The Jeeves Omnibus (230 page)

‘You want time to think, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Take it, Jeeves, take it. You may feel brainier after a night’s sleep. What is it Shakespeare calls sleep, Jeeves?’

‘Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, sir.’

‘Exactly. Well, there you are, then.’

You know, there’s nothing like sleeping on a thing. Scarcely had I woken up next morning when I discovered that, while I slept, I had got the whole binge neatly into order and worked out a plan Foch might have been proud of. I rang the bell for Jeeves to bring me my tea.

I rang again. But it must have been five minutes before the man showed up with the steaming.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, when I reproached him. ‘I did not hear the bell. I was in the sitting room, sir.’

‘Ah?’ I said, sucking down a spot of the mixture. ‘Doing this and that, no doubt?’

‘Dusting your new vase, sir.’

My heart warmed to the fellow. If there’s one person I like, it’s the chap who is not too proud to admit it when he’s in the wrong. No actual statement to that effect has passed his lips, of course, but we Woosters can read between the lines. I could see that he was learning to love the vase.

‘How does it look?’

‘Yes, sir.’

A bit cryptic, but I let it go.

‘Jeeves,’ I said.

‘Sir?’

‘That matter we were in conference about yestereen.’

‘The matter of Mr Sipperley, sir?’

‘Precisely. Don’t worry yourself any further. Stop the brain working. I shall not require your service. I have found the solution. It came on me like a flash.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Just like a flash. In a matter of this kind, Jeeves, the first thing to do is to study – what’s the word I want?’

‘I could not say, sir.’

‘Quite a common word – though long.’

‘Psychology, sir?’

‘The exact noun. It is a noun?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Spoken like a man! Well, Jeeves, direct your attention to the psychology of old Sippy. Mr Sipperley, if you follow me, is in the position of a man from whose eyes the scales have not fallen. The task that faced me, Jeeves, was to discover some scheme which would cause those scales to fall. You get me?’

‘Not entirely, sir.’

‘Well, what I’m driving at is this. At present this headmaster bloke, this Waterbury, is tramping all over Mr Sipperley because he is hedged about with dignity, if you understand what I mean. Years have passed; Mr Sipperley now shaves daily and is in an important editorial position; but he can never forget that this bird once gave him six of the juiciest. Result: an inferiority complex. The only way to remove that complex, Jeeves, is to arrange that Mr Sipperley shall see this Waterbury in a thoroughly undignified position. This done, the scales will fall from his eyes. You must see that for yourself, Jeeves. Take your own case. No doubt there are a number of your friends and relations who look up to you and respect you greatly. But suppose one night they were to see you, in an advanced state of intoxication, dancing the Charleston in your underwear in the middle of Piccadilly Circus?’

‘The contingency is remote, sir.’

‘Ah, but suppose they did. The scales would fall from their eyes, what?’

‘Very possibly, sir.’

‘Take another case. Do you remember a year or so ago the occasion when my Aunt Agatha accused the maid at that French hotel of pinching her pearls, only to discover that they were in her drawer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Whereupon she looked the most priceless ass. You’ll admit that.’

‘Certainly I have seen Mrs Spenser Gregson appear to greater advantage than at that moment, sir.’

‘Exactly. Now follow me like a leopard. Observing my Aunt Agatha in her downfall; watching her turn bright mauve and listening to her being told off in liquid French by a whiskered hotel proprietor without coming back with so much as a single lift of the eyebrows, I felt as if the scales had fallen from my eyes. For the first time in my life, Jeeves, the awe with which this woman had inspired me from childhood’s days left me. It came back later, I’ll admit; but at the moment I saw my Aunt Agatha for what she was – not, as I had long imagined, a sort of man-eating fish at the very mention of whose name strong men quivered like aspens, but a poor goop who had just dropped a very serious brick. At that moment, Jeeves, I could have told her precisely where she got off; and only a too chivalrous regard for the sex kept me from doing so. You won’t dispute that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, then, my firm conviction is that the scales will fall from Mr Sipperley’s eyes when he sees this Waterbury, this old
headmaster
, stagger into his office covered from head to foot with flour.’

‘Flour, sir?’

‘Flour, Jeeves.’

‘But why should he pursue such a course, sir?’

‘Because he won’t be able to help it. The stuff will be balanced on top of the door, and the force of gravity will do the rest. I propose to set a booby-trap for this Waterbury, Jeeves.’

‘Really, sir, I would scarcely advocate –’

I raised my hand.

‘Peace, Jeeves! There is more to come. You have not forgotten that Mr Sipperley loves Miss Gwendolen Moon, but fears to speak. I bet you’d forgotten that.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, then, my belief is that, once he finds he has lost his awe of this Waterbury, he will be so supremely braced that there will be no holding him. He will rush right off and bung his heart at her feet, Jeeves.’

‘Well, sir –’

‘Jeeves,’ I said a little severely, ‘whenever I suggest a plan or scheme or course of action, you are too apt to say “Well, sir,” in a nasty tone of voice. I do not like it, and it is a habit you should check. The plan or scheme or course of action which I have outlined contains no flaw. If it does, I should like to hear it.’

‘Well, sir –’

‘Jeeves!’

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I was about to remark that, in my opinion, you are approaching Mr Sipperley’s problems in the wrong order.’

‘How do you mean, the wrong order?’

‘Well, I fancy, sir, that better results would be obtained by first inducing Mr Sipperley to offer marriage to Miss Moon. In the event of the young lady proving agreeable, I think that Mr Sipperley would be in such an elevated frame of mind that he would have no difficulty in asserting himself with Mr Waterbury.’

‘Ah, but you are then stymied by the question – How is he to be induced?’

‘It had occurred to me, sir, that, as Miss Moon is a poetess and of a romantic nature, it might have weight with her if she heard that Mr Sipperley had met with a serious injury and was mentioning her name.’

‘Calling for her brokenly, you mean?’

‘Calling for her, as you say, sir, brokenly.’

I sat up in bed, and pointed at him rather coldly with the teaspoon.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘I would be the last man to accuse you of dithering, but this is not like you. It is not the old form, Jeeves. You are losing your grip. It might be years before Mr Sipperley had a serious injury.’

‘There is that to be considered, sir.’

‘I cannot believe that it is you, Jeeves, who are meekly suggesting that we should suspend all activities in this matter year after year, on the chance that some day Mr Sipperley may fall under a truck or something. No! The programme will be as I have sketched it out, Jeeves. After breakfast, kindly step out, and purchase about a pound and a half of the best flour. The rest you may leave to me.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The first thing you need in matters of this kind, as every general knows, is a thorough knowledge of the terrain. Not know the terrain, and where are you? Look at Napoleon and that sunken road at Waterloo. Silly ass!

I had a thorough knowledge of the terrain of Sippy’s office, and it ran as follows. I won’t draw a plan, because my experience is that, when you’re reading one of those detective stories and come to the bit where the author draws a plan of the Manor, showing room where body was found, stairs leading to passage-way, and all the rest of it, one just skips. I’ll simply explain in a few brief words.

The offices of
The Mayfair Gazette
were on the first floor of a mouldy old building off Covent Garden. You went in at a front door and ahead of you was a passage leading to the premises of Bellamy Bros, dealers in seeds and garden produce. Ignoring the Bros Bellamy, you proceeded upstairs and found two doors opposite you. One, marked Private, opened into Sippy’s editorial sanctum. The other – sub-title: Inquiries – shot you into a small room where an office-boy sat, eating peppermints and reading the adventures of Tarzan. If you got past the office-boy, you went through another door and there you were in Sippy’s room, just as if you had nipped through the door marked Private. Perfectly simple.

It was over the door marked Inquiries that I proposed to suspend the flour.

Now, setting a booby-trap for a respectable citizen like a headmaster (even of an inferior school to your own) is not a matter to be approached lightly and without careful preparation. I don’t suppose I’ve ever selected a lunch with more thought than I did that day. And
after
a nicely-balanced meal, preceded by a couple of dry Martinis, washed down with half a bot, of a nice light, dry champagne, and followed by a spot of brandy, I could have set a booby-trap for a bishop.

The only really difficult part of the campaign was to get rid of the office-boy; for naturally you don’t want witnesses when you’re shoving bags of flour on doors. Fortunately, every man has his price, and it wasn’t long before I contrived to persuade the lad that there was sickness at home and he was needed at Cricklewood. This done, I mounted a chair and got to work.

It was many, many years since I had tackled this kind of job, but the old skill came back as good as ever. Having got the bag so nicely poised that a touch on the door would do all that was necessary, I skipped down from my chair, popped off through Sippy’s room, and went into the street. Sippy had not shown up yet, which was all to the good, but I knew he usually trickled in at about five to three. I hung about in the street, and presently round the corner came the bloke Waterbury. He went in at the front door, and I started off for a short stroll. It was no part of my policy to be in the offing when things began to happen.

It seemed to me that, allowing for wind and weather, the scales should have fallen from old Sippy’s eyes by about three-fifteen, Greenwich mean time; so, having prowled around Covent Garden among the spuds and cabbages for twenty minutes or so, I retraced my steps and pushed up the stairs. I went in at the door marked Private, fully expecting to see old Sippy, and conceive of my astonishment and chagrin when I found on entering only the bloke Waterbury. He was seated at Sippy’s desk, reading a paper, as if the place belonged to him.

And, moreover, there was of flour on his person not a trace.

‘Great Scott!’ I said.

It was a case of the sunken road, after all. But, dash it, how could I have been expected to take into consideration the possibility that this cove, headmaster though he was, would have had the cold nerve to walk into Sippy’s private office instead of pushing in a normal and orderly manner through the public door?

He raised the nose, and focused me over it.

‘Yes?’

‘I was looking for old Sippy.’

‘Mr Sipperley has not yet arrived.’

He spoke with a good deal of pique, seeming to be a man who was not used to being kept waiting.

‘Well, how is everything?’ I said, to ease things along.

He started reading again. He looked up as if he found me pretty superfluous.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘You spoke.’

‘I only said “How is everything?” don’t you know.’

‘How is what?’

‘Everything.’

‘I fail to understand you.’

‘Let it go,’ I said.

I found a certain difficulty in boosting along the chit-chat. He was not a responsive cove.

‘Nice day,’ I said.

‘Quite.’

‘But they say the crops need rain.’

He had buried himself in his paper once more, and seemed peeved this time on being lugged to the surface.

‘What?’

‘The crops.’

‘The crops?’

‘Crops.’

‘What crops?’

‘Oh, just crops.’

He laid down his paper.

‘You appear to be desirous of giving me some information about crops. What is it?’

‘I hear they need rain.’

‘Indeed?’

That concluded the small-talk. He went on reading, and I found a chair and sat down and sucked the handle of my stick. And so the long day wore on.

It may have been some two hours later, or it may have been about five minutes, when there became audible in the passage outside a strange wailing sound, as of some creature in pain. The bloke Waterbury looked up. I looked up.

The wailing came closer. It came into the room. It was Sippy, singing.

‘– I love you. That’s all I can say. I love you, I lo-o-ve you. The same old –’

He suspended the chant, not too soon for me.

‘Oh, hullo!’ he said.

I was amazed. The last time I had seen old Sippy, you must remember, he had had all the appearance of a man who didn’t know it was loaded. Haggard. Drawn face. Circles under the eyes. All that sort of thing. And now, not much more than twenty-four hours later, he was simply radiant. His eyes sparkled. His mobile lips were curved in a happy smile. He looked as if he had been taking as much as will cover a sixpence every morning before breakfast for years.

‘Hullo, Bertie!’ he said. ‘Hullo, Waterbury old man! Sorry I’m late.’

The bloke Waterbury seemed by no means pleased at this cordial form of address. He froze visibly.

‘You are exceedingly late. I may mention that I have been waiting for upwards of half an hour, and my time is not without its value.’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,’ said Sippy, jovially. ‘You wanted to see me about that article on the Elizabethan dramatists you left here yesterday, didn’t you? Well, I’ve read it, and I’m sorry to say, Waterbury, my dear chap, that it’s NG.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No earthly use to us. Quite the wrong sort of stuff. This paper is supposed to be all light Society interest. What the
débutante
will wear for Goodwood, you know, and I saw Lady Betty Bootle in the Park yesterday – she is, of course, the sister-in-law of the Duchess of Peebles, “Cuckoo” to her intimates – all that kind of rot. My readers don’t want stuff about Elizabethan dramatists.’