The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3

by Wodehouse, P. G.

Bill gulped. ‘Am I going to part with it?’

  ‘You certainly are,’ said Mrs Spottsworth emphatically, ‘if I have anything to say about it. This is the house of my dreams. How much do you want for it – lock, stock and barrel?’

  ‘You’ve taken my breath away.’

  ‘Well, that’s me. I never could endure beating about the bush. If I want a thing, I say so and write a note. I’ll tell you what let’s do. Suppose I pay you a deposit of two thousand, and we can decide on the purchase price later?’

  ‘You couldn’t make it three thousand?’

  ‘Sure.’ Mrs Spottsworth unscrewed her fountain pen and having unscrewed it, paused. ‘There’s just one thing, though, before I sign on the dotted line. This place isn’t damp, is it?’

  ‘Damp?’ said Monica. ‘Why, of course not.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Dry as a bone.’

  ‘That’s swell. Damp is death to me. Fibrositis and sciatica.’

  Rory came in through the french window, laden with roses.

  ‘A nosegay for you, Moke, old girl, with comps of R. Carmoyle,’ he said, pressing the blooms into Monica’s hands. ‘I say, Bill, it’s starting to rain.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘What of it?’ echoed Rory, surprised. ‘My dear old boy, you know what happens in this house when it rains. Water through the roof, water through the walls, water, water everywhere. I was merely about to suggest in a kindly Boy Scout sort of spirit that you had better put buckets under the upstairs skylight. Very damp house, this,’ he said, addressing Mrs Spottsworth in his genial, confidential way. ‘So near the river, you know. I often say that whereas in the summer months the river is at the bottom of the garden, in the winter months the garden is at the bottom of the –’

  ‘Excuse me, m’lady,’ said the housemaid Ellen, appearing in the doorway. ‘Could I speak to Mrs Spottsworth, m’lady?’

  Mrs Spottsworth, who had been staring, aghast, at Rory, turned, pen in hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Moddom,’ said Ellen, ‘your pendant’s been pinched.’

  She had never been a girl for breaking things gently.

  20

  * * *

  WITH CONSIDERABLE GRATIFICATION Ellen found herself the centre of attraction. All eyes were focused upon her, and most of them were bulging. Bill’s, in particular, struck her as being on the point of leaving their sockets.

  ‘Yes,’ she proceeded, far too refined to employ the Bulstrode-Trelawny ‘Yus’, ‘I was laying out your clothes for the evening, moddom, and I said to myself that you’d probably be wishing to wear the pendant again tonight, so I ventured to look in the little box, and it wasn’t there, moddom. It’s been stolen.’

  Mrs Spottsworth drew a quick breath. The trinket in question was of little intrinsic worth – it could not, as she had said to Captain Biggar, have cost more than ten thousand dollars – but, as she had also said to Captain Biggar, it had a sentimental value for her. She was about to express her concern in words, but Bill broke in.

  ‘What do you mean, it’s been stolen?’ he demanded hotly. You could see that the suggestion outraged him. ‘You probably didn’t look properly.’

  Ellen was respectful, but firm.

  ‘It’s gone, m’lord.’

  ‘You may have dropped it somewhere, Mrs Spottsworth,’ said Jill. ‘Was the clasp loose?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘The clasp was loose. But I distinctly remember putting it in its case last night.’

  ‘Not there now, moddom,’ said Ellen, rubbing it in.

  ‘Let’s go up and have a thorough search,’ said Monica.

  ‘We will,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘But I’m afraid … very much afraid –’

  She followed Ellen out of the room. Monica, pausing at the door, eyed Rory balefully for an instant.

  ‘Well, Bill,’ she said, ‘so you don’t sell the house, after all. And if Big Mouth there hadn’t come barging in prattling about water and buckets, that cheque would have been signed.’

  She swept out, and Rory looked at Bill, surprised.

  ‘I say, did I drop a brick?’

  Bill laughed hackingly.

  ‘If one followed you about for a month, one would have enough bricks to build a house.’

  ‘In re this pendant. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes, keep out of it.’

  ‘I could nip off in the car and fetch some of the local constabulary.’

  ‘Keep right out of it.’ Bill looked at his watch. ‘The Derby will be starting in a few minutes. Go in there and get the television working.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rory. ‘But if I’m needed, give me a shout.’

  He disappeared into the library, and Bill turned to Jeeves, who had once again effaced himself. In times of domestic crisis, Jeeves had the gift, possessed by all good butlers, of creating the illusion that he was not there. He was standing now at the extreme end of the room, looking stuffed.

  ‘Jeeves!’

  ‘M’lord?’ said Jeeves, coming to life like a male Galatea.

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘None of practical value, m’lord. But a thought has just occurred which enables me to take a somewhat brighter view of the situation. We were speaking not long since of Captain Biggar as a gentleman who had removed himself permanently from our midst. Does it not seem likely to your lordship that in the event of Ballymore emerging victorious the captain, finding himself in possession of ample funds, will carry out his original plan of redeeming the pendant, bringing it back and affecting to discover it on the premises?’

  Bill chewed his lip.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘It would be the prudent course for him to pursue, m’lord. Suspicion, as I say, must inevitably rest upon him, and failure to return the ornament would place him in the disagreeable position of becoming a hunted man in hourly danger of being apprehended by the authorities. I am convinced that if Ballymore wins, we shall see Captain Biggar again.’

  ‘If Ballymore wins.’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord.’

  ‘Then one’s whole future hangs on whether it does.’

  ‘That is how matters stand, m’lord.’

  Jill uttered a passionate cry.

  ‘I’m going to start praying!’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Bill. ‘Pray that Ballymore will run as he has never run before. Pray like billy-o. Pray all over the house. Pray –’

  Monica and Mrs Spottsworth came back.

  ‘Well,’ said Monica, ‘it’s gone. There’s no doubt about that. I’ve just phoned for the police.’

  Bill reeled.

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes. Rosalinda didn’t want me to, but I insisted. I told her you wouldn’t dream of not doing everything you could to catch the thief.’

  ‘You … You think the thing’s been stolen?’

  ‘It’s the only possible explanation.’

  Mrs Spottsworth sighed.

  ‘Oh, dear! I really am sorry to have started all this trouble.’

  ‘Nonsense, Rosalinda. Bill doesn’t mind. All Bill wants is to see the crook caught and bunged into the cooler. Isn’t it, Bill?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Bill.

  ‘For a good long stretch, too, let’s hope.’

  ‘We mustn’t be vindictive.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Spottsworth. ‘You’re quite right. Justice, but not vengeance.’

  ‘Well, one thing’s certain,’ said Monica. ‘It’s an inside job.’

  Bill stirred uneasily.

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea who the guilty party is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone who was in a terrible state of nerves this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘His cup and saucer were rattling like castanets.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘At breakfast. Do you want me to name names?’

  ‘Go ahead.’


  ‘Captain Biggar!’

  Mrs Spottsworth started.

  ‘What!’

  ‘You weren’t down, Rosalinda, or I’m sure you would have noticed it, too. He was as nervous as a treeful of elephants.’

  ‘Oh, no, no! Captain Biggar? That I can’t and won’t believe. If Captain Biggar were guilty, I should lose my faith in human nature. And that would be a far worse blow than losing the pendant.’

  ‘The pendant is gone, and he’s gone. It adds up, don’t you think? Oh, well,’ said Monica, ‘we shall soon know.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

  ‘Why, the jewel case, of course. The police will take it away and test it for fingerprints. What on earth’s the matter, Bill?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Bill, who had leaped some eighteen inches into the air but saw no reason for revealing the sudden agonized thought which had motivated this adagio exhibition. ‘Er, Jeeves.’

  ‘M’lord?’

  ‘Lady Carmoyle is speaking of Mrs Spottsworth’s jewel case.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord?’

  ‘She threw out the interesting suggestion that the miscreant might have forgotten to wear gloves, in which event the bally thing would be covered with his fingerprints. That would be lucky, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Extremely fortunate, m’lord.’

  ‘I’ll bet he’s wishing he hadn’t been such an ass.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘And that he could wipe them off.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘You might go and get the thing, so as to have it ready for the police when they arrive.’

  ‘Very good, m’lord.’

  ‘Hold it by the edges, Jeeves. You don’t want to disturb those fingerprints.’

  ‘I will exercise the greatest care, m’lord,’ said Jeeves, and went out, and almost simultaneously Colonel Wyvern came in through the french window.

  At the moment of his entry Jill, knowing that when a man is in a state of extreme agitation there is nothing he needs more than a woman’s gentle sympathy, had put her arms round Bill’s neck and was kissing him tenderly. The spectacle brought the colonel to a halt. It confused him. With this sort of thing going on, it was difficult to lead up to the subject of horsewhips.

  ‘Ha, hrr’mph!’ he said, and Monica spun round, astounded.

  ‘My goodness!’ she said. ‘You have been quick. It’s only five minutes since I phoned.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Hullo, father,’ said Jill. ‘We were just waiting for you to show up. Have you brought your bloodhounds and magnifying glass?’

  ‘What the dickens are you talking about?’

  Monica was perplexed.

  ‘Didn’t you come in answer to my phone call, Colonel?’

  ‘You keep talking about a phone call. What phone call? I came to see Lord Rowcester on a personal matter. What’s all this about a phone call?’

  ‘Mrs Spottsworth’s diamond pendant has been stolen, Father.’

  ‘What? What? What?’

  ‘This is Mrs Spottsworth,’ said Monica. ‘Colonel Wyvern, Rosalinda, our Chief Constable.’

  ‘Charmed,’ said Colonel Wyvern, bowing gallantly, but an instant later he was the keen, remorseless police officer again. ‘Had your pendant stolen, eh? Bad show, bad show.’ He took out a notebook and a pencil. ‘An inside job, was it?’

  ‘That’s what we think.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to have a list of everybody in the house.’

  Jill stepped forward, her hands extended.

  ‘Wyvern, Jill,’ she said. ‘Slip on the bracelets, officer. I’ll come quietly.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be an ass,’ said Colonel Wyvern.

  Something struck the door gently. It might have been a foot. Bill opened the door, revealing Jeeves. He was carrying the jewel case, a handkerchief at its extreme edges.

  ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ he said.

  He advanced to the table and lowered the case on to it very carefully.

  ‘Here is the case the pendant was in,’ said Mrs Spottsworth.

  ‘Good.’ Colonel Wyvern eyed Jeeves with approval. ‘Glad to see you were careful about handling it, my man.’

  ‘Oh, trust Jeeves for that,’ said Bill.

  ‘And now,’ said Colonel Wyvern, ‘for the names.’

  As he spoke, the library door burst open, and Rory came dashing out, horror written on his every feature.

  21

  * * *

  ‘I SAY, CHAPS,’ said Rory, ‘the most appalling thing has happened!’

  Monica moaned.

  ‘Not something more?’

  ‘This is the absolute frozen limit. The Derby is just starting –’

  ‘Rory, the Chief Constable is here.’

  ‘– and the television set has gone on the blink. Oh, it’s my fault, I suppose. I was trying to get a perfect adjustment, and I must have twiddled the wrong thingummy.’

  ‘Rory, this is Colonel Wyvern, the Chief Constable.’

  ‘How are you, Chief C? Do you know anything about television?’

  The colonel drew himself up.

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘You couldn’t fix a set?’ said Rory wistfully. ‘Not that there’s time, of course. The race will be over. What about the radio?’

  ‘In the corner, Sir Roderick,’ said Jeeves.

  ‘Oh, thank heaven!’ cried Rory, galloping to it. ‘Come on and give me a hand, Jeeves.’

  The chief constable spoke coldly.

  ‘Who is this gentleman?’

  ‘Such as he is,’ said Monica apologetically, ‘my husband, Sir Roderick Carmoyle.’

  Colonel Wyvern advanced on Rory as majestically as his lack of inches permitted, and addressed the seat of his trousers, the only portion of him visible as he bent over the radio.

  ‘Sir Roderick, I am conducting an investigation.’

  ‘But you’ll hold it up to listen to the Derby?’

  ‘When on duty, Sir Roderick, I allow nothing to interfere. I want a list –’

  The radio, suddenly blaring forth, gave him one.

  ‘… Taj Mahal, Sweet William, Garniture, Moke the Second, Voleur … Quite an impressive list, isn’t it?’ said the radio. ‘There goes Gordon Richards. Lots of people think this will be his lucky day. I don’t see Bellwether … Oh, yes, he’s turning round now and walking back to the gate … They should be off in just a moment … Sorry, no. Two more have turned round. One of them is being very temperamental. It looks like Simple Simon. No, it’s the Irish outsider, Ballymore.’

  The chief constable frowned. ‘Really, I must ask –’

  ‘Okay. I’ll turn it down,’ said Rory, and immediately, being Rory, turned it up.

  ‘They’re in line now,’ yelled the radio, like a costermonger calling attention to his blood oranges, ‘all twenty-six of them … They’re OFF … Ballymore is left at the post.’

  Jill screamed shrilly. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Vaurien,’ proceeded the radio, now, owing to Rory’s ministrations, speaking in an almost inaudible whisper, like an invalid uttering a few last words from a sickbed, ‘is in front, the Boussac pacemaker.’ Its voice strengthened a little. ‘Taj Mahal is just behind. I see Escalator. Escalator’s going very strong. I see Sweet William. I see Moke the Second. I see …’ Here the wasting sickness set in again, and the rest was lost in a sort of mouselike squeak.

  The chief constable drew a relieved breath.

  ‘Ha! At last! Now then, Lord Rowcester. What servants have you here?’

  Bill did not answer. Like a mechanical figure he was moving toward the radio, as if drawn by some invisible force.

  ‘There’s a cook,’ said Monica.

  ‘A widow, sir,’ said Jeeves. ‘Mary Jane Piggott.’

  Rory looked round.

  ‘Piggott? Who said Piggott?’

  ‘A housemaid,’ said Monica, as Jill, like Bill, was drawn toward the radio as if in a trance. ‘Her name’s Ellen. Ellen what, Jeeves?’r />
  ‘French, m’lady. Ellen Tallulah French.’

  ‘The French horse,’ bellowed the radio, suddenly acquiring a new access of strength, ‘is still in front, then Moke the Second, Escalator, Taj Mahal …’

  ‘What about the gardener?’

  ‘No, not Gardener,’ said Rory. ‘You mean Garniture.’

  ‘… Sweet William, Oratory … Vaurien’s falling back, and Garniture –’

  ‘You see?’ said Rory.

  ‘– and Moke the Second moving up.’

  ‘That’s mine,’ said Monica, and with a strange, set look on her face began to move toward the radio.

  ‘Looks quite as though Gordon Richards might be going to win the Derby at last. They’re down the hill and turning Tattenham Corner, Moke the Second in front, with Gordon up. Only three and a half furlongs to go …’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeeves, completely unmoved, ‘there is a gardener, an old man named Percy Wellbeloved.’

  The radio suddenly broke into a frenzy of excitement.

  ‘Oo! … Oo! … There’s a horse coming up on the outside. It’s coming like an express train. I can’t identify …’

  ‘Gee, this is exciting, isn’t it!’ said Mrs Spottsworth.

  She went to the radio. Jeeves alone remained at the chief constable’s side. Colonel Wyvern was writing laboriously in his notebook.

  ‘It’s Ballymore. The horse on the outside is Ballymore. He’s challenging the Moke. Hear that crowd roaring “Come on, Gordon!”’

  ‘Moke … The Moke … Gordon,’ wrote Colonel Wyvern.

  ‘Come on, Gordon!’ shouted Monica.

  The radio was now becoming incoherent.

  ‘It’s Ballymore … No, it’s the Moke … No, Ballymore … No, the Moke … No …’

  ‘Make up your mind,’ advised Rory.

  For some moments Colonel Wyvern had been standing motionless, his notebook frozen in his hand. Now a sort of shudder passed through him, and his eyes grew wide and wild. Brandishing his pencil, he leaped toward the radio.

  ‘Come on, Gordon!’ he roared. ‘COME ON, GORDON!!!’

  ‘Come on, Ballymore,’ said Jeeves with quiet dignity.

  The radio had now given up all thoughts of gentlemanly restraint. It was as though on honeydew it had fed and drunk the milk of Paradise.