Hot Water

by P. G. Wodehouse

  What retort Blair Eggleston would have made to this thrust will never be known. It would probably have been something fraught with dignified rebuke, but it must remain among the good things that were never spoken. For at this moment Jane put forward a suggestion that wiped the words from his lips.

  'Do you want me to tell Father that you refuse?'

  That faint shade of green came into Blair Eggleston's face once more. Whatever his long line of valets might feel about Senator Opal, none of them had ever looked upon him as a man whose wishes might lightly be ignored. Blair, the latest of the dynasty, would as readily have defied a charging rhinoceros.

  He swallowed unhappily.

  'Oh, I suppose I'll have to do it.'

  'That's the way to talk!'

  'But let me tell you that there are moments when I think what I have been – er – let in for, when I ask myself...'

  He had no time to reveal what he asked himself, for Packy had come hurrying on to the terrace.

  Packy seemed amused.

  'I've been having rather a trying time with that poor fish... I beg your pardon – I mean with your respected father. He had three separate schemes to put forward, and each was loonier than the last. It took me quite a while to persuade him that he had better leave all the active work to me.'

  Blair Eggleston barked sharply.

  'Why the mirthless laugh?' asked Packy, surprised.

  'Correct me if I am wrong, but it appears to me that I, though insignificant and of scarcely less use to you all than a sick headache, am about to do a certain share of what you describe as the active work.'

  Packy stared.

  'What! Holding Medway's hand? You don't call that work? Child's play. And most enjoyable, to boot. Besides, an experience like that will be useful to you in your business. I shouldn't be surprised if you didn't get a plot for a novel out of Medway.'

  'Blair's novels haven't any plots.'

  'No? Why's that?'

  'He thinks they're crude.'

  'I must read Blair's novels some day. Not just now. Later.'

  'The critics say they have a strange fearless quality.'

  'Well, that's always something, isn't it?'

  The literary discussion was interrupted by the abrupt departure of the author. With a dark frown on his face, Blair Eggleston was stumping off towards the house.

  Packy watched him with concern.

  'A little peeved?'

  'A little.'

  'Did he... I forget what I was going to say.'

  'Yes, he did.'

  'I was afraid he might.'

  Jane sighed.

  'Blair can be very difficult.'

  'I should imagine so.'

  'It's the artistic temperament, I suppose.'

  'Probably. Tricky devils, these novelists. The ink gets into their heads.'

  'I sometimes wonder...'

  'What?'

  'Oh, nothing.'

  'Pardon me,' said a deprecating voice behind them, 'but are you doing anything just now, Vicomte?'

  They turned. It was Miss Putnam who had spoken. She was standing there beaming benevolently through her hornrimmed glasses.

  'Mrs Gedge was very anxious that I should show you our leaky cistern.'

  It had not been Packy's intention to pass the summer afternoon inspecting leaky cisterns. The suggestion, which would have enchanted a plumber, left him cold. However, he was courteous.

  'It will be a real treat,' he said. He turned to Jane. 'Will you join us?'

  'I don't think I will, thanks.'

  'Girls,' said Packy to Miss Putnam with a regretful shake of the head, 'are very blasée nowadays.'

  'I thought of going and sitting in the hammock on the lawn.'

  'You are probably missing something good, but do just as you please. I will stroll round there later.'

  'It will only take a few minutes,' said Miss Putnam apologetically.

  'In a few minutes, then,' Packy informed Jane, 'I will be with you.'

  CHAPTER 9

  DESPITE the fact that he had been reluctant to start upon this sight-seeing expedition concerning which Miss Putnam seemed so enthusiastic, Packy became conscious of a certain pleasurable excitement as he followed the secretary to the upper regions of the house. This cistern, after all, had played an important part in his life. If there had been no leaky cistern, there would have been no falling out between Mr Gedge and the Vicomte de Blissac; and if there had been no such falling out he would not have been here in the Château now. It was as one visiting a historic monument that he came at length to the dark and narrow flight of stairs which seemed to lead to Journey's End.

  At the head of these, Miss Putnam paused.

  'Be careful, Vicomte. The ceiling is a little low. Though I guess,' she went on, simpering respectfully, 'you don't need to be told that.'

  'Not now,' said Packy, rubbing his head.

  'I mean, I suppose you have often hidden up here, playing hide-and-go-seek when you were a little kiddy.'

  'No,' said Packy. He hoped his companion was not going to dwell too much on the dear old days at the Château. 'This is my first visit. Rather like Hell, isn't it?' i53

  The secretary smirked, as Virgil might have done had Dante essayed a mild pleasantry while he was conducting him through the Inferno.

  'It is not very pleasant,' she agreed. 'I suppose as a little kiddy you might have been scared to come up here.'

  'I was never a very little kiddy,' said Packy, to correct an apparent misapprehension. Always rather an out-size kiddy. Big bones. Lots of firm flesh.'

  Miss Putnam appeared to think this over, for she was silent for a while. Then she waved her hand in the direction of the asthmatic gurgle which was punctuating their conversation.

  'This,' she said, 'is the cistern.'

  It was the first time Packy had been formally introduced to a cistern, and he was not quite sure of the correct etiquette. He bowed slightly and eyed the repellent object with interest.

  'It leaks,'said Miss Putnam.

  'You are sure of this?'

  'It leaks all the time.'

  'Not on Sundays?'

  'Mrs Gedge wanted you to see it before she sent for the plumber. Naturally she is a little annoyed. The Vicomtesse assured her that everything was in perfect order.'

  'She's like that. A great kidder.'

  'Well, if you are satisfied...'

  'Oh, quite. I consider that Mrs Gedge has a cast-iron case. She has caught Mother bending and will, I trust, soak it to her good.'

  They descended the stairs. Packy would have been quite content to descend them in silence, but Miss Putnam became chatty again.

  'I do so envy you having been in this lovely home as a kiddy, Vicomte. What memories you must have!' i54

  'Oh, yes.'

  'You don't speak very enthusiastically.'

  'I am never fond of talking of those days,' said Packy, who felt that this sort of thing must be firmly dealt with at the outset. 'Mine, you see, was not a happy kiddyhood. Lonely. Neglected. I prefer to forget it.'

  'How very sad.'

  'Oh, I'm all right now. I've perked up a lot recently.'

  'How idiomatically you speak English, Vicomte.'

  'Yes?'

  'I am sure nobody would take you for a Frenchman.'

  Here, again, in Packy's opinion, was a trend of thought that called for prompt measures.

  'I was educated at an English school.'

  'Where was that?'

  'Aytong.'

  'Aytong?'

  'E-t-o-n.'

  'Oh, Eton? That accounts for it, doesn't it?'

  Packy hoped so.

  'But what seems so odd to me is that you speak English so like an American.'

  Packy was beginning to dislike this woman. At first, she had seemed to him a fragile, timid little thing whom it was a pleasure to put at her ease and generally behave like a great, big, strong – but kindly- man to. Now, she began to give evidences of possessing many of the less a
ttractive qualities of a Class A gumboil.

  'I have travelled in America much. Ah, mademoiselle,' said Packy, with Gallic fervour, 'how great a country!'

  'I am glad to hear you say so, being American myself

  'You are from Les Etats Unis?' i55

  'I have lived there all my life.'

  'Ah? You were a little kiddy there?'

  'Did you find it very difficult, Vicomte, learning English?'

  'Oh, no.'

  'I have never been able to manage foreign tongues. I found it a great handicap when I was in Mexico a year or two ago.'

  'Yes?'

  'Oh, yes. I would have given anything to meet somebody I could have talked to in my own language.'

  'I know the feeling.'

  'You have it yourself sometimes, I guess, even though you speak English so well?'

  'Oh, frequently.'

  They passed through the hall and came out on to the steps which led to the gravel drive in front of the Château.

  'Oh!' said Miss Putnam.

  What had caused the exclamation was the sudden appearance of an ancient taxi-cab. It had rounded the corner of the drive and was bowling briskly towards them.

  'This must be the Duc.'

  'The who?'

  'The Duc de Pont-Andemer,' explained Miss Putnam. A telegram arrived from Mrs Gedge saying that he would be arriving to-day.'

  Her woman's instinct had not deceived her. The cab came to a grinding halt at the steps. Its door opened. And from it, hopping in an aristocratic way, there emerged a gentleman of distinguished mien.

  'Good afternoon,' said the new-comer, advancing with a sunny but dignified smile. 'Permit me, shall it not, to introduce myself. I am the Duc de Pont-Andemer.'

  CHAPTER 10

  1

  GORDON CARLISLE was a man who in his time had played many parts. Starting at the bottom of the ladder as the genial young fellow who had found a ruby ring in the street and was anxious, as the bally thing was of no use to him, to sell it for what it would fetch, he had worked his way up by sheer talent and application to the top of his profession. To impersonate even a South American hidalgo with title deeds to lands rich in oil and minerals was nowadays a mere nothing to him.

  It is not to be supposed, therefore, that the task of depicting a member of the French aristocracy would occasion him any concern. He was glowing with careless confidence. He felt that these people, whoever they were, were seeing him at his best.

  Packy, on the other hand, though a young man not easily put out of countenance, was experiencing an attack of something akin to panic. He had not anticipated that he would be called upon to forgather with Ducs. And if this encounter had to take place, he wished fervently that it had not occurred in the presence of Miss Putnam. He knew his Putnam. Unless forcibly prevented, she was very shortly going to say how nice it would be for a Vicomte and a Duc to have somebody with whom they could converse in their own language.

  At the moment, she was occupied with greeting the handsome guest.

  'How do you do, Duke? I am Mrs Gedge's secretary.'

  'Mademoiselle!' said Mr Carlisle, bowing.

  Miss Putnam beamed upon this worthy upholder of the politesse of the ancien régime.

  'I hope you had a pleasant journey?'

  'Most, thank you. The sea was like a...'

  'Mill-pond?' said Miss Putnam. A student of crossword puzzles, she was seldom at a loss.

  'A meal-pont. Exactly. And this gentleman?'

  'This is the Vicomte de Blissac. How nice it will be...'

  It seemed to Packy that at the mention of the Vicomte's name some kind of fleeting emotion had shown itself for an instant in the visitor's face, but he was too preoccupied with his own predicament to give it attention. He plunged desperately into small-talk.

  'How do you do? Nice to see you.'

  'It is to me,' replied Mr Carlisle with his unfailing politeness, 'a great privilege to visit your historic Château. The Château Blissac has figured much in our country's history.'

  'You are not from these parts?'

  'Ah, no. My estates are in Touraine.'

  'Have you come from Paris?'

  'From England.'

  'By boat?'

  'Yais.'

  'How nice...' said Miss Putnam.

  'So many people,' said Packy quickly, 'fly nowadays.'

  'Ah, yais.'

  'I am very fond of flying.'

  'I also.'

  'There is something about flying.'

  'Yais.'

  'So much quicker.'

  'Yais.'

  'How nice...'

  'Think,' said Packy, 'what a lot of time one wastes on the train and then on the boat, coming to a place like this.'

  'Yais.'

  'In a 'plane it would have taken you only an hour or two to get here.'

  'Yais.'

  'Still, you did get here, didn't you, Duke?' said Miss Putnam, smiling in a roguish sort of way. 'And how nice it will be for you, having somebody to talk to in your own language. I was saying to the Vicomte only just now that, however well you speak a foreign language, it is never quite the same.'

  A somewhat strained pause followed the delivery of this dictum. For the space of perhaps a quarter of a minute the French aristocrats stared at one another dumbly. Here, you would have said, watching them, were two strong, silent Frenchmen.

  Mr Carlisle was the first to rally from the shock.

  'Parfaitement,' he said.

  'Alors,' said Packy.

  'Parbleu!'

  'Nom d'une pipe!'

  There was another pause. It was as if some theme of deep interest had been exhausted. i59

  Packy indicated the sky, as something to which he felt the visitor's attention should be directed.

  'Le soleil!'

  'Mais oui!'

  'Beau!'

  'Parbleu!' said Mr Carlisle, rather meanly falling back on old stuff.

  They paused again. Packy, except for 'Oo là là!' which he did not quite know how to bring in, had now shot his bolt.

  But Mr Carlisle was made of sterner stuff. If there is much to be said from a moral standpoint against Confidence Trickery as a profession, there is this to be urged in its favour, looking at it from a purely utilitarian point of view – that it undoubtedly breeds in its initiates a certain enviable coolheadedness and enables them to behave with an easy grace in circumstances where the layman would be nonplussed. Mr Carlisle, after what he would have been the first to confess a bad two minutes, was his resourceful self once more.

  'But really, my dear fellow,' he said, with a light laugh, 'all this is vairy delightful, but you must not tempt me, no. My English it is not good, and I promise my instructeur that always I would speak it only. You understand?'

  The interval of silence had enabled Packy to dig up a really hot one.

  'C'est vrai,' he said, with a glance at Miss Putnam which suggested that that, in his opinion, would hold her for awhile. 'Mais, c'est vrai, mon vieux. Oo là là, c'est vrai! I, also, study the English and do not wish to speak the French.'

  He regarded the descendant of the proud Pont-Andemers with an almost doglike devotion. He felt he had never met a more charming, delightful man. A Frenchman, yes – but how nobly he had lived it down by this sturdy refusal to speak or listen to his native tongue. Let him but carry on along these lines, never swerving from his determination, and Packy saw no reason why their mutual visit to the Château Blissac should not result in one of those great friendships you read about.

  The departure of Miss Putnam, which occurred at this point, gave him an excuse for tearing himself away. The secretary, apparently losing interest now that the torrent of idiomatic French had dried up, had made one of her silent exits. Packy, well pleased, felt that the time had come for him to proceed to the hammock, where, he considered, he had already kept Jane Opal waiting too long.

  'Well, Duc, I'll be seeing you,' he said cheerily. 'I have a date. Good-bye.'

  'Au revoir,'
said the Duc de Pont-Andemer.

  He watched Packy disappear across the lawn. Then, turning, he strode briskly off down the drive. He wished to have a word with his friend and colleague, Mr Soup Slattery.

  2

  He found Mr Slattery, as he had expected to find him, in the cocktail bar of the Hotel des Etrangers.

  The safe-blower, his modest day's gambling concluded, was refreshing himself with a Gustave Special.

  He looked up as Mr Carlisle approached.

  'Hello! you back?'

  'Yes, I'm back.'

  'How did you make out?'

  'Oke. I'm in the Château.'

  Respectful admiration shone in Mr Slattery's eyes. He was a man who could give homage where homage was due.

  'Nice work, Oily. You're certainly smooth.'

  As a rule, Mr Carlisle liked compliments, but he cut these short.

  'Listen, Soup. Things aren't so good as you think.'

  'How's that?'

  'There's another bird in this Château, on the same lay as us.'

  'What!'

  'That's right. I found him there when I arrived. He says he's the Vicomte de Blissac.'

  'I know D. Blissac.'

  'So do I. It isn't more than a year since I took a couple of thousand bucks off him one night in London. That's how I know this bird isn't him. It made me jump, I tell you, when that woman points at this guy and says to me: "Shake hands with the Vicomte de Blissac." Right there I was on to him. I've never seen him before. He's a husky guy that looks like a prize-fighter.'

  'Was he on to you?'

  'No. He thinks I'm a French Duc. We've got to get rid of him.'

  Mr Slattery's massive jaw protruded.

  'You betcha we've got to get rid of him. And quick. I'm not going to have anyone muscling in on our territory.'

  Mr Carlisle nodded, well pleased. Negligible though he considered him as an intellectual force, he had known that he could count on Soup when it came to crude physical action.

  'He's too big for me to handle, so it's up to you. What you've got to do is go have a talk with him, and it better be to-night.'

  'I'll talk to him. But how,' asked Mr Slattery, the difficulties of the undertaking beginning to impress themselves on his somewhat slow mind, 'do I locate him?'