Meet Mr. Mulliner

by P. G. Wodehouse

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  sorrows actually helped his professional prestige. Women told one another that being photographed by Clarence Mulliner was like undergoing some wonderful spiritual experience in a noble cathedral; and his appointment-book became fuller than ever.

  So great now was his reputation that to anyone who had had the privilege of being taken by him, either full face or in profile, the doors of Society opened automatically. It was whispered that his name was to appear in the next Birthday Honours List ; and at the annual banquet of the Amalgamated Bulb-Squeezers, when Sir Godfrey Stooge, the retiring President, in proposing his health, concluded a glowingly eulogistic speech with the words, " Gentlemen, I give you my destined successor, MuUiner the Liberator ! " five hundred frantic photographers almost shivered the glasses on the table with their applause.

  And yet he was not happy. He had lost the only girl he had ever loved, and without her what was Fame ? What was Affluence ? What were the Highest Honours in the Land ?

  These were the questions he was asking

  himself one night as he sat in his Hbrary, sombrely sipping a final whisky-and-soda before retiring. He had asked them once and was going to ask them again, when he was interrupted by the sound of some one ringing at the front-door bell.

  He rose, surprised. It was late for callers. The domestic staff had gone to bed, so he went to the door and opened it. A shadovy figure was standing on the steps.

  " Mr. Mulhner ? "

  " I am Mr. MuUiner."

  The man stepped past him into the hall. And, as he did so, Clarence saw that he was wearing over the upper half of his face a black velvet mask.

  " I must apologise for hiding my face, Mr. Mulliner," the visitor said, as Clarence led him to the library.

  " Not at all," repUed Clarence, courteously. " No doubt it is all for the best."

  " Indeed ? " said the other, with a touch of asperity. " If you really want to know, I am probably as handsome a man as there is in London. But my mission is one of such extraordinary secrecy that I dare not run the risk of being recognised." He paused, and

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  Clarence saw his eyes glint through the holes in the mask as he directed a rapid gaze into each corner of the hbrary. " Mr. Mulhner, have you any acquaintance with the ramifications of international secret politics ? "

  " I have."

  " And you are a patriot ? " I am.

  " Then I can speak freely. No doubt you are aware, Mr. Mulhner, that for some time past this country and a certain rival Power have been competing for the friendship and alliance of a certain other Power ? "

  " No," said Clarence, " they didn't tell me that."

  " Such is the case. And the President of this Power "

  " Which one ? "

  *' The second one."

  " Call it B."

  ** The President of Power B. is now in London. He arrived incognito, traveUing under the assumed name of J. J. Shubert : and the representatives of Power A., to the best of our knowledge, are not yet aware of his presence. This gives us just the few hours necessary to chnch this treaty with

  Power B. before Power A. can interfere. I ought to tell you, Mr. Mulliner, that if Power B. forms an alliance with this country, the supremacy of the Anglo-Saxon race will be secured for hundreds of years. Whereas if Power A. gets hold of Power B., civihsation will be thrown into the melting-pot. In the eyes of all Europe—and when I say all Europe I refer particularly to Powers C, D., and E. —this nation would sink to the rank of a fourth-class Power."

  *' Call it Power F.," said Clarence.

  " It rests with you, Mr. Mulliner, to save England."

  " Great Britain," corrected Clarence. He was half Scotch on his mother's side. " But how ? What can I do about it ? "

  '' The position is this. The President of Power B. has an overwhelming desire to have his photograph taken by Clarence MuUiner. Consent to take it, and our difficulties will be at an end. Overcome with gratitude, he will sign the treaty, and the Anglo-Saxon race will be safe."

  Clarence did not hesitate. Apart from the natural gratification of feeling that he was doing the Anglo-Saxon race a bit of

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  good, business was business; and if the President took a dozen of the large size finished in silver wash it would mean a nice profit.

  " I shall be dehghted," he said.

  " Your patriotism," said the visitor, '' will not go unrewarded. It will be gratefully noted in the Very Highest Circles."

  Clarence reached for his appointment-book.

  *' Now, let me see. Wednesday ?—No, I'm fuU up Wednesday. Thursday ?—No. Suppose the President looks in at my studio between four and five on Friday ? "

  The visitor uttered a gasp.

  " Good heavens, Mr. MulUner," he exclaimed, " surely you do not imagine that, with the vast issues at stake, these things can be done openly and in dayhght ? If the devils in the pay of Power A. were to learn that the President intended to have his photograph taken by you, I would not give a straw for your chances of living an hour."

  " Then what do you suggest ? "

  " You must accompany me now to the President's suite at the Milan Hotel. We

  shall travel in a closed car, and God send that these fiends did not recognise me as I came here. If they did, we shall never reach that car aUve. Have you, by any chance, while we have been talking, heard the hoot of an owl ? "

  " No," said Clarence. " No owls."

  " Then perhaps they are nowhere near. The fiends always imitate the hoot of an owl."

  " A thing," said Clarence, " which I tried to do when I was a small boy and never seemed able to manage. The popular idea that owls say ' Tu-whit, tu-whoo' is all wrong. The actual noise they make is something far more difficult and complex, and it was beyond me."

  " Quite so." The visitor looked at his watch. " However, absorbing as these reminiscences of your boyhood days are, time is flying. Shall we be making a start ? "

  " Certainly."

  " Then foUow me."

  It appeared to be holiday-time for fiends, or else the night-shift had not yet come on, for they reached the car without being molested. Clarence stepped in, and his

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  masked visitor, after a keen look up and down the street, followed him.

  " Talking of my boyhood " began

  Clarence.

  The sentence was never completed. A soft wet pad was pressed over his nostrils : the air became a-reek with the sickly fumes of chloroform : and Clarence knew no more.

  When he came to, he was no longer in the car. He found himself lying on a bed in a room in a strange house. It was a medium-sized room with scarlet wall-paper, simply furnished with a wash-hand stand, a chest of drawers, two cane-bottomed chairs, and a " God Bless Our Home " motto framed in oak. He was conscious of a severe headache, and was about to rise and make for the water-bottle on the wash-stand when, to his consternation, he discovered that his arms and legs were shackled with stout cord.

  As a family, the Mulliners have always been noted for their reckless courage ; and Clarence was no exception to the rule. But for an instant his heart undeniably beat a little faster. He saw now that his masked visitor had tricked him. Instead of being

  a representative of His Majesty's Diplomatic Service (a most respectable class of men), he had really been all along a fiend in the pay of Power A.

  No doubt he and his vile associates were even now chuckhng at the ease with which their victim had been duped. Clarence gritted his teeth and struggled vainly to loose the knots which secured his wrists. He had fallen back exhausted when he heard the sound of a key turning and the door opened. Somebody crossed the room and stood by the bed, looking dow^n on him.

  The new-comer was a stout man with a complexion that m.atched the wall-paper. He was puffing slightly, as if he had found the stairs trying. He had broad, slab-like features; and his
face was spht in the middle by a walrus moustache. Somewhere and in some place, Clarence was convinced, he had seen this man before.

  And then it all came back to him. An open window with a pleasant summer breeze blowing in ; a stout man in a cocked hat trying to chmb through this window ; and he, Clarence, doing his best to help him with the sharp end of a tripod. It was

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  Jno. Horatio Biggs, the Mayor of Tooting East.

  A shudder of loathing ran through Clarence.

  " Traitor ! " he cried.

  " Eh ? " said the Mayor.

  " If anybody had told me that a son of Tooting, nursed in the keen air of freedom which blows across the Common, would sell himself for gold to the enemies of his country, I would never have believed it. Well, you may tell your employers "

  *' What employers ? "

  ''Power A."

  " Oh, that ? " said the Mayor. " I am afraid my secretary, whom I instructed to bring you to this house, was obliged to romance a Httle in order to ensure your accompanying him, Mr. MuUiner. All that about Power A. and Power B. was just his httle joke. If you want to know why you were brought here "

  Clarence uttered a low groan.

  " I have guessed your ghastly object, you ghastly object," he said quietly. " You want me to photograph you."

  The Mayor shook his head.

  " Not myself. I realise that that can never be. My daughter."

  " Your daughter ? "

  " My daughter."

  " Does she take after you ? "

  " People tell me there is a resemblance."

  " I refuse," said Clarence.

  " Think well, Mr. MulUner."

  " I have done all the thinking that is necessary. England—or, rather. Great Britain—looks to me to photograph only her fairest and lovehest ; and though, as a man, I admit that I loathe beautiful women, as a photographer I have a duty to consider that is higher than any personal feehngs. History has yet to record an instance of a photographer playing his country false, and Clarence MuUiner is not the man to supply the first one. I dechne your offer."

  " I wasn't looking on it exactly as an offer," said the Mayor, thoughtfully. " More as a command, if you get my meaning."

  " You imagine that you can bend a lens-artist to your will and make him false to his professional reputation ? "

  " I was thinking of having a try."

  " Do you realise that, if my incarcera-

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  tion here were known, ten thousand photographers would tear this house brick from brick and you Hmb from Hmb ? "

  " But it isn't," the Mayor pointed out. " And that, if you follow me, is the whole point. You came here by night in a closed car. You could stay here for the rest of your life, and no one would be any the wiser. I really think you had better reconsider, Mr. Mulhner."

  " You have had my answer."

  " Well, I'll leave you to think it over. Dinner will be served at seven-thirty. Don't bother to dress."

  At half-past seven precisely the door opened again and the Mayor reappeared, followed by a butler bearing on a silver salver a glass of water and a small slice of bread. Pride urged Clarence to reject the refreshment, but hunger overcame pride. He swallowed the bread which the butler offered him in small bits in a spoon, and drank the water.

  " At what hour would the gentleman desire breakfast, sir ? " asked the butler.

  " Now," said Clarence, for his appetite,

  always healthy, seemed to have been sharpened by the trials which he had undergone.

  " Let us say nine o'clock," suggested the Mayor. " Put aside another shce of that bread, Meadows. And no doubt Mr. Mulhner would enjoy a glass of this excellent water."

  For perhaps half an hour after his host had left him, Clarence's mind was obsessed to the exclusion of all other thoughts by a vision of the dinner he would have hked to be enjoying. All we Mulhners have been good trenchermen, and to put a bit of bread into it after it had been unoccupied for a whole day was to offer to Clarence's stomach an insult which it resented with an indescribable bitterness. Clarence's only emotion for some considerable time, then, was that of hunger. His thoughts centred themselves on food. And it was to this fact, oddly enough, that he owed his release.

  For, as he lay there in a sort of dehrium, picturing himself getting outside a medium-cooked steak smothered in onions, with grilled tomatoes and floury potatoes on the side, it was suddenly borne in upon him that this steak did not taste quite so good as other

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  steaks which he had eaten in the past. It was tough and lacked juiciness. It tasted just hke rope.

  And then, his mind clearing, he saw that it actually was rope. Carried away by the anguish of hunger, he had been chewing the cord which bound his hands ; and he now discovered that he had bitten into it quite deeply.

  A sudden flood of hope poured over Clarence Mulliner. Carrying on at this rate, he perceived, he would be able ere long to free himself. It only needed a Uttle imagination. After a brief interval to rest his aching jaws, he put himself deUberately into that state of relaxation which is recommended by the apostles of Suggestion.

  " I am entering the dining-room of my club," murmured Clarence. " I am sitting down. The waiter is handing me the bill of fare. I have selected roast duck with green peas and new potatoes, lamb cutlets with Brussels sprouts, fricassee of chicken, porterhouse steak, boiled beef and carrots, leg of mutton, haunch of mutton, mutton chops, curried mutton, veal, kidneys saute, spaghetti Caruso, and eggs and bacon, fried on both

  sides. The waiter is now bringing my order. I have taken up my knife and fork. I am beginning to eat."

  And, murmuring a brief grace, Clarence flung himself on the rope and set to.

  Twenty minutes later he was hobbling about the room, restoring the circulation to his cramped limbs.

  Just as he had succeeded in getting himself nicely Umbered up, he heard the key turning in the door.

  Clarence crouched for the spring. The room was quite dark now, and he was glad of it, for darkness well fitted the work which lay before him. His plans, conceived on the spur of the moment, were necessarily sketchy, but they included jumping on the Mayor's shoulders and pulling his head off. After that, no doubt, other modes of self-expression would suggest themselves.

  The door opened. Clarence made his leap. And he was just about to start on the programme as arranged, when he discovered with a shock of horror that this was no O.B.E. that he was being rough with, but a woman. And no photographer worthy of the name will ever lay a hand upon a woman, save to

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  raise her chin and tilt it a httle more to the left.

  " I beg your pardon ! " he cried.

  " Don't mention it," said his visitor, in a low voice. " I hope I didn't disturb you."

  "Not at all," said Clarence.

  There was a pause.

  " Rotten weather," said Clarence, feehng that it was for him, as the male member of the sketch, to keep the conversation going.

  " Yes, isn't it ? "

  " A lot of rain we've had this summer."

  " Yes. It seems to get worse every year."

  " Doesn't it ? "

  " So bad for tennis."

  " And cricket."

  " And polo."

  " And garden parties."

  " I hate rain."

  " So do I."

  " Of course, we may have a fine August."

  " Yes, there's always that."

  The ice was broken, and the girl seemed to become more at her ease.

  " I came to let you out," she said. " I must apologise for my father. He loves me

  foolishly and has no scruples where my happiness is concerned. He has always yearned to have me photographed by you, but I cannot consent to allow a photographer to be coerced into abandoning his principles. If you wiU follow me, I will let you out by the front door."

  ''
It's awfully good of you," said Clarence, awkwardly. As any man of nice sentiment would have been, he was embarrassed. He wished that he could have obHged this kind-hearted girl by taking her picture, but a natural dehcacy restrained him from touching on this subject. They went down the stairs in silence.

  On the first landing a hand was placed on his in the darkness and the girl's voice whispered in his ear.

  *' We are just outside father's study," he heard her say. " We must be as quiet as mice."

  " As what ? " said Clarence.

  " Mice."

  " Oh, rather," said Clarence, and immediately bumped into what appeared to be a pedestal of some sort.

  These pedestals usually have vases on

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  top of them, and it was revealed to Clarence a moment later that this one was no exception. There was a noise hke ten simultaneous dinner-services coming apart in the hands of ten simultaneous parlour-maids; and then the door was flung open, the landing became flooded with hght, and the Mayor of Tooting East stood before them. He was carrying a revolver and his face was dark with menace.

  " Ha ! " said the Mayor.

  But Clarence was paying no attention to him. He was staring open-mouthed at the girl. She had shrunk back against the wall, and the Ught fell full upon her.

  " You ! " cried Clarence.

  " This " began the Mayor.

  " You ! At last ! "

  " This is a pretty "

  " Am I dreaming ? "

  " This is a pretty state of af "

  " Ever since that day I saw you in the cab I have been scouring London for you. To think that I have found you at last ! "

  " This is a pretty state of affairs," said the Mayor, breathing on the barrel of his revolver and pohshing it on the sleeve of his coat.

  " My daughter helping the foe of her family to fly "