The Luck of the Bodkins

by P. G. Wodehouse

  No, there was nothing for it but the state-room at what -she looked at her watch as she turned into the corridor and saw that it was just fourteen minutes past ten - was virtually the shank of the afternoon. Muttering an observation which she had once heard from the lips of a director as she walked off the set at the height of his activities, she approached the door. And as her fingers touched the handle she jerked them away as if it had been red-hot.

  From inside the room there had suddenly rent the air a sharp, agonized scream.

  She did not hesitate. Lottie Blossom may have had her faults - Gertrude Butterwick could have pointed out dozens - but lack of courage was not one of them. She had jumped about six inches on hearing that scream, it is true, but most girls in her position would have jumped twelve. Returning to terra firma, she acted swiftly. She was not armed, and the fact that somebody had just been murdered in her state-room argued that there must be a murderer in there as well as a corpse, but she pulled open the door without an instant's vacillation.

  Her eyes rested on her old friend Reginald Tennyson. He was doing a sort of Astaire pom-pom dance round the room with the little finger of his right hand in his mouth.

  A girl who has been led to suppose that there is a fiend in human shape in her sleeping-quarters and discovers instead a young man with whom she has frequently dined and supped and trodden the measure is apt to experience a certain difficulty in finding words with which to express her astonishment Nor is this difficulty diminished if she notes that he is dancing about the floor sucking his finger. Lottie Blossom, accordingly, in the first moments of this unexpected meeting merely stood in the doorway with her mouth open.

  Nor was Reggie more conversational. He had stopped gyrating on observing her, but he did not speak. Often, while making his way to this state-room tonight, he had speculated as to what he should say if by some mischance its owner happened to come in and catch him. Now that this had actually occurred, he said nothing. His finger was giving him considerable pain, and he went on sucking it in silence.

  It was Lottie, after all, who was first to find words.

  'Why, Reg-GEE!'she said.

  Reginald Tennyson withdrew his finger from his mouth. He would have had every excuse for looking guilty and shamefaced, but he did not look guilty and shamefaced. His demeanour was that of a man who seethes with righteous indignation, a man who has been badly treated and legitimately resents it.

  'What the devil,' he enquired emotionally, 'have you got in that basket?'

  Lottie began to see daylight. Amusement took the place of surprise. She had a simple, wholesome mind, easily entertained by clean, simple comedy, and the reactions of those who opened her little wickerwork basket always diverted her.

  'That,' she said, 'is Wilfred, my alligator.'

  'Your w’a’?'

  'Alligator. Don't you know what an alligator is? Oh, well, you will another time '

  The clearing up of the mystery did nothing to soothe Reggie.

  'Alligator? What on earth is the idea of having the place alive with alligators? What's the bally thing doing in a civilized state-room?'

  Lottie Blossom was anxious to get on to the main enquiry or probe, but she perceived that it would be impossible to rivet her guest's attention until this point had been explained to his satisfaction.

  'It's just a Press stunt. My Press agent thought it would help the general composition. He wavered at one time between it and a mongoose, and then he wavered between it and my being at heart a simnle little home body who was never so happy as when among her books, but in the end he cast his vote on the alligator ticket, and I'm glad he did, because an alligator Is certainly value for money. Yessir, believe it or not. It's publicity of the right sort, and nobody who has not had personal experience of travelling around with an alligator in a little wicker-work basket, can have any conception of the amount of quiet fun there is to be got out of it What happened? Did Wilfred snap at you?’

  'He merely nearly took my bally arm off.’

  'You shouldn't have teased him.'

  'I did not tease him.'

  'Then I guess he mistook you for a fly.’

  'The animal must be non compos. Do I look like a fly?’

  Lottie Blossom had been smiling in the pleased, jolly way in which she always smiled when conversing with those who had recently lifted the lid of Wilfred's wickerwork basket. The smile now faded from her lips, leaving them tight and compressed.

  'Shall I tell you what you look like?'

  'What?'

  'You look,’ said Miss Blossom quietly, but none the less formidably, 'like a man who's going to tell me what he's doing in my state-room.'

  From the very beginning of this interview, Reggie had been uneasily aware that sooner or later he would be called upon to throw light on that very point. Now that the moment had arrived, his uneasiness was not lessened. He was conscious of being in a distinctly equivocal position and, like most men who are conscious of being in distinctly equivocal positions, he fell back on bluster.

  'Never mind that! We're not talking about that. We're talking about this damned man-eating crocodile of yours. Look what it's done to my finger. If that's not a nasty sore place, I've never seen one. Crocodiles, forsooth!' said Reggie with bitterness, for it was a subject on which he felt strongly.

  Lottie Blossom corrected him.

  'We are talking about that We're talking about that right now. What are you doing in my state-room, you blot on the escutcheon? You'd best come clean, young by golly Reggie Tennyson, or we'll have to see what we're going to do about it’

  Reggie coughed. Still sucking the little finger of his right hand, he passed the forefinger of his left round the inside of his collar. He coughed once more. ‘

  Well?'

  Reggie made up his mind. If he had thought bluster would be any good, "he would have gone on trying it, but a single glance at his hostess was enough to convince him that it would be no good at all. There was about Lottie Blossom now none of that geniality which had made her in happier days so agreeable a companion at the dinner-table. Her air was that of a girl stonily resolved to get down to brass tacks and have no more evading of issues. He noted the glitter in her eyes, the prominence of her out-thrust chin, the ominous pressing together of her strong front teeth. By an odd sort of optical illusion, due no doubt to the craven panic induced by these phenomena, it seemed to him that her hair had suddenly grown redder.

  He decided on absolute frankness.

  'Listen, Lottie.'

  'Well?'

  'I'll tell you everything.’ 'You better had.'

  'I came here to look for that mouse of Monty's.' 'Ah!'

  The one you pinched from him, you know. He wanted me to get it back.'

  Lottie Blossom was smiling again now, but it was a grim smile, not one that in any way softened the menace of her aspect. The revelation had occasioned her no surprise. Her mind was capable of drawing conclusions from evidence submitted to it, and she had long since begun to suspect the hidden hand of Monty Bodkin.

  'Ah,' she said. 'And did you find it?'

  ‘No.'

  ‘No luck, eh?' 'No.'

  ‘I see. Well, you've found it now’

  From beneath the wrap which she carried over her arm she drew the Mickey Mouse. 'Good gosh!'

  'Well, you didn't think I'd be such a chump as to leave it lying about in my state-room, with young thugs like you prowling around, did you?'

  Reggie was gaping at the mouse with undisguised emotion. Indeed his eyes were rolling in his head.

  'Lottie!' he cried. 'Give me that mouse 1 ‘

  Lottie Blossom stared at him amazedly. Long and intimate acquaintance with Reginald Tennyson had left her in no doubt that he was a young man abundantly possessed of crust, but she had never supposed that he had as much crust as this.

  'Do what? Give it to you?’

  'Yes.'

  'Black out on that laugh,’ advised Lottie. 'You'll never be able to top it. Give you this
mouse I Yes, that's good. What do you think I am?'

  Reggie swung his arm in a wide, passionate gesture.

  'A pall’ he cried. 'Lottie, old bird, you don't know what it means to me if I get it.'

  'Reggie, old caterpillar, you don't know what it means to me if I keep it.'

  ‘But Lottie, have a heart! I'll tell you the whole thing. I'm in love.'

  I've never known you when you weren't.' 'But this time it's the real thing, the real registered Al at Lloyd's stuff.' 'Who is she?' "Mabel Spence.'

  'A good sort,' said Lottie cordially. 'I've always liked Mabel, Have you fixed it up?' ·No. And why?'

  ‘Because she's got too much sense.’ Reggie sawed the air wildly.

  'She hasn't got too much sense. At least, I hope she hasn't. But I can't move an inch in the matter unless I get that mouse. I haven't a bean in the world. My only chance of getting a good square pop at Mabel is to secure that mouse and hand it over to Monty. If I do, he says he'll slip me two thousand quid...'

  'What!’

  'Yes. And if I had that I should be able to go to Hollywood and pursue Mabel with my addresses. Whereas without it I shall have to tool off to Montreal to that foul office job and stay mouldering there for the rest of my life.’

  The fire had faded from Lottie Blossom's eyes. Her lips had lost their tautness. They unmistakably quivered. If the Hoboken Murphys had hair-trigger tempers, they also possessed hair-trigger hearts.

  ‘Oh, Reggie!'

  ‘You see what I'm driving at now?’ 'Sure.'

  ‘Then how about it?'

  Lottie Blossom shook her flaming head remorsefully.

  ‘I can't.'

  ‘Lottie!'

  ‘It's no good saying "Lottie 1" I can't do it. If Bodkin has been wising you up on this mouse sequence, you know how things are with me. I want to get Ambrose his job, and that mouse is the only shot in my locker. And it's no good looking at me like that, either. I've as much right to want to marry Ambrose as you have to want to marry Mabel, haven't I? And he won't marry me unless he gets a job. So I've got to hold Bodkin up.'

  'I suppose you know it's practically blackmail?'

  ‘It is blackmail,' she assured him. 'And if it's any comfort to you and him to know it, I hate and despise myself for doing it. But I'd a darned sight rather hate and despise myself than lose my Ammie. Oh, Reggie, you know there's almost nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you, my pet. I've always felt towards you like a mother with an idiot child. But you're asking just the one thing I can't do. I can't give you this mouse -1 can't, I can't. You must see that?'

  Reggie nodded. He knew when he was licked.

  ‘Oh, all right.'

  'Don't look like that, Reggie darling. I can't bear it. Oh, why can't you persuade this fool of a Bodkin to sign up with Ikey Llewellyn? If only he would, everything would be jake. He could get Ikey to take Ambrose back as soon as look at you.'

  'Not a chance, I'm afraid. Monty swears nothing will induce him to become an actor. He told me it's a regular obthingummy with him.’

  'He makes me tired.’

  'Me, too. Still, there it is. Well,' said Reggie, 'I think I'll be pushing along. Thanks for a pleasant evening.'

  Thoughtfully sucking his finger and directing as he went a cold look at the wickerwork basket, he moved to the door. The door closed. Lottie let him go. There was nothing that she could do or say.

  She sat down on the bed. Normally, had she found herself alone in her state-room, she would have lifted the lid of the wickerwork basket and chirruped to its occupant just to show him that he was among friends and had not been forgotten, but with her emotions lacerated by the recent harrowing scene she was in no mood for chirruping to alligators. She sat staring before her, and it is probable that she would have given way to the tears which, when her emotions were lacerated, were never far from the surface, had not her meditations been interrupted by a knock on the door.

  She rose. Her eyes, which had begun to swim, dried and became hard. She had an idea that this might be Albert Peasemarch, come ostensibly to brush bits of fluff off the carpet and set the place to rights, but in reality to enjoy one of those long, cosy talks to which he was so addicted. And she was just in the vein to bite the fat head off any steward who came babbling to her now.

  'Come in,' she called.

  The door opened. It was not Albert Peasemarch who stood on the threshold, but Ambrose Tennyson.

  There was a bottle in Ambrose Tennyson's hand and another sticking out of his pocket, for a man in love who has seen the adored object totter from his presence with a hand to her forehead and her lips drawn together in almost unendurable pain does not just go on sitting in an armchair smoking his cigar -he hastens to the ship's doctor in quest of headache remedies. Ambrose Tennyson had done so the moment Lottie had parted from him in the lounge. While she had taken the high road and gone off to the second-class promenade deck, he had taken the low road that led to the dispensary somewhere down in the bowels of the ship.

  There had been a certain delay after that, for the doctor had had to be fetched. During the day ships' doctors play quoits with the prettiest girl on board. After dinner, they gather up the prettiest girl on board - or, if she is not available, the second prettiest - and settle down to a little backgammon. Eventually, however, he had appeared, and Ambrose had secured two highly recommended mixtures. He had now come to deliver them.

  ‘Well,’ he said, 'how are you feeling?'

  The unexpected sight of the man she loved had had an odd effect on Lottie Blossom. Seeing him instead of the Albert Peasemarch for whose entry she had been bracing herself, she had come, as it were, temporarily unstuck. A sudden yearning tenderness had flooded over her, bringing a lump to her throat and into her eyes those tears which had so nearly been there before. She broke down completely.

  'Oomph,' she sobbed. 'Oomph.'

  It has been pointed out earlier in this narrative that to a man in whose presence a girl is going oomph there is but one course open - namely to administer gentle pats to the subject's head or shoulder. But this naturally applies only to comparative strangers of the male sex. If the onlooker is a man who loves this oomphing girl and is loved by her, something of a far more emphatic nature is called for. It is for him to embrace, to fondle, to kiss the tears away, to drop on his knees at her side and murmur broken words.

  Ambrose Tennyson did none of these things. He stood there motionless, a bottle in his hand and another sticking out of his pocket. On his face there was a cold, set look.

  ‘I have brought you some stuff,' he said in a dull voice. 'For your headache.'

  Although she had by no means had her cry out, Lottie Blossom sat up and dried her eyes. She was astonished. That Ambrose could have watched her weep without so much as stepping forward and taking her hand in his was so amazing that her tears stopped as if a tap had been turned.

  'Ammie!' she exclaimed.

  Ambrose's manner continued aloof and polished. ‘I would have come earlier,' he said, 'but the doctor kept me waiting.'

  He paused. His face was expressionless.

  'And when I did get here,' he said, 'I heard you talking to some man and assumed that you would not wish to be interrupted.'

  He placed the bottles on the dressing-table and turned to the door. He found Lottie standing between him and it. There was nothing tearful about her now. She was brisk and decisive.

  'Half a minute, Ambrose. Just one minute, if you please.'

  Ambrose's cold veneer seemed to crack. His face worked. He looked very unlike that photograph in the silver frame. If he had had a pipe in his mouth now, it would have dropped out.

  ‘You told me you had a headache!' ‘I know -'

  'And you left me and you slipped off here -'

  'Listen, Ammie,' said Lottie. 'If you'll give me half a chance, I'm going to explain that. For the love of Peter let's not have another battle. Heaven knows a good turn-up is meat and drink to me, as a rule. But not now. Sit down and I'U put y
ou straight about this business.'

  Chapter 20

  It was not immediately after he had withdrawn from Lottie Blossom's presence that Reggie Tennyson sought out his principal and employer to make his report of what had occurred. In the first numbing shock of a great disappointment, when all the castles he has been building in the air have come tumbling about his ears and his soul seems to have been tied in knots and passed through a wringer, a man's instinct is for solitude. Reggie wanted to be alone to lick his wounds - and not merely figuratively, at that. Owing to that slowness in the uptake which rendered Wilfred the alligator unable to distinguish between an Old Etonian and a fly, the skin on his little finger still needed attention.

  He first sought refuge in the drawing-room. But he did not stay there long. It was empty, which was to the good, but it was also stuffy. It had that queer, elusive aroma peculiar to drawing-rooms on ocean liners, as if it were just on the point of smelling most unpleasant, but never quite beginning. Finding that this was merely increasing his depression, Reggie went out and took to the open deck.

  It was the right move. The soft night air refreshed and strengthened him. He still would have preferred to brood apart, but he now found himself able to contemplate without actual physical nausea the thought of sitting talking to Monty, and some twenty minutes after he had left Lottie's state-room he went down to the B deck to do so.

  He had just reached Monty's door, when it opened with a sharp abruptness as if somebody with an overflowing soul had jerked at the handle, and his brother Ambrose came out. Ambrose's face was drawn and his eyes haggard. He looked dazedly at Reggie for an instant, then passed on without speaking. And Reggie, having stared after him till he was out of sight, went on into the state-room. And the first thing he beheld as he crossed the threshold sent him rocking back on his heels as if alligators had snapped at him.