‘Gone, Jeeves?’
‘Yes, sir.’
I bestowed an approving look on him.
‘One of your best efforts, Jeeves.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But what beats me is why he ever came here. What made him think that I had sneaked McIntosh away?’
‘I took the liberty of recommending Miss Wickham to tell Mr Blumenfeld that she had observed you removing the animal from his suite, sir. The point which you raised regarding the possibility of her being suspected of complicity in the affair had not escaped me. It seemed to me that this would establish her solidly in Mr Blumenfeld’s good opinion.’
‘I see. Risky, of course, but possibly justified. Yes, on the whole, justified. What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘A five pound note, sir.’
‘Ah, the one I gave you?’
‘No, sir. The one Mr Blumenfeld gave me.’
‘Eh? Why did he give you a fiver?’
‘He very kindly presented it to me on my handing him the dog, sir.’
I gaped at the man.
‘You don’t mean to say –?’
‘Not McIntosh, sir. McIntosh is at present in my bedroom. This was another animal of the same species which I purchased at the shop in Bond Street during your absence. Except to the eye of love, one Aberdeen terrier looks very much like another Aberdeen terrier, sir. Mr Blumenfeld, I am happy to say, did not detect the innocent subterfuge.’
‘Jeeves,’ I said – and I am not ashamed to confess that there was a spot of chokiness in the voice – ‘there is none like you, none.’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘Owing solely to the fact that your head bulges in unexpected spots, thus enabling you to do about twice as much bright thinking in any given time as any other two men in existence, happiness, you might say, reigns supreme. Aunt Agatha is on velvet, I am on velvet, the Wickhams, mother and daughter, are on velvet, the Blumenfelds, father and son, are on velvet. As far as the eye can reach, a solid mass of humanity, owing to you, all on velvet. A fiver is not sufficient, Jeeves. If I thought the world thought that Bertram Wooster thought a measly five pounds an adequate reward for such services as yours, I should never hold my head up again. Have another?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And one more?’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘And a third for luck?’
‘Really, sir, I am exceedingly obliged. Excuse me, sir, I fancy I heard the telephone.’
He pushed out into the hall, and I heard him doing a good deal of the ‘Yes, madam’, ‘Certainly, madam!’ stuff. Then he came back.
‘Mrs Spenser Gregson on the telephone, sir.’
‘Aunt Agatha?’
‘Yes, sir. Speaking from Victoria Station. She desires to communicate with you with reference to the dog McIntosh. I gather that she wishes to hear from your own lips that all is well with the little fellow, sir.’
I straightened the tie. I pulled down the waistcoat. I shot the cuffs. I felt absolutely all-righto.
‘Lead me to her,’ I said.
6
* * *
THE SPOT OF ART
I WAS LUNCHING at my Aunt Dahlia’s, and despite the fact that Anatole, her outstanding cook, had rather excelled himself in the matter of the bill-of-fare, I’m bound to say the food was more or less turning to ashes in my mouth. You see, I had some bad news to break to her – always a prospect that takes the edge off the appetite. She wouldn’t be pleased, I knew, and when not pleased Aunt Dahlia, having spent most of her youth in the hunting-field, has a crispish way of expressing herself.
However, I supposed I had better have a dash at it and get it over.
‘Aunt Dahlia,’ I said, facing the issue squarely.
‘Hullo?’
‘You know that cruise of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘That yachting-cruise you are planning?’
‘Yes.’
‘That jolly cruise in your yacht in the Mediterranean to which you so kindly invited me and to which I have been looking forward with such keen anticipation?’
‘Get on, fathead, what about it?’
I swallowed a chunk of côtelette-suprème-aux-choux-fleurs and slipped her the distressing info.
‘I’m frightfully sorry, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said, ‘but I shan’t be able to come.’
As I had foreseen, she goggled.
‘What!’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You poor, miserable hell-hound, what do you mean, you won’t be able to come?’
‘Well, I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Matters of the most extreme urgency render my presence in the Metropolis imperative.’
She sniffed.
‘I suppose what you really mean is that you’re hanging round some unfortunate girl again?’
I didn’t like the way she put it, but I admit I was stunned by her penetration, if that’s the word I want. I mean the sort of thing detectives have.
‘Yes, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said, ‘you have guessed my secret. I do indeed love.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A Miss Pendlebury. Christian name, Gwladys. She spells it with a “w”.’
‘With a “g”, you mean.’
‘With a “w” and a “g”.’
‘Not Gwladys?’
‘That’s it.’
The relative uttered a yowl.
‘You sit there and tell me you haven’t enough sense to steer clear of a girl who calls herself Gwladys? Listen, Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia earnestly, ‘I’m an older woman than you are – well, you know what I mean – and I can tell you a thing or two. And one of them is that no good can come of association with anything labelled Gwladys or Ysobel or Ethyl or Mabelle or Kathryn. But particularly Gwladys. What sort of girl is she?’
‘Slightly divine.’
‘She isn’t that female I saw driving you at sixty miles ph in the Park the other day. In a red two-seater?’
‘She did drive me in the Park the other day. I thought it rather a hopeful sign. And her Widgeon Seven is red.’
Aunt Dahlia looked relieved.
‘Oh well, then, she’ll probably break your silly fat neck before she can get you to the altar. That’s some consolation. Where did you meet her?’
‘At a party in Chelsea. She’s an artist.’
‘Ye gods!’
‘And swings a jolly fine brush, let me tell you. She’s painted a portrait of me. Jeeves and I hung it up in the flat this morning. I have an idea Jeeves doesn’t like it.’
‘Well, if it’s anything like you I don’t see why he should. An artist! Calls herself Gwladys! And drives a car in the sort of way Segrave would if he were pressed for time.’ She brooded awhile. ‘Well, it’s all very sad, but I can’t see why you won’t come on the yacht.’
I explained.
‘It would be madness to leave the metrop at this juncture,’ I said. ‘You know what girls are. They forget the absent face. And I’m not at all easy in my mind about a certain cove of the name of Lucius Pim. Apart from the fact that he’s an artist, too, which forms a bond, his hair waves. One must never discount wavy hair, Aunt Dahlia. Moreover, this bloke is one of those strong, masterful men. He treats Gwladys as if she were less than the dust beneath his taxi wheels. He criticizes her hats and says nasty things about her chiaroscuro. For some reason, I’ve often noticed, this always seems to fascinate girls, and it has sometimes occurred to me that, being myself more the parfait gentle knight, if you know what I mean, I am in grave danger of getting the short end. Taking all these things into consideration, then, I cannot breeze off to the Mediterranean, leaving this Pim a clear field. You must see that?’
Aunt Dahlia laughed. Rather a nasty laugh. Scorn in its timbre, or so it seemed to me.
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ she said. ‘You don’t suppose for a moment that Jeeves will sanction the match?’
I was stung.
>
‘Do you imply, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said – and I can’t remember if I rapped the table with the handle of my fork or not, but I rather think I did – ‘that I allow Jeeves to boss me to the extent of stopping me marrying somebody I want to marry?’
‘Well, he stopped you wearing a moustache, didn’t he? And purple socks. And soft-fronted shirts with dress-clothes.’
‘That is a different matter altogether.’
‘Well, I’m prepared to make a small bet with you, Bertie. Jeeves will stop this match.’
‘What absolute rot!’
‘And if he doesn’t like that portrait, he will get rid of it.’
‘I never heard such dashed nonsense in my life.’
‘And, finally, you wretched, pie-faced wambler, he will present you on board my yacht at the appointed hour. I don’t know how he will do it, but you will be there, all complete with yachting-cap and spare pair of socks.’
‘Let us change the subject, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said coldly.
Being a good deal stirred up by the attitude of the flesh-and-blood at the luncheon-table, I had to go for a bit of a walk in the Park after leaving, to soothe the nervous system. By about four-thirty the ganglions had ceased to vibrate, and I returned to the flat. Jeeves was in the sitting room, looking at the portrait.
I felt a trifle embarrassed in the man’s presence, because just before leaving I had informed him of my intention to scratch the yacht-trip, and he had taken it on the chin a bit. You see, he had been looking forward to it rather. From the moment I had accepted the invitation, there had been a sort of nautical glitter in his eye, and I’m not sure I hadn’t heard him trolling Chanties in the kitchen. I think some ancestor of his must have been one of Nelson’s tars or something, for he has always had the urge of the salt sea in his blood. I have noticed him on liners, when we were going to America, striding the deck with a sailorly roll and giving the distinct impression of being just about to heave the main-brace or splice the binnacle.
So, though I had explained my reasons, taking the man fully into my confidence and concealing nothing, I knew that he was distinctly peeved; and my first act, on entering, was to do the cheery a bit. I joined him in front of the portrait.
‘Looks good, Jeeves, what?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nothing like a spot of art for brightening the home.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Seems to lend the room a certain – what shall I say –’
‘Yes, sir.’
The responses were all right, but his manner was far from hearty, and I decided to tackle him squarely. I mean, dash it. I mean, I don’t know if you have ever had your portrait painted, but if you have you will understand my feelings. The spectacle of one’s portrait hanging on the wall creates in one a sort of paternal fondness for the thing: and what you demand from the outside public is approval and enthusiasm – not the curling lip, the twitching nostril, and the kind of supercilious look which you see in the eye of a dead mackerel. Especially is this so when the artist is a girl for whom you have conceived sentiments deeper and warmer than those of ordinary friendship.
‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘you don’t like this spot of art.’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘No. Subterfuge is useless. I can read you like a book. For some reason this spot of art fails to appeal to you. What do you object to about it?’
‘Is not the colour-scheme a trifle bright, sir?’
‘I had not observed it, Jeeves. Anything else?’
‘Well, in my opinion, sir, Miss Pendlebury has given you a somewhat too hungry expression.’
‘Hungry?’
‘A little like that of a dog regarding a distant bone, sir.’
I checked the fellow.
‘There is no resemblance whatever, Jeeves, to a dog regarding a distant bone. The look to which you allude is wistful and denotes Soul.’
‘I see, sir.’
I proceeded to another subject.
‘Miss Pendlebury said she might look in this afternoon to inspect the portrait. Did she turn up?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But has left?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You mean she’s gone, what?’
‘Precisely, sir.’
‘She didn’t say anything about coming back, I suppose?’
‘No, sir. I received the impression that it was not Miss Pendlebury’s intention to return. She was a little upset, sir, and expressed a desire to go to her studio and rest.’
‘Upset? What was she upset about?’
‘The accident, sir.’
I didn’t actually clutch the brow, but I did a bit of mental brow-clutching, as it were.
‘Don’t tell me she had an accident!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘Automobile, sir.’
‘Was she hurt?’
‘No, sir. Only the gentleman.’
‘What gentleman?’
‘Miss Pendlebury had the misfortune to run over a gentleman in her car almost immediately opposite this building. He sustained a slight fracture of the leg.’
‘Too bad! But Miss Pendlebury is all right?’
‘Physically, sir, her condition appeared to be satisfactory. She was suffering a certain distress of mind.’
‘Of course, with her beautiful, sympathetic nature. Naturally. It’s a hard world for a girl, Jeeves, with fellows flinging themselves under the wheels of her car in one long, unending stream. It must have been a great shock to her. What became of the chump?’
‘The gentleman, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘He is in your spare bedroom, sir.’
‘What!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In my spare bedroom?’
‘Yes, sir. It was Miss Pendlebury’s desire that he should be taken there. She instructed me to telegraph to the gentleman’s sister, sir, who is in Paris, advising her of the accident. I also summoned a medical man, who gave it as his opinion that the patient should remain for the time being in statu quo.’
‘You mean, the corpse is on the premises for an indefinite visit?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jeeves, this is a bit thick!’
‘Yes, sir.’
And I meant it, dash it. I mean to say, a girl can be pretty heftily divine and ensnare the heart and what not, but she’s no right to turn a fellow’s flat into a morgue. I’m bound to say that for a moment passion ebbed a trifle.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and introduce myself to the blighter. After all, I am his host. Has he a name?’
‘Mr Pim, sir.’
‘Pim!’
‘Yes, sir. And the young lady addressed him as Lucius. It was owing to the fact that he was on his way here to examine the portrait which she had painted that Mr Pim happened to be in the roadway at the moment when Miss Pendlebury turned the corner.’
I headed for the spare bedroom. I was perturbed to a degree. I don’t know if you have ever loved and been handicapped in your wooing by a wavy-haired rival, but one of the things you don’t want in such circs is the rival parking himself on the premises with a broken leg. Apart from anything else, the advantage the position gives him is obviously terrific. There he is, sitting up and toying with a grape and looking pale and interesting, the object of the girl’s pity and concern, and where do you get off, bounding about the place in morning costume and spats and with the rude flush of health on the cheek? It seemed to me that things were beginning to look pretty mouldy.
I found Lucius Pim lying in bed, draped in a suit of my pyjamas, smoking one of my cigarettes, and reading a detective story. He waved the cigarette at me in what I considered a dashed patronizing manner.
‘Ah, Wooster!’ he said.
‘Not so much of the “Ah, Wooster!”’ I replied brusquely. ‘How soon can you be moved?’
‘In a week or so, I fancy.’
‘In a week!’
‘Or so.
For the moment, the doctor insists on perfect quiet and repose. So forgive me, old man, for asking you not to raise your voice. A hushed whisper is the stuff to give the troops. And now, Wooster, about this accident. We must come to an understanding.’
‘Are you sure you can’t be moved?’
‘Quite. The doctor said so.’
‘I think we ought to get a second opinion.’
‘Useless, my dear fellow. He was most emphatic, and evidently a man who knew his job. Don’t worry about my not being comfortable here. I shall be quite all right. I like this bed. And now, to return to the subject of this accident. My sister will be arriving tomorrow. She will be greatly upset. I am her favourite brother.’
‘You are?’
‘I am.’
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Six.’
‘And you’re her favourite?’
‘I am.’
It seemed to me that the other five must be pretty fairly subhuman, but I didn’t say so. We Woosters can curb the tongue.
‘She married a bird named Slingsby. Slingsby’s Superb Soups. He rolls in money. But do you think I can get him to lend a trifle from time to time to a needy brother-in-law?’ said Lucius Pim bitterly. ‘No, sir! However, that is neither here nor there. The point is that my sister loves me devotedly: and, this being the case, she might try to prosecute and persecute and generally bite pieces out of poor little Gwladys if she knew that it was she who was driving the car that laid me out. She must never know, Wooster. I appeal to you as a man of honour to keep your mouth shut.’
‘Naturally.’
‘I’m glad you grasp the point so readily, Wooster. You are not the fool people take you for.’
‘Who takes me for a fool?’
The Pim raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘Don’t people?’ he said. ‘Well, well. Anyway, that’s settled. Unless I can think of something better I shall tell my sister that I was knocked down by a car which drove on without stopping and I didn’t get its number. And now perhaps you had better leave me. The doctor made a point of quiet and repose. Moreover, I want to go on with this story. The villain has just dropped a cobra down the heroine’s chimney, and I must be at her side. It is impossible not to be thrilled by Edgar Wallace. I’ll ring if I want anything.’
The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 Page 54