Ring For Jeeves

by P. G. Wodehouse

  Jeeves coughed. It was a respectful cough, but firm.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I am reluctant to interrupt the flow of your narrative, but is this leading somewhere?’

  Captain Biggar flushed. A man who is telling a crisp, well-knit story does not like to be asked if it is leading somewhere.

  ‘Leading somewhere? What do you mean, is it leading somewhere? Of course it’s leading somewhere. I’m coming to the nub of the thing now. Scarcely had we finished this second round of stingahs, when in through the door, sneaking along like a chap that expects at any moment to be slung out on his fanny, came this fellow in the tattered shirt and dungarees.’

  The introduction of a new and unexpected character took Bill by surprise.

  ‘Which fellow in the tattered shirt and dungarees?’

  ‘This fellow I’m telling you about.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘You may well ask. Didn’t know him from Adam, and I could see Tubby Frobisher didn’t know him from Adam. Nor did the Subahdar. But he came sidling up to us and the first thing he said, addressing me, was “Hullo, Bimbo, old boy”, and I stared and said “Who on earth are you, old boy?” because I hadn’t been called Bimbo since I left school. Everybody called me that there, God knows why, but out East it’s been “Bwana” for as long as I can remember. And he said, “Don’t you know me, old boy? I’m Sycamore, old boy.” And I stared again, and I said, “What’s that, old boy? Sycamore? Sycamore? Not Beau Sycamore that was in the Army Class at Uppingham with me, old boy?” and he said, “That’s right, old boy. Only it’s Hobo Sycamore now.”’

  The memory of that distressing encounter unmanned Captain Biggar for a moment. He was obliged to refill his glass with Bill’s whisky before he could proceed.

  ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather,’ he said, resuming. ‘This chap Sycamore had been the smartest, most dapper chap that ever adorned an Army Class, even at Uppingham.’

  Bill was following the narrative closely now.

  ‘They’re dapper in the Army Class at Uppingham, are they?’

  ‘Very dapper, and this chap Sycamore, as I say, the most dapper of the lot. His dapperness was a byword. And here he was in a tattered shirt and dungarees, not even wearing a school tie.’ Captain Biggar sighed. ‘I saw at once what must have happened. It was the old, old story. Morale can crumble very easily out East. Drink, women and unpaid gambling debts…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Bill. ‘He’d gone under, had he?’

  ‘Right under. It was pitiful. The chap was nothing but a bally beachcomber.’

  ‘I remember a story of Maugham’s about a fellow like that.’

  ‘I’ll bet your friend Maugham, whoever he may be, never met such a derelict as Sycamore. He had touched bottom, and the problem was what was to be done about it. Tubby Frobisher and the Subahdar, of course, not having been introduced, were looking the other way and taking no part in the conversation, so it was up to me. Well, there isn’t much you can do for these chaps who have let the East crumble their morale except give them something to buy a couple of drinks with, and I was just starting to feel in my pocket for a baht or a tical, when from under that tattered shirt of his this chap Sycamore produced something that brought a gasp to my lips. Even Tubby Frobisher and the Subahdar, though they hadn’t been introduced, had to stop trying to pretend there wasn’t anybody there and sit up and take notice. “Sabaiga!” said Tubby. “Pom bahoo!” said the Subahdar. And I don’t wonder they were surprised. It was this pendant which you have seen tonight on the neck…’ Captain Biggar faltered for a moment. He was remembering how that neck had felt beneath his fingers. ‘… on the neck,’ he proceeded, calling all his manhood to his aid, ‘of Mrs Spottsworth.’

  ‘Golly!’ said Bill, and even Jeeves, from the fact that the muscle at the side of his mouth twitched briefly, seemed to be feeling that after a slow start the story had begun to move. One saw now that all that stingah stuff had been merely the artful establishing of atmosphere, the setting of the stage for the big scene.

  ‘“I suppose you wouldn’t care to buy this, Bimbo, old boy?” this chap Sycamore said, waggling the thing to make it glitter. And I said, “Fry me in olive oil, Beau, old boy, where did you get that?”’

  ‘That’s just what I was going to ask,’ said Bill, all agog. ‘Where did he?’

  ‘God knows. I ought not to have inquired. It was dashed bad form. That’s one thing you learn very Early out East of Suez. Never ask questions. No doubt there was some dark history behind the thing… robbery… possibly murder. I didn’t ask. All I said was “How much?” and he named a price far beyond the resources of my purse, and it looked as though the thing was going to be a washout. But fortunately Tubby Frobisher and the Subahdar—I’d introduced them by this time—offered to chip in, and between us we met his figure and he went off, back into the murk and shadows from which he had emerged. Sad thing, very sad. I remember seeing this chap Sycamore make a hundred and forty-six in a house cricket match at school before being caught low down in the gully off a googly that dipped and swung away late. On a sticky wicket, too,’ said Captain Biggar, and was silent for a while, his thoughts in the past.

  He came back into the present.

  ‘So there you are,’ he said, with the air of one who has told a well-rounded tale.

  ‘But how did you get it?’ said Bill.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The pendant. You said it was yours, and the way I see it is that it passed into the possession of a syndicate.’

  ‘Oh, ah, yes, I didn’t tell you that, did I? We shook dice for it and I won. Tubby was never lucky with the bones. Nor was the Subahdar.’

  ‘And how did Mrs Spottsworth get it?’

  ‘I gave it her.’

  ‘You gave it her?’

  ‘Why not? The dashed thing was no use to me, and I had received many kindnesses from Mrs Spottsworth and her husband. Poor chap was killed by a lion and what was left of him shipped off to Nairobi, and when Mrs Spottsworth was leaving the camp on the following day I thought it would be a civil thing to give her something as a memento and all that, so I lugged out the pendant and asked her if she’d care to have it. She said she would, so I slipped it to her, and she went off with it. That’s what I meant when I said you might say that the bally thing was really mine,’ said Captain Biggar, and helped himself to another whisky.

  Bill was impressed.

  ‘This puts a different complexion on things, Jeeves.’

  ‘Distinctly, m’lord.’

  ‘After all, as Pop Biggar says, the pendant practically belongs to him, and he merely wants to borrow it for an hour or two.’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord.’

  Bill turned to the Captain. His mind was made up.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll have a shot.’

  ‘Stout fellow!’

  ‘Let’s hope it comes off.’

  ‘It’ll come off all right. The clasp is loose.’

  ‘I meant I hoped nothing would go wrong.’

  Captain Biggar scouted the idea. He was all buoyancy and optimism.

  ‘Go wrong? What can possibly go wrong? You’ll be able to think of a hundred ways of getting the dashed thing, two brainy fellers like you. Well,’ said the Captain, finishing his whisky, ‘I’ll be going out and doing my exercises.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘Breathing exercises,’ explained Captain Biggar. ‘Yoga. And with it, of course, communion with the Jivatma or soul. Toodle-oo, chaps.’

  He pushed the curtains aside, and passed through the french window.

  Chapter 13

  A long and thoughtful silence followed his departure. The room seemed very still, as rooms always did when Captain Biggar went out of them. Bill was sitting with his chin supported by his hand, like Rodin’s Penseur. Then he looked at Jeeves and, having looked, shook his head.
r />   ‘No, Jeeves,’ he said.

  ‘M’lord?’

  ‘I can see that feudal gleam in your eye, Jeeves. You are straining at the leash, all eagerness to lend the young master a helping hand. Am I right?’

  ‘I was certainly feeling, m’lord, that in view of our relationship of thane and vassal it was my duty to afford your lordship all the assistance that lay within my power.’

  Bill shook his head again.

  ‘No, Jeeves, that’s out. Nothing will induce me to allow you to go getting yourself mixed up in an enterprise which, should things not pan out as planned, may quite possibly culminate in a five-year stretch at one of our popular prisons. I shall handle this binge alone, and I want no back-chat about it.’

  ‘But, m’lord—’

  ‘No back-chat, I said, Jeeves.’

  ‘Very good, m’lord.’

  ‘All I require from you is advice and counsel. Let us review the position of affairs. We have here a diamond pendant which at the moment of going to press is on the person of Mrs Spottsworth. The task confronting me—I said me, Jeeves—is somehow to detach this pendant from this person and nip away with it unobserved. Any suggestions?’

  ‘The problem is undoubtedly one that presents certain points of interest, m’lord.’

  ‘Yes, I’d got as far as that myself.’

  ‘One rules out anything in the nature of violence, I presume, placing reliance wholly on stealth and finesse.’

  ‘One certainly does. Dismiss any idea that I propose to swat Mrs Spottsworth on the napper with a blackjack.’

  ‘Then I would be inclined to say, m’lord, that the best results would probably be obtained from what I might term the spider sequence.’

  ‘I don’t get you, Jeeves.’

  ‘If I might explain, m’lord. Your lordship will be joining the lady in the garden?’

  ‘Probably on a rustic seat.’

  ‘Then, as I see it, m’lord, conditions will be admirably adapted to the plan I advocate. If shortly after entering into conversation with Mrs Spottsworth, your lordship were to affect to observe a spider on her hair, the spider sequence would follow as doth the night the day. It would be natural for your lordship to offer to brush the insect off. This would enable your lordship to operate with your lordship’s fingers in the neighbourhood of the lady’s neck. And if the clasp, as Captain Biggar assures us, is loose, it will be a simple matter to unfasten the pendant and cause it to fall to the ground. Do I make myself clear, m’lord?’

  ‘All straight so far. But wouldn’t she pick it up?’

  ‘No, m’lord, because in actual fact it would be in your lordship’s pocket. Your lordship would institute a search in the surrounding grass, but without avail, and eventually the search would be abandoned until the following day. The object would finally be discovered late tomorrow evening.’

  ‘After Biggar gets back?’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord.’

  ‘Nestling under a bush?’

  ‘Or on the turf some little distance away. It had rolled.’

  ‘Do pendants roll?’

  ‘This pendant would have done so, m’lord.’

  Bill chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.

  ‘So that’s the spider sequence?’

  ‘That is the spider sequence, m’lord.’

  ‘Not a bad scheme at all.’

  ‘It has the merit of simplicity, m’lord. And if your lordship is experiencing any uneasiness at the thought of opening cold, as the theatrical expression is, I would suggest our having what in stage parlance is called a quick run through.’

  ‘A rehearsal, you mean?’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord. It would enable your lordship to perfect yourself in lines and business. In the Broadway section of New York, where the theatre industry of the United States of America is centred, I am told that this is known as ironing out the bugs.’

  ‘Ironing out the spiders.’

  ‘Ha, ha, m’lord. But, if I may venture to say so, it is unwise to waste the precious moments in verbal pleasantries.’

  ‘Time is of the essence?’

  ‘Precisely, m’lord. Would your lordship like to walk the scene?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would, if you say it’s going to steady the nervous system. I feel as if a troupe of performing fleas were practising buck-and-wing steps up and down my spine.’

  ‘I have heard Mr Wooster complain of a similar malaise in moments of stress and trial, m’lord. It will pass.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as your lordship has got the feel of the part. A rustic seat, your lordship said?’

  ‘That’s where she was last time.’

  ‘Scene, A rustic seat,’ murmured Jeeves. ‘Time, A night in summer. Discovered at rise, Mrs Spottsworth. Enter Lord Rowcester. I will portray Mrs Spottsworth, m’lord. We open with a few lines of dialogue to establish atmosphere, then bridge into the spider sequence. Your lordship speaks.’

  Bill marshalled his thoughts.

  ‘Er—Tell me, Rosie—’

  ‘Rosie, m’lord?’

  ‘Yes, Rosie, blast it. Any objection?’

  ‘None whatever, m’lord.’

  ‘I used to know her at Cannes.’

  ‘Indeed, m’lord? I was not aware. You were saying, m’lord?’

  ‘Tell me, Rosie, are you afraid of spiders?’

  ‘Why does your lordship ask?’

  ‘There’s rather an outsize specimen crawling on the back of your hair.’ Bill sprang about six inches in the direction of the ceiling. ‘What on earth did you do that for?’ he demanded irritably.

  Jeeves preserved his calm.

  ‘My reason for screaming, m’lord, was merely to add verisimilitude. I supposed that that was how a delicately nurtured lady would be inclined to react on receipt of such a piece of information.’

  ‘Well, I wish you hadn’t. The top of my head nEarly came off.’

  ‘I am sorry, m’lord. But it was how I saw the scene. I felt it, felt it here,’ said Jeeves, tapping the left side of his waistcoat. ‘If your lordship would be good enough to throw me the line once more.’

  ‘There’s rather an outsize specimen crawling on the back of your hair.’

  ‘I would be grateful if your lordship would be so kind as to knock it off.’

  ‘I can’t see it now. Ah, there it goes. On your neck.’

  ‘And that,’ said Jeeves, rising from the settee on which in his role of Mrs Spottsworth he had seated himself, ‘is cue for business, m’lord. Your lordship will admit that it is really quite simple.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘I am sure that after this try-out the performing fleas to which your lordship alluded a moment ago will have substantially modified their activities.’

  ‘They’ve slowed up a bit, yes. But I’m still nervous.’

  ‘Inevitable on the eve of an opening performance, m’lord. I think your lordship should be starting as soon as possible. If ’twere done, then ’twere well ’twere done quickly. Our arrangements have been made with a view to a garden set, and it would be disconcerting were Mrs Spottsworth to return to the house, compelling your lordship to adapt your technique to an interior.’

  Bill nodded.

  ‘I see what you mean. Right ho, Jeeves. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, m’lord.’

  ‘If anything goes wrong—’

  ‘Nothing will go wrong, m’lord.’

  ‘But if it does… You’ll write to me in Dartmoor occasionally, Jeeves? Just a chatty letter from time to time, giving me the latest news from the outer world?’

  ‘Certainly, m’lord.’

  ‘It’ll cheer me up as I crack my daily rock. They tell me conditions are much better in these modern prisons than they used to be in the old days.’

  ‘So I understand, m’lord.’

  ‘I might find Dartmoor a regular home from home. Solid comfort, I mean to say.’

  ‘Quite conceivably, m’lord.’

  ‘Still, we’ll
hope it won’t come to that.’

  ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  ‘Yes… Well, goodbye once again, Jeeves.’

  ‘Goodbye, m’lord.’

  Bill squared his shoulders and strode out, a gallant figure. He had summoned the pride of the Rowcesters to his aid, and it buoyed him up. With just this quiet courage had a Rowcester of the seventeenth century mounted the scaffold at Tower Hill, nodding affably to the headsman and waving to friends and relations in the audience. When the test comes, blood will tell.

  He had been gone a few moments, when Jill came in.

  It seemed to Jeeves that in the course of the past few hours the young master’s betrothed had lost a good deal of the animation which rendered her as a rule so attractive, and he was right. Her recent interview with Captain Biggar had left Jill pensive and inclined to lower the corners of the mouth and stare mournfully. She was staring mournfully now.