The Jeeves Omnibus (361 page)

‘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 everything 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 disqualified 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.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I should have been inclined to regard the episode as an Act of God.’

‘Well, thank goodness the decision wasn’t up to you. The imagination boggles at the thought of how Aunt Dahlia would
have
reacted if it had gone the other way. One pictures her putting hedgehogs in Major Welsh’s bed and getting fourteen days without the option for pouring buckets of water out of windows on the heads of Admiral Sharpe and Sir Everard Boot. I should have got nervous prostration in the first couple of days. And it was difficult enough to avoid nervous prostration in Maiden Eggesford as it was, Jeeves,’ I said, my philosophical mood now buzzing along on all twelve cylinders. ‘Do you ever brood on life?’

‘Occasionally, sir, when at leisure.’

‘What do you make of it? Pretty odd in spots, don’t you think?’

‘It might be so described, sir.’

‘This business of such-and-such seeming to be so-and-so, when it really isn’t so-and-so at all. You follow me?’

‘Not entirely, sir.’

‘Well, take a simple instance. At first sight Maiden Eggesford had all the indications of being a haven of peace. You agreed with me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As calm and quiet as you could wish, with honeysuckle-covered cottages and apple-cheeked villagers wherever you looked. Then it tore off its whiskers and revealed itself as an inferno. To obtain calm and quiet we had to come to New York, and there we got it in full measure. Life saunters along on an even keel. Nothing happens. Have we been mugged?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Or shot by youths?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No, sir, is right. We are tranquil. And I’ll tell you why. There are no aunts here. And in particular we are three thousand miles away from Mrs Dahlia Travers of Brinkley Manor, Market Snodsbury, Worcestershire. Don’t get me wrong, Jeeves, I love the old flesh and blood. In fact I revere her. Nobody can say she isn’t good company. But her moral code is lax. She cannot distinguish between what is according to Hoyle and what is not according to Hoyle. If she wants to do anything, she doesn’t ask herself “Would Emily Post approve of this?”, she goes ahead and does it, as she did in this matter of the cat. Do you know what is the trouble with aunts as a class?’

‘No, sir.’

‘They are not gentlemen,’ I said gravely.

‘EXTRICATING YOUNG GUSSIE’