The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 3 (59 page)

‘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.’

‘Sipperley –!’

Old Sippy reached out and patted him in a paternal manner on the back.

‘Now listen, Waterbury,’ he said, kindly. ‘You know as well as I do that I hate to turn down an old pal. But I have my duty to the paper. Still, don’t be discouraged. Keep trying, and you’ll do fine. There is a lot of promise in your stuff, but you want to study your market. Keep your eyes open and see what editors need. Now just as a suggestion, why not have a dash at a light, breezy article on pet dogs. You’ve probably noticed that the pug, once so fashionable, has been superseded by the Peke, the griffon, and the Sealyham. Work on that line and –’

The bloke Waterbury navigated towards the door.

‘I have no desire to work on that line, as you put it,’ he said, stiffly. ‘If you do not require my paper on the Elizabethan dramatists I shall no doubt be able to find another editor whose tastes are more in accord with my work.’

‘The right spirit absolutely, Waterbury,’ said Sippy, cordially. ‘Never give in. Perseverance brings home the gravy. If you get an article accepted, send another article to that editor. If you get an article refused, send that article to another editor. Carry on, Waterbury. I shall watch your future progress with considerable interest.’

‘Thank you,’ said the bloke Waterbury, bitterly. ‘This expert advice should prove most useful.’

He biffed off, banging the door behind him, and I turned to Sippy, who was swerving about the room like an exuberant snipe.

‘Sippy –’

‘Eh? What? Can’t stop, Bertie, can’t stop. Only looked in to tell you the news. I’m taking Gwendolen to tea at the Carlton. I’m the happiest man in the world, Bertie. Engaged, you know. Betrothed. All washed up and signed on the dotted line. Wedding, June the first, at eleven am sharp, at St Peter’s Eaton Square. Presents should be delivered before the end of May.’

‘But, Sippy! Come to roost for a second. How did this happen? I thought –’

‘Well, it’s a long story. Much too long to tell you now. Ask Jeeves. He came along with me, and is waiting outside. But when I found her bending over me, weeping, I knew that a word from me was all that was needed. I took her little hand in mine and –’

‘What do you mean, bending over you? Where?’

‘In your sitting room.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why was she bending over you?’

‘Because I was on the floor, ass. Naturally a girl would bend over a fellow who was on the floor. Goodbye, Bertie. I must rush.’

He was out of the room before I knew he had started. I followed at a high rate of speed, but he was down the stairs before I reached the passage. I legged it after him, but when I got into the street it was empty.

No, not absolutely empty. Jeeves was standing on the pavement, gazing dreamily at a brussels sprout which lay in the fairway.

‘Mr Sipperley has this moment gone, sir,’ he said, as I came charging out.

I halted and mopped the brow.

‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘what has been happening?’

‘As far as Mr Sipperley’s romance is concerned, sir, all, I am happy to report, is well. He and Miss Moon have arrived at a satisfactory settlement.’

‘I know. They’re engaged. But how did it happen?’

‘I took the liberty of telephoning to Mr Sipperley in your name, asking him to come immediately to the flat, sir.’

‘Oh, that’s how he came to be at the flat? Well?’

‘I then took the liberty of telephoning to Miss Moon and informing her that Mr Sipperley had met with a nasty accident. As I anticipated, the young lady was strongly moved and announced her intention of coming to see Mr Sipperley immediately. When she arrived, it required only a few moments to arrange the matter. It seems that Miss Moon has long loved Mr Sipperley, sir, and –’

‘I should have thought that, when she turned up and found he hadn’t had a nasty accident, she would have been thoroughly pipped at being fooled.’

‘Mr Sipperley had had a nasty accident, sir.’

‘He had?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Rummy coincidence. I mean, after what you were saying this morning.’

‘Not altogether, sir. Before telephoning to Miss Moon, I took the further liberty of striking Mr Sipperley a sharp blow on the head with one of your golf-clubs, which was fortunately lying in a corner of the room. The putter, I believe, sir. If you will recollect, you were practising with it this morning before you left.’

I gaped at the blighter. I had always known Jeeves for a man of infinite sagacity, sound beyond belief on any question of ties or spats; but never before had I suspected him capable of strong-arm work like this. It seemed to open up an entirely new aspect of the fellow. I can’t put it better than by saying that, as I gazed at him, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes.

‘Good heavens, Jeeves!’

‘I did it with the utmost regret, sir. It appeared to me the only course.’

‘But look here, Jeeves. I don’t get this. Wasn’t Mr Sipperley pretty shirty when he came to and found that you had been socking him with putters?’

‘He was not aware that I had done so, sir. I took the precaution of waiting until his back was momentarily turned.’

‘But how did you explain the bump on his head?’

‘I informed him that your new vase had fallen on him, sir.’

‘Why on earth would he believe that? The vase would have been smashed.’

‘The vase was smashed, sir.’

‘What!’

‘In order to achieve verisimilitude, I was reluctantly compelled to break it, sir. And in my excitement, sir, I am sorry to say I broke it beyond repair.’