’d best let us make a search of the ’ouse, sir,’ said Sergeant Voules.

  Well, I put the presidential veto on this pretty quick.

  ‘Certainly not, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘Quite out of the q.’

  ‘It would be wiser, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but it can’t be done.’

  He seemed piqued and discontented.

  ‘Well, please yourself, sir, but you’re shackling the police, that’s what you’re doing. There’s too much shackling of the police these days. There was a piece in the Mail about it yesterday. Perhaps you read it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘On the middle page. Unshackle the police, it said because public alarm is growing in Great Britain owing to the continuous increase of crime in the lonely rural districts. I clipped it out to paste in my album. The number of indictable offences, it said, has rose from one three four five eight one in 1929 to one four seven nought three one in 1930, with a marked increase of seven per cent in crimes of violence, and is this disturbing state of things due to slackness on the part of the police, it said? No, it said, it’s not. It’s because the police are shackled.’

  The man was obviously cut to the quick. Dashed awkward.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir, and you’re going to be sorrier when you go upstairs to your bedroom and a marauder cuts your throat from ear to ear.’

  ‘Fight against these gloomy views, my dear old police sergeant,’ I said. ‘I anticipate no such contingency. I’ve just come from upstairs, and I give you my word there were not marauders.’

  ‘Probably lurking, sir.’

  ‘Biding their time,’ suggested Constable Dobson.

  Sergeant Voules sighed heavily.

  ‘I wouldn’t like nothing to happen to you, sir, seein’ you’re a close friend of his lordship’s. But as you prove obdurate …’

  ‘Oh, nothing could happen to anyone in a place like Chuffnell Regis.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, sir. Chuffnell Regis is going down. I would never have thought to have seen a troupe of nigger minstrels singing comic songs within a stone’s-throw of my police station.’

  ‘You view them with concern?’

  ‘There’s been fowls missing,’ said Sergeant Voules darkly. ‘Several fowls. And I have my suspicions. Well, come along, Constable. If we’re to be shackled, there’s nothing to keep us here. Good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night.’

  I shut the door and buzzed back to the bedroom. Pauline was sitting up in bed, more or less agog.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘The constabulary.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Apparently they saw you getting in.’

  ‘What a lot of trouble I’m giving you, Bertie.’ />
  ‘Oh, no. Only too pleased. Well, I suppose I might as well be pushing along.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘In the circumstances,’ I replied a little frigidly, ‘I can hardly doss on the premises. I shall withdraw to the garage.’

  ‘Isn’t there a sofa downstairs?’

  ‘There is. Noah’s. He brought it ashore on Mount Ararat. I shall be better off in the car.’

  ‘Oh, Bertie, I am giving you a lot of trouble.’

  I softened slightly. After all, the poor girl was scarcely to be blamed for what had occurred. As Chuffy had remarked earlier in the evening, love’s love.

  ‘Don’t you worry, old thing. We Woosters can rough it when it is a matter of giving two fond hearts a leg-up. You put your little head on the pillow and curl your little pink toes up and doze off. I shall be all right.’

  And, so saying, I uncorked a kindly smile, popped off, trickled down the stairs, opened the front door, and out into the scented night; and I don’t suppose I was a dozen yards from the house when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder, occasioning me both mental and physical distress, and a shadowy form said: ‘Gotcher!’

  ‘Ouch!’ I replied.

  The shadowy form now revealed itself as that of Constable Dobson of the Chuffnell Regis police force. He was in apologetic vein.

  ‘I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you was the marauder.’

  I forced myself to be airy and affable. The young squire setting the lower orders at their ease.

  ‘Quite all right, Constable. Quite all right. Just going for a stroll.’

  ‘I understand, sir. Breath of air.’

  ‘You have put it in a nutshell. A breath, as you astutely observe, of air. The house is quite close.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just over there.’

  ‘I mean stuffy.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. Well, good night, sir.’

  ‘Tra-la, Constable.’

  I proceeded on my way, a little shaken. I had left the garage door open, and I felt my way to the old two-seater, glad to be alone once more. In certain moods, no doubt, one would have found Constable Dobson a delightful and stimulating companion, but tonight I preferred his absence. I climbed into the car and, leaning back, endeavoured to compose myself for sleep.

  Now, whether I should have been able to achieve the dreamless had the conditions remained right, I cannot say. The point is pretty moot. As two-seaters go, I had always found mine fairly comfortable, but then I had never before tried to get the eight hours in it, and you would be surprised at the number of knobs and protuberances which seem suddenly to sprout out of a car’s upholstery when you seek to convert it into a bed.

  But, as it happened, I was not given a square chance of making the test. I don’t suppose I could have counted more than about a platoon and a half of sheep when a light suddenly flashed on the features and a voice instructed me to come on out of it.

  I sat up.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant!’ I said.

  Another awkward meeting. Embarrassment on both sides.

  ‘Is that you, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Can’t say it occurred to me that it might be you in here, sir.’

  ‘I thought I’d try to get a bit of sleep in the old car, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Such a warm night.’

  ‘Just so, sir.’

  His voice was respectful, but I could not conquer a suspicion that he was beginning to look a bit askance. There was something in his manner that gave me the idea that he considered Bertram eccentric.

  ‘Stuffy indoors.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I often park myself in the car in the summertime.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Good night, Sergeant.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  Well, you know how it is when someone butts in on you just as you are shaping for the beauty sleep. It breaks the spell, if you know what I mean. I curled up again, but I soon saw that all efforts in the direction of the restful night in my present environment would be fruitless. I counted about five more medium-sized flocks, but it was no good. Steps, I realized, would have to be taken through other channels.

  I hadn’t done a great deal of exploring in these grounds of mine, but it so happened that one morning a sharp shower had driven me to the shelter of a species of shed or outhouse down in the south-west corner of the estate where the gardener-by-the-day stacked his tools and flower-pots and what not. And, unless memory deceived me, there had been in that outhouse or shed a pile of sacking on the floor.

  Well, you may say that sacking, considered in the light of a bed, isn’t everybody’s money, and in saying so you would be perfectly correct. But after half an hour in the seat of a Widgeon Seven, even sacking begins to look pretty good to you. It may be a little hardish on the frame, and it may smell a good deal of mice and the deep-delved earth, but there remains just one point to be put forward in its favour – viz that it enables one to stretch the limbs. And stretching the limbs was the thing I felt now that I wanted to do most.

  In addition to smelling of mice and mould, the particular segment of sacking on which some two minutes later I was reclining had a marked aroma of by-the-day gardener; and there was a moment when I had to ask myself if the mixture wasn’t a shade too rich. But these things grow on one in time, and at the end of about a quarter of an hour I was rather enjoying the blend of scents than otherwise. I can recall inflating the lungs and more or less drinking it in. At the end of about half an hour a soothing drowsiness had begun to steal over me.

  And at the end of about thirty-five minutes the door flew open and there was the old familiar lantern shining in again.

  ‘Ah!’ said Sergeant Voules.

  And Constable Dobson said the same.

  I realized that the time had come to strike a forceful note with these two pests. I am all for not shackling the police, but what I maintain is that if the police come dodging about a householder’s garden all night, routing him out every time he is on the point of snatching a little repose, they have jolly well got to be shackled.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, and there was a touch of the imperious old aristocrat in my manner. ‘What is it now?’

  Constable Dobson had been saying something in a pretty self-satisfied sort of way about having seen me creeping through the darkness and tracking me like a leopard, and Sergeant Voules, who was a man who believed in keeping nephews in their place, was remarking that he had seen me first and had tracked me just as much like a leopard as Constable Dobson: but at these crisp words a sudden silence fell upon them.

  ‘Is that you again, sir?’ inquired the sergeant in rather an awed voice.

  ‘Yes, it is, dash it! What, may I ask, is the meaning of this incessant chivying? Sleep under these conditions becomes impossible.’

  ‘Very sorry, sir. It never occurred to me that it could be you.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Well, sleeping in a shed, sir –’

  ‘You do not dispute the fact that it is my shed?’

  ‘No, sir. But it sort of seems funny.’

  ‘I see nothing funny in it whatsoever.’

  ‘Uncle Ted means “odd”, sir.’

  ‘Not so much of what Uncle Ted means. And don’t call me Uncle Ted. What it sort of seemed to us, sir, was peculiar.’

  ‘I cannot subscribe to your opinion, Sergeant,’ I said stiffly. ‘I have a perfect right, have I not, to sleep where I please?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. It might be the coal cellar. It might be the front-door steps. It happens to be this shed. I will now thank you, Sergeant, to withdraw. At this rate, I shan’t drop off till daybreak.’

  ‘Are you intending to remain here the rest of the night, sir?’

  ‘Certainly. Why not?’

  I had got him. He was at a loss.

  ‘Well, I suppos
e there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, if you want to, sir. But it seems –’

  ‘Odd,’ said Constable Dobson.

  ‘Peculiar,’ said Sergeant Voules. ‘It seems peculiar, having a bed of your own, sir, if I might say so …’

  I had had enough of this.

  ‘I hate beds,’ I said curtly. ‘Can’t stand them. Never could.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ He paused a moment. ‘Quite a warm day today, sir.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘My young nephew here pretty near got a touch of the sun. Didn’t you, Constable?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Constable Dobson.

  ‘Made him come over all funny.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sort of seemed to addle the brain.’

  I endeavoured without undue brusqueness to convey to this man the idea that I did not consider one in the morning a suitable time for discussing his nephew’s addled brain.

  ‘You must give me all the family medical gossip another day,’ I said. ‘At the moment, I wish to be alone.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night, Sergeant.’

  ‘If I might ask the question, sir, do you feel a sort of burning feeling about the temples?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Does your head throb, sir?’

  ‘It’s beginning to.’

  ‘Ah! Well, good night, sir, again.’

  ‘Good night, Sergeant.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night, Constable.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  The door closed softly. I could hear them whispering for a moment or two, like a couple of specialists holding a conference outside the sick-room. Then they appeared to ooze off, for all became quiet save for the lapping of the waves on the shore. And, by Jove, so sedulously did these waves lap that gradually a drowsiness crept over me and not ten minutes after I had made up my mind that I should never get to sleep again in this world I was off as comfortably as a babe or suckling.

  It couldn’t last, of course – not in a place like Chuffnell Regis, a hamlet containing more Nosey Parkers to the square foot than any other spot in England. The next thing I remember is someone joggling my arm.

  I sat up. There was the good old lantern once more.

  ‘Now, listen …’ I was beginning, with a generous strength, when the words froze on my lips.