Mulliner Nights

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Well, to be brief, that was the view which Mervyn took of the matter in the first flush of his astonishment.

  Then he remembered that his uncle always opened the castle for the Christmas festivities, and these strawberries were, no doubt, intended for Exhibit A at some forthcoming rout or merry-making.

  Well, after that, of course, everything was simple. A child would have known what to do. Hastening back to the house, Mervyn returned with a cardboard box and, keeping a keen eye out for the head-gardener, hurried in, selected about two dozen of the finest specimens, placed them in the box, ran back to the house again, reached for the railway guide, found that there was a train leaving for London in an hour, changed into town clothes, seized his top hat, borrowed the stable-boy’s bicycle, pedalled to the station, and about four hours later was mounting the front-door steps of Clarice Mallaby’s house in Eaton Square with the box tucked under his arm.

  No, that is wrong. The box was not actually tucked under his arm, because he had left it in the train. Except for that, he had carried the thing through without a hitch.

  Sturdy common sense is always a quality of the Mulliners, even of the less mentally gifted of the family. It was obvious to Mervyn that no useful end was to be gained by ringing the bell and rushing into the girl’s presence, shouting ‘See what I’ve brought you!’

  On the other hand, what to do? He was feeling somewhat unequal to the swirl of events.

  Once, he tells me, some years ago, he got involved in some amateur theatricals, to play the role of a butler: and his part consisted of the following lines and business:

  (Enter JORKINS, carrying telegram on salver.)

  JORKINS: A telegram, m’lady.

  (Exit JORKINS)

  and on the night in he came, full of confidence, and, having said:

  A telegram, m’lady,’ extended an empty salver towards the heroine, who, having been expecting on the strength of the telegram to clutch at her heart and say: ‘My God!’ and tear open the envelope and crush it in nervous fingers and fall over in a swoon, was considerably taken aback, not to say perturbed.

  He felt now as he had felt then.

  Still,, he had enough sense left to see the way out. After a couple of turns up and down the south side of Eaton Square, he came — rather shrewdly, I must confess — to the conclusion that the only person who could help him in this emergency was Oofy Prosser.

  The way Mervyn sketched out the scenario in the rough, it all looked pretty plain sailing. He would go to Oofy, whom, as I told you, he had been saving up for years, and with one single impressive gesture get into his ribs for about twenty quid.

  He would be losing money on the deal, of course, because he had always had Oofy scheduled for at least fifty. But that could not be helped.

  Then off to Bellamy’s and buy strawberries. He did not exactly relish the prospect of meeting the black satin girl again, but when love is calling these things have to be done.

  He found Oofy at home, and plunged into the agenda without delay.

  ‘Hullo, Oofy, old man!’ he said. ‘How are you, Oofy, old man? I say, Oofy, old man, I do like that tie you’re wearing. What I call something like a tie. Quite the snappiest thing I’ve seen for years and years and years and years. I wish I could get ties like that. But then, of course, I haven’t your exquisite taste. What I’ve always said about you, Oofy, old man, and what I always will say, is that you have the most extraordinary flair — it amounts to genius — in the selection of ties. But, then, one must bear in mind that anything would look well on you, because you have such a clean-cut, virile profile. I met a man the other day who said to me: “I didn’t know Ronald Colman was in England.” And I said:

  “He isn’t.” And he said: “But I saw you talking to him outside the Blotto Kitten.” And I said: “That wasn’t Ronald Colman. That was my old pal — the best pal any man ever had — Oofy Prosser.” And he said: “Well, I never saw such a remarkable resemblance.” And I said: “Yes, there is a great resemblance, only, of course, Oofy is much the better-looking.” And this fellow said: “Oofy Prosser? Is that the Oofy Prosser, the man whose name you hear everywhere?” And I said: “Yes, and I’m proud to call him my friend. I don’t suppose,” I said, “there’s another fellow in London in such demand. Duchesses clamour for him, and, if you ask a princess to dinner, you have to add: ‘To meet Oofy Prosser,’ or she won’t come. This,” I explained, “is because, in addition to being the handsomest and best-dressed man in Mayfair, he is famous for his sparkling wit and keen — but always kindly — repartee. And yet, in spite of all, he remains simple, unspoilt, unaffected.” Will you lend me twenty quid, Oofy, old man?’

  ‘No,’ said Oofy Prosser.

  Mervyn paled.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘N — ruddy — o!’ said Oofy firmly.

  Mervyn clutched at the mantelpiece.

  ‘But, Oofy, old man, I need the money — need it sorely.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  It seemed to Mervyn that the only thing to do was to tell all. Clearing his throat, he started in at the beginning. He sketched the course of his great love in burning words, and brought the story up to the point where the girl had placed her order for strawberries.

  ‘She must be cuckoo,’ said Oofy Prosser.

  Mervyn was respectful, but firm.

  ‘She isn’t cuckoo,’ he said. ‘I have felt all along that the incident showed what a spiritual nature she has. I mean to say, reaching out yearningly for the unattainable and all that sort of thing, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the broad, basic point us that she wants strawberries, and I’ve got to collect enough money to get her them.’

  ‘Who is this half-wit?’ asked Oofy.

  Mervyn told him, and Oofy seemed rather impressed.

  ‘I know her.’ He mused awhile. ‘Dashed pretty girl.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Mervyn. ‘What eyes!’ Yes.’

  ‘What hair!’ Yes.’

  ‘What a figure!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oofy. ‘I always think she’s one of the prettiest girls in London.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mervyn. ‘Then, on second thoughts, old pal, you will lend me twenty quid to buy her strawberries?’

  ‘No,’ said Oofy.

  And Mervyn could not shift him. In the end he gave it up.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Oh, very well. If you won’t, you won’t. But, Alexander Prosser,’ proceeded Mervyn, with a good deal of dignity, ‘just let me tell you this. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a tie like that beastly thing you’re wearing. I don’t Ike your profile. Your hair is getting thin on the top. And I heard a certain prominent society hostess say the other day that the great drawback to living in London was that a woman couldn’t give so much as the simplest luncheon-party without suddenly finding that that appalling man Prosser — I quote her words —had wriggled out of the woodwork and was in her midst. Prosser, I wish you a very good afternoon!’

  Brave words, of course, but, when you came right down to it, they could not be said to have got him anywhere. After the first thrill of telling Oofy what he thought of him had died away, Mervyn realized that his quandary was now greater than ever. Where was he to look for aid and comfort? He had friends, of course, but the best of them wasn’t good for more than an occasional drink or possibly a couple of quid, and what use was that to a man who needed at least a dozen strawberries at a pound apiece?

  Extremely bleak the world looked to my cousin’s unfortunate son, and he was in sombre mood as he wandered along Piccadilly. As he surveyed the passing populace, he suddenly realized, he tells me, what these Bolshevist blokes were driving at. They had spotted — as he had spotted now — that what was wrong with the world was that all the cash seemed to be centred in the wrong hands and needed a lot of broad-minded redistribution.

  Where money was concerned, he perceived, merit counted for nothing. Money was too apt to be collared by some
rotten bounder or bounders, while the good and deserving man was left standing on the outside, looking in. The sight of all those expensive cars rolling along, crammed to the bulwarks with overfed males and females with fur coats and double chins, made him feel, he tells me, that he wanted to buy a red tie and a couple of bombs and start the Social Revolution. If Stalin had come along at that moment, Mervyn would have shaken him by the hand.

  Well, there is, of course, only one thing for a young man to do when he feels like that. Mervyn hurried along to the club and in rapid succession drank three Martini cocktails.

  The treatment was effective, as it always is. Gradually the stern, censorious mood passed, and he began to feel an optimistic glow. As the revivers slid over the larynx, he saw that all was not lost. He perceived that he had been leaving out of his reckoning that sweet, angelic pity which is such a characteristic of woman.

  Take the case of a knight of old, he meant to say. Was anyone going to tell him that if a knight of old had been sent off by a damsel on some fearfully tricky quest and had gone through all sorts of perils and privations for her sake, facing dragons in black satin and risking going to chokey and what not, the girl would have given him the bird when he got back, simply because —looking at the matter from a severely technical standpoint — he had failed to bring home the gravy?

  Absolutely not, Mervyn considered. She would have been most awfully braced with him for putting up such a good show and would have comforted and cosseted him.

  This girl Clarice, he felt, was bound to do the same, so obviously the move now was to toddle along to Eaton Square again and explain matters to her. So he gave his hat a brush, flicked a spot of dust from his coat-sleeve, and shot off in a taxi.

  All during the drive he was rehearsing what he would say to her, and it sounded pretty good to him. In his mind’s eye he could see the tears coming into her gentle eyes as he told her about the Arm of the Law gripping his trouser-seat. But, when he arrived, a hitch occurred. There was a stage wait. The butler at Eaton Square told him the girl was dressing.

  ‘Say that Mr Mulliner has called,’ said Mervyn.

  So the butler went upstairs, and presently from aloft there came the clear penetrating voice of his loved one telling the butler to bung Mr Mulliner into the drawing-room and lock up all the silver.

  And Mervyn went into the drawing-room and settled down to wait.

  It was one of those drawing-rooms where there is not a great deal to entertain and amuse the visitor. Mervyn tells me that he got a good laugh out of a photograph of the girl’s late father on the mantelpiece — a heavily-whiskered old gentleman who reminded him of a burst horsehair sofa — but the rest of the appointments were on the dull side. They consisted of an album of views of Italy and a copy of Indian Love Lyrics bound in limp cloth: and it was not long before he began to feel a touch of ennui.

  He polished his shoes with one of the sofa-cushions, and took his hat from the table where he had placed it and gave it another brush: but after that there seemed to be nothing in the way of intellectual occupation offering itself, so he just leaned back in a chair and unhinged his lower jaw and let it droop, and sank into a sort of coma. And it was while he was still in this trance that he was delighted to hear a dog-fight in progress in the street. He went to the window and looked out, but the thing was apparently taking place somewhere near the front door, and the top of the porch hid it from him.

  Now, Mervyn hated to miss a dog-fight. Many of his happiest hours had been spent at dog-fights. And this one appeared from the sound of it to be on a more or less major scale. He ran down the stairs and opened the front door.

  As his trained senses had told him, the encounter was being staged at the foot of the steps. He stood in the open doorway and drank it in. He had always maintained that you got the best dog-fights down in the Eaton Square neighbourhood, because there tough animals from the King’s Road, Chelsea, district, were apt to wander in — dogs who had trained on gin and flat-irons at the local public-houses and could be relied on to give of their best.

  The present encounter bore out this view. It was between a sort of consommé of mastiff and Irish terrier, on the one hand, and, on the other, a long-haired macédoine of about seven breeds of dog who had an indescribable raffish look, as if he had been mixing with the artist colony down by the river. For about five minutes it was as inspiring a contest as you could have wished to see; but at the end of that time it stopped suddenly, both principals simultaneously observing a cat at an area gate down the road and shaking hands hastily and woofing after her.

  Mervyn was not a little disappointed at this abrupt conclusion to the entertainment, but it was no use repining. He started to go back into the house and was just closing the front door, when a messenger-boy appeared, carrying a parcel.

  ‘Sign, please,’ said the messenger-boy.

  The lad’s mistake was a natural one. Finding Mervyn standing in the doorway without a hat, he had assumed him to be the butler. He pushed the parcel into his hand, made him sign a yellow paper, and went off, leaving Mervyn with the parcel.

  And Mervyn, glancing at it, saw that it was addressed to the girl - Clarice.

  But it was not this that made him reel where he stood. What made him reel where he stood was the fact that on the paper outside the thing was a label with ‘Bellamy & Co., Bespoke Fruitists’ on it. And he was convinced, prodding it, that there was some squashy substance inside which certainly was not apples, oranges, nuts, bananas, or anything of that nature.

  Mervyn lowered his shapely nose and gave a good hard sniff at the parcel. And, having done so, he reeled where he stood once more.

  A frightful suspicion had shot through him.

  It was not that my cousins son was gifted beyond the ordinary in the qualities that go to make a successful detective. You would not have found him deducing anything much from footprints or cigar-ash. In fact, if this parcel had contained cigar-ash, it would have meant nothing to him. But in the circumstances anybody with his, special knowledge would have been suspicious.

  For consider the facts. His sniff had told him that beneath the outward wrapping of paper lay strawberries. And the only person beside himself who knew that the girl wanted strawberries was Oofy Prosser. About the only man in London able to buy strawberries at that time of year was Oofy. And Oofy’s manner, he recalled, when they were talking about the girl’s beauty and physique generally, had been furtive and sinister.

  To rip open the paper, therefore, and take a look at the enclosed card was with Mervyn Mulliner the work of a moment.

  And, sure enough, it was as he had foreseen. ‘Alexander C. Prosser’ was the name on the card, and Mervyn tells me he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the C. didn’t stand for ‘Clarence.

  His first feeling, he tells me, as he stood there staring at that card, was one of righteous indignation at the thought that any such treacherous, double-crossing hound as Oofy Prosser should have been permitted to pollute the air of London, W.1, all these years. To refuse a fellow twenty quid with one hand, and then to go and send his girl strawberries with the other, struck Mervyn as about as low-down a bit of hornswoggling as you could want.

  He burned with honest wrath. And he was still burning when the last cocktail he had had at the club, which had been lying low inside him all this while, suddenly came to life and got action. Quite unexpectedly, he tells me, it began to frisk about like a young lamb, until it leaped into his head and gave him the idea of a lifetime.

  What, he asked himself, was the matter with suppressing this card, freezing on to the berries, and presenting them to the girl with a modest flourish as coming from M. Mulliner, Esq? And, he answered himself, there was abso-bally-nothing the matter with it. It was a jolly sound scheme and showed what three medium dry Martinis could do.

  He quivered all over with joy and elation. Standing there in the hall, he felt that there was a Providence, after all, which kept an eye on good men and saw to it that they came out on top in the end.
In fact, he felt so extremely elated that he burst into song. And he had not got much beyond the first high note when he heard Clarice Mallaby giving tongue from upstairs.

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘What did you say?’ said Mervyn.

  ‘I said “Stop it!” The cat’s downstairs with a headache, trying to rest.’

  ‘I say,’ said Mervyn, ‘are you going to be long?’

  ‘How do you mean — long?’

  ‘Long dressing. Because I’ve something I want to show you.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Mervyn carelessly. ‘Nothing par-ticular. Just a few assorted strawberries.’

  ‘Eek!’ said the girl. ‘You don’t mean you’ve really got them?’

  ‘Got them?’ said Mervyn. ‘Didn’t I say I would?’

  ‘I’ll be down in just one minute,’ said the girl.

  Well, you know what girls are. The minute stretched into five minutes, and the five minutes into a quarter of an hour, and Mervyn made the tour of the drawing-room, and looked at the photograph of her late father, and picked up the album of Views of Italy, and opened Indian Love Lyrics at page forty-three and shut it again, and took up the cushion and gave his shoes another rub, and brushed his hat once more, and still she didn’t come.

  And so, by way of something else to do, he started brooding on the strawberries for a space.

  Considered purely as strawberries, he tells me, they were a pretty rickety collection, not to say spavined. They were an unhealthy whitish-pink in colour and looked as if they had just come through a lingering illness which had involved a good deal of blood-letting by means of leeches.

  ‘They don’t look much,’ said Mervyn to himself.

  Not that it really mattered, of course, because all the girl had told him to do was to get her strawberries, and nobody could deny that these were strawberries. C.3, though they might be, they were genuine strawberries, and from that fact there was no getting away.