The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 1:

by P. G. Wodehouse

  I stepped across and put my lips to the woodwork.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘It is I, sir. Jeeves.’

  ‘Oh, hallo, Jeeves.’

  ‘The door appears to be locked, sir.’

  ‘And you can take it from me, Jeeves, that appearances do not deceive. Pop Bassett locked it, and has trousered the key.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve been pinched.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said “Indeed, sir?”’

  ‘Oh, did you? Yes. Yes, indeed. And I’ll tell you why.’

  I gave him a précis of what had happened. It was not easy to hear, with a door between us, but I think the narrative elicited a spot of respectful tut-tutting.

  ‘Unfortunate, sir.’

  ‘Most. Well, Jeeves, what is your news?’

  ‘I endeavoured to locate Mr Spode, sir, but he had gone for a walk in the grounds. No doubt he will be returning shortly.’

  ‘Well, we shan’t require him now. The rapid march of events has taken us far past the point where Spode could have been of service. Anything else been happening at your end?’

  ‘I have had a word with Miss Byng, sir.’

  ‘I should like a word with her myself. What had she to say?’

  ‘The young lady was in considerable distress of mind, sir, her union with the Reverend Mr Pinker having been forbidden by Sir Watkyn.’

  ‘Good Lord, Jeeves! Why?’

  ‘Sir Watkyn appears to have taken umbrage at the part played by Mr Pinker in allowing the purloiner of the cow-creamer to effect his escape.’

  ‘Why do you say “his”?’

  ‘From motives of prudence, sir. Walls have ears.’

  ‘I see what you mean. That’s rather neat, Jeeves.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  I mused a while on this latest development. There were certainly aching hearts in Gloucestershire all right this PM. I was conscious of a pang of pity. Despite the fact that it was entirely owing to Stiffy that I found myself in my present predic., I wished the young loony well and mourned for her in her hour of disaster.

  ‘So he has bunged a spanner into Stiffy’s romance as well as Gussie’s, has he? That old bird has certainly been throwing his weight about tonight, Jeeves.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And not a thing to be done about it, as far as I can see. Can you see anything to be done about it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And switching to another aspect of the affair, you haven’t any immediate plans for getting me out of this, I suppose?’

  ‘Not adequately formulated, sir. I am turning over an idea in my mind.’

  ‘Turn well, Jeeves. Spare no effort.’

  ‘But it is at present merely nebulous.’

  ‘It involves finesse, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I shook my head. Waste of time really, of course, because he couldn’t see me. Still, I shook it.

  ‘It’s no good trying to be subtle and snaky now, Jeeves. What is required is rapid action. And a thought has occurred to me. We were speaking not long since of the time when Sir Roderick Glossop was immured in the potting-shed, with Constable Dobson guarding every exit. Do you remember what old Pop Stoker’s idea was for coping with the situation?’

  ‘If I recollect rightly, sir, Mr Stoker advocated a physical assault upon the officer. “Bat him over the head with a shovel!” was, as I recall, his expression.’

  ‘Correct, Jeeves. Those were his exact words. And though we scouted the idea at the time, it seems to me now that he displayed a considerable amount of rugged good sense. These practical, self-made men have a long way of going straight to the point and avoiding side issues. Constable Oates is on sentry go beneath my window. I still have the knotted sheets and they can readily be attached to the leg of the bed or something. So if you would just borrow a shovel somewhere and step down –’

  ‘I fear, sir –’

  ‘Come on, Jeeves. This is no time for nolle prosequis. I know you like finesse, but you must see that it won’t help us now. The moment has arrived when only shovels can serve. You could go and engage him in conversation, keeping the instrument concealed behind your back, and waiting for the psychological –’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. I think I hear somebody coming.’

  ‘Well, ponder over what I have said. Who is coming?’

  ‘It is Sir Watkyn and Mrs Travers, sir. I fancy they are about to call upon you.’

  ‘I thought I shouldn’t get this room to myself for long. Still, let them come. We Woosters keep open house.’

  When the door was unlocked a few moments later, however, only the relative entered. She made for the old familiar armchair, and dumped herself heavily in it. Her demeanour was sombre, encouraging no hope that she had come to announce that Pop Bassett, wiser counsels having prevailed, had decided to set me free. And yet I’m dashed if that wasn’t precisely what she had come to announce.

  ‘Well, Bertie,’ she said, having brooded in silence for a space, ‘you can get on with your packing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘He’s called it off.’

  ‘Called it off?’

  ‘Yes. He isn’t going to press the charge.’

  ‘You mean I’m not headed for chokey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m as free as the air, as the expression is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was so busy rejoicing in spirit that it was some moments before I had leisure to observe that the buck-and-wing dance which I was performing was not being abetted by the old flesh and blood. She was still carrying on with her sombre sitting, and I looked at her with a touch of reproach.

  ‘You don’t seem very pleased.’

  ‘Oh, I’m delighted.’

  ‘I fail to detect the symptoms,’ I said, rather coldly. ‘I should have thought that a nephew’s reprieve at the foot of the scaffold, as you might say, would have produced a bit of leaping and springing about.’

  A deep sigh escaped her.

  ‘Well, the trouble is, Bertie, there is a catch in it. The old buzzard has made a condition.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He wants Anatole.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Wants Anatole?’

  ‘Yes. That is the price of your freedom. He says he will agree not to press the charge if I let him have Anatole. The darned old blackmailer!’

  A spasm of anguish twisted her features. It was not so very long since she had been speaking in high terms of blackmail and giving it her hearty approval, but if you want to derive real satisfaction from blackmail, you have to be at the right end of it. Catching it coming, as it were, instead of going, this woman was suffering.

  I wasn’t feeling any too good myself. From time to time in the course of this narrative I have had occasion to indicate my sentiments regarding Anatole, that peerless artist, and you will remember that the relative’s account of how Sir Watkyn Bassett had basely tried to snitch him from her employment during his visit to Brinkley Court had shocked me to my foundations.

  It is difficult, of course, to convey to those who have not tasted this wizard’s products the extraordinary importance which his roasts and boileds assume in the scheme of things to those who have. I can only say that once having bitten into one of his dishes you are left with the feeling that life will be deprived of all its poetry and meaning unless you are in a position to go on digging in. The thought that Aunt Dahlia was prepared to sacrifice this wonder man merely to save a nephew from the cooler was one that struck home and stirred.

  I don’t know when I have been so profoundly moved. It was with a melting eye that I gazed at her. She reminded me of Sidney Carton.

  ‘You were actually contemplating giving up Anatole for my sake?’ I gasped.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course jolly well not! I wouldn’t hear of such a thing.’

  ‘But you can’t go to pri
son.’

  ‘I certainly can, if my going means that that supreme maestro will continue working at the old stand. Don’t dream of meeting old Bassett’s demands.’

  ‘Bertie! Do you mean this?’

  ‘I should say so. What’s a mere thirty days in the second division? A bagatelle. I can do it on my head. Let Bassett do his worst. And,’ I added in a softer voice, ‘when my time is up and I come out into the world once more a free man, let Anatole do his best. A month of bread and water or skilly or whatever they feed you on in these establishments will give me a rare appetite. On the night when I emerge, I shall expect a dinner that will live in legend and song.’

  ‘You shall have it.’

  ‘We might be sketching out the details now.’

  ‘No time like the present. Start with caviar? Or cantaloup?’

  ‘And cantaloup. Followed by a strengthening soup.’

  ‘Thick or clear?’

  ‘Clear.’

  ‘You aren’t forgetting Anatole’s Velouté aux fleurs de courgette?’

  ‘Not for a moment. But how about his Consommé aux Pommes d’Amour?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘I think I am. I feel I am.’

  ‘I’d better leave the ordering to you.’

  ‘It might be wisest.’

  I took pencil and paper, and some ten minutes later I was in a position to announce the result.

  ‘This, then,’ I said, ‘subject to such additions as I may think out in my cell, is the menu as I see it.’

  And I read as follows:

  Le Diner

  Caviar Frais

  Cantaloup

  Consommé aux Pommes d’Amour

  Sylphides à la crème d’Écrevisses

  Mignonette de poulet petit Duc

  Points d’ásperges à la Mistinguette

  Suprême de fois gras au champagne

  Neige aux Perles des Alpes

  Timbale de ris de veau Toulousaine

  Salade d’endive et de céleri

  Le Plum Pudding

  L’Etoile au Berger

  Bénédictins Blancs

  Bombe Néro

  Friandises

  Diablotins

  Fruits

  ‘That about covers it, Aunt Dahlia?’

  ‘Yes, you don’t seem to have missed out much.’

  ‘Then let’s have the man in and defy him. Bassett!’ I cried.

  ‘Bassett!’ shouted Aunt Dahlia.

  ‘Bassett!’ I bawled, making the welkin ring.

  It was still ringing when he popped in, looking annoyed.

  ‘What the devil are you shouting at me like that for?’

  ‘Oh, there you are, Bassett.’ I wasted no time in getting down to the agenda. ‘Bassett, we defy you.’

  The man was plainly taken aback. He threw a questioning look at Aunt Dahlia. He seemed to be feeling that Bertram was speaking in riddles.

  ‘He is alluding,’ explained the relative, ‘to that idiotic offer of yours to call the thing off if I let you have Anatole. Silliest idea I ever heard. We’ve been having a good laugh about it. Haven’t we, Bertie?’

  ‘Roaring our heads off,’ I assented.

  He seemed stunned.

  ‘Do you mean that you refuse?’

  ‘Of course we refuse. I might have known my nephew better than to suppose for an instant that he would consider bringing sorrow and bereavement to an aunt’s home in order to save himself unpleasantness. The Woosters are not like that, are they, Bertie?’

  ‘I should say not.’

  ‘They don’t put self first.’

  ‘You bet they don’t.’

  ‘I ought never to have insulted him by mentioning the offer to him. I apologize, Bertie.’

  ‘Quite all right, old flesh and blood.’

  She wrung my hand.

  ‘Good night, Bertie, and goodbye – or, rather au revoir. We shall meet again.’

  ‘Absolutely. When the fields are white with daisies, if not sooner.’

  ‘By the way, didn’t you forget Nonais de la Méditerranée au Fenouil?’

  ‘So I did. And Selle d’Agneau aux laitues à la Grecque. Shove them on the charge sheet, will you?’

  Her departure, which was accompanied by a melting glance of admiration and esteem over her shoulder as she navigated across the threshold, was followed by a brief and, on my part, haughty silence. After a while, Pop Bassett spoke in a strained and nasty voice.

  ‘Well, Mr Wooster, it seems that after all you will have to pay the penalty of your folly.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I may say that I have changed my mind about allowing you to spend the night under my roof. You will go to the police station.’

  ‘Vindictive, Bassett.’

  ‘Not at all. I see no reason why Constable Oates should be deprived on his well-earned sleep merely to suit your convenience. I will send for him.’ He opened the door. ‘Here, you!’

  It was a most improper way of addressing Jeeves, but the faithful fellow did not appear to resent it.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘On the lawn outside the house you will find Constable Oates. Bring him here.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I think Mr Spode wishes to speak to you, sir.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Mr Spode, sir. He is coming along the passage now.’

  Old Bassett came back into the room, seeming displeased.

  ‘I wish Roderick would not interrupt me at a time like this,’ he said querulously. ‘I cannot imagine what reason he can have for wanting to see me.’

  I laughed lightly. The irony of the thing amused me.

  ‘He is coming – a bit late – to tell you that he was with me when the cow-creamer was pinched, thus clearing me of the guilt.’

  ‘I see. Yes, as you say, he is somewhat late. I shall have to explain to him … Ah, Roderick.’

  The massive frame of R. Spode had appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Roderick, come in. But you need not have troubled, my dear fellow. Mr Wooster has made it quite evident that he had nothing to do with the theft of my cow-creamer. It was that that you wished to see me about, was it not?’

  ‘Well – er – no,’ said Roderick Spode.

  There was an odd, strained look on the man’s face. His eyes were glassy and, as far as a thing of that size was capable of being fingered, he was fingering his moustache. He seemed to be bracing himself for some unpleasant task.

  ‘Well – er – no,’ he said. ‘The fact is, I hear there’s been some trouble about that helmet I stole from Constable Oates.’

  There was a stunned silence. Old Bassett goggled. I goggled. Roderick Spode continued to finger his moustache.

  ‘It was a silly thing to do,’ he said. ‘I see that now. I – er – yielded to an uncontrollable impulse. One does sometimes, doesn’t one? You remember I told you I once stole a policeman’s helmet at Oxford. I was hoping I could keep quiet about it, but Wooster’s man tells me that you have got the idea that Wooster did it, so of course, I had to come and tell you. That’s all. I think I’ll go to bed,’ said Roderick Spode. ‘Good night.’

  He edged off, and the stunned silence started functioning again.

  I suppose there have been men who looked bigger asses than Sir Watkyn Bassett at this moment, but I have never seen one myself. The tip of his nose had gone bright scarlet, and his pince-nez were hanging limply to the parent nose at an angle of forty-five. Consistently though he had snootered me from the very inception of our relations, I felt almost sorry for the poor old blighter.

  ‘H’rrmph!’ he said at length.

  He struggled with the vocal cords for a space. They seemed to have gone twisted on him.

  ‘It appears that I owe you an apology, Mr Wooster.’

  ‘Say no more about it, Bassett.’

  ‘I am sorry that all this has occurred.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. My innocence is established. That is all that matters. I presume that I am now at
liberty to depart?’

  ‘Oh, certainly, certainly. Good night, Mr Wooster.’

  ‘Good night, Bassett. I need scarcely say, I think, that I hope this will be a lesson to you.’

  I dismissed him with a distant nod, and stood there wrapped in thought. I could make nothing of what had occurred. Following the old and tried Oates method of searching for the motive, I had to confess myself baffled. I could only suppose that this was the Sidney Carton spirit bobbing up again.

  And then a sudden blinding light seemed to flash upon me.

  ‘Jeeves!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Were you behind this thing?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t keep saying “Sir?” You know what I’m talking about. Was it you who egged Spode on to take the rap?’

  I wouldn’t say he smiled – he practically never does – but a muscle abaft the mouth did seem to quiver slightly for an instant.

  ‘I did venture to suggest to Mr Spode that it would be a graceful act on his part to assume the blame, sir. My line of argument was that he would be saving you a great deal of unpleasantness, while running no risk himself. I pointed out to him that Sir Watkyn, being engaged to marry his aunt, would hardly be likely to inflict upon him the sentence which he had contemplated inflicting upon you. One does not send gentlemen to prison if one is betrothed to their aunts.’

  ‘Profoundly true, Jeeves. But I still don’t get it. Do you mean he just right-hoed? Without a murmur?’

  ‘Not precisely without a murmur, sir. At first, I must confess, he betrayed a certain reluctance. I think I may have influenced his decision by informing him that I knew all about –’

  I uttered a cry.

  ‘Eulalie?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A passionate desire to get to the bottom of this Eulalie thing swept over me.

  ‘Jeeves, tell me. What did Spode actually do to the girl? Murder her?’

  ‘I fear I am not at liberty to say, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Jeeves.’

  ‘I fear not, sir.’

  I gave it up.

  ‘Oh, well!’

  I started shedding the garments. I climbed into the pyjamas. I slid into bed. The sheets being inextricably knotted, it would be necessary, I saw, to nestle between the blankets, but I was prepared to rough it for one night.

  The rapid surge of events had left me pensive. I sat with my arms round my knees, meditating on Fortune’s swift changes.