Blanding Castle Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  He paused. He thought he had heard a stepped-on cat utter a piercing yowl. But it was only Gladys commenting on what he had said. Her eyes, which under the right conditions could be so soft and loving, were shooting flames.

  "I told you you were not to smoke! "

  "I know, I know, but I thought it would be all right if no one saw me. One must have one's smoke after breakfast, or what are breakfasts for? Well, as I was saying, I sauntered out and lit up, and I hadn't puffed more than a few puffs when I heard voices."

  "Oh, heavens! "

  "That, or something like it, was what I said, and I dived into the shrubbery. The voices came nearer. Someone was approaching, or rather I should have said that two persons were approaching, for if there had been only one person approaching, he would hardly have been talking to himself. Though, of course, you do get that sort of thing in Shakespeare. Hamlet, to take but one instance, frequently soliloquised."

  "Lancelot!"

  "My angel?"

  "Get on with it."

  "Certainly, certainly. Where was I?"

  “You were smoking your cigar, which I had expressly forbidden you to do, in the shrubbery."

  “No, there you are wrong. I was in the shrubbery, yes, but I was not smoking my cigar, and I'll tell you why. In my natural perturbation at hearing these voices and realizing that two persons were approaching I had dropped it on the lawn."

  He paused again. Once more Gladys had uttered that eldrich scream so like in its timbre to that of a domestic cat with a number eleven boot on its tail.

  "Lancelot Bingley, you ought to be in a padded cell! "

  "Yes, yes, but don't keep interrupting me, darling, or I shall lose the thread. Well, these two approaching persons had now drawn quite close to where I lurked behind a laurel bush, and I was enabled to hear their conversation. One of them was your uncle, the other a globular woman whom I assumed to be the Mrs. Potter of whom I had heard so much, for she was sketching out the menu for tonight's dinner, which I don't mind telling you is going to be a pippin. Your uncle evidently thought so, too, for he kept saying 'Excellent, excellent' and things like that, and my mouth was watering freely when all of a sudden a female shriek or cry rent the air and peeping cautiously round my laurel bush I saw that the Potter female was pointing in an aghast sort of way at something lying on the grass and, to cut a long story short, it was my cigar."

  A dull despair weighed Gladys Wetherby down.

  "So they caught you?" she said tonelessly.

  "No," said Lancelot, "I lurked unseen. And of course they didn't know it was my cigar. I gathered from their remarks that the prime suspects are the chauffeur and the gardener. It naturally didn't occur to your uncle to pin the rap on me, because after dinner last night I had convinced him that I was a total abstainer."

  Indignation brought a flush to Gladys's face. No girl likes to be dragged into the depths of the country on a hot afternoon by a telegram from her betrothed saying that disaster stares him in eyeball when apparently disaster has been doing nothing of the sort.

  "Then what's all the fuss about?" she demanded. "Why the urgent S.O.S.'s? You're in the clear."

  Lancelot corrected her gently.

  "No, my loved one. In the soup, yes, but not in the clear."

  "I don't understand you."

  "You will in about two seconds flat. I am sorry to have to add that on the advice of Mrs. Potter your uncle is having the cigar finger-printed."

  "What!"

  "Yes. It appears that she has a brother or cousin or something at Scotland Yard, and she said that that was always the first thing they did with a piece of evidence. Taking the dabs, I believe they call it. So your uncle said he would lock it in his desk till it could be examined by the proper experts, and he picked it up carefully with his handkerchief, like they do in books. So now you see why that telegram of mine expressed itself so strongly. My fingerprints must be all over the damn thing, and it won't take those experts five minutes to lay the crime at my door."

  An expletive which she had picked up at the Poets Club in Bloomsbury burst from Gladys's lips. She clutched her brow.

  "Don't talk," she said. "I want to think."

  She stood motionless, her brain plainly working at its maximum speed. A fly settled on her left eyebrow, but she ignored it. Lancelot watched her anxiously.

  "Anything stirring?" he asked.

  Gladys came out of her reverie.

  "Yes," she said, and her voice had lost its dull despondency. "I see what to do. We must sneak down tonight when everyone's in bed and retrieve that cigar. I know where to find a duplicate key to Uncle Francis's desk. I used it a lot in my childhood when he kept chocolates there. Expect me at your bedroom door at about midnight, and we'll get cracking."

  “You think we can do it?"

  "It'll be as easy as falling off a log," said Gladys.

  All artists are nervous, highly strung men, and Lancelot, as he waited for the girl he loved to come and tell him that zero hour had arrived, was not at his most debonair and carefree The thought of the impending expedition had the worst effect on his morale. It so happened that for one reason or another he had never fallen off a log, but he assumed it to be a feat well within the scope of the least gifted, and why Gladys should think it resembled the hideous task that lay before them he could not imagine. He could tot up a dozen things that could go wrong. Suppose, to take an instance at random, the parrot overheard them and roused the house.

  But when Gladys did appear, something of confidence returned to him. The mere look of her was encouraging. There is nothing that so heartens a man in a crisis as the feeling that he has a woman of strong executive qualities at his side. Macbeth, it will be remembered, had this experience.

  "Sh! " said Gladys, though he had not spoken, and before they set out she had a word of advice on strategy and tactics to impart.

  "Now listen, Lancelot," she said. "We want to conduct this operation with a minimum of sound effects. Your impulse, I know, will be to trip over your feet and fall downstairs with a noise like the delivery of a ton of coal, but resist it. Play the scene quietly. Okay? Right. Then let's go."

  Nothing marred the success of the expedition from the outset. True, Lancelot tripped over his feet as anticipated, but a quick snatch at the banisters enabled him to avoid giving the impersonation of the delivery of a ton of coals against which she had warned him. In silence they descended the stairs and stole noiselessly into the study. Gladys produced her duplicate; key, and Lancelot was just saying to himself that if he were a bookie he would estimate the odds on the happy ending as at, least four to one, when there occurred one of those unforeseen hitches which cannot be budgeted for. Even as Gladys, key in hand, approached the desk there came from outside the sound of stealthy footsteps, and it was only too evident that their objective was the study in which they were trapped.

  It was a moment fraught with embarrassment for the young couple, but each acted with a promptitude deserving of the highest praise. By the time the door opened no evidence of their presence was discernible. Gladys was concealed behind the curtains that draped the french windows, while Lancelot, having cleared the desk with a lissom bound, was crouching behind it, doing his best not to breathe.

  The first sound he heard after the opening of the door was the click of key in a lock. It was followed by the scratching of a match, and suddenly there floated to his nostrils the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke. And even as he sought faintly for a solution of this mystery the curtains parted with a rattle and he was able to catch a glimpse of the upper portions of his betrothed. She was staring accusingly down at something beyond his range of vision, and when a sharp exclamation in Swahili broke the silence, he knew that this must be Colonel Pashley-Drake.

  "So!" said Gladys.

  There are not many good things one can say in answer to the word 'So!', especially if one is called upon to find one at a moment's notice, and the Colonel remained silent for a space. It was only when Gladys had re
peated the word that he spoke.

  "Ah, my dear," he said, "there you are. Sorry to have seemed a bit taciturn, but your abrupt appearance surprised me. I thought you were in bed and asleep. Well, no doubt it seems odd to you to find me here, but I can explain, and you will see how I am situated."

  'You are situated in an armchair with a whacking great cigar in your mouth, and I shall be glad to have the inside story."

  "You shall have it at once, and I think it will touch your heart. You were away from home, I believe, when Mrs. Potter entered my service?"

  'She had been here a year when I first saw her."

  "So I thought. She was in the employment of a friend of mine when I was introduced to her superlative cooking. When he conked out-apoplexy, poor fellow, brought on, I have always felt, by over-indulgence in her steak and kidney pies-I immediately asked her to come to me, and I was stunned when she enquired if I was a non-smoker, adding that she held smoking to be the primary cause of all human ills and would never consider serving under the banner of an employer who indulged in the revolting practice. You follow me so far?"

  "I get the picture."

  "It was a tricky situation, you will admit. On the one hand, I loved cigars. On the other, I adored good food. Which to choose? The whole of that night I lay sleepless on my bed, pondering, and when morning came I knew what my decision must be. I made the great sacrifice. I told her I never smoked, and until tonight I never have. But this morning the chauffeur or somebody dropped this cigar on the lawn, and the sight of it shook me to my depths. I had not seen one for three years, and all the old craving returned. Unable to resist the urge, I crept down here and…Well, that is the story, my dear, and I am sure you will not let this little lapse of mine come to Mrs. Potter's ears. I can rely on you?"

  "Of course."

  "Thank you, thank you. You have taken a great weight off my mind. Bless my soul, I haven't felt so relieved since the afternoon in West Africa when a rhinoceros, charging on me with flashing eyes, suddenly sprained an ankle and had to call the whole thing off. I shudder to think what would have happened if Mrs. Potter had learned of my doings this night. She would have been off like a jack rabbit. I wouldn't have been able to see her for dust. She would have vanished like a dream at daybreak. But provided you seal your lips---"

  "Oh, I'll seal them."

  "Thank you, my dear. I knew I could rely on you."

  "And you on your side will write me a cheque for that bit of cash of mine. You see, I want to get married."

  "You do? Who to?"

  "You know him. Lancelot Bingley."

  A hoarse exclamation in some little known Senegambian dialect burst from the Colonel's lips.

  "You mean that artist fellow?"

  “That's right."

  "You're joking."

  "I am not."

  "You mean you seriously intend to marry that pop-eyed voting slab of damnation?"

  "He is not pop-eyed."

  "But you will concede that he is a slab of damnation?"

  "I will do nothing of the sort. Lancelot is a baa-lamb."

  "A baa-lamb?"

  "Yes, a baa-lamb."

  "Well, he doesn't look to me like a baa-lamb. More like something the cat brought in, and not a very fastidious cat at that."

  In his nook behind the desk Lancelot flushed hotly. For a moment he thought of rising to his feet with a curt "I resent that remark", but prudence told him it was better not to interrupt.

  "And it is not only his looks I object to," continued the Colonel. "I suppose he has kept it from you, but he goes about jumping on people's stomachs."

  "Yes, he mentioned that to me."

  "Well, then. You don't expect me to abet you in your crazy scheme of marrying a chap like that. I won't give you a penny."

  "Then I'll tell Mrs. Potter you're a secret smoker."

  The Colonel gasped. The cigar fell from his hand. He picked it up, dusted it and returned it to his lips. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse and trembled.

  "This is blackmail! "

  "With the possible exception of diamonds," said Gladys, "a girl's best friend."

  Silence fell. The Colonel's eyes were strained and bleak. His chins vibrated. It was plain that he was engaged in serious thought. But the clash of wills could have but one ending.

  "Very well," he said at length, "I consent. I do it with the utmost reluctance, for the idea of you marrying that…that how shall I describe him…well, never mind, you know what I mean…chills me to the marrow. But I have no alternative. I, cannot do without Mrs. Potter's cooking."

  "You shall have it."

  "And furthermore," said Lancelot, shooting up from behind the desk and causing the Colonel to quiver like a smitten jelly, "you shall have all the cigars you want. I have a box of fifty-or, rather, forty-nine-upstairs in my room and I give them to you freely. And after breakfast tomorrow I will show you a spot in the shrubbery where you can smoke your head off without fear of detection."

  The Colonel drew a deep breath. His eyes glowed with a strange light. His chins vibrated again, but this time with ecstasy. He said a few words in Cape Dutch, then, seeing that his companions had missed the gist, he obligingly translated.

  "Gladys," he said, "I could wish you no better husband. He is, as you were telling me, one of the baa-lambs and in my opinion by no means the worst of them. I think you will be very happy."

  Our Man in America

  It always happens. Just as one is feeling pretty good and saying to oneself that it is not a bad little world after all, along comes something to take the joy out of life. This news from Washington D.C., for instance. It seems that for many years it has been the practice of members of the United States Congress to go into the House restaurant, order a cup of coffee and reach out and grab slices of bread and butter, for which until recently there was no charge. So for the price of a cup of coffee they were able to fill themselves to the brim with nourishing food and go back to the debate with that cosy feeling of being ahead of the game.

  This has now been changed. The law-giver who wants bread will have to pay for it, arid it is not too much to say that consternation reigns. These starchy food aficionados get only $22,500 annually, so they have to keep a watchful eye on the budget, and if they pay out good money for a slice off the loaf it throws the whole thing out of gear. It is not unusual for visitors to Washington these days to find themselves stopped in the street by President Johnson and asked if they can spare a dime. "My Congressmen are crying for bread," he says.

  *

  It is pretty generally agreed that we are living as of even date in the times that try men's souls, and it is interesting, as one surveys the American scene, to note the steps the various states are taking to cope with them. Thus, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, the populace was conscious recently of a great wave of relief, for they knew that even if a hostile power were to start unloading unpleasant things from the skies above America, they at least would be sitting pretty. Grand Rapids has just passed a law making it illegal for any aviator to 'drop a bomb while flying over the city without leave from the city commission', and it is very improbable that such permission would be given a foreign foe.

  In Wisconsin they fortify themselves somewhat differently. Reports from there reveal that last year Wisconsin men, women and children all pulling together drank 1,025,739,909 bottles of beer. It worked splendidly. After about the 25,739,909th bottle they simply stopped caring. 'Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?' was the slogan heard on all sides, though in one or two instances the words were so slurred as to be indistinguishable.

  *

  Rather sad the way America's most cherished customs and traditions are dying out nowadays. The latest to become one with Nineveh and Tyre is the annual woolly bear hunt on Bear Mountain. Each autumn for nearly a decade it has been the practice of Dr. C. H. Curran, curator of insects and spiders at the Museum of Natural History, to take a paper bag and set forth, accompanied by Mrs. Curran and a bevy of friends and well-wishe
rs, to collect specimens of the caterpillar of that name and inspect them with a view to seeing what sort of winter we were going to have.

  The idea has always been that if in the Autumn the brown bands on the woolly bear were wide, conditions from December to March would be clement, while if they were narrow the populace was in for ice and snow and all the trimmings. And now Dr. Curran has rocked the country with a bombshell.

  "This," he said, as the hunters returned to the hunting lodge and were gloating over the bulging paper bag,' is the last woolly bear hunt we will conduct. Statistics over the last nine years show that the width of the little chiseller's brown bands can tell us nothing whatsoever about the weather. The woolly bear stands stripped of its mask at the bar of world opinion. '

  Well, naturally, everyone was pretty appalled. Mrs. Curran fought to keep back the tears and many of those present paled visibly. A reporter from the New York Herald-Tribune, who had come along because there was a free lunch, was heard to cry "Oh, Doctor Curran, say it ain't so!", but the doc was adamant. He had had it. "Look what happened last year," he said. One knows what was in his mind. Last October every woolly bear you met was sporting the widest possible bands, and the winter should have been springlike. But was it? Not by a jugful. It was a stinker. No wonder Dr. Curran had felt compelled to take this strong line. As he rather aptly puts it, you can fool all the people some of the time, you can even fool some of the people all the time, but you can't fool all the people all the time. From now on the woolly bear means nothing in his life. He will take the high road and it the low road, and if they happen to meet he will merely nod coldly, if that.

  *

  It is unlikely, perhaps, that Mr. Ernest Crowley of Watkins Glen, N.Y., will ever invite me to spend a long week-end at his home, but if he does I shall certainly tell him I can't possibly fit it in, for, according to an interview he has given to the press, he has a singing dog on the premises. According to him the animal has a repertory ranging from 'My Wild Irish Rose' to 'Happy Birthday'.