The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 5: (Jeeves & Wooster)

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘How dare you have the insolence to suppose that I am fool enough to believe this story of my daughter being in love with Orlo Porter?’ he thundered. ‘As if any girl in her senses would love Orlo Porter.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Plank.

  ‘Vanessa would turn from him in disgust.’

  ‘On her heel,’ said Plank.

  ‘What she can see in you I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Nor can I,’ said Plank. ‘He’s got a beard like one of those Victorian novelists. Revolting spectacle.’

  It was true that I hadn’t shaved this morning, but this was going too far. I don’t mind criticism, but I will not endure vulgar abuse.

  ‘Pfui,’ I said. It is an expression I don’t often use, but Nero Wolfe is always saying it with excellent results, and it seemed to fit in rather well here. ‘Enough of this back-chat. Read this,’ I said, handing Cook Orlo’s letter.

  I must say his reception of what Plank would have called the overwhelming evidence was all that could be desired. His jaw fell. He snorted. His face crumpled up like a sheet of carbon paper.

  ‘Good God!’ he gurgled.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Plank. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘This is from Porter, saying that he has eloped with Vanessa.’

  ‘Probably a forgery.’

  ‘No. Porter’s writing is unmistakable …’ He choked. ‘Mr Wooster—’

  ‘Don’t call him Mister Wooster as if he were a respectable member of society,’ said Plank. ‘He’s a desperate criminal who once came within an ace of stinging me for five pounds. He is known to the police as Alpine Joe. Address him as that. Wooster is only a pen name.’

  Cook did not seem to have listened – and I didn’t blame him.

  ‘Mr Wooster, I owe you an apology.’

  I decided to temper justice with m. No sense in grinding the poor old buster beneath the iron heel. True, he had been extremely offensive, but to a man who has lost his daughter and his cat within a day or two of each other much must be excused.

  ‘Don’t give it another thought, my dear fellow,’ I said. ‘We all make mistakes. I forgive you freely. If this little misunderstanding has taught you not to speak till you are sure of your facts, it will have been time well spent.’

  I had paused, speculating as to whether I wasn’t being a bit too patronising, when somebody said ‘Miaow’ in a low voice, and looking down I saw that the cat had strolled in. And if ever a cat chose the wrong moment for getting the party spirit and wanting to mix with the boys, this cat was that cat. I looked at it with a wild surmise, as silent as those bimbos on the peak in Darien. With both hands pressed to the top of my head to prevent it taking to itself the wings of a dove and soaring to the ceiling, I was asking myself what the harvest would be.

  I was speedily informed on this point.

  ‘Ha!’ said Cook, scooping up the animal and pressing it to his bosom. He seemed to have lost all interest in eloping daughters.

  ‘I told you it must have been Alpine Joe who was the kidnapper,’ said Plank. ‘That was why he was hanging about the stables that day. He was waiting his chance.’

  ‘Biding his time.’

  ‘And he hasn’t a word to say for himself.’

  He was right. I was unable to utter. I couldn’t clear myself by exposing the aged relative at the bar of world opinion. I couldn’t make them believe that I was going to return the cat. You might have described me as being trapped in the net of fate if you had happened to think of the expression, and when that happens to you, it is no use saying anything. Ask the boys in Dartmoor or Pentonville. I could only trust that joy at recovering his lost one might soften Cook’s heart and make him let me off lightly.

  Not a hope.

  ‘I shall insist on an exemplary sentence,’ he said.

  ‘And meanwhile,’ said Plank in that offensively officious way of his, ‘shall I be hitting him on the head with my stick? The Zulu knob-kerrie would be better, but I left it up at the house.’

  ‘I was going to ask you to go for a policeman.’

  ‘While you do what?’

  ‘While I take the cat back to Potato Chip.’

  ‘Suppose while we’re both gone he does a bunk?’

  ‘You have a point there.’

  ‘When anyone is caught stealing in Bongo on the Congo, they tie him down on an ant-hill until they can get hold of the walla-walla, as judges are called in the native dialect. Makes it awkward for the accused if he isn’t fond of ants and the walla-walla is away for the week-end, but into each life some rain must fall and he ought to have thought of that before he started pinching things. We’re short of ants, of course, but we can tie him to the sofa. It only means pulling down a couple of curtain cords.’

  ‘Then by all means let us do as you suggest.’

  ‘Better gag him. We don’t want him yelling for help.’

  ‘My dear Plank, you think of everything.’

  I am a great reader of novels of suspense, and I had often wondered how the heroes of them felt when the heavy tied them up, as he generally did about half-way through. I was now in a position to get a rough idea, but of course only a rough one, for they were pretty nearly always attached to a barrel of gunpowder with a lighted candle on top of it, which must have made the whole thing considerably more poignant.

  I had been spared this what you might call added attraction, but even so I was far from being in sunny mood. I think it was the gag which contributed most to the lowering of my spirits. Plank had inserted his tobacco pouch between my upper and lower teeth, and it tasted far too strongly of African explorer to be agreeable. It was a great relief when I heard a footstep and realized that Jeeves had returned from revelling with Mrs P. B. Pigott of Balmoral, Mafeking Road.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.

  He expressed no surprise at seeing me tied to a sofa with curtain cords, just as he would have e. no s. if he had seen me being eaten by a crocodile like the late Abercrombie-Smith, though in the latter case he might have heaved a regretful sigh.

  Assuming that I would prefer to be without them, he removed the gag and unfastened my bonds.

  ‘Have you breakfasted, sir?’ he asked. I told him I had.

  ‘Perhaps some coffee, sir?’

  ‘A great idea. And make it strong,’ I said, hoping that it would wash the taste of Plank’s tobacco pouch away. ‘And when you return, I shall a tale unfold which will make you jump as if you’d sat on a fretful porpentine.’

  I was quite wrong, of course. I doubt if he would do much more than raise an eyebrow if, when entering his pantry, he found one of those peculiar fauna from the Book of Revelations in the sink. When he returned with the steaming pot and I unfolded my tale, he listened attentively, but gave no indication that he recognized that what he was listening to was front page stuff. Only when I told him of the clicking of Orlo and Vanessa, releasing me from my honourable obligations to the latter, did a flicker of interest disturb his frozen features. I think he might have unbent to the extent of offering me respectful congratulations, had not Plank come bounding in.

  He was alone. I could have told him it was hopeless to try to get hold of the Maiden Eggesford Police Force at that time of day. There was only one of it and in the morning he does his rounds on his bicycle.

  Seeing Jeeves, he registered astonishment.

  ‘Inspector Witherspoon!’ he cried. ‘Amazing how you Scotland Yard fellows always get your man. I suppose you’ve been on Alpine Joe’s trail for weeks like a stoat and a rabbit. Little did he know that Inspector Witherspoon, the man who never sleeps, was watching his every move. Well, you couldn’t have come up with him at a better moment, for in addition to whatever the police want him for he has stolen a valuable cat belonging to my friend Cook. We caught him redhanded, or as redhanded as it is possible to be when stealing cats. But I’m surprised that you should have untied him from the sofa. I always thought the one thing the police were fussy about was the necessity of leaving everythi
ng untouched.’

  I must say I was what is called at a loss of words, but luckily Jeeves had plenty.

  ‘I fail to understand you,’ he said, his voice and manner so chilly that Plank must have been wishing he was wearing his winter woollies. ‘And may I ask why you address me as Inspector Witherspoon? I am not Inspector Witherspoon.’

  Plank clicked his tongue impatiently.

  ‘Of course you are,’ he said. ‘I remember you distinctly. You’ll be telling me next that you didn’t arrest this man at my place in Gloucestershire for trying to obtain five pounds from me by false pretences.’

  Jeeves had no irreproachable mechlin lace at his wrist, or he would unquestionably have flicked a speck of dust off it. He increased the coldness of his manner.

  ‘You are mistaken in every respect,’ he said. ‘Mr Wooster has ample means. It seems scarcely likely, therefore, that he would have attempted to obtain a mere five pounds from you. I can speak with authority as to Mr Wooster’s financial standing, for I am his solicitor and prepare his annual income tax return.’

  ‘So there you are, Plank,’ I said. ‘It must be obvious to every thinking man that you have been having hallucinations, possibly the result of getting a touch of the sun while making a pest of yourself to the natives of Equatorial Africa. If I were you, I’d pop straight back to E. J. Murgatroyd and have him give you something for it. You don’t want that sort of thing to spread. You’ll look silly if it goes too far and we have to bury you before sundown.’

  Plank was plainly shaken. He could not pale beneath his tan because he had so much tan that it was impossible to pale beneath it. I’m not sure I have put that exactly right. What I mean is that he may have paled, but you couldn’t see it because of his sunburn.

  But he was looking very thoughtful, and I knew what was passing in his mind. He was wondering how he was going to explain to Cook, whom by tying people to sofas he had rendered liable for heavy damages for assault and battery and all sorts of things.

  These African explorers think quick. It took him about five seconds flat to decide not to stay and explain to Cook. Then he was out of the room in a flash, his destination presumably Bongo on the Congo or somewhere similar where the arm of the law couldn’t touch him. I don’t suppose he had shown a brisker turn of speed since the last time he had thought the natives seemed friendly and had decided to stay the night, only to have them come after him with assegais.

  My first move after he had left us was, of course, to pay a marked tribute to Jeeves for his services and cooperation. This done, we struck the more social note.

  ‘Did you have a good time last night, Jeeves?’

  ‘Extremely enjoyable, thank you, sir.’

  ‘How was your aunt?’

  ‘At first somewhat dispirited.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She had lost her cat, sir. On leaving for her holiday she placed it in the charge of a friend, and it had strayed.’

  I gasped. A sudden idea had struck me. We Woosters are like that. We are always getting struck by sudden ideas.

  ‘Jeeves! Could it be … Do you think it’s possible …?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She described the animal to me in minute detail, and there can be no doubt that it is the one now in residence at Eggesford Court.’

  I danced a carefree dance step. I know a happy ending when I see one.

  ‘Then we’ve got Cook cold!’

  ‘So it would seem, sir.’

  ‘We go to him and tell him he can carry on plus cat till the race is over, paying, of course, a suitable sum to your aunt. Lend-lease, isn’t it called?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And in addition we make it a proviso … It is proviso?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That he gives Orlo Porter his money. I’d like to see Orlo fixed up. He can’t refuse, because he must have the cat, and if he tries any nolle prosequi as regards Orlo we slap an assault and battery suit on him. Am I right, Jeeves?’

  ‘Indubitably, sir.’

  ‘And another thing. I have thought for some time that the hectic rush and swirl of life in Maiden Eggesford can scarcely be what E. Jimpson Murgatroyd had in mind when he sent me to the country to get a complete rest. What I need is something quieter, more peaceful, as it might be in New York. And if I am mugged, what of it? It is probably all right getting mugged, when you are used to it. Do you agree, Jeeves?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you are in favour of bearding Pop Cook?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s go. My car is outside. Next stop, Eggesford Court.’

  20

  * * *

  IT WAS ABOUT a week after we had fetched up in New York that coming to the breakfast table one morning, rejoicing in my youth if I remember rightly, I found a letter with an English stamp lying by my plate. Not recognizing the writing, I pushed it aside, intending to get at it later after I had fortified myself with a square meal. I generally do this with the letters I get at breakfast time, because if they’re stinkers and you read them on an empty stomach, you start your day all wrong. And in these disturbed times you don’t often find people writing anything but stinkers.

  Some half-hour later, refreshed and strengthened, I opened the envelope, and no wonder the writing had seemed unfamiliar, for it was from Uncle Tom, and he hadn’t written to me since I was at my private school, when, to do him credit, he had always enclosed a postal order for five or ten bob.

  He hauled up his slacks thus:

  Dear Bertie.

  You will doubtless be surprised at hearing from me. I am writing for your aunt, who has met with an unfortunate accident and is compelled to wear her arm in a sling. This occurred during the concluding days of her visit to some friends of hers in Somerset named Briscoe. If I understand her rightly, a party was in progress to celebrate the victory of Colonel Briscoe’s horse Simla in an important race, and a cork, extracted from a bottle of champagne, struck her so sharply on the tip of the nose that she lost her balance and fell, injuring her wrist.

  Then came three pages about the weather, the income tax (which he dislikes) and the recent purchases he had made for his collection of old silver, and finally a postscript:

  P.S. Your aunt asks me to enclose this newspaper clipping.

  I couldn’t find any newspaper clipping, and I supposed he must have forgotten to enclose it. Then I saw it lying on the floor.

  I picked it up. It was from the Bridmouth Argus, with which is incorporated the Somerset Farmer and the South Country Intelligencer, the organ, if you remember, whose dramatic critic gave the old ancestor such a rave notice when she sang ‘Every Nice Girl Loves A Sailor’ in her sailor suit at the Maiden Eggesford village concert.

  It ran as follows:

  JUBILEE STAKES SENSATION

  JUDGES’ DECISION

  Yesterday the Judges, Major Welsh, Admiral Sharpe and Sir Everard Boot, after prolonged consideration, gave their decision in the Jubilee Stakes incident which has led to so much controversy in Bridmouth-on-Sea sporting circles. The race was awarded to Colonel Briscoe’s Simla. Bets will accordingly be settled in accordance with this fiat. Rumour whispers that large sums will change hands.

  Here I paused, for letter and clipping had given me much food for thought.

  Naturally it was with the deepest concern that I pictured the tragic scene of Aunt Dahlia and the champagne cork. Something similar happened to me once during some rout or revelry at the Drones, and I can testify that it calls for all that one has of fortitude. But against this must be set the fact that she had won a substantial chunk of money and would not be faced with the awful necessity of getting into Uncle Tom’s ribs in order to keep the budget balanced.

  But this aspect of the matter ceased to enchain my interest. What I wanted was to probe to the heart of the mystery that had presented itself. Apparently Cook’s Potato Chip had finished first but had been disqualified. Why? Bumping?

  That’s usually what you get d
isqualified for.

  I read on.

  The facts will of course be fresh in the minds of our readers. Rounding into the straight, Simla and his rival were neck and neck, far ahead of the field, and it was plain that one of the two must be the ultimate winner. Nearing the finish, Simla took the lead and was a full length ahead, when a cat with black and white markings suddenly ran on to the course, causing him to shy and unseat his jockey.

  It was then discovered that the cat was the property of Mr Cook and had actually been brought to the course in his horse’s horse box. It was this that decided the judges, who, as we say, yesterday awarded the race to Colonel Briscoe’s entrant. Sympathy has been expressed for Mr Cook.

  Not by me, I hasten to say. I felt it served the old blighter jolly well right. He ought to have known that you can’t go about the place for years making a hellhound of yourself without eventually paying the price. Remember what the fellow said about the mills of the gods.

  I was in philosophical mood as I smoked the after-breakfast cigarette. Jeeves came in to clear away the debris, and I told him the news.

  ‘Simla won, Jeeves.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? That is most gratifying.’

  ‘And Aunt Dahlia got hit on the tip of the nose with a champagne cork.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘At the subsequent celebrations at the Briscoe home.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. A painful experience, but no doubt satisfaction at her financial gains would enable Mrs Travers to bear it with fortitude. Was the tone of her communication cheerful?’

  ‘The letter wasn’t from her, it was from Uncle Tom. He enclosed this.’

  I handed him the clipping, and I could see how deeply it interested him. One of his eyebrows rose at least a sixteenth of an inch.

  ‘Dramatic, Jeeves.’

  ‘Exceedingly, sir. But I am not sure that I altogether agree with the verdict of the judges.’