The Jeeves Omnibus (235 page)

‘How do you know?’

‘She was lunching here today.’

‘He brought her?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Pretty massive. In shape, a bit on the lines of the Albert Hall.’

‘Did he seem very fond of her?’

‘Couldn’t take his eyes off the chassis.’

‘The modern young man,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘is a congenital idiot and wants a nurse to lead him by the hand and some strong attendant to kick him regularly at intervals of a quarter of an hour.’

I tried to point out the silver lining.

‘If you ask me, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said, ‘I think Angela is well out of it. This Glossop is a tough baby. One of London’s toughest. I was trying to tell you just now what he did to me one night at the Drones. First having got me in a sporting mood with a bottle of the ripest, he betted I wouldn’t swing myself across the swimming-bath by the ropes and rings. I knew I could do it on my head, so I took him on, exulting in the fun, so to speak. And when I’d done half the trip and was going as strong as dammit, I found he had looped the last rope back against the rail, leaving me no alternative but to drop into the depths and swim ashore in correct evening costume.’

‘He did?’

‘He certainly did. It was months ago, and I haven’t got really dry
yet
. You wouldn’t want your daughter to marry a man capable of a thing like that?’

‘On the contrary, you restore my faith in the young hound. I see that there must be lots of good in him, after all. And I want this Bellinger business broken up, Bertie.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t care how. Any way you please.’

‘But what can I do?’

‘Do? Why, put the whole thing before your man Jeeves. Jeeves will find a way. One of the most capable fellers I ever met. Put the thing squarely up to Jeeves and tell him to let his mind play round the topic.’

‘There may be something in what you say, Aunt Dahlia,’ I said thoughtfully.

‘Of course there is,’ said Aunt Dahlia. ‘A little thing like this will be child’s play to Jeeves. Get him working on it, and I’ll look in tomorrow to hear the result.’

With which, she biffed off, and I summoned Jeeves to the presence.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘you have heard all?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I thought you would. My Aunt Dahlia has what you might call a carrying voice. Has it ever occurred to you that, if all other sources of income failed, she could make a good living calling the cattle home across the Sands of Dee?’

‘I had not considered the point, sir, but no doubt you are right.’

‘Well, how do we go? What is your reaction? I think we should do our best to help and assist.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I am fond of my Aunt Dahlia and I am fond of my cousin Angela. Fond of them both, if you get my drift. What the misguided girl finds to attract her in young Tuppy, I cannot say, Jeeves, and you cannot say. But apparently she loves the man – which shows it can be done, a thing I wouldn’t have believed myself – and is pining away like –’

‘Patience on a monument, sir.’

‘Like Patience, as you very shrewdly remark, on a monument. So we must cluster round. Bend your brain to the problem, Jeeves. It is one that will tax you to the uttermost.’

Aunt Dahlia blew in on the morrow, and I rang the bell for Jeeves. He appeared looking brainier than one could have believed possible –
sheer
intellect shining from every feature – and I could see at once that the engine had been turning over.

‘Speak, Jeeves,’ I said.

‘Very good, sir.’

‘You have brooded?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘With what success?’

‘I have a plan, sir, which I fancy may produce satisfactory results.’

‘Let’s have it,’ said Aunt Dahlia.

‘In affairs of this description, madam, the first essential is to study the psychology of the individual.’

‘The what of the individual?’

‘The psychology, madam.’

‘He means the psychology,’ I said. ‘And by psychology, Jeeves, you imply –?’

‘The natures and dispositions of the principals in the matter, sir.’

‘You mean, what they’re like?’

‘Precisely, sir.’

‘Does he talk like this to you when you’re alone, Bertie?’ asked Aunt Dahlia.

‘Sometimes. Occasionally. And, on the other hand, sometimes not. Proceed, Jeeves.’

‘Well, sir, if I may say so, the thing that struck me most forcibly about Miss Bellinger when she was under my observation was that hers was a somewhat hard and intolerant nature. I could envisage Miss Bellinger applauding success. I could not so easily see her pitying and sympathizing with failure. Possibly you will recall, sir, her attitude when Mr Glossop endeavoured to light her cigarette with his automatic lighter? I thought I detected a certain impatience at his inability to produce the necessary flame.’

‘True, Jeeves. She ticked him off.’

‘Precisely, sir.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Aunt Dahlia, looking a bit fogged. ‘You think that, if he goes on trying to light her cigarettes with his automatic lighter long enough, she will eventually get fed up and hand him the mitten? Is that the idea?’

‘I merely mentioned the episode, madam, as an indication of Miss Bellinger’s somewhat ruthless nature.’

‘Ruthless,’ I said, ‘is right. The Bellinger is hard-boiled. Those eyes. That chin. I could read them. A woman of blood and iron, if ever there was one.’

‘Precisely, sir. I think, therefore, that, should Miss Bellinger be a witness of Mr Glossop appearing to disadvantage in public, she would cease to entertain affection for him. In the event, for instance, of his failing to please the audience on Tuesday with his singing –’

I saw daylight.

‘By Jove, Jeeves! You mean if he gets the bird, all will be off?’

‘I shall be greatly surprised if such is not the case, sir.’

I shook my head.

‘We cannot leave this thing to chance, Jeeves. Young Tuppy, singing “Sonny Boy”, is the likeliest prospect for the bird that I can think of – but, no – you must see for yourself that we can’t simply trust to luck.’

‘We need not trust to luck, sir. I would suggest that you approach your friend, Mr Bingham, and volunteer your services as a performer at his forthcoming entertainment. It could readily be arranged that you sang immediately before Mr Glossop. I fancy, sir, that, if Mr Glossop were to sing “Sonny Boy” directly after you, too, had sung “Sonny Boy”, the audience would respond satisfactorily. By the time Mr Glossop began to sing, they would have lost their taste for that particular song and would express their feelings warmly.’

‘Jeeves,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘you’re a marvel!’

‘Thank you, madam.’

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘you’re an ass!’

‘What do you mean, he’s an ass?’ said Aunt Dahlia hotly. ‘I think it’s the greatest scheme I ever heard.’

‘Me sing “Sonny Boy” at Beefy Bingham’s clean, bright entertainment? I can see myself!’

‘You sing it daily in your bath, sir. Mr Wooster,’ said Jeeves, turning to Aunt Dahlia, ‘has a pleasant, light baritone –’

‘I bet he has,’ said Aunt Dahlia.

I froze the man with a look.

‘Between singing “Sonny Boy” in one’s bath, Jeeves, and singing it before a hall full of assorted blood-orange merchants and their young, there is a substantial difference.’

‘Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia, ‘you’ll sing, and like it!’

‘I will not.’

‘Bertie!’

‘Nothing will induce –’

‘Bertie,’ said Aunt Dahlia firmly, ‘you will sing “Sonny Boy” on Tuesday, the third
prox
, and sing it like a lark at sunrise, or may an aunt’s curse –’

‘I won’t.’

‘Think of Angela!’

‘Dash Angela!’

‘Bertie!’

‘No, I mean, hang it all!’

‘You won’t?’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘That is your last word, is it?’

‘It is. Once and for all, Aunt Dahlia, nothing will induce me to let out so much as a single note.’

And so that afternoon I sent a pre-paid wire to Beefy Bingham, offering my services in the cause, and by nightfall the thing was fixed up. I was billed to perform next but one after the intermission. Following me, came Tuppy. And, immediately after him, Miss Cora Bellinger, the well-known operatic soprano.

‘Jeeves,’ I said that evening – and I said it coldly – ‘I shall be obliged if you will pop round to the nearest music-shop and procure me a copy of “Sonny Boy”. It will now be necessary for me to learn both verse and refrain. Of the trouble and nervous strain which this will involve, I say nothing.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘But this I do say –’

‘I had better be starting immediately, sir, or the shop will be closed.’

‘Ha!’ I said.

And I meant it to sting.

Although I had steeled myself to the ordeal before me and had set out full of the calm, quiet courage which makes men do desperate deeds with careless smiles, I must admit that there was a moment, just after I had entered the Oddfellows’ Hall at Bermondsey East and run an eye over the assembled pleasure-seekers, when it needed all the bulldog pluck of the Woosters to keep me from calling it a day and taking a cab back to civilization. The clean, bright entertainment was in full swing when I arrived, and somebody who looked as if he might be the local undertaker was reciting ‘Gunga Din’. And the audience, though not actually chi-yiking in the full technical sense of the term, had a grim look which I didn’t like at all. The mere sight of them gave me the sort of feeling Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego must have had when preparing to enter the burning, fiery furnace.

Scanning the multitude, it seemed to me that they were for the nonce suspending judgment. Did you ever tap on the door of one of those New York speakeasy places and see the grille snap back and
a
Face appear? There is one long, silent moment when its eyes are fixed on yours and all your past life seems to rise up before you. Then you say that you are a friend of Mr Zinzinheimer and he told you they would treat you right if you mentioned his name, and the strain relaxes. Well, these costermongers and whelkstallers appeared to me to be looking just like that Face. Start something, they seemed to say, and they would know what to do about it. And I couldn’t help feeling that my singing ‘Sonny Boy’ would come, in their opinion, under the head of starting something.

‘A nice, full house, sir,’ said a voice at my elbow. It was Jeeves, watching the proceedings with an indulgent eye.

‘You here, Jeeves?’ I said, coldly.

‘Yes, sir. I have been present since the commencement.’

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘Any casualties yet?’

‘Sir?’

‘You know what I mean, Jeeves,’ I said sternly, ‘and don’t pretend you don’t. Anybody got the bird yet?’

‘Oh, no, sir.’

‘I shall be the first, you think?’

‘No, sir. I see no reason to expect such a misfortune. I anticipate that you will be well received.’

A sudden thought struck me.

‘And you think everything will go according to plan?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ I said. ‘And I’ll tell you why I don’t. I’ve spotted a flaw in your beastly scheme.’

‘A flaw, sir?’

‘Yes. Do you suppose for a moment that, if when Mr Glossop hears me singing that dashed song, he’ll come calmly on a minute after me and sing it too? Use your intelligence, Jeeves. He will perceive the chasm in his path and pause in time. He will back out and refuse to go on at all.’

‘Mr Glossop will not hear you sing, sir. At my advice, he has stepped across the road to the Jug and Bottle, an establishment immediately opposite the hall, and he intends to remain there until it is time for him to appear on the platform.’

‘Oh?’ I said.

‘If I might suggest it, sir, there is another house named the Goat and Grapes only a short distance down the street. I think it might be a judicious move –’

‘If I were to put a bit of custom in their way?’

‘It would ease the nervous strain of waiting, sir.’

I had not been feeling any too pleased with the man for having let me in for this ghastly binge, but at these words, I’m bound to say, my austerity softened a trifle. He was undoubtedly right. He had studied the psychology of the individual, and it had not led him astray. A quiet ten minutes at the Goat and Grapes was exactly what my system required. To buzz off there and inhale a couple of swift whisky-and-sodas was with Bertram Wooster the work of a moment.

The treatment worked like magic. What they had put into the stuff, besides vitriol, I could not have said; but it completely altered my outlook on life. That curious, gulpy feeling passed. I was no longer conscious of the sagging sensation at the knees. The limbs ceased to quiver gently, the tongue became loosened in its socket, and the backbone stiffened. Pausing merely to order and swallow another of the same, I bade the barmaid a cheery good night, nodded affably to one or two fellows in the bar whose faces I liked, and came prancing back to the hall, ready for anything.

And shortly afterwards I was on the platform with about a million bulging eyes goggling up at me. There was a rummy sort of buzzing in my ears, and then through the buzzing I heard the sound of a piano starting to tinkle: and, commending my soul to God, I took a good, long breath and charged in.

Well, it was a close thing. The whole incident is a bit blurred, but I seem to recollect a kind of murmur as I hit the refrain. I thought at the time it was an attempt on the part of the many-headed to join in the chorus, and at the moment it rather encouraged me. I passed the thing over the larynx with all the vim at my disposal, hit the high note, and off gracefully into the wings. I didn’t come on again to take a bow. I just receded and oiled round to where Jeeves awaited me among the standees at the back.

‘Well, Jeeves,’ I said, anchoring myself at his side and brushing the honest sweat from the brow, ‘they didn’t rush the platform.’

‘No, sir.’

‘But you can spread it about that that’s the last time I perform outside my bath. My swan-song, Jeeves. Anybody who wants to hear me in future must present himself at the bathroom door and shove his ear against the keyhole. I may be wrong, but it seemed to me that towards the end they were hotting up a trifle. The bird was hovering in the air. I could hear the beating of its wings.’