Quick Service

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Seeming as it did to indicate that the custodian of his affairs had gone definitely off his onion, it caused him to fear the worst. It is hard enough to get money out of a sane trustee. Let loopiness set In, and the difficulties become immeasurably enhanced.

  All through the afternoon his agitation increased. Unaware of the numerous commissions which Mrs Steptoe had given Sally to execute in the metropolis, he could not understand why she did not appear. By half-past four, as he paced the drive by the main gate, his frame of mind resembled in almost equal proportions that of Mariana in the Moated Grange and of those priests of Baal who gashed themselves with knives.

  The sound of a car caused him to spin round with eyes aglow.

  A natty two-seater was turning in at the gate. Then the glow faded. Its occupant was not Sally but a pleasant-faced young man, a stranger to him, who gave him a genial wave of the hand and passed on towards the house.

  The fact that there were suitcases in the rumble seat of the car diverted his thoughts for a while. He had heard of no guest who was expected. Then he dismissed the matter from his mind and resumed his pacing.

  Shadows had begun to creep across the drive before Sally made her appearance. She found him querulous.

  "At last!"

  "Were you expecting me earlier?"

  "Of course I was. "

  "I had a lot to do."

  There was a gaiety in her manner which suddenly caused his spirits to rise. Hope began to dawn. No girl, he reasoned, who had recently got the bird from a provision merchant could be as chirpy as this.

  "Well?"

  "It's all right."

  "You got the money?"

  "Not exactly. "

  "How do you mean?''

  "He didn't actually give it to me."

  "He's sending it?''

  "No. But it's all right. I'd better tell you what happened."

  "Yes," said Lord Holbeton, who was anxious to know.

  Sally looked about her. Her manner seemed to Lord Holbeton furtive.

  "Do you think anyone can hear us?"

  "No."

  "They might. Get in, and we'll drive along the road."

  "What's all the bally mystery about?''

  "You'll understand."

  She backed the car, and they drove in the direction of Loose Chippings. At the comer by Higgins's duck pond, where there is open country and no facilities for eavesdropping, she halted.

  "I've had the weirdest day, George. I met the most extraordinary young man."

  Lord Holbeton was not interested in extraordinary young men.

  "What happened when you saw old Duff?''

  "Well, he started by being very rude. I don't think he likes you much.

  "He doesn't like anybody."

  "Doesn't he? You little know!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Though like isn't the right word. Not nearly strong enough.

  Well, as I say, he started by being very rude. In fact, I was just sweeping out of the room with my nose in the air when he suddenly said 'Wait!' So I waited."

  "And then?"

  "He sat waggling his eyebrows for a while, and then he said:

  'Let me tell you a little story.' "

  "Yes?"

  ''Well, then he told me it. He said that years ago he had been a young fellow chock full of romance, and he used to dream all the time of some sweet girl who would come into his life like a tender goddess-"

  Lord Holbeton was staring blankly.

  "Old Duff said that?"

  "Yes."

  "You're sure it was old Duff?"

  "Of course.''

  "He must have been tight."

  "Not a bit, though we had been quaffing sherry. As a matter of fact, sherry flowed like water all the time. Mr Weatherby found it in a cupboard."

  "Who the dickens is Mr Weatherby?"

  "He's the extraordinary young man I told you about. He's done the craziest thing-"

  Lord Holbeton's lack of interest in extraordinary young men extended to their unbalanced actions.

  "Well, go on. What about my money?"

  "Where was I? Oh yes, about Mr Duff dreaming of this girl who would come into his life. Well, she came. But unfortunately they quarrelled and she went right out again. And he still loves her! After fifteen years, George. It was the most pathetic thing I ever heard. That poor, lonely old man. My heart just bled for him. Buckets. You know who she is, of course?"

  "How on earth should I know?"

  "Of course you do. You heard what she was saying at breakfast about having engaged to him. Mrs Chavender.''

  "Oh?" said Lord Holbeton. Except for the fact that this had cleared up the mystery of why Mr Duff wanted Mrs Chavender's portrait he found little in it to interest him. If he . had a fault it was that he was a little self-centred. "Well, how about my money?"

  ''I'm coming to that. I've got to tell you the whole story, or you won't understand. Mr Duff still loves Mrs Chavender. You've got that? Well, he's found out about that portrait of her in the breakfast room, and he's dying to have it. He says he wants to hang it up and gaze at it and think of the old days. So he telephoned Mrs Steptoe and asked her to sell it to him."

  "And about my money?"

  "Of course she refused. Mrs Chavender gave Mr Steptoe the portrait, and Mrs Steptoe wouldn't dare sell it for fear of offending her. Mr Duff was brokenhearted."

  "What did he say about my money?"

  "His voice trembled as he told me."

  Her own voice trembled. In any girl who is capable of falling beneath the spell of a man who sings "Trees" there must of necessity be a strong vein of sentiment, and J. B. Duff's desire to possess a concrete reminder of the dear old days had affected Sally deeply.

  "And then he took my breath away. Do you know what he said?"

  "About my money?"

  "No, about this portrait. He said he had got to have it somehow.

  He just had to, he said. And when I said I was afraid I didn't see how it was to be managed, he said you would steal it for him."

  A sound like the wind going out of a dying duck escaped Lord Holbeton.

  "Steal it?"

  "And I said: 'Why, Mr Duff! What a splendid ideal' ..

  Lord Holbeton swallowed.

  "You said: 'What a splendid idea'?"

  "Yes. Because, you see, he says he will give you your money if you do. And it will be quite easy, he pointed out. He said he wasn't asking you to break into . the strong room of t he Bank of England and get away with a ton of gold bars. All you will have to do is wait till there's no one about and snip it out of its frame and hide it under your coat."

  "Oh? " said Lord Holbeton. He was aware that the remark was a weak one, but at the moment he could think of nothing better.

  "One thing I was very firm about though. His idea was that you should take the thing to him in London, and I absolutely refused to dream of it. I said you were very highly strung and that I wasn't going to have you subjected to any nervous strain. So we left it that he was to come and stay at the Rose and Crown in Loose Chippings, and you will take the portrait to him there."

  "Oh?" said Lord Holbeton again.

  "So now all you've got to do it to find a good opportunity. We mustn't fail the poor old man. He's too touching for words. You should have seen his face light up when I said I thought it was a splendid idea."

  Lord Holbeton did not speak. It might have been supposed that what kept him silent was horror at finding the ethical standards of provision merchants so low. This, however, was not the case.

  He had just begun to wonder whether in plighting his troth to a girl who considered it a splendid idea that he should snip portraits out of their frames and hide them under his coat he might not have acted a little rashly.

  Chapter VII

  The two-seater which had passed Lord Holbeton in the drive continued its progress towards the house, and a few moments later Chibnall, the butler, brooding in his pantry over tea and buttered toast, was roused from
a sombre reverie by the sound of the front door bell.

  Chibnall, though of a sedate exterior, was a man of strong passions, and what was causing him to brood was the fact that, looking in at the Rose and Crown that morning for a quick one, he had found his fiancée, Vera Pym, flirting with a commercial traveller. She had, indeed, been in the very act of straightening the latter's tie, and the sight had given him an unpleasant shock.

  This was not the first time he had observed in her conduct a levity which he deplored; and though he had said nothing at the time, merely withdrawing in a rather marked manner, it was his intention before the day was done to write her a pretty nasty note and send it round by the knives-and-boots boy.

  The bell reminded him that there are other things in life besides woman's faithlessness. It was Chibnall, the lover, who had sat down to the tea and toast, but the individual who rose and wiped the butter from his lips and went and opened the front door was Chibnall, the slave of duty.

  "Good afternoon," said the pleasant-faced young man whom he found standing on the mat.

  "Good afternoon, sir," said Chibnall.

  That there are other ways for a new valet to report to G.H.Q. than by driving up to the front door in a sports-model car had not occurred to Joss Weatherby. He was fond of motoring, and his first act on leaving Sally had been to go round to the garage and collect the old machine. The stimulating drive through rural England, which was looking its best on this fine afternoon, together

  with the still more stimulating thought that he was about to take up his residence beneath the same roof as the girl he loved, had lent a sparkle to his eyes and increased the always rather noticeable affability of his manner.

  He looked upon Claines Hall and found it good. The whole setup appealed to him enormously. He liked its mellow walls, its green lawns, its gay flower beds, its twittering birds, its buzzing bees and its tootling insects. And when Chibnall appeared he beamed at him as if he loved him like a brother. The butler could not remember when he had opened the door to a sunnier visitor.

  "Is Mrs Steptoe at home."

  ·

  .. 'Yes sir."

  "Beautiful day."

  "Yes sir.''

  "Nice place, this. Tudor, isn't it?"

  ""Yes sir.''

  "You don't happen to know what the bird would be that I met as I came along the drive, do you? Reddish, with a yellow head."

  "No sir."

  "A pity," said Joss. "I liked its looks."

  Chibnall descended the steps and removed the suitcases from the car. Like Lord Holbeton, he found himself puzzled by them, but it was not for him to comment. In God's good time, no doubt, all would be explained.

  "Oh, thanks."

  "I will have your car taken round to the stables, sir."

  "Will you really?"

  To Joss, in his uplifted mood, this seemed so extraordinarily decent of the man that he had no hesitation in taking a five-pound note from his pocket and handing it to him. He was glad that his successful speculation at the charity gambling place had put him in a position to be able to do so.

  "Why, thank you, sir!" ejaculated Chibnall, and blushed to think how near he had come to saying "Coo." Here, he told himself, was the real thing in guests. Too many of those who had enjoyed Mrs Steptoe's hospitality during his term of office had been content to discharge their obligations with ten bob and a bright smile.

  "It is extremely kind of you, sir."

  "Not at all."

  "If you would come this way, sir. Mrs Steptoe is in the drawing room."

  ·

  They proceeded thither, chatting amiably of this and that.

  Mrs Steptoe had gone to the drawing room not to relax but to concentrate. She was on the eve of giving her first garden party, a social event of the greatest importance, certain to have wide repercussions in the County, and she wanted to go through the list of guests again. She could not rid herself of an uneasy suspicion that she had left out somebody of substance, whose reaction to the slight would be like that of the Bad Fairy who was not invited to the royal christening. Nothing, she knew, more surely gives an aspiring newcomer a social black eye in English County circles than the omission to include in her tea-and-strawberries beano the big shot of the neighbourhood.

  Chibnall's smooth "Mr Weatherby" from the doorway told her how well-founded her fears had been. There was nobody of that name among the "Ws," and the quiet distinction of Joss's costume and the carefree jauntiness of his manner made it plain that here was the son of some noble house. And she could not ask him flatly who he was and where he lived, for that way lay the raised eyebrow and the bleak British stare.

  She was too forceful a woman actually to flutter, but her voice as she addressed him distinctly shook.

  "Oh, how do you do?"

  "How do you do?"

  "What a lovely day!"

  "Delightful."

  "So nice of you to call. Do sit down."

  She motioned her visitor to a chair, and resumed her own. She was conscious that this was not going to be easy.

  The curse of English life, the thing about it that makes strangers put straws in their hair and pick at the coverlet, is, of course, the fact that the best type of father so often has sons with totally different names. You get the Earl of Thingununy, for instance.

  Right. So far, so good . But his heir is Lord Whoosis, and if his union has been still further blessed, the result will be anything from the Hon. Algernon Whatisit to the Hon. Lionel Umph. To ascertain this young man's identity, so that he could be bidden to the garden party, Mrs Steptoe realized that she might have to uncover layer after layer of nomenclature, like a dancer removing the seven veils.

  "Have you come far?" she asked, feeling that here might be a clue on which she could work.

  "From London."

  "Oh?" said Mrs Steptoe, baffled.

  There was a pause. Joss looked about him, admiring the cozy opulence of his surroundings. A man, he felt, might make himself very snug in a place like this. The reflection that during his stay at Claines Hall he was not likely to be given the run of the drawing room had not yet suggested itself.

  "It must have been warm in London today."

  "There were moments when things got very warm."

  "so pleasant getting back to the country."

  Oh, most.

  "Sussex is so lovely at this time of year."

  "At any time of year."

  "Which part of it do you like best?" asked Mrs. Steptoe, hoping for an outburst of local patriotism.

  "All of it. Hullo," said Joss, whose eye, roving along the opposite wall, had been suddenly arrested, "isn't that a Corot over there?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "That picture," said Joss, rising. "A Corot, surely?"

  "Is it?" said Mrs Steptoe, who was not really an authority on Art, though she knew what she liked.

  "Yes, that's right. His Italian period. Very plastic."

  "Oh yes?"

  "Very, ve-ry plastic. I like the structure. Interesting. Calmly stated. Strong, but not bombastic. The values are close and the colours finely related."

  "Perhaps you would care for a cup of tea?" said Mrs Steptoe.

  It may have been a slight asperity in her tone that gave him the feeling, but there came over Joss at this point a sense of something being wrong, Though nothing could have been more enjoyable than this exchange of views on the Barbizon school he was conscious that in some way he had been remiss. And then he saw what had happened. He had allowed joie de vivre to impair his technique.

  It was all very well to love everybody on this happy day, but he must not forget that he was a gentleman's personal gentleman.

  Long ere this, he should have been scattering "Madams" like birdseed.

  "Thank you, madam," he said, rectifying the error.

  Mrs Steptoe blinked, but came back strongly.

  "Tea's one of your English customs I've taken to in a big way," she said. "My husband doesn't like it, but I never m
iss my cup at five o'clock."

  "Indeed, madam?"

  "So refreshing."

  "Extremely, madam."