Leave It to Psmith

by P. G. Wodehouse

  When he saw Freddie his amiability suffered a shock.

  ‘Frederick! I thought I told you to be sure to return on the twelve-fifty train!’

  ‘Missed it, guv’nor,’ mumbled Freddie thickly. ‘Not my fault.’

  ‘H’mph!’ His father seemed about to pursue the subject, but the fact that a stranger and one who was his guest was present apparently decided him to avoid anything in the shape of family wrangles. He peered from Freddie to Psmith and back again. ‘Do you two know each other?’ he said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Psmith. ‘We only met a moment ago.’

  ‘My son Frederick,’ said Lord Emsworth, rather in the voice with which he would have called attention to the presence of a slug among his flowers. ‘Frederick, this is Mr McTodd, the poet, who is coming to stay at Blandings.’

  Freddie started, and his mouth opened. But, meeting Psmith’s friendly gaze, he closed the orifice again without speaking. He licked his lips in an overwrought way.

  ‘You’ll find me next door, if you want me,’ said Lord Emsworth to Psmith. ‘Just discovered that George Willard, very old friend of mine, is in there. Never saw him get on the train. His dog came into my compartment and licked my face. One of my neighbours. A remarkable rose-grower. As you are so interested in flowers, I will take you over to his place some time. Why don’t you join us now?’

  ‘I would prefer, if you do not mind,’ said Psmith, ‘to remain here for the moment and foster what I feel sure is about to develop into a great and lasting friendship. I am convinced that your son and I will have much to talk about together.’

  ‘Very well, my dear fellow. We will meet at dinner in the restaurant-car.’

  Lord Emsworth pottered off, and Psmith rose and closed the door. He returned to his seat to find Freddie regarding him with a tortured expression in his rather prominent eyes. Freddie’s brain had had more exercise in the last few minutes than in years of his normal life, and he was feeling the strain.

  ‘I say, what?’ he observed feebly.

  ‘If there is anything,’ said Psmith kindly, ‘that I can do to clear up any little difficulty that is perplexing you, call on me. What is biting you?’

  Freddie swallowed convulsively.

  ‘I say, he said your name was McTodd!’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But you said it was Psmith.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then why did father call you McTodd?’

  ‘He thinks I am. It is a harmless error, and I see no reason why it should be discouraged.’

  ‘But why does he think you’re McTodd?’

  ‘It is a long story, which you may find tedious. But, if you really wish to hear it . . .’

  Nothing could have exceeded the raptness of Freddie’s attention as he listened to the tale of the encounter with Lord Emsworth at the Senior Conservative Club.

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ he demanded at its conclusion, ‘that you’re coming to Blandings pretending to be this poet blighter?’

  ‘That is the scheme.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I have my reasons, Comrade – what is the name? Threepwood? I thank you. You will pardon me, Comrade Threepwood, if I do not go into them. And now,’ said Psmith, ‘to resume our very interesting chat which was unfortunately cut short this morning, why do you want me to steal your aunt’s necklace?’

  Freddie jumped. For the moment, so tensely had the fact of his companion’s audacity chained his interest, he had actually forgotten about the necklace.

  ‘Great Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, of course!’

  ‘You still have not made it quite clear.’

  ‘It fits splendidly.’

  ‘The necklace?’

  ‘I mean to say, the great difficulty would have been to find a way of getting you into the house, and here you are, coming there as this poet bird. Topping!’

  ‘If,’ said Psmith, regarding him patiently through his eyeglass, ‘I do not seem to be immediately infected by your joyous enthusiasm, put it down to the fact that I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about. Could you give me a pointer or two? What, for instance, assuming that I agreed to steal your aunt’s necklace, would you expect me to do with it, when and if stolen?’

  ‘Why, hand it over to me.’

  ‘I see. And what would you do with it?’

  ‘Hand it over to my uncle.’

  ‘And whom would he hand it over to?’

  ‘Look here,’ said Freddie, ‘I might as well start at the beginning.’

  An excellent idea.’

  The speed at which the train was now proceeding had begun to render conversation in anything but stentorian tones somewhat difficult. Freddie accordingly bent forward till his mouth almost touched Psmith’s ear.

  ‘You see, it’s like this. My uncle, old Joe Keeble . . .’

  ‘Keeble?’ said Psmith. ‘Why,’ he murmured meditatively, ‘is that name familiar?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt, old lad,’ pleaded Freddie.

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘Uncle Joe has a stepdaughter – Phyllis her name is – and some time ago she popped off and married a cove called Jackson . . .’

  Psmith did not interrupt the narrative again, but as it proceeded his look of interest deepened. And at the conclusion he patted his companion encouragingly on the shoulder.

  ‘The proceeds, then, of this jewel-robbery, if it comes off,’ he said, ‘will go to establish the Jackson home on a firm footing? Am I right in thinking that?’

  Absolutely.’

  ‘There is no danger – you will pardon the suggestion – of you clinging like glue to the swag and using it to maintain yourself in the position to which you are accustomed?’

  Absolutely not. Uncle Joe is giving me – er – giving me a bit for myself. Just a small bit, you understand. This is the scheme. You sneak the necklace and hand it over to me. I push the necklace over to Uncle Joe, who hides it somewhere for the moment. There is the dickens of a fuss, and Uncle Joe comes out strong by telling Aunt Constance that he’ll buy her another necklace, just as good. Then he takes the stones out of the necklace, has them reset, and gives them to Aunt Constance. Looks like a new necklace, if you see what I mean. Then he draws a cheque for twenty thousand quid, which Aunt Constance naturally thinks is for the new necklace, and he shoves the money somewhere as a little private account. He gives Phyllis her money, and everybody’s happy. Aunt Constance has got her necklace, Phyllis has got her money, and all that’s happened is that Aunt Constance’s and Uncle Joe’s combined bank balance has had a bit of a hole knocked in it. See?’

  ‘I see. It is a little difficult to follow all the necklaces. I seemed to count about seventeen of them while you were talking, but I suppose I was wrong. Yes, I see, Comrade Threepwood, and I may say at once that you can rely on my co-operation.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Freddie awkwardly, ‘I’ll see that you get a bit all right. I mean . . .’

  Psmith waved his hand deprecatingly.

  ‘My dear Comrade Threepwood, let us not become sordid on this glad occasion. As far as I am concerned, there will be no charge.’

  ‘What! But look here . . .’

  ‘Any assistance I can give will be offered in a purely amateur spirit. I would have mentioned before, only I was reluctant to interrupt you, that Comrade Jackson is my boyhood chum, and that Phyllis, his wife, injects into my life the few beams of sunshine that illumine its dreary round. I have long desired to do something to ameliorate their lot, and now that the chance has come I am delighted. It is true that I am not a man of affluence – my bank-manager, I am told, winces in a rather painful manner whenever my name is mentioned – but I am not so reduced that I must charge a fee for performing, on behalf of a pal, a simple act of courtesy like pinching a twenty thousand pound necklace.’

  ‘Good Lord! Fancy that!’

  ‘Fancy what, Comrade Threepwood?’
>
  ‘Fancy your knowing Phyllis and her husband.’

  ‘It is odd, no doubt. But true. Many a whack at the cold beef have I had on Sunday evenings under their roof, and I am much obliged to you for putting in my way this opportunity of repaying their hospitality. Thank you!’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Freddie, somewhat bewildered by this eloquence.

  ‘Even if the little enterprise meets with disaster, the reflection that I did my best for the young couple will be a great consolation to me when I am serving my bit of time in Wormwood Scrubs. It will cheer me up. The jailers will cluster outside the door to listen to me singing in my cell. My pet rat, as he creeps out to share the crumbs of my breakfast, will wonder why I whistle as I pick the morning’s oakum. I shall join in the hymns on Sundays in a way that will electrify the chaplain. That is to say, if anything goes wrong and I am what I believe is technically termed “copped”. I say “if”,’ said Psmith, gazing solemnly at his companion. ‘But I do not intend to be copped. I have never gone in largely for crime hitherto, but something tells me I shall be rather good at it. I look forward confidently to making a nice, clean job of the thing. And now, Comrade Threepwood, I must ask you to excuse me while I get the half-nelson on this rather poisonous poetry of good old McTodd’s. From the cursory glance I have taken at it, the stuff doesn’t seem to mean anything. I think the boy’s non compos. You don’t happen to understand the expression “Across the pale parabola of Joy”, do you? . . . I feared as much. Well, pip-pip for the present, Comrade Threepwood. I shall now ask you to retire into your corner and amuse yourself for a while as you best can. I must concentrate, concentrate.’

  And Psmith, having put his feet up on the opposite seat and reopened the mauve volume, began to read. Freddie, his mind still in a whirl, looked out of the window at the passing scenery in a mood which was a nice blend of elation and apprehension.

  § 3

  Although the hands of the station clock pointed to several minutes past nine, it was still apparently early evening when the train drew up at the platform of Market Blandings and discharged its distinguished passengers. The sun, taken in as usual by the never-failing practical joke of the Daylight Saving Act, had only just set, and a golden afterglow lingered on the fields as the car which had met the train purred over the two miles of country road that separated the little town from the castle. As they passed in between the great stone gate-posts and shot up the winding drive, the soft murmur of the engines seemed to deepen rather than break the soothing stillness. The air was fragrant with indescribable English scents. Somewhere in the distance sheep-bells tinkled; rabbits, waggling white tails, bolted across the path; and once a herd of agitated deer made a brief appearance among the trees. The only thing that disturbed the magic hush was the fluting voice of Lord Emsworth, on whom the spectacle of his beloved property had acted as an immediate stimulant. Unlike his son Freddie, who sat silent in his corner wrestling with his hopes and fears, Lord Emsworth had plunged into a perfect Niagara of speech the moment the car entered the park. In a high tenor voice, and with wide, excited gestures, he pointed out to Psmith oaks with a history and rhododendrons with a past: his conversation as they drew near the castle and came in sight of the flower-beds taking on an almost lyrical note and becoming a sort of anthem of gladness, through which, like some theme in the minor, ran a series of opprobrious observations on the subject of Angus McAllister.

  Beach, the butler, solicitously scooping them out of the car at the front door, announced that her ladyship and Miss Peavey were taking their after-dinner coffee in the arbour by the bowling-green; and presently Psmith, conducted by his lordship, found himself shaking hands with a strikingly handsome woman in whom, though her manner was friendliness itself, he could detect a marked suggestion of the formidable. yEsthetically, he admired Lady Constance’s appearance, but he could not conceal from himself that in the peculiar circumstances he would have preferred something rather more fragile and drooping. Lady Constance conveyed the impression that anybody who had the choice between stealing anything from her and stirring up a nest of hornets with a short walking-stick would do well to choose the hornets.

  ‘How do you do, Mr McTodd?’ said Lady Constance with great amiability. ‘I am so glad you were able to come after all.’

  Psmith wondered what she meant by ‘after all’, but there were so many things about his present situation calculated to tax the mind that he had no desire to probe slight verbal ambiguities. He shook her hand and replied that it was very kind of her to say so.

  ‘We are quite a small party at present,’ continued Lady Constance, ‘but we are expecting a number of people quite soon. For the moment Aileen and you are our only guests. Oh, I am sorry, I should have . . . Miss Peavey, Mr McTodd.’

  The slim and willowy female who during this brief conversation had been waiting in an attitude of suspended animation, gazing at Psmith with large, wistful eyes, stepped forward. She clasped Psmith’s hand in hers, held it, and in a low, soft voice, like thick cream made audible, uttered one reverent word.

  ‘Maître!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Psmith. A young man capable of bearing himself with calm and dignity in most circumstances, however trying, he found his poise wobbling under the impact of Miss Aileen Peavey.

  Miss Peavey often had this effect on the less soulful type of man, especially in the mornings, when such men are not at their strongest and best. When she came into the breakfast-room of a country house, brave men who had been up a bit late the night before quailed and tried to hide behind newspapers. She was the sort of woman who tells a man who is propping his eyes open with his fingers and endeavouring to correct a headache with strong tea, that she was up at six watching the dew fade off the grass, and didn’t he think that those wisps of morning mist were the elves’ bridal-veils. She had large, fine, melancholy eyes, and was apt to droop dreamily.

  ‘Master!’ said Miss Peavey, obligingly translating.

  There did not seem to be any immediate come-back to a remark like this, so Psmith contented himself with beaming genially at her through his monocle: and Miss Peavey came to bat again.

  ‘How wonderful that you were able to come – after all!’

  Again this ‘after all’ motive creeping into the theme. . . .

  ‘You know Miss Peavey’s work, of course?’ said Lady Constance, smiling pleasantly on her two celebrities.

  ‘Who does not?’ said Psmith courteously.

  ‘Oh, do you?’ said Miss Peavey, gratification causing her slender body to perform a sort of ladylike shimmy down its whole length. ‘I scarcely hoped that you would know my name. My Canadian sales have not been large.’

  ‘Quite large enough,’ said Psmith. ‘I mean, of course,’ he added with a paternal smile, ‘that, while your delicate art may not have a universal appeal in a young country, it is intensely appreciated by a small and select body of the intelligentsia.’

  And if that was not the stuff to give them, he reflected with not a little complacency, he was dashed.

  ‘Your own wonderful poems,’ replied Miss Peavey, ‘are, of course, known the whole world over. Oh, Mr McTodd, you can hardly appreciate how I feel, meeting you. It is like the realisation of some golden dream of childhood. It is like . . .’

  Here the Hon. Freddie Threepwood remarked suddenly that he was going to pop into the house for a whisky and soda. As he had not previously spoken, his observation had something of the effect of a voice from the tomb. The daylight was ebbing fast now, and in the shadows he had contrived to pass out of sight as well as out of mind. Miss Peavey started like an abruptly awakened somnambulist, and Psmith was at last able to release his hand, which he had begun to look on as gone beyond his control for ever. Until this fortunate interruption there had seemed no reason why Miss Peavey should not have continued to hold it till bedtime.

  Freddie’s departure had the effect of breaking a spell. Lord Emsworth, who had been standing perfectly still with vacant eyes, li
ke a dog listening to a noise a long way off, came to life with a jerk.

  ‘I’m going to have a look at my flowers,’ he announced.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Clarence,’ said his sister. ‘It’s much too dark to see flowers.’

  ‘I could smell ’em,’ retorted his lordship argumentatively.

  It seemed as if the party must break up, for already his lordship had begun to potter off, when a new-comer arrived to solidify it again.

  ‘Ah, Baxter, my dear fellow,’ said Lord Emsworth. ‘Here we are, you see.’

  ‘Mr Baxter,’ said Lady Constance, ‘I want you to meet Mr McTodd.’

  ‘Mr McTodd!’ said the new arrival, on a note of surprise.

  ‘Yes, he found himself able to come after all.’

  Ah!’ said the Efficient Baxter.

  It occurred to Psmith as a passing thought, to which he gave no more than a momentary attention, that this spectacled and capable-looking man was gazing at him, as they shook hands, with a curious intensity. But possibly, he reflected, this was merely a species of optical illusion due to the other’s spectacles. Baxter, staring through his spectacles, often gave people the impression of possessing an eye that could pierce six inches of harveyised steel and stick out on the other side. Having registered in his consciousness the fact that he had been stared at keenly by this stranger, Psmith thought no more of the matter.

  In thus lightly dismissing the Baxterian stare, Psmith had acted injudiciously. He should have examined it more closely and made an effort to analyse it, for it was by no means without its message. It was a stare of suspicion. Vague suspicion as yet, but nevertheless suspicion. Rupert Baxter was one of those men whose chief characteristic is a disposition to suspect their fellows. He did not suspect them of this or that definite crime: he simply suspected them. He had not yet definitely accused Psmith in his mind of any specific tort or malfeasance. He merely had a nebulous feeling that he would bear watching.