Money in the Bank

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Brandy, like port, has the disadvantage that it is not good for the figure, but Mr. Molloy, though a man whose constant aim it was to preserve the streamlined body, was prepared in consideration of the special circumstances to disregard this. Pie had his couple, and they acted like magic. By the time he had finished, he was throwing the pistol in the air and catching it by the barrel. The suggestion he conveyed was that just one more whack at the life-giving fluid would have had him balancing the weapon on the tip of his nose.

  It was with a hearty intrepidity, accordingly, that he advanced into the room. There were three persons present, and he had expected only one, but this in no way disconcerted him. The more, he felt, the merrier. And as for experiencing any shyness or embarrassment at being obliged to say "Stick 'em up!" he thought it just the thing one would naturally say at such a moment.

  His abrupt entry had produced a silence, but it was not in Lord Uffenham to abstain for long from probing and questioning.

  "Stick what up?" he enquired, with his usual thirst for information.

  Soapy explained that he had referred to the hands of those present, and Lord Uffenham wanted to know why.

  "What's all this about?" he said, turning to Jeff. "Is the blighter tight?"

  Soapy made his position clear.

  "I want that tobacco jar."

  Anne uttered a cry.

  " Oh, no! Don't give it him, darling!"

  "Give it him?" said Lord Uffenham, surprised. "When it's full of my dashed diamonds? Of course, I won't give it him."

  Soapy, who had been led to expect that if he said " Stick 'em up!" his public would do the rest, might have been taken aback by this attitude, had it not been for the beneficent effect of the two brandies. "Get tough," they whispered to him, so he got tough.

  "Slip it across, or I'll blow a hole in you!"

  Lord Uffenham ignored this observation. Ever since the interview had begun, he had been staring at Soapy in his unblinking way, and he now recognised him. He was also reminded of something he wanted to say to him.

  "You're Mrs. Molloy's husband, aren't yer?" It was a description which some men might have resented, but Soapy was proud to be so labelled. "That's me, brother."

  "Thought so. I've noticed the back of your head, when I've been waiting at dinner. I don't know if you know it, but you've got a bald spot coming."

  Soapy's jaw fell.

  "You don't mean that?"

  "I do. If you aren't careful, you'll be getting as bald as a toad's stomach. Try Scalpo. Excellent stuff."

  "I will.” said Soapy, fervently. "Thanks for telling me."

  He raised a hand to feel the back of his head, and found that it was holding a pistol. The discovery recalled him sharply to his duty.

  "Well, to hell with all that," he said, blushing as he thought what his wife would have felt, had she been there to witness his neglect of the vital issue. "Gimme that jar."

  His insistence annoyed Lord Uffenham.

  "But I keep telling yer it's got my diamonds in it."

  "I think that's why he wants it," said Jeff. "I ought to have mentioned it to you before, but he's a crook."

  "A crook? You mean one of these foul gangsters?"

  "Something on those lines. That was why I wanted you to be careful what you said to Mrs. Molloy."

  "Is that sweet little woman a crook, too?"

  "More deadly than the male."

  "Lord-love-a-duck!" said Lord Uffenham, pained and disillusioned. "I must think this over."

  "Gimme that jar," said Soapy, but he might have saved his breath. Lord Uffenham was in a trance.

  There was a silence. Soapy was uncertain as to what his wife would wish him to do next. Anne was looking at Jeff reproachfully. He was standing with his hands in the air, and this meek acceptance of the position came as a shock to her. She disliked him, but she had supposed him a man of spirit.

  "Can't you do something?" she demanded.

  Before he could reply, Lord Uffenham had come to life, and it was evident that his meditations had been fruitful. There was a sort of phosphorescent glow in his eyes which looked like the light of inspiration.

  "Leave this to me, my dear feller," he said, buoyantly. "I can handle this. I've suddenly remembered something."

  He advanced on Soapy, waggling the tobacco jar sternly.

  "You can't point that gun," he said. "You can't pull the trigger. You can't even hold the gun!"

  Soapy could not follow this. "Why not?" he asked, surprised.

  Lord Uffenham, as he turned to Jeff, was plainly disappointed.

  "Odd. It doesn't seem to work. I heard a feller in a play in New York say that to a feller with a pistol, and the other feller, the feller with the pistol, just dropped the dashed thing and burst into tears. Perhaps I didn't say it right."

  "It sounded fine," Jeff assured him. "But I doubt if mere words are what you need here. Excuse me a moment."

  With a sudden dive, he launched himself at Soapy's knees, and Soapy, who, though he had seen him coming, had expected him to arrive a good deal higher up, crumpled beneath the onslaught. Jeff's arms were round him before he could step aside, and he staggered and fell. There was a sharp report, as the pistol exploded, and then the confused noise of two strong men face to face, rolling about on the carpet.

  Every drop of fighting blood in Lord Uffenham's veins stirred at the sight. He started like a war horse. A good many years had passed since he, too, had rolled about on carpets in this manner, but the old spirit still lingered and he itched to join in the fray.

  Pawing the air and snorting valiantly, he found himself hampered by the tobacco jar. A man cannot give of his best in a rough and tumble unless his hands are free. And he was wondering where to put the thing so that it would be safe for a minute or two, when he was aware of a sylphlike form at his elbow and gratefully enlisted its services.

  "Just catch hold of this, will yer, my dear," he said.

  It was only after he had handed over the encumbrance that he made the discovery that his female assistant was not, as he had supposed, his niece Anne, but that ex sweet little woman, Dolly Molloy.

  The report of the pistol was what had brought Dolly to the study. After locking the cellar door on Mrs. Cork, she had hurried to the garage, started up her hostess's two-seater and steered it out into the drive, and it had been her intention to remain seated at the wheel till Soapy joined her. But shots in the night alter everything. They always caused Inspector Purvis to break into a sharp run, and they had the same effect on Dolly.

  She had not liked the sound of that shot. It seemed to suggest, that her mate had struck a sticky patch, and, like a good wife, she flew to his assistance. A glance told her that she had done well to make, it snappy.

  At the moment when she entered the room, Soapy had contrived with a lucky kick to free himself for an instant from his adversary's clutching hands, and he was now on his feet. But he was in poor shape. Selling shares in non-existent oil wells is profitable, but it does not develop the thews and sinews, and only the two brandies had enabled Soapy to put up the admirable fight he had been doing. He had the air of a man who would crumble at the next onslaught.

  And it was plain this onslaught was in the very process of developing. Jeff, too, had risen, and his whole demeanour was so patently that of one who is measuring his distance preparatory to swinging the right to the button that Dolly did not hesitate, but acted at once like the resourceful little woman she was. She raised the tobacco jar in both hands and brought it down with a bump on the back of his head.

  The. tobacco jar was one of those large, thick, bulging tobacco jars, constructed apparently of some sort of stone and ornamented with a college coat of arms. Lord Uffenham had bought it in his freshman year at Cambridge, and the fact that in all this time it had not managed to get itself broken testifies to its rugged strength.

  Dolly, moreover, though of apparently frail physique, was stronger than she looked. She possessed good, muscular wrists and had a n
ice sense of timing. The result was that one blow or buffet, as Ernest Pennefather would have termed it, was amply sufficient. Jeff's eyes rolled heavenwards, his knees buckled beneath him, and he sagged to the floor.

  And, as he did so, Anne sprang forward with an anguished scream and flung herself on the remains.

  "Jeff!" she cried. "Oh, Jeff, darling!"

  Considering her views, strongly held and freely expressed, regarding this young man, such agitation may appear strange. One would have expected a "Bravo!" or possibly a round of applause. But it is a well-known fact, to which any authority on psychology can testify, that at times like this the feminine outlook tends to extreme and sudden alteration.

  A girl may scorn and loathe the scrum-half who leaps at her in rhododendron walks, but let her behold that scrum-half weltering in his blood after being rapped over the head with a tobacco jar, and hate becomes pity, pity forgiveness, and forgiveness love.

  It is true that Jeff was not weltering in a great deal of blood, for all that had happened was that the ragged edge of the arms of Lord Uffenham's Alma Mater had scratched his scalp, but he was weltering in quite enough to make Anne realise that she loved him, that she would always love him and that, so far from being the dregs of the human species, he was the finest flower that species had produced to date.

  "Oh, Jeff!" she wailed.

  "His name's Walter," corrected Lord Uffenham, who, tense though the situation was, could not let this pass. "No, by Jove, you're right," he added. "Forget my own name next."

  He turned to stare reproachfully at Dolly, who was picking up the pistol.

  "Hey!" he said.

  Dolly was busy with Soapy, who was leaning against the desk, slowly recovering. "Feeling okay, honey?"

  "Shall be in a minute, sweetness."

  "At-a-boy. Did you get the ice?"

  "It's in the jar."

  "In the jar?"

  "Sure, in the jar. The old egg said so."

  "If by 'the old egg' you mean me," said Lord Uffenham, offended, "let me tell you, you greasy Tishbite---"

  Dolly raised a hand.

  "Just a minute, Pop. Be with you in a second." She turned back to Soapy. "Get to the car, pettie, quick, and start her up. We want to be on our way before Chimp comes horning in. It's just along the drive. Turn to the right as you go out. Take the jar."

  "Okay, honeybunch," said Mr. Molloy dutifully, and disappeared.

  "Now, Pop," said Dolly briskly, "I'm with you. What's on your mind?"

  Lord Uffenham stared.

  "What's on my mind? What's on my dashed mind? D'yer realize that every penny of my capital is in that tobacco jar that your blasted husband's gone off with?"

  "Is that a fact?"

  "Every ruddy penny."

  Dolly chewed her lip. She appeared genuinely distressed.

  "That's kinda tough," she agreed. "I hate to do a thing like this to you, Pop, because you're a good old scout. Listen. Here's the best way out. We'll cut you in for twenty-five per."

  Anne looked up. Her face was twisted.

  "I believe he's dead," she whispered.

  "Oh, I shouldn't think so," said Dolly.

  Lord Uffenham betrayed a certain petulance.

  "Don't interrupt now, my dear. We're talking business. Yer'll do what?"

  "Slip you twenty-five per cent of the gross receipts. I wouldn't do it for everyone, mind you. It's a lot of money. And that's not a firm offer," Dolly warned him. " It all depends on whether we can freeze Chimp out of the deal. How about it, Pop? Think on your feet. I'm in a hurry."

  Lord Uffenham was breathing stertorously. He seemed unimpressed by the magnanimity of the concession.

  "Twenty-five per cent? Are you aware that my niece's little bit of stuff is in that jar, too?"

  "You don't say? How did that happen?"

  "I had charge of it. It was my sacred trust, dash it. I'll have to make it good to her. D'yer realise what this means? It means that I've got to marry Mrs. Cork!"

  Dolly's grave, concerned face broke into a relieved smile.

  "Well, why didn't you tell me before that you and the Corko were that way? Why, this makes us all happy. If you're all set to marry Mrs. Cork, there's nothing to worry about. She's got more dough than you could shake a stick at. You won't miss this little bit of chicken-feed I and Soapy are taking. Listen, Pop. She's in the cellar. Here's the key. Go let her out, and don't do it till she says 'Yes' through the keyhole. Good-bye, I must rush," said Dolly, and vanished.

  For some moments after she had gone, Lord Uffenham stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the key in his hand. He heard dimly, as in a dream, his niece saying something about somebody not being dead, but he was unable to give her his attention. He was thinking of Mrs. Cork as a life-partner and using all his powerful will to force himself to the dread task before him.

  Then suddenly he turned and started for the door, moving slowly but with steady eye and squared jaw, like an aristocrat of the French Revolution walking to the tumbril.

  It was at this moment that there came from without the sound of a car gathering speed down the drive.

  It had not taken Dolly long to reach the car. Like Myrtle Shoesmith and Anne Benedick, she could move quickly when she chose.

  Her mood, as she hastened to where the tail-light shone redly in the darkness, was one of quiet happiness. Anther first suspicion that all might not be for the best in the best of all possible worlds came when, arriving where the car waited, its engine purring softly, she saw standing beside it not only her husband but the cheese-mite Twist.

  "Oh, hello," she said, not a little taken aback.

  Chimp was in excellent humour. The pistol-shot had come to him as a refreshing surprise. He had been so certain that Dolly would have forgotten that item in the programme.

  "At-a-girl," he said, quite amiably. "Let's go."

  Dolly was still trying to adjust herself to his unwelcome presence.

  "What have you done with the prunes?"

  "Locked 'em in. How about the Cork dame?"

  Relief flooded over Dolly. She had seen the way.

  "She's in the cellar," she said, then started dramatically, with a quick intake of the breath. Her eyes had widened, and she was staring past Chimp. "Cheese!" she exclaimed. "She isn't, neither. Here she comes!"

  Chimp started.

  "Where?" he cried, wheeling.

  "There," said Dolly, bringing the butt-end of the pistol into smart contact with his averted head.

  Between a smallish pistol and a stout tobacco-jar ornamented with the arms of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, there is really no comparison, considering each in the light of a mechanism for soaking people on the occipital bone. Where Jeff had collapsed like a wet sock, Chimp Twist-merely tottered.

  But it takes a man several seconds to totter, and a woman accustomed to acting promptly finds a few seconds an ample margin for pushing her husband into a two-seater car, leaping in herself and driving off.

  Mr. Molloy, who had been an entranced spectator, was overcome with admiration.

  "You're certainly hitting 'em right to-night, pettie."

  "It's all in the follow-through," said Dolly. She relapsed into silence, her eyes on the road.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  In the study, Jeff had risen and was propping himself against the desk from which Mrs. Cork had dictated so much good stuff about elephants. He found its solidity comforting. There was something about it that seemed to support the theory that he was awake, and this was a point on which he particularly desired assurance. A man cannot be bumped on the back of the head with a stout tobacco jar without undergoing a certain amount of mental disorder, and it seemed to Jeff that there were aspects of his recent experience which might quite easily have been the phantasmagoria of delirium.

  Anne had perched herself on the arm of a chair, and was looking at him with the tender eyes of a mother whose first-born has come safely through a testing attack of mumps. She, too, was conscious that the late happenings had not
been without their bizarre side. But of one thing she was sure, quite sure, and that was that this was the man she loved.

  "How are you feeling now?" she asked gently Jeff passed a hand across his forehead.

  "I'm feeling stunned."

  "Well, nobody has a better right to."

  "I was never more surprised in my life."

  "Than when Mrs. Molloy hit you with that jar?"

  "Than when I came out of my swoon and found you kissing me."

  "Ob, that?"

  "You were kissing me? It was not just a lovely dream?"

  "No. I was kissing you. You see, I thought you were dead."

  Jeff paused. They were approaching the nub. From this point, he would have to follow her answers very carefully.

  "Do I have to be dead for you to kiss me?"

  "Not at all. I would prefer it otherwise." Jeff's brain was still a little clouded.

  "I don't quite follow this."

  "What's puzzling you?"

  "Well, only a short while back, your manner suggested that you were not particularly fond of me."

  "It was meant to."

  "But now---?"

  "It looks as if I had changed my mind, doesn't it?"

  "You are fond of me?"

  "Very."

  Once more, Jeff paused. Much depended on her answer to his next question.

  "You don't by any chance—love me?"

  "I do."

  "This is amazing."

  "I must say it surprised me, too. It seemed to come over me like a wave, when I saw Mrs. Molloy hit you with the tobacco jar."

  Jeff's head was still singing, but now his heart was singing, too.

  "Then Heaven bless Mrs. Molloy!" he cried. "Three rousing cheers for the sweet little woman."

  Convinced at last, he delayed no longer. He drew Anne into his arms, and for a while there was silence.

  "Mind you," he said, at length, "I don't believe this is happening. It isn't fooling me for a second. I know perfectly well that I shall wake up and find we're back in the Ice Age, with you saying 'Oh?' I wonder if you have the remotest conception what it's like for a fellow when you catch him without his warm winter underclothing and say 'Oh?' to him."

  Anne uttered a remorseful cry.