Ring For Jeeves

by P. G. Wodehouse

  The procession passed through the door, and Rory, having scrutinised it in his slow, thorough way, turned to Jeeves with a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Potty, what?’

  ‘The lady does appear to diverge somewhat from the generally accepted norm, Sir Roderick.’

  ‘She’s as crazy as a bed bug. I’ll tell you something, Jeeves. That sort of thing wouldn’t be tolerated at Harrige’s.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Not for a moment. If this Mrs Dogsbody, or whatever her name is, came into—say the Cakes, Biscuits and General Confectionery and started acting that way, the store detectives would have her by the seat of the trousers and be giving her the old heave-ho before the first gibber had proceeded from her lips.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir Roderick?’

  ‘I’m telling you, Jeeves. I had an experience of that sort myself shortly after I joined. I was at my post one morning—I was in the Jugs, Bottles and Picnic Supplies at the time—and a woman came in. Well dressed, refined aspect, nothing noticeable about her at all except that she was wearing a fireman’s helmet—I started giving her courteous service. “Good morning, madam,” I said. “What can I do for you, madam? Something in picnic supplies, madam? A jug? A bottle?” She looked at me keenly. “Are you interested in bottles, gargoyle?” she asked, addressing me for some reason as gargoyle. “Why, yes, madam,” I replied. “Then what do you think of this one,” she said. And with that she whipped out a whacking great decanter and brought it whizzing down on the exact spot where my frontal bone would have been, had I not started back like a nymph surprised while bathing. It shattered itself on the counter. It was enough. I beckoned to the store detectives and they scooped her up.’

  ‘Most unpleasant, Sir Roderick.’

  ‘Yes, shook me, I confess. NEarly made me send in my papers. It turned out that she had recently been left a fortune by a wealthy uncle in Australia, and it had unseated her reason. This Mrs Dogsbody’s trouble is, I imagine, the same. Inherited millions from a platoon of deceased husbands, my wife informs me, and took advantage of the fact to go right off her onion. Always a mistake, Jeeves, unearned money. There’s nothing like having to scratch for a living. I’m twice the man I was since I joined the ranks of the world’s workers.’

  ‘You see eye to eye with the Bard, Sir Roderick. ’Tis deeds must win the prize.’

  ‘Exactly. Quite so. And speaking of winning prizes, what about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Sir Roderick?’

  ‘The Derby. Know anything?’

  ‘I fear not, Sir Roderick. It would seem to be an exceptionally open contest. Monsieur Boussac’s Voleur is, I understand, the favourite. Fifteen to two at last night’s call-over and the price likely to shorten to sixes or even fives for the S.P. But the animal in question is somewhat small and lightly boned for so gruelling an ordeal. Though we have, to be sure, seen such a handicap overcome. The name of Manna, the 1925 winner, springs to the mind, and Hyperion, another smallish horse, broke the course record previously held by Flying Fox, accomplishing the distance in two minutes, thirty-four seconds.’

  Rory regarded him with awe.

  ‘By Jove! You know your stuff, don’t you?’

  ‘One likes to keep au courant in these matters, sir. It is, one might say, an essential part of one’s education.’

  ‘Well, I’ll certainly have another chat with you tomorrow before I put my bet on.’

  ‘I shall be most happy if I can be of service, Sir Roderick,’ said Jeeves courteously, and oozed softly from the room, leaving Rory with the feeling, so universal among those who encountered this great man, that he had established connection with some wise, kindly spirit in whose hands he might place his affairs without a tremor.

  A few moments later, Monica came in, looking a little jaded.

  ‘Hullo, old girl,’ said Rory. ‘Back from your travels? Did she find the ruddy gallery?’

  Monica nodded listlessly.

  ‘Yes, after taking us all over the house. She said she lost the influence for a while. Still, I suppose it wasn’t bad after three hundred years.’

  ‘I was saying to Jeeves a moment ago that the woman’s as crazy as a bed bug. Though, arising from that, how is it that bed bugs have got their reputation for being mentally unbalanced? Now that she’s over in this country, I expect she’ll soon be receiving all sorts of flattering offers from Colney Hatch and similar establishments. What became of Bill?’

  ‘He didn’t stay the course. He disappeared. Went to dress, I suppose.’

  ‘What sort of state was he in?’

  ‘Glassy-eyed and starting at sudden noises.’

  ‘Ah, still jittery. He’s certainly got the jumps all right, our William. But I’ve had another theory about old Bill,’ said Rory. ‘I don’t think his nervousness is due to his being one jump ahead of the police. I now attribute it to his having got this job with the Agricultural Board and, like all these novices, pitching in too strenuously at first. We fellows who aren’t used to work have got to learn to husband our strength, to keep something in reserve, if you know what I mean. That’s what I’m always preaching to the chaps under me. Most of them listen, but there’s one lad—in the Midgets Outfitting—you’ve never seen such drive. That boy’s going to burn himself out before he’s fifty. Hullo, whom have we here?’

  He stared, at a loss, at a tall, good-looking girl who had just entered. A momentary impression that this was the ghost of Lady Agatha, who, wearying of the ruined chapel, had come to join the party, he dismissed. But he could not place her. Monica saw more clEarly into the matter. Observing the cap and apron, she deduced that this must be that almost legendary figure, the housemaid.

  ‘Ellen?’ she queried.

  ‘Yes, m’lady. I was looking for his lordship.’

  ‘I think he’s in his room. Anything I can do?’

  ‘It’s this gentleman that’s just come, asking to see his lordship, m’lady. I saw him driving up in his car and, Mr Jeeves being busy in the dining-room, I answered the door and showed him into the morning-room.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A Captain Biggar, m’lady.’

  Rory chuckled amusedly.

  ‘Biggar? Reminds me of that game we used to play when we were kids, Moke—the Bigger Family.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘You do? Then which is bigger, Mr Bigger or Mrs Bigger?’

  ‘Rory, really.’

  ‘Mr Bigger, because he’s father Bigger. Which is bigger, Mr Bigger or his old maid aunt?’

  ‘You’re not a child now, you know.’

  ‘Can you tell me, Ellen?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Dogsbody can,’ said Rory, as that lady came bustling in.

  There was a look of modest triumph on Mrs Spottsworth’s handsome face.

  ‘Did you tell Sir Roderick?’ she said.

  ‘I told him,’ said Monica.

  ‘I found the Long Gallery, Sir Roderick.’

  ‘Three rousing cheers,’ said Rory. ‘Continue along these lines, and you’ll soon be finding bass drums in telephone booths. But pigeonholing that for the moment, do you know which is bigger, Mr Bigger or his old maid aunt?’

  Mrs Spottsworth looked perplexed.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Rory repeated his question, and her perplexity deepened.

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Rory’s just having one of his spells,’ said Monica.

  ‘The old maid aunt,’ said Rory, ‘because, whatever happens, she’s always Bigger.’

  ‘Pay no attention to him,’ said Monica. ‘He’s quite harmless on these occasions. It’s just that a Captain Biggar has called. That set him off. He’ll be all right in a minute.’

  Mrs Spottsworth’s fine eyes had widened.

  ‘Captain Biggar?’

  ‘There’s another one,’ said Rory, knitting his brow, ‘only it eludes me for the moment. I’ll get it soon. Something about Mr Bigger and his son
.’

  ‘Captain Biggar?’ repeated Mrs Spottsworth. She turned to Ellen. ‘Is he a gentleman with a rather red face?’

  ‘He’s a gentleman with a very red face,’ said Ellen. She was a girl who liked to get these things right.

  Mrs Spottsworth put a hand to her heart.

  ‘How extraordinary!’

  ‘You know him?’ said Monica.

  ‘He is an old, old friend of mine. I knew him when… Oh, Monica, could you… would you… could you possibly invite him to stay?’

  Monica started like a warhorse at the sound of the bugle.

  ‘Why, of course, Rosalinda. Any friend of yours. What a splendid idea.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Mrs Spottsworth turned to Ellen. ‘Where is Captain Biggar?’

  ‘In the morning-room, madam.’

  ‘Will you take me there at once. I must see him.’

  ‘If you will step this way, madam.’

  Mrs Spottsworth hurried out, followed sedately by Ellen. Rory shook his head dubiously.

  ‘Is this wise, Moke, old girl? Probably some frightful outsider in a bowler hat and a made-up tie.’

  Monica’s eyes were sparkling.

  ‘I don’t care what he’s like. He’s a friend of Mrs Spottsworth’s, that’s all that matters. Oh, Bill!’ she cried, as Bill came in.

  Bill was tail-coated, white-tied and white-waistcoated, and his hair gleamed with strange unguents. Rory stared at him in amazement.

  ‘Good God, Bill! You look like Great Lovers Through The Ages. If you think I’m going to dress up like that, you’re much mistaken. You get the old Carmoyle black tie and soft shirt, and like it. I get the idea, of course. You’ve dolled yourself up to impress Mrs Spottsworth and bring back memories of the old days at Cannes. But I’d be careful not to overdo it, old boy. You’ve got to consider Jill. If she finds out about you and the Spottsworth—’

  Bill started.

  ‘What the devil do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I was only making a random remark.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Bill,’ said Monica. ‘He’s just drooling. Jill’s sensible.’

  ‘And after all,’ said Rory, looking on the bright side, ‘it all happened before you met Jill.’

  ‘All what happened?’

  ‘Nothing, old boy, nothing.’

  ‘My relations with Mrs Spottsworth were pure to the last drop.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘Do you sell muzzles at Harrige’s, Rory?’ asked Monica.

  ‘Muzzles? Oh, rather. In the Cats, Dogs and Domestic Pets.’

  ‘I’m going to buy one for you, to keep you quiet. Just treat him as if he wasn’t there, Bill, and listen while I tell you the news. The most wonderful thing has happened. An old friend of Mrs Spottsworth’s has turned up, and I’ve invited him to stay.’

  ‘An old friend?’

  ‘Another old lover, one presumes.’

  ‘Do stop it, Rory. Can’t you understand what a marvellous thing this is, Bill! We’ve put her under an obligation. Think what a melting mood she’ll be in after this!’

  Her enthusiasm infected Bill. He saw just what she meant.

  ‘You’re absolutely right. This is terrific.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it a stroke of luck? She’ll be clay in your hands now.’

  ‘Clay is the word. Moke, you’re superb. As fine a bit of quick thinking as I ever struck. Who is the fellow?’

  ‘His name’s Biggar. Captain Biggar.’

  Bill groped for support at a chair. A greenish tinge had spread over his face.

  ‘What!’ he cried. ‘Captain B-b-b—?’

  ‘Ha!’ said Rory. ‘Which is bigger, Mr Bigger or Master Bigger? Master Bigger, because he’s a little Bigger. I knew I’d get it,’ he said complacently.

  Chapter 8

  It was a favourite dictum of the late A. B. Spottsworth, who, though fond of his wife in an absent-minded sort of way, could never have been described as a ladies’ man or mistaken for one of those Troubadours of the Middle Ages, that the secret of a happy and successful life was to get rid of the women at the Earliest possible opportunity. Give the gentler sex the bum’s rush, he used to say, removing his coat and reaching for the poker chips, and you could start to go places. He had often observed that for sheer beauty and uplift few sights could compare with that of the female members of a dinner-party filing out of the room at the conclusion of the meal, leaving the men to their soothing masculine conversation.

  To Bill Rowcester at nine o’clock on the night of this disturbing day such an attitude of mind would have seemed incomprehensible. The last thing in the world that he desired was Captain Biggar’s soothing masculine conversation. As he stood holding the dining-room door open while Mrs Spottsworth, Monica and Jill passed through on their way to the living-room, he was weighed down by a sense of bereavement and depression, mingled with uneasy speculations as to what was going to happen now. His emotions, in fact, were similar in kind and intensity to those which a garrison beleaguered by savages would have experienced, had the United States Marines, having arrived, turned right round and walked off in the opposite direction.

  True, all had gone perfectly well so far. Even he, conscience-stricken though he was, had found nothing to which he could take exception in the Captain’s small talk up till now. Throughout dinner, starting with the soup and carrying on to the sardines on toast, the White Hunter had confined himself to such neutral topics as cannibal chiefs he had met and what to do when cornered by headhunters armed with poisoned blowpipes. He had told two rather long and extraordinarily dull stories about a couple of friends of his called Tubby Frobisher and the Subahdar. And he had recommended to Jill, in case she should ever find herself in need of one, an excellent ointment for use when bitten by alligators. To fraudulent bookmakers, chases across country and automobile licences he had made no reference whatsoever.

  But now that the women had left and two strong men—or three, if you counted Rory—stood face to face, who could say how long this happy state of things would last? Bill could but trust that Rory would not bring the conversation round to the dangerous subject by asking the Captain if he went in for racing at all.

  ‘Do you go in for racing at all, Captain?’ said Rory as the door closed.

  A sound rather like the last gasp of a dying zebra shot from Captain Biggar’s lips. Bill, who had risen some six inches into the air, diagnosed it correctly as a hollow, mirthless laugh. He had had some idea of uttering something along those lines himself.

  ‘Racing?’ Captain Biggar choked. ‘Do I go in for racing at all? Well, mince me up and smother me in onions!’

  Bill would gladly have done so. Such a culinary feat would, it seemed to him, have solved all his perplexities. He regretted that the idea had not occurred to one of the cannibal chiefs of whom his guest had been speaking.

  ‘It’s the Derby Dinner tonight,’ said Rory. ‘I’ll be popping along shortly to watch it on the television set in the library. All the top owners are coming on the screen to say what they think of their chances tomorrow. Not that the blighters know a damn thing about it, of course. Were you at the Oaks this afternoon by any chance?’

  Captain Biggar expanded like one of those peculiar fish in Florida which swell when you tickle them.

  ‘Was I at the Oaks? Chang suark! Yes, sir, I was. And if ever a man—’

  ‘Rather pretty, this Southmoltonshire country, don’t you think, Captain?’ said Bill. ‘Picturesque, as it is sometimes called. The next village to us—Lower Snodsbury—you may have noticed it as you came through—has a—’

  ‘If ever a man got the ruddy sleeve across the bally wind-pipe,’ proceeded the Captain, who had now become so bright red that it was fortunate that by a lucky chance there were no bulls present in the dining-room, ‘it was me at Epsom this afternoon. I passed through the furnace like Shadrach, Meshach and Nebuchadnezzar or whoever it was. I had my soul tied up in knots and put through the wringer.’

>   Rory tut-tutted sympathetically.

  ‘Had a bad day, did you?’

  ‘Let me tell you what happened.’

  ‘—Norman church,’ continued Bill, faint but persevering, ‘which I believe is greatly—’

  ‘I must begin by saying that since I came back to the old country, I have got in with a pretty shrewd lot of chaps, fellows who know one end of a horse from the other, as the expression is, and they’ve been putting me on to some good things. And today—’

  ‘—admired by blokes who are fond of Norman churches,’ said Bill. ‘I don’t know much about them myself, but according to the nibs there’s a nave or something on that order—’

  Captain Biggar exploded again.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about knaves! Yogi tulsiram jaginath! I met the king of them this afternoon, blister his insides. Well, as I was saying, these chaps of mine put me on to good things from time to time, and today they advised a double. Lucy Glitters in the two-thirty and Whistler’s Mother for the Oaks.’

  ‘Extraordinary, Whistler’s Mother winning like that,’ said Rory. ‘The consensus of opinion at Harrige’s was that she hadn’t a hope.’

  ‘And what happened? Lucy Glitters rolled in at a hundred to six, and Whistler’s Mother, as you may have heard, at thirty-three to one.’

  Rory was stunned.

  ‘You mean your double came off?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘At those odds?’

  ‘At those odds.’

  ‘How much did you have on?’

  ‘Five pounds on Lucy Glitters and all to come on Whistler’s Mother’s nose.’

  Rory’s eyes bulged.

  ‘Good God! Are you listening to this, Bill? You must have won a fortune.’

  ‘Three thousand pounds.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be… Did you hear that, Jeeves?’

  Jeeves had entered, bearing coffee. His deportment was, as ever, serene. Like Bill, he found Captain Biggar’s presence in the home disturbing, but where Bill quaked and quivered, Jeeves continued to resemble a well-bred statue.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Captain Biggar won three thousand quid on the Oaks.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? A consummation devoutly to be wished.’