Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (26 page)

The effect on the President of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation
of their request that they be allowed to resign was
stupendous. If they had been Cossacks looking in at the office
to start a pogrom, he could not have been more moved. His eyes
bulged, and his nose drooped like the trunk of an elephant which
has been refused a peanut.

'It can't be done,' he said curtly. He reached in the drawer of
his desk, produced a handful of documents, and rapped them
with an ominious decision. 'Here are the contracts, duly signed
by you, in which you engage to remain in the employment of
the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation until the completion of the
picture entitled "Scented Sinners." Did you take a look at Para.
6, where it gives the penalties for breach of same? No, don't read
them,' he said, as Mabelle stretched out a hand. 'You wouldn't
sleep nights. But you can take it from me they're some penalties.
We've had this thing before of writers wanting to run out on us,
so we took steps to protect ourselves.'

'Would we be taken for a ride?' asked Mr Murgatroyd
uneasily.

Mr Schnellenhamer smiled quietly but did not reply. He
replaced the contracts in the drawer, and his manner softened
and became more appealing. This man knew well when to
brandish the iron fist and when to display the velvet glove.

'And, anyway,' he said, speaking now in almost a fatherly
manner, 'you wouldn't want to quit till the picture was finished.
Of course, you wouldn't, not three nice, square-shooting folks
like you. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be
co-operation. You know what "Scented Sinners" means to this
organization. It's the biggest proposition we have. Our whole
programme is built around it. We are relying on it to be our big
smash. It cost us a barrel of money to buy "Scented Sinners," and
naturally we aim to get it back.'

He rose from his chair, and tears came into his eyes. It was as
if he had been some emotional American football coach addressing
a faint-hearted team.

'Stick to it!' he urged. 'Stick to it, folks! You can do it if you
like. Get back in there and fight. Think of the boys in the Front
Office rooting for you, depending on you. You wouldn't let them
down? No, no, not you. You wouldn't let me down? Of course
you wouldn't. Get back in the game, then, and win – win –
win ... for dear old Perfecto-Zizzbaum and me.'

He flung himself into his chair, gazing at them with appealing
eyes.

'May I read Para. 6?' asked Mr Murgatroyd after a pause.

'No, don't read Para. 6,' urged Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Far, far
better not read Para. 6.'

Mabelle looked hopelessly at Bulstrode.

'Come,' she said. 'It is useless for us to remain here.'

They left the office with dragging steps. Mr Schnellenhamer,
a grave expression on his face, pressed the bell for his secretary.

'I don't like the look of things, Miss Stern,' he said. 'There
seems to be a spirit of unrest among the "Scented Sinners" gang.
Three of them have just been in, wanting to quit. I shouldn't be
surprised if rebellion isn't seething. Say, listen,' he asked keenly,
'nobody's been ill-treating them, have they?'

'Why, the idea, Mr Schnellenhamer!'

'I thought I heard screams coming from their building yesterday.'

'That was Mr Doakes. He was working on his treatment, and
he had some kind of a fit. Frothed at the mouth and kept
shouting, "No, no! It isn't possible!" If you ask me,' said Miss
Stern, 'it's just the warm weather. We most generally always lose
a few writers this time of year.'

Mr Schnellenhamer shook his head.

'This ain't the ordinary thing of authors going cuckoo. It's
something deeper. It's the spirit of unrest, or rebellion seething,
or something like that. What am I doing at five o'clock?'

'Conferencing with Mr Levitsky.'

'Cancel it. Send round notice to all writers on "Scented Sinners"
to meet me on Stage Four. I'll give them a pep-talk.'

At a few minutes before five, accordingly, there debouched
from the Leper Colony and from the Ohio State Penitentiary a
motley collection of writers. There were young writers, old
writers, middle-aged writers; writers with matted beards at
which they plucked nervously, writers with horn-rimmed spectacles
who muttered to themselves, writers with eyes that stared
blankly or blinked in the unaccustomed light. On all of them
'Scented Sinners' had set its unmistakable seal. They shuffled
listlessly along till they came to Stage Four, where they seated
themselves on wooden benches, waiting for Mr Schnellenhamer
to arrive.

Bulstrode had found a place next to Mabelle Ridgway. The
girl's face was drawn and despondent.

'Edward is breaking in a new quart of hair-oil for the wedding,'
she said, after a moment of silence.

Bulstrode shivered.

'Genevieve,' he replied, 'has bought one of those combination
eyebrow-tweezers and egg-scramblers. The advertisement said
that no bride should be without them.'

Mabelle drew her breath in sharply.

'Can nothing be done?' asked Bulstrode.

'Nothing,' said Mabelle dully. 'We cannot leave till "Scented
Sinners" is finished, and it never will be finished – never ...
never ... never.' Her spiritual face was contorted for a moment.
'I hear there are writers who have been working on it for years
and years. That grey-bearded gentleman over there, who is
sticking straws in his hair,' she said, pointing. 'That is Mr
Markey. He has the office next to ours, and comes in occasionally
to complain that there are spiders crawling up his wall. He has
been doing treatments of "Scented Sinners" since he was a young
man.'

In the tense instant during which they stared at each other
with mournful, hopeless eyes, Mr Schnellenhamer bustled in
and mounted the platform. He surveyed the gathering authoritatively:
then, clearing his throat, began to speak.

He spoke of Service and Ideals, of Co-operation and the
Spirit That Wins to Success. He had just begun to touch on
the glories of the Southern Californian climate, when the scent
of a powerful cigar floated over the meeting, and a voice spoke.

'Hey!'

All eyes were turned in the intruder's direction. It was Mr
Isadore Levitsky, the chief business operative, who stood there,
he with whom Mr Schnellenhamer had had an appointment to
conference.

'What's all this?' demanded Mr Levitsky. 'You had a date with
me in my office.'

Mr Schnellenhamer hurried down from the platform and
drew Mr Levitsky aside.

'I'm sorry, I.G.,' he said. 'I had to break our date. There's all
this spirit of unrest broke out among the "Scented Sinners"
gang, and I thought I'd better talk to them. You remember
that time five years ago when we had to call out the State
Militia.'

Mr Levitsky looked puzzled.

'The what gang?'

'The writers who are doing treatments on "Scented Sinners."
You know "Scented Sinners" that we bought.'

'But we didn't,' said Mr Levitsky.

'We didn't?' said Mr Schnellenhamer, surprised.

'Certainly we didn't. Don't you remember the Medulla-Oblongata-Glutz
people outbid us?'

Mr Schnellenhamer stood for a moment, musing.

'That's right, too,' he said at length. 'They did, didn't they?'

'Certainly they did.'

'Then the story doesn't belong to us at all?'

'Certainly it doesn't. M-O-G has owned it for the last eleven
years.'

Mr Schnellenhamer smote his forehead.

'Of course! It all comes back to me now. I had quite forgotten.'

He mounted the platform once more.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'all work on "Scented Sinners"
will cease immediately. The studio has discovered that it doesn't own it.'

It was a merry gathering that took place in the commissary of
the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Studio some half-hour later. Genevieve
Bottle had broken her engagement to Bulstrode and was sitting
with her hand linked in that of Ed Murgatroyd. Mabelle Ridgway
had broken her engagement to Ed Murgatroyd and was
stroking Bulstrode's arm. It would have been hard to find four
happier people, unless you had stepped outside and searched
among the horde of emancipated writers who were dancing the
Carmagnole so blithely around the shoe-shining stand.

'And what are you two good folks going to do now?' asked Ed
Murgatroyd, surveying Bulstrode and Mabelle with kindly eyes.
'Have you made any plans?'

'I came out here to strike Oil,' said Bulstrode. 'I'll do it now.'

He raised a cheery hand and brought it down with an affectionate
smack on the bootlegger's gleaming head.

'Ha, ha!' chuckled Bulstrode.

'Ha, ha!' roared Mr Murgatroyd.

'Ha, ha!' tittered Mabelle and Genevieve.

A perfect camaraderie prevailed among these four young
people, delightful to see.

'No, but seriously,' said Mr Murgatroyd, wiping the tears
from his eyes, 'are you fixed all right? Have you got enough
dough to get married on?'

Mabelle looked at Bulstrode. Bulstrode looked at Mabelle.
For the first time, a shadow seemed to fall over their happiness.

'We haven't,' Bulstrode was forced to admit.

Ed Murgatroyd slapped him on the shoulder.

'Then come and join my little outfit,' he said heartily. 'I've
always room for a personal friend. Besides, we're muscling into
the North Side beer industry next month, and I shall need
willing helpers.'

Bulstrode clasped his hand, deeply moved.

'Ed,' he exclaimed, 'I call that square of you. I'll buy a
machine-gun to-morrow.'

With his other hand he sought Mabelle's hand and pressed it.
Outside, the laughter of the mob had turned to wild cheering. A
bonfire had been started, and Mr Doakes, Mr Noakes, Miss
Faversham, Miss Wilson, Mr Fotheringay, Mr Mendelsohn, Mr
Markey and the others were feeding it with their scripts of
'Scented Sinners.'

In the Front Office, Mr Schnellenhamer and Mr Levitsky,
suspending their seven hundred and forty-first conference for an
instant, listened to the tumult.

'Makes you feel like Lincoln, doesn't it?' said Mr Levitsky.

'Ah!' said Mr Schnellenhamer.

They smiled indulgently. They were kindly men at heart, and
they liked the girls and boys to be happy.

P. G. Wodehouse

IN ARROW BOOKS

If you have enjoyed Blandings, you'll love Jeeves and Wooster

FROM

I reached out a hand from under the blankets, and rang the bell
for Jeeves.

'Good evening, Jeeves.'

'Good morning, sir.'

This surprised me.

'Is it morning?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Are you sure? It seems very dark outside.'

'There is a fog, sir. If you will recollect, we are now in Autumn
– season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.'

'Season of what?'

'Mists, sir, and mellow fruitfulness.'

'Oh? Yes. Yes, I see. Well, be that as it may, get me one of
those bracers of yours, will you?'

'I have one in readiness, sir, in the ice-box.'

He shimmered out, and I sat up in bed with that rather
unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you're going to die in
about five minutes. On the previous night, I had given a little
dinner at the Drones to Gussie Fink-Nottle as a friendly send-off
before his approaching nuptials with Madeline, only daughter of
Sir Watkyn Bassett, CBE, and these things take their toll. Indeed,
just before Jeeves came in, I had been dreaming that some
bounder was driving spikes through my head – not just ordinary
spikes, as used by Jael the wife of Heber, but red-hot ones.

He returned with the tissue-restorer. I loosed it down the
hatch, and after undergoing the passing discomfort, unavoidable
when you drink Jeeves's patent morning revivers, of having the
top of the skull fly up to the ceiling and the eyes shoot out of
their sockets and rebound from the opposite wall like racquet
balls, felt better. It would have been overstating it to say that
even now Bertram was back again in mid-season form, but I had
at least slid into the convalescent class and was equal to a spot of
conversation.

'Ha!' I said, retrieving the eyeballs and replacing them in
position. 'Well, Jeeves, what goes on in the great world? Is that
the paper you have there?'

'No, sir. It is some literature from the Travel Bureau. I thought
that you might care to glance at it.'

'Oh?' I said. 'You did, did you?'

And there was a brief and – if that's the word I want –
pregnant silence.

I suppose that when two men of iron will live in close association
with one another, there are bound to be occasional clashes,
and one of these had recently popped up in the Wooster home.
Jeeves was trying to get me to go on a Round-The-World cruise,
and I would have none of it. But in spite of my firm statements to
this effect, scarcely a day passed without him bringing me a sheaf
or nosegay of those illustrated folders which the Ho-for-the-open-spaces
birds send out in the hope of drumming up custom.
His whole attitude recalled irresistibly to the mind that of some
assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the
drawing-room carpet, though repeatedly apprised by word and
gesture that the market for same is sluggish or even non-existent.

'Jeeves,' I said, 'this nuisance must now cease.'

'Travel is highly educational, sir.'

'I can't do with any more education. I was full up years ago.
No, Jeeves, I know what's the matter with you. That old Viking
strain of yours has come out again. You yearn for the tang of the
salt breezes. You see yourself walking the deck in a yachting cap.
Possibly someone has been telling you about the Dancing Girls
of Bali. I understand, and I sympathize. But not for me. I refuse
to be decanted into any blasted ocean-going liner and lugged off
round the world.'

'Very good, sir.'

He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see
that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled,
so I tactfully changed the subject.

'Well, Jeeves, it was quite a satisfactory binge last night.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Oh, most. An excellent time was had by all. Gussie sent his
regards.'

'I appreciate the kind thought, sir. I trust Mr Fink-Nottle was
in good spirits?'

'Extraordinarily good, considering that the sands are running
out and that he will shortly have Sir Watkyn Bassett for
a father-in-law. Sooner him than me, Jeeves, sooner him
than me.'

I spoke with strong feeling, and I'll tell you why. A few
months before, while celebrating Boat Race night, I had fallen
into the clutches of the Law for trying to separate a policeman
from his helmet, and after sleeping fitfully on a plank bed had
been hauled up at Bosher Street next morning and fined five of
the best. The magistrate who had inflicted this monstrous sentence
– to the accompaniment, I may add, of some very offensive
remarks from the bench – was none other than old Pop Bassett,
father of Gussie's bride-to-be.

As it turned out, I was one of his last customers, for a couple
of weeks later he inherited a pot of money from a distant relative
and retired to the country. That, at least, was the story that had
been put about. My own view was that he had got the stuff by
sticking like glue to the fines. Five quid here, five quid there –
you can see how it would mount up over a period of years.

'You have not forgotten that man of wrath, Jeeves? A hard
case, eh?'

'Possibly Sir Watkyn is less formidable in private life, sir.'

'I doubt it. Slice him where you like, a hellhound is
always a hellhound. But enough of this Bassett. Any letters
today?'

'No, sir.'

'Telephone communications?'

'One, sir. From Mrs Travers.'

'Aunt Dahlia? She's back in town, then?'

'Yes, sir. She expressed a desire that you would ring her up at
your earliest convenience.'

'I will do even better,' I said cordially. 'I will call in person.'

And half an hour later I was toddling up the steps of her
residence and being admitted by old Seppings, her butler. Little
knowing, as I crossed that threshold, that in about two shakes of
a duck's tail I was to become involved in an imbroglio that would
test the Wooster soul as it had seldom been tested before.
I allude to the sinister affair of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline
Bassett, old Pop Bassett, Stiffy Byng, the Rev. H. P. ('Stinker')
Pinker, the eighteenth-century cow-creamer and the small,
brown, leather-covered notebook.

No premonition of an impending doom, however, cast a cloud
on my serenity as I buzzed in. I was looking forward with bright
anticipation to the coming reunion with this Dahlia – she, as
I may have mentioned before, being my good and deserving
aunt, not to be confused with Aunt Agatha, who eats broken
bottles and wears barbed wire next to the skin. Apart from the
mere intellectual pleasure of chewing the fat with her, there was
the glittering prospect that I might be able to cadge an invitation
to lunch. And owing to the outstanding virtuosity of Anatole,
her French cook, the browsing at her trough is always of a nature
to lure the gourmet.

The door of the morning room was open as I went through
the hall, and I caught a glimpse of Uncle Tom messing about
with his collection of old silver. For a moment I toyed with the
idea of pausing to pip-pip and enquire after his indigestion,
a malady to which he is extremely subject, but wiser counsels
prevailed. This uncle is a bird who, sighting a nephew, is apt to
buttonhole him and become a bit informative on the subject of
sconces and foliation, not to mention scrolls, ribbon wreaths in
high relief and gadroon borders, and it seemed to me that silence
was best. I whizzed by, accordingly, with sealed lips, and headed
for the library, where I had been informed that Aunt Dahlia was
at the moment roosting.

I found the old flesh-and-blood up to her Marcel-wave in
proof sheets. As all the world knows, she is the courteous and popular proprietress
of a weekly sheet for the delicately nurtured entitled
Milady's Boudoir.
I once contributed an article to it on 'What The Well-Dressed Man Is Wearing'.

My entry caused her to come to the surface, and she greeted
me with one of those cheery view-halloos which, in the days
when she went in for hunting, used to make her so noticeable
a figure of the Quorn, the Pytchley and other organizations for
doing the British fox a bit of no good.

'Hullo, ugly,' she said. 'What brings you here?'

'I understood, aged relative, that you wished to confer
with me.'

'I didn't want you to come barging in, interrupting my
work. A few words on the telephone would have met the
case. But I suppose some instinct told you that this was my
busy day.'

'If you were wondering if I could come to lunch, have no
anxiety. I shall be delighted, as always. What will Anatole be
giving us?'

'He won't be giving you anything, my gay young tapeworm. I
am entertaining Pomona Grindle, the novelist, to the midday
meal.'

'I should be charmed to meet her.'

'Well, you're not going to. It is to be a strictly
tête-à-tête
affair.
I'm trying to get a serial out of her for the
Boudoir.
No, all
I wanted was to tell you to go to an antique shop in the
Brompton Road – it's just past the Oratory – you can't miss it
– and sneer at a cow-creamer.'

I did not get her drift. The impression I received was that of
an aunt talking through the back of her neck.

'Do what to a what?'

'They've got an eighteenth-century cow-creamer there that
Tom's going to buy this afternoon.'

The scales fell from my eyes.

'Oh, it's a silver whatnot, is it?'

'Yes. A sort of cream jug. Go there and ask them to show it to
you, and when they do, register scorn.'

'The idea being what?'

'To sap their confidence, of course, chump. To sow doubts
and misgivings in their mind and make them clip the price a bit.
The cheaper he gets the thing, the better he will be pleased. And
I want him to be in cheery mood, because if I succeed in signing
the Grindle up for this serial, I shall be compelled to get into his
ribs for a biggish sum of money. It's sinful what these best-selling
women novelists want for their stuff. So pop off there
without delay and shake your head at the thing.'

I am always anxious to oblige the right sort of aunt, but I was
compelled to put in what Jeeves would have called a
nolle
prosequi.
Those morning mixtures of his are practically magical
in their effect, but even after partaking of them one does not
oscillate the bean.

'I can't shake my head. Not today.'

She gazed at me with a censorious waggle of the right
eyebrow.

'Oh, so that's how it is? Well, if your loathsome excesses have
left you incapable of headshaking, you can at least curl your lip.'

'Oh, rather.'

'Then carry on. And draw your breath in sharply. Also try
clicking the tongue. Oh, yes, and tell them you think it's
Modern Dutch.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. Apparently it's something a cow-creamer
ought not to be.'

She paused, and allowed her eye to roam thoughtfully over
my perhaps somewhat corpse-like face.

'So you were out on the tiles last night, were you, my little
chickadee? It's an extraordinary thing – every time I see you, you
appear to be recovering from some debauch. Don't you ever stop
drinking? How about when you are asleep?'

I rebutted the slur.

'You wrong me, relative. Except at times of special revelry,
I am exceedingly moderate in my potations. A brace of cocktails,
a glass of wine at dinner and possibly a liqueur with the coffee –
that is Bertram Wooster. But last night I gave a small bachelor
binge for Gussie Fink-Nottle.'

'You did, did you?' She laughed – a bit louder than I could
have wished in my frail state of health, but then she is always
a woman who tends to bring plaster falling from the ceiling
when amused. 'Spink-Bottle, eh? Bless his heart! How was the
old newt-fancier?'

'Pretty roguish.'

'Did he make a speech at this orgy of yours?'

'Yes. I was astounded. I was all prepared for a blushing refusal.
But no. We drank his health, and he rose to his feet as cool as
some cucumbers, as Anatole would say, and held us spellbound.'

'Tight as an owl, I suppose?'

'On the contrary. Offensively sober.'

'Well, that's a nice change.'

We fell into a thoughtful silence. We were musing on the
summer afternoon down at her place in Worcestershire when
Gussie, circumstances having so ordered themselves as to render
him full to the back teeth with the right stuff, had addressed the
young scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School on the
occasion of their annual prize giving.

A thing I never know, when I'm starting out to tell a story
about a chap I've told a story about before, is how much explanation
to bung in at the outset. It's a problem you've got to look
at from every angle. I mean to say, in the present case, if I take it
for granted that my public knows all about Gussie Fink-Nottle
and just breeze ahead, those publicans who weren't hanging on
my lips the first time are apt to be fogged. Whereas if before
kicking off I give about eight volumes of the man's life and
history, other bimbos who were so hanging will stifle yawns
and murmur 'Old stuff. Get on with it.'

I suppose the only thing to do is to put the salient facts as
briefly as possible in the possession of the first gang, waving an
apologetic hand at the second gang the while, to indicate that
they had better let their attention wander for a minute or two
and that I will be with them shortly.

This Gussie, then, was a fish-faced pal of mine who, on
reaching man's estate, had buried himself in the country and
devoted himself entirely to the study of newts, keeping the little
chaps in a glass tank and observing their habits with a sedulous
eye. A confirmed recluse you would have called him, if you had
happened to know the word, and you would have been right. By
all the rulings of the form book, a less promising prospect for the
whispering of tender words into shell-like ears and the subsequent
purchase of platinum ring and licence for wedding it
would have seemed impossible to discover in a month of
Sundays.