‘Good evening, miss,’ said Jeeves in his suave way. ‘Miss Pirbright, sir,’ he added, giving me the office in an undertone.
I had already recognized the silvery v.
‘Hallo, Corky,’ I said moodily. ‘You are waiting for Gussie?’
‘Yes, he went by just now. What did you say?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I replied, for I had merely remarked by way of a passing comment that cannons to left of him, cannons to right of him volleyed and thundered. ‘I suppose you know that you have lured him on to a doom so hideous that the brain reels, contemplating it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He will find Dobbs at journey’s end reading Robert G. Ingersoll. How long the officer will continue reading Robert G. Ingersoll after discovering that Gussie has broken in and is de-dogging the premises, one cannot –’
‘Don’t be an ass. Dobbs is at the concert.’
‘He was at the concert. But he left early and is now –’
Once more I was interrupted when about to speak further. From down the road there had begun to make itself heard in the silent night a distant barking. It grew in volume, indicating that the barker was heading our way, and Corky sprang from the car and established herself as a committee of welcome in the middle of the fairway.
‘What a chump you are, Bertie,’ she said with some heat, ‘pulling a girl’s leg and trying to scare her stiff. Everything has gone according to plan. Here comes Sam. I’d know his voice anywhere. At-a-boy, Sam! This way. Come to Mother.’
What ensued was rather like the big scene in The Hound of the Baskervilles. The baying and the patter of feet grew louder, and suddenly out of the darkness Sam Goldwyn clocked in, coming along at a high rate of speed and showing plainly in his manner how keenly he appreciated the termination of the sedentary life he had been leading these last days. He looked good for about another fifty miles at the same pace, but the sight of us gave him pause. He stopped, looked and listened. Then, as our familiar odour reached his nostrils, he threw his whole soul into a cry of ecstasy. He bounded at Jeeves as if contemplating licking his face, but was checked by the latter’s quiet dignity. Jeeves views the animal kingdom with a benevolent eye and is the first to pat its head and offer it a slice of whatever is going, but he does not permit it to lick his face.
‘Inside, Sam,’ said Corky, when the rapture of reunion had had the first keen edge taken off it and we had all simmered down a bit. She boosted him into the car, and resumed her place at the wheel. ‘Time to be leaving,’ she said. ‘The quick fade-out is what the director would suggest here, I think. I’ll be seeing you at the hall later, Bertie. Uncle Sidney has been asked to look in for coffee and sandwiches after the show, and I was included in the invitation, I don’t think. Still, I shall assume I was.’
She clapped spurs to her two-seater and vanished into the darkness. Sam Goldwyn’s vocal solo died away, and all was still once more.
No, not all, to be absolutely accurate, for at this moment there came to the ear-drum an odd sort of hammering noise in the distance which at first I couldn’t classify. It sounded as if someone was doing a tap-dance, but it seemed improbable that people would be doing tap-dances out of doors at this hour. Then I got it. Somebody – no, two people – was – or I should say were – haring towards us along the road, and I was turning to cock an enquiring eyebrow at Jeeves, when he drew me into the shadows.
‘I fear the worst, sir,’ he said in a hushed voice, and, sure enough, along it came.
In addition to the stars quiring to the young-eyed Cherubim, there was now in the serene sky a fair-sized moon, and as always happens under these conditions the visibility was improved. By its light one could see what was in progress.
Gussie and Constable Dobbs were in progress, in the order named. Not having been present at the outset of the proceedings, I can only guess at what had occurred in the early stages, but anyone entering a police station to steal a dog and finding Constable Dobbs on the premises would have lost little time in picking up the feet, and I think we can assume that Gussie had got off to a good start. At any rate, at the moment when the runners came into view he had established a nice lead and appeared to be increasing it.
It is curious how you can be intimate with a fellow from early boyhood and yet remain unacquainted with one side of him. Mixing constantly with Gussie through the years, I had come to know him as a newt-fancier, a lover and a fathead, but I had never suspected him of possessing outstanding qualities as a sprinter on the flat, and I was amazed at the high order of ability he was exhibiting in this very specialized form of activity. He was coming along like a jack-rabbit of the western prairie, his head back and his green beard floating in the breeze. I liked his ankle work.
Dobbs, on the other hand, was more laboured in his movements and to an eye like mine, trained in the watching of point-to-point races, had all the look of an also-ran. One noted symptoms of roaring, and I am convinced that had Gussie had the intelligence to stick to his job and make a straight race of it, he would soon have out-distanced the field and come home on a tight rein. Police constables are not built for speed. Where you catch them at their best is standing on street corners saying ‘Pass along there’.
But, as I was stressing a moment ago, Augustus Fink-Nottle, in addition to being a flat racer of marked ability, was also a fathead, and now, when he had victory in his grasp, the fatheaded streak in him came uppermost. There was a tree standing at the roadside and, suddenly swerving off the course, he made for it and hoisted himself into its branches. And what he supposed that was going to get him, only his diseased mind knew. Ernest Dobbs may not have been one of Hampshire’s brightest thinkers, but he was smart enough to stand under a tree.
And this he proceeded to do. Determination to fight it out on these lines if it took all summer was written on every inch of his powerful frame. His back being towards me, I couldn’t see his face, but I have no doubt it was registering an equal amount of resolution, and nothing could have been firmer than his voice as he urged upon the rooster above the advisability of coming down without further waste of time. It was a fair cop, said Ernest Dobbs, and I agreed with him. To shut out the painful scene which must inevitably ensue, I closed my eyes.
It was an odd, chunky sound, like some solid substance striking another solid substance, that made me open them. And when they were opened, I could hardly believe them. Ernest Dobbs, who a moment before had been standing with his feet apart and his thumbs in his belt like a statue of Justice Putting It Across the Evil-Doer, had now assumed what I have heard described as a recumbent position. To make what I am driving at clear to the meanest intelligence, he was lying in the road with his face to the stars, while Jeeves, like a warrior sheathing his sword, replaced in his pocket some object which instinct told me was small but serviceable and constructed of india-rubber.
I tottered across, and drew the breath in sharply as I viewed the remains. The best you could have said of Constable Ernest Dobbs was that he looked peaceful.
‘Good Lord, Jeeves!’ I said.
‘I took the liberty of coshing the officer, sir,’ he explained respectfully. ‘I considered it advisable in the circumstances as the simplest method of averting unpleasantness. You will find it safe to descend now, sir,’ he proceeded, addressing Gussie. ‘If I might offer the suggestion, speed is of the essence. One cannot guarantee that the constable will remain indefinitely immobile.’
This opened up a new line of thought.
‘You don’t mean he’ll recover?’
‘Why, yes, sir, almost immediately.’
‘I’d have said that all he wanted was a lily in the right hand, and he’d be set.’
‘Oh, no, sir. The cosh produces merely a passing malaise. Permit me, sir,’ he said, assisting Gussie to alight. ‘I anticipate that Dobbs, on coming to his senses, will experience a somewhat severe headache, but –’
‘Into each life some rain must fall?’
‘Precisely, sir. I think it would be prudent of M
r Fink-Nottle to remove his beard. It presents too striking a means of identification.’
‘But he can’t. It’s stuck on with spirit gum.’
‘If Mr Fink-Nottle will permit me to escort him to his room, sir, I shall be able to adjust that without difficulty.’
‘You will? Then get on with it, Gussie.’
‘Eh?’ said Gussie, being just the sort of chap who would stand about saying ‘Eh?’ at a moment like this. He had a dazed air, as if he, too, had stopped one.
‘Push off.’
‘Eh?’
I gave a weary gesture.
‘Remove him, Jeeves,’ I said.
‘Very good, sir.’
‘I would come along with you, but I shall be occupied elsewhere. I need about six more of those brandies, and I need them quick. You’re sure about this living corpse?’
‘Sir?’
‘I mean, “living” really is the mot juste?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. If you will notice, the officer is already commencing to regain consciousness.’
I did notice it. Ernest Dobbs was plainly about to report for duty. He moved, he stirred, he seemed to feel the rush of life along his keel. And, this being so, I deemed it best to withdraw. I had no desire to be found standing at the sick-bed when a fellow of his muscular development and uncertain temper came to and started looking about for responsible parties. I returned to the Goose and Cowslip at a good speed, and proceeded to put big business in the way of the hand that came through the hatch. Then, feeling somewhat restored, I went back to the Hall and dug in in my room.
I had, as you will readily understand, much food for thought. The revelation of this deeper, coshing side to Jeeves’s character had come as something of a shock to me. One found oneself wondering how far the thing would spread. He and I had had our differences in the past, failing to see eye to eye on such matters as purple socks and white dinner jackets, and it was inevitable, both of us being men of high spirit, that similar differences would arise in the future. It was a disquieting thought that in the heat of an argument about, say, soft-bosomed shirts for evening wear he might forget the decencies of debate and elect to apply the closure by hauling off and socking me on the frontal bone with something solid. One could but trust that the feudal spirit would serve to keep the impulse in check.
I was still trying to adjust the faculties to the idea that I had been nursing in my bosom all these years something that would be gratefully accepted as a muscle guy by any gang on the look out for new blood, when Gussie appeared, minus the shrubbery. He had changed the check suit for a dinner jacket, and with a start I realized that I ought to be dressing, too. I had forgotten that Corky had said that a big coffee-and-sandwiches binge was scheduled to take place in the drawing room at the conclusion of the concert, which must by now be nearing the ‘God Save The King’ stage.
There seemed to be something on Gussie’s mind. His manner was nervous. As I hurriedly socked, shirted and evening shoe-ed myself, he wandered about the room, fiddling with the objets d’art on the mantelpiece, and as I slid into the form-fitting trousers there came to my ears the familiar sound of a hollow groan – whether hollower than those recently uttered by self and Catsmeat I couldn’t say, but definitely hollow. He had been staring for some moments at a picture on the wall of a girl in a poke bonnet cooing to a pigeon with a fellow in a cocked hat and tight trousers watching her from the background, such as you will always find in great profusion in places like Deverill Hall, and he now turned and spoke.
‘Bertie, do you know what it is to have the scales fall from your eyes?’
‘Why, yes. Scales have frequently fallen from my eyes.’
‘They have fallen from mine,’ said Gussie. ‘And I’ll tell you the exact moment when it happened. It was when I was up in that tree gazing down at Constable Dobbs and hearing him describe the situation as a fair cop. That was when the scales fell from my eyes.’
I ventured to interrupt.
‘Half a second,’ I said. ‘Just to keep the record straight, what are you talking about?’
‘I’m telling you. The scales fell from my eyes. Something happened to me. In a flash, with no warning, love died.’
‘Whose love?’
‘Mine, you ass. For Corky. I felt that a girl who could subject a man to such an ordeal was not the wife for me. Mind you, I still admire her enormously, and I think she would make an excellent helpmeet for somebody of the Ernest Hemingway type who likes living dangerously, but after what has occurred tonight, I am quite clear in my mind that what I require as a life partner is someone slightly less impulsive. If you could have seen Constable Dobb’s eyes glittering in the moonlight!’ he said, and broke off with a strong shudder.
A silence ensued, for my ecstasy at this sensational news item was so profound that for an instant I was unable to utter. Then I said ‘Whoopee!’ and in doing so may possibly have raised my voice a little, for he leaped somewhat and said he wished I wouldn’t suddenly yell ‘Whoopee!’ like that, because I had made him bite his tongue.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I stick to it. I said “Whoopee!” and I meant “Whoopee!” “Whoopee!” with the possible exception of “Hallelujah!” is the only word that meets the case, and if I yelled it, it was merely because I was deeply stirred. I don’t mind telling you now, Gussie, that I have viewed your passion for young Corky with concern, pursing the lips and asking myself dubiously if you were on the right lines. Corky is fine and, as you say, admirably fitted to be the bride of the sort of man who won’t object to her landing him on the whim of the moment in a cell in one of our popular prisons, but the girl for you is obviously Madeline Bassett. Now you can go back to her and live happily ever after. It will be a genuine pleasure to me to weigh in with the silver egg-boiler or whatever you may suggest as a wedding gift, and during the ceremony you can rely on me to be in a ringside pew, singing “Now the labourer’s task is o’er” like nobody’s business.’
I paused at this point, for I noticed that he was writhing rather freely. I asked him why he writhed, and he said, Well, wouldn’t anybody writhe who had got himself into the jam he had, and he wished I wouldn’t stand there talking rot about going back to Madeline.
‘How can I go back to Madeline, dearly as I would like to, after writing that letter telling her it was all off?’
I saw that the time had come to slip him the good news.
‘Gussie,’ I said, ‘all is well. No need for concern. Others have worked while you slept.’
And without further preamble I ran through the Wimbledon continuity.
At the outset he listened dumbly, his eyes bulging, his lips moving like those of a salmon in the spawning season.
Then, as the gist penetrated, his face lit up, his horn-rimmed spectacles flashed fire and he clasped my hand, saying rather handsomely that while as a general rule he yielded to none in considering me the world’s premier half-wit, he was bound to own that on this occasion I had displayed courage, resource, enterprise and an almost human intelligence.
‘You’ve saved my life, Bertie!’
‘Quite all right, old man.’
‘But for you –’
‘Don’t mention it. Just the Wooster service.’
‘I’ll go and telephone her.’
‘A sound move.’
He mused for a moment.
‘No, I won’t, by Jove. I’ll pop right off and see her. I’ll get my car and drive to Wimbledon.’
‘She’ll be in bed.’
‘Well, I’ll sleep in London and go out there first thing in the morning.’
‘You’ll find her up and about shortly after eight. Don’t forget your sprained wrist.’
‘By Jove, no. I’m glad you reminded me. What sort of a child was it you told her I had saved?’
‘Small, blue-eyed, golden-haired and lisping.’
‘Small, blue-eyed, golden-haired and lisping. Right.’
He clasped my hand once more and bounded off, pausing at the
door to tell me to tell Jeeves to send on his luggage, and I, having completed the toilet, sank into a chair to enjoy a quick cigarette before leaving for the drawing room.
I suppose in this moment of bien être, with the heart singing within me and the good old blood coursing through my veins, as I believe the expression is, I ought to have been saying to myself, ‘Go easy on the rejoicing, cocky. Don’t forget that the tangled love-lives of Catsmeat, Esmond Haddock, Gertrude Winkworth, Constable Dobbs and Queenie the parlourmaid remain still unstraightened out’, but you know how it is. There come times in a man’s life when he rather tends to think only of self, and I must confess that the anguish of the above tortured souls was almost completely thrust into the background of my consciousness by the reflection that Fate after a rocky start had at last done the square thing by Bertram Wooster.
My mental attitude, in short, was about that of an African explorer who by prompt shinning up a tree has just contrived to elude a quick-tempered crocodile and gathers from a series of shrieks below that his faithful native bearer had not been so fortunate. I mean to say he mourns, no doubt, as he listens to the doings, but though his heart may bleed, he cannot help his primary emotion being one of sober relief that, however, sticky life may have become for native bearers, he, personally, is sitting on top of the world.
I was crushing out the cigarette and preparing to leave, feeling just ripe for a cheery sandwich and an invigorating cup of coffee, when there was a flash of pink in the doorway, and Esmond Haddock came in.
25
* * *
IN DISHING UP this narrative for family consumption, it has been my constant aim throughout to get the right word in the right place and to avoid fobbing the customers off with something weak and inexpressive when they have a right to expect the telling phrase. It means a bit of extra work, but one has one’s code.
We will therefore expunge that ‘came’ at the conclusion of the previous spasm and substitute for it ‘curvetted’. There was a flash of pink, and Esmond Haddock curvetted in. I don’t know if you have ever seen a fellow curvet, but war-horses used to do it rather freely in the old days, and Esmond Haddock was doing it now. His booted feet spurned the carpet in a sort of rhythmic dance something on the lines of that of the recent Poppy Kegley-Bassington, and it scarcely needed the ringing hunting cries which he uttered to tell me that here stood a bird who was about as full of beans and buck as a bird could be.
The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 Page 40