Mulliner Nights

by P. G. Wodehouse

  The next day was warm and sunny, and it struck Eustace that William would appreciate it if he put his cage out on the window-sill, so that he could get the actinic rays into his system. He did this, accordingly, and, having taken Reginald for his saunter, returned to. the flat, feeling that he had earned the morning bracer. He instructed Blenkinsop, his man, to bring the materials, and soon peace was reigning in the home to a noticeable extent. William was trilling lustily on the window-sill, Reginald was resting from his exertions under the sofa, and Eustace had begun to sip his whisky-and-soda without a care in the world, when the door opened and Blenkinsop announced a visitor.

  ‘Mr Orlando Wotherspoon,’ said Blenkinsop, and withdrew to go on with the motion-picture magazine which he had been reading in the pantry.

  Eustace placed his glass on the table and rose to extend the courtesies in a somewhat puzzled, not to say befogged, state of mind. The name Wotherspoon had struck no chord, and he could not recollect ever having seen the man before in his life.

  And Orlando Wotherspoon was not the sort of person who, once seen, is easily forgotten. He was built on large lines, and seemed to fill the room to overflowing. In physique, indeed, he was not unlike what Primo Camera would have been, if Camera had not stunted his growth by smoking cigarettes when a boy. He was preceded by a flowing moustache of the outsize soup-strainer kind, and his eyes were of the piercing type which one associates with owls, sergeant-majors, and Scotland Yard inspectors.

  Eustace found himself not a little perturbed.

  ‘Oh, hullo!’ he said.

  Orlando Wotherspoon scrutinized him keenly and, it appeared to Eustace, with hostility. If Eustace had been a rather more than ordinarily unpleasant black-beetle this man would have looked at him in much the same fashion. The expression in his eyes was that which comes into the eyes of suburban house-holders when they survey slugs among their lettuces.

  ‘Mr Mulliner?’ he said.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Eustace, feeling that this might well be so.

  ‘My name is Wotherspoon.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eustace. ‘So Blenkinsop was saying, and he’s a fellow I’ve found I can usually rely on.

  ‘I live in the block of flats across the gardens.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Eustace, still at a loss. ‘Have a pretty good time?’

  ‘In answer to your question, my life is uniformly tranquil. This morning, however, I saw a sight which shattered my peace of mind and sent the blood racing hotly through my veins.

  ‘Too bad when it’s like that,’ said Eustace. ‘What made your blood carry on in the manner described?’

  ‘I will tell you, Mr Mulliner. I was seated in my window a few minutes ago, drafting out some notes for my forthcoming speech at the annual dinner of Our Dumb Chums’ League, of which I am perpetual vice-president, when, to my horror, I observed a fiend torturing a helpless bird. For a while I gazed in appalled stupefaction, while my blood ran cold.’

  ‘Hot, you said.’

  ‘First hot, then cold. I seethed with indignation at this fiend.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ said Eustace. ‘If there’s one type of chap I bar, it’s a fiend. Who was the fellow?’

  ‘Mulliner,’ said Orlando Wotherspoon, pointing a finger that looked like a plantain or some unusually enlarged banana, ‘thou art the man!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes,’ repeated the other, ‘you! Mulliner, the Bird-Bullier! Mulliner, the Scourge of Our Feathered Friends! What do you mean, you Torquemada, by placing that canary on the windowsill in the full force of the burning sun? How would you feel if some pop-eyed assassin left you out in the sun without a hat; to fry where you stood?’ He went to the window and hauled the cage in. ‘It is men like you, Mulliner, who block the wheels of the world’s progress and render societies like Our Dumb Chums’ League necessary.

  ‘I thought the bally bird enjoyed it,’ said Eustace feebly.

  ‘Mulliner, you lie!’ said Orlando Wotherspoon.

  And he looked at Eustace in a way that convinced the latter, who had suspected it from the first, that he had not made a new friend.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, hoping to ease the strain, ‘have a spot?’

  ‘I will not have a spot!’

  ‘Right-ho,’ said Eustace. ‘No spot. But, coming back to the agenda, you wrong me, Wotherspoon. Foolish, mistaken, I may have been, but, as God is my witness, I meant well. Honestly, I thought William would be tickled pink if I put his cage out in the sun.

  ‘Tchah!’ said Orlando Wotherspoon.

  And, as he spoke, the dog Reginald, hearing voices, crawled out from under the sofa in the hope that something was going on which might possibly culminate in coffee-sugar.

  At the sight of Reginald’s honest face, Eustace brightened. A cordial friendship had sprung up between these two based on mutual respect. He extended a hand and chirruped.

  Unfortunately, Reginald, suddenly getting a close-up of that moustache and being convinced by the sight of it that plots against his person were toward, uttered a piercing scream and dived back under the sofa, where he remained, calling urgently for assistance.’

  Orlando Wotherspoon put the worst construction on the incident.

  ‘Ha, Mulliner!’ he said. ‘This is vastly well! Not content with inflicting fiendish torments on canaries, it would seem that you also slake your inhuman fury on this innocent dog, so that he runs, howling, at the mere sight of you.’

  Eustace tried to put the thing right.

  ‘I don’t think it’s the mere sight of me he objects to,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ve frequently seen him take quite a long, steady look at me without wincing.’

  ‘Then to what, pray, do you attribute the animal’s visible emotion?’

  ‘Well, the fact is,’ said Eustace, ‘I fancy the root of the trouble is that he doesn’t much care for that moustache of yours.’

  ‘His visitor began to roll up his left coat-sleeve in a meditative way.

  ‘Are you venturing, Mulliner, to criticize my moustache?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Eustace. ‘I admire it.’

  ‘I would be sorry,’ said Orlando Wotherspoon, ‘to think that you were aspersing my moustache, Mulliner. My grandmother has often described it as the handsomest in the West End of London. “Leonine” is the adjective she applies to it. But perhaps you regard my grandmother as prejudiced? Possibly you consider her a foolish old woman whose judgments may be lightly set aside?’

  Absolutely not,’ said Eustace.

  ‘I am glad,’ said Wotherspoon. ‘You would have been the third man I have thrashed within an inch of his life for insulting my grandmother. Or is it,’ he mused, ‘the fourth? I could consult my books and let you know.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Eustace.

  There was a lull in the conversation.

  ‘Well, Mulliner,’ said Orlando Wotherspoon at length, ‘I will leave you. But let me tell you this. You have not heard the last of me. You see this?’ He produced a note-book. ‘I keep here a black list of fiends who must be closely watched. Your Christian name, if you please?’

  ‘Eustace.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Height?’

  ‘Five foot ten.’

  ‘Weight?’

  ‘Well,’ said Eustace, ‘I was around ten stone eleven when you came in. I think I’m a bit lighter now.’

  ‘Let us say ten stone seven. Thank you, Mr Mulliner. Everything is now in order. You have been entered on the list of suspects on whom I make a practice of paying surprise visits. From now on, you will never know when I may or may not knock upon your door.’

  ‘Any time you’re passing,’ said Eustace.

  ‘Our Dumb Chums’ League,’ said Orlando Wotherspoon, putting away his note-book, ‘is not unreasonable in these matters. We of the organization have instructions to proceed in the matter of fiends with restraint and deliberation. For the first offence, we are content to warn. After that
… I must remember, when I return home, to post you a copy of our latest booklet. It sets forth in detail what happened to J. B. Stokes, of 9 Manglesbury Mansions, West Kensington, on his ignoring our warning to him to refrain from throwing vegetables at his cat. Good morning, Mr Mulliner. Do not trouble to see me to the door.’

  Young men of my nephew Eustace’s type are essentially resilient. This interview had taken place on the Thursday. By Friday, at about one o’clock, he had practically forgotten the entire episode. And by noon on Saturday he was his own merry self once more.

  It was on this Saturday, as you may remember, that Eustace was to go down to Wittleford-cum-Bagsley-on-Sea to spend the week-end with his Aunt Georgiana.

  Wittleford-cum-Bagsley-on-Sea, so I am informed by those who have visited it, is not a Paris or a pre-War Vienna. In fact, once the visitor has strolled along the pier and put pennies in the slot machines, he has shot his bolt as far as the hectic whirl of pleasure, for which the younger generation is so avid, is concerned.

  Nevertheless, Eustace found himself quite looking forward to the trip. Apart from the fact that he would be getting himself in solid with a woman who combined the possession of a hundred thousand pounds in Home Rails with a hereditary tendency to rheumatic trouble of the heart, it was pleasant to reflect that in about twenty-four hours from the time he started the girl Beatrice would have called at the empty flat and gone away in a piqued and raised-eyebrow condition, leaving him free to express his individuality in the matter of the girl Marcella.

  He whistled gaily as he watched Blenkinsop pack.

  ‘You have thoroughly grasped the programme outlined for the period of my absence, Blenkinsop?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take Master Reginald for the daily stroll.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘See that Master William does his fluttering.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And don’t get them mixed. I mean, don’t let Reginald flutter and take William for a walk.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right!’ said Eustace. And on Sunday, Blenkinsop — tomorrow, that is to say — a young lady will be turning up for lunch. Explain to her that I’m not here, and give her anything she wants.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Eustace set out upon his journey with a light heart. Arrived at Wittleford-cum-Bagsley-on-Sea, he passed a restful week-end playing double patience with his aunt, tickling her cat under the left ear from time to time, and walking along the esplanade. On the Monday he caught the one-forty train back to London, his aunt cordial to the last.

  ‘I shall be passing through London on my way to Harrogate next Friday,’ she said, as he was leaving. ‘Perhaps you will give me tea?’

  ‘I shall be more than delighted, Aunt Georgiana,’ said Eustace. ‘It has often been a great grief to me that you allow me so few opportunities of entertaining you in my little home. At four-thirty next Friday. Right!’

  Everything seemed to him to be shaping so satisfactorily that his spirits were at their highest. He sang in the train to quite a considerable extent.

  ‘What ho, Blenkinsop!’ he said, entering the flat in a very nearly rollicking manner. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Blenkinsop. ‘I trust that you have enjoyed an agreeable week-end, sir?’

  ‘Topping,’ said Eustace. ‘How are the dumb chums?

  ‘Master William is in robust health, sir.’

  ‘Splendid! And Reginald?’

  ‘Of Master Reginald I cannot speak with the authority of first-hand knowledge, sir, as the young lady removed him yesterday.’

  Eustace clutched at a chair.

  ‘Removed him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Took him away. If you recall your parting instructions, sir, you enjoined upon me that I should give the young lady anything she wanted. She selected Master Reginald. She desired me to inform you that she was sorry to have missed you but quite understood that you could not disappoint your aunt, and that, as you insisted on giving her a birthday present, she had taken Master Reginald.’

  Eustace pulled himself together with a strong effort. He saw that nothing was to be gained by upbraiding the man. Blenkinsop, he realized, had acted according to his lights. He told himself that he should have remembered that his valet was of a literal turn of mind, who always carried out instructions to the letter.

  ‘Get her on the ‘phone, quick,’ he said.

  ‘Impossible, I fear, sir. The young lady informed me that she was leaving for Paris by the two o’clock train this afternoon.’

  ‘Then, Blenkinsop,’ said Eustace, ‘give me a quick one.

  ‘Very good, sir,’

  The restorative seemed to clear the young man’s head.

  ‘Blenkinsop,’ he said, ‘give me your attention. Don’t let your mind wander. We’ve got to do some close thinking — some very close thinking.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  In simple words Eustace explained the position of affairs. Blenkinsop clicked his tongue. Eustace held up a restraining hand.

  ‘Don’t do that, Blenkinsop.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  At any other moment I should be delighted to listen to you giving your imitation of a man drawing corks out of champagne bottles. But not now. Reserve it for the next party you attend.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Eustace returned to the matter in hand.

  ‘You see the position I am in? We must put our heads together, Blenkinsop. How can I account satisfactorily to Miss Tyrrwhitt for the loss of her dog?’

  ‘Would it not be feasible to inform the young lady that you took the animal for a walk in the park and that it slipped its collar and ran away?’

  ‘Very nearly right, Blenkinsop,’ said Eustace, ‘but not quite. What actually happened was that you took it for a walk and, like a perfect chump, went and lost it.’

  ‘Well, really, sir—’

  ‘Blenkinsop,’ said Eustace, ‘if there is one drop of the old -feudal spirit in your system, now is the time to show it. Stand by me in this crisis, and you will not be the loser.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘You realize, of course, that when Miss Tyrrwhitt returns it will be necessary for me to curse you pretty freely in her presence, but you must read between the lines and take it all in a spirit of pure badinage.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Right-ho, then, Blenkinsop. Oh, by the way, my aunt will be coming to tea on Friday.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  These preliminaries settled, Eustace proceeded to pave the way. He wrote a long and well-phrased letter to Marcella, telling her that, as he was unfortunately confined to the house with one of his bronchial colds, he had been compelled to depute the walk-in-the-park-taking of Reginald to his man Blenkinsop, in whom he had every confidence. He went on to say that Reginald, thanks to his assiduous love and care, was in the enjoyment of excellent health and that he would always look back with wistful pleasure to the memory of their long, cosy evenings together. He drew a picture of Reginald and himself sitting side by side in silent communion — he deep in some good book, Reginald meditating on this and that — which almost brought the tears to his eyes.’

  Nevertheless, he was far from feeling easy in his mind. Women, he knew, in moments of mental stress, are always apt to spray the blame a good deal. And, while Blenkinsop would presumably get the main stream, there might well be a few drops left over which would come in his direction.

  For, if this girl Marcella Tyrrwhitt had a defect, it was that the generous warmth of her womanly nature led her now and then to go off the deep end somewhat heartily She was one of those tall, dark girls with flashing eyes who tend to a certain extent, in times of stress, to draw themselves to their full height and let their male vis-à-vis have it squarely in the neck. Time had done much to heal the wound, but he could still recall some of the things she had said to him the night when they had arrived late at the theatre, to discover that
he had left the tickets on his sitting-room mantelpiece. In two minutes any competent biographer would have been able to gather material for a complete character-sketch. He had found out more about himself in that one brief interview than in all the rest of his life.

  Naturally, therefore, he brooded a good deal during the next few days. His friends were annoyed at this period by his absent-mindedness. He developed a habit of saying ‘What?’ with a glazed’ look in his eyes and then sinking back and draining his glass, all of which made him something of a dead weight in general conversation.

  You would see him sitting hunched up in a corner with his jaw drooping, and a very unpleasant spectacle it was. His fellow-members began to complain about it. They said the taxidermist had no right to leave him lying about the club after removing his insides, but ought to buckle to and finish stuffing him and make a job of it.

  He was sitting like this one afternoon, when suddenly, as he raised his eyes to see if there was a waiter handy, he caught sight of the card on the wall which bore upon it the date and the day of the week. And the next moment a couple of fellow-members who had thought he was dead and were just going to ring to have him swept away were stunned to observe him leap to his feet and run swiftly from the room.

  He had just discovered that it was Friday, the day his Aunt Georgiana was coming to tea at his flat. And he only had about three and a half minutes before the kick-off.

  A speedy cab took him quickly home, and he was relieved, ‘on entering the flat, to find that his aunt was not there. The tea-table had been set out, but the room was empty except for William, who was trying over a song in his cage. Greatly relieved, Eustace went to the cage and unhooked the door, and William, after jumping up and down for a few moments in the eccentric way canaries do, hopped out and started to flutter to and fro.

  It was at this moment that Blenkinsop came in with a well-laden plate.

  ‘Cucumber sandwiches, sir,’ said Blenkinsop. ‘Ladies are usually strongly addicted to them.’

  Eustace nodded. The main’s instinct had not led him astray. His aunt was ‘passionately addicted to cucumber sandwiches. Many a time he had seen her fling herself on them like a starving wolf.