The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 4: (Jeeves & Wooster): No.4 (6 page)

I weighed the question.

‘Well, some are better and some worse. I would call this one about average. Garish, of course, but then you said you wanted something garish.’

‘Oh, I’m not complaining. I shall make some useful notes. It is just the sort of place to which I pictured Rollo going that night.’

‘Rollo?’

‘The hero of my novel. Rollo Beaminster.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. Out on the tiles, was he?’

‘He was in wild mood. Reckless. Desperate. He had lost the girl he loved.’

‘What ho!’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

I spoke with animation and vim, for whatever you may say of Bertram Wooster, you cannot say that he does not know a cue when he hears one. Throw him the line, and he will do the rest. I hitched up the larynx. The kippers and the bot had arrived by now, and I took a mouthful of the former and a sip of the latter. It tasted like hair-oil.

‘You interest me strangely,’ I said. ‘Lost the girl he loved, had he?’

‘She had told him she never wished to see or speak to him again.’

‘Well, well. Always a nasty knock for a chap, that.’

‘So he comes to this low night club. He is trying to forget.’

‘But I’ll bet he doesn’t.’

‘No, it is useless. He looks about him at the glitter and garishness and feels how hollow it all is. I think I can use that waiter over there in the night club scene, the one with the watery eyes and the pimple
on
his nose,’ she said, jotting down a note on the back of the bill of fare.

I fortified myself with a swig of whatever the stuff was in the bottle and prepared to give her the works.

‘Always a mistake,’ I said, starting to do the sympathetic man of the world, ‘fellows losing girls and – conversely, if that’s the word I want – girls losing fellows. I don’t know how you feel about it, but the way it seems to me is that it’s a silly idea giving the dream man the raspberry just because of some trifling tiff. Kiss and make up, I always say. I saw Stilton at the Drones tonight,’ I said, getting down to it.

She stiffened and took a reserved mouthful of kipper. Her voice, when the consignment had passed down the hatch and she was able to speak, was cold and metallic.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘He was in wild mood.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Reckless. Desperate. He looked about him at the Drones smoking-room, and I could see he was feeling what a hollow smoking-room it was.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Well, I suppose if someone had come along at this moment and said to me ‘Hullo there, Wooster, how’s it going? Are you making headway?’ I should have had to reply in the negative. ‘Not perceptibly, Wilkinson’ – or Banks or Smith or Knatchbull-Huguessen or whatever the name might have been, I would have said. I had the uncomfortable feeling of having been laid a stymie. However, I persevered.

‘Yes, he was in quite a state of mind. He gave me the impression that it wouldn’t take much to make him go off to the Rocky Mountains and shoot grizzly bears. Not a pleasant thought.’

‘You mean if one is fond of grizzly bears?’

‘I was thinking more if one was fond of Stiltons.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Oh? Well, suppose he joined the Foreign Legion?’

‘It would have my sympathy.’

‘You wouldn’t like to think of him tramping through the hot sand without a pub in sight, with Riffs or whatever they’re called potting at him from all directions.’

‘Yes, I would. If I saw a Riff trying to shoot D’Arcy Cheesewright, I would hold his hat for him and egg him on.’

Once more I had that sense of not making progress. Her face, I observed, was cold and hard, like my kipper, which of course during
these
exchanges I had been neglecting, and I began to understand how these birds in Holy Writ must have felt after their session with the deaf adder. I can’t recall all the details, though at my private school I once won a prize for Scripture Knowledge, but I remember that they had the dickens of an uphill job trying to charm it, and after they had sweated themselves to a frazzle no business resulted. It is often this way, I believe, with deaf adders.

‘Do you know Horace Pendlebury-Davenport?’ I said, after a longish pause during which we worked away at our respective kippers.

‘The man who married Valerie Twistleton?’

‘That’s the chap. Formerly the Drones Club Darts champion.’

‘I’ve met him. But why bring him up?’

‘Because he points the moral and adorns the tale. During the period of their betrothal he and Valerie had a row similar in calibre to that which has occurred between you and Stilton and pretty nearly parted for ever.’

She gave me the frosty eye.

‘Must we talk about Mr. Cheesewright?’

‘I see him as tonight’s big topic.’

‘I don’t, and I think I’ll go home.’

‘Oh, not yet. I want to tell you about Horace and Valerie. They had this row of which I speak and might, as I say, have parted for ever, had they not been reconciled by a woman who, so Horace says, looked as if she bred cocker spaniels. She told them a touching story, which melted their hearts. She said she had once loved a bloke and quarrelled with him about some trifle, and he turned on his heel and went off to the Federated Malay States and married the widow of a rubber planter. And each year from then on there arrived at her address a simple posy of white violets, together with a slip of paper bearing the words “It might have been”. You wouldn’t like that to happen with you and Stilton, would you?’

‘I’d love it.’

‘It doesn’t give you a pang to think that at this very moment he may be going the rounds of the shipping offices, inquiring about sailings to the Malay States?’

‘They’d be shut at this time of night.’

‘Well, first thing tomorrow morning, then.’

She laid down her knife and fork and gave me an odd look.

‘Bertie, you’re extraordinary,’ she said.

‘Eh? How do you mean, extraordinary?’

‘All this nonsense you have been talking, trying to reconcile me and D’Arcy. Not that I don’t admire you for it. I think it’s rather
wonderful
of you. But then everybody says that, though you have a brain like a peahen, you’re the soul of kindness and generosity.’

Well, I was handicapped here by the fact that, never having met a peahen, I was unable to estimate the quality of these fowls’ intelligence, but she had spoken as if they were a bit short of the grey matter, and I was about to ask her who the hell she meant by ‘everybody’, when she resumed.

‘You want to marry me yourself, don’t you?’

I had to take another mouthful of the substance in the bottle before I could speak. One of those difficult questions to answer.

‘Oh, rather,’ I said, for I was anxious to make the evening a success. ‘Of course. Who wouldn’t?’

‘And yet you –’

She did not proceed further than the word ‘you’, for at this juncture, with the abruptness with which these things always happen, the joint was pinched. The band stopped in the middle of a bar. A sudden hush fell upon the room. Square-jawed men shot up through the flooring, and one, who seemed to be skippering the team, stood out in the middle and in a voice like a foghorn told everybody to keep their seats. I remember thinking how nicely timed the whole thing was – breaking loose, I mean, at a moment when the conversation had taken a distasteful turn and threatened to become fraught with embarrassment. I have heard hard things said about the London police force – notably by Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright and others on the morning after the annual Oxford and Cambridge boat race – but a fairminded man had to admit that there were occasions when they showed tact of no slight order.

I wasn’t alarmed, of course. I had been through this sort of thing many a time and oft, as the expression is, and I knew what happened. So, noting that my guest was giving a rather close imitation of a cat on hot bricks, I hastened to dispel her alarm.

‘No need to get the breeze up,’ I said. ‘Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail or knock the breast,’ I added, using one of Jeeves’s gags which I chanced to remember. ‘Everything is quite in order.’

‘But won’t they arrest us?’

I laughed lightly. These novices!

‘Absurd. No danger of that whatsoever.’

‘How do you know?’

‘All this is old stuff to me. Here in a nutshell is the procedure. They round us up, and we push off in an orderly manner to the police station in plain vans. There we assemble in the waiting-room and give our names and addresses, exercising a certain latitude as regards the
details.
I, for example, generally call myself Ephraim Gadsby of The Nasturtiums, Jubilee Road, Streatham Common. I don’t know why. Just a whim. You, if you will be guided by me, will be Matilda Bott of 365 Churchill Avenue, East Dulwich. These formalities concluded, we shall be free to depart, leaving the proprietor to face the awful majesty of Justice.’

She refused to be consoled. The resemblance to a cat on hot bricks became more marked. Though instructed by the foghorn chap to keep her seat, she shot up as if a spike had come through it.

‘I’m sure that’s not what happens.’

‘It is, unless they’ve changed the rules.’

‘You have to appear in court.’

‘No, no.’

‘Well, I’m not going to risk it. Good night.’

And getting smoothly off the mark she made a dash for the service door, which was not far from where we sat. And an adjacent constable, baying like a bloodhound, started off in hot pursuit.

Whether I acted judiciously at this point is a question which I have never been able to decide. Sometimes I think yes, reflecting that the Chevalier Bayard in my place would have done the same, sometimes no Briefly what occurred was that as the gendarme came galloping by, I shoved out a foot, causing him to take the toss of a lifetime. Florence withdrew, and the guardian of the peace, having removed his left boot from his right ear, with which it had become temporarily entangled, rose and informed me that I was in custody.

As at the moment he was grasping the scruff of my neck with one hand and the seat of my trousers with the other, I saw no reason to doubt the honest fellow.

I SPENT THE
night in what is called durance vile, and bright and early next day was haled before the beak at Vinton Street police court, charged with assaulting an officer of the Law and impeding him in the execution of his duties, which I suppose was a fairly neat way of putting it. I was extremely hungry and needed a shave.

It was the first time I had met the Vinton Street chap, always hitherto having patronized his trade rival at Bosher Street, but Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps, who was introduced to him on the morning of January the first one year, had told me he was a man to avoid, and the truth of this was now borne in upon me in no uncertain manner. It seemed to me, as I stood listening to the cop running through the story sequence, that Barmy, in describing this Solon as a twenty-minute egg with many of the less lovable qualities of some high-up official of the Spanish Inquisition, had understated rather than exaggerated the facts.

I didn’t like the look of the old blister at all. His manner was austere, and as the tale proceeded his face, such as it was, grew hard and dark with menace. He kept shooting quick glances at me through his pince-nez, and the dullest eye could see that the constable was getting all the sympathy of the audience and that the citizen cast for the role of Heavy in this treatment was the prisoner Gadsby. More and more the feeling stole over me that the prisoner Gadsby was about to get it in the gizzard and would be lucky if he didn’t fetch up on Devil’s Island.

However, when the
J’accuse
stuff was over and I was asked if I had anything to say, I did my best. I admitted that on the occasion about which we had been chatting I had extended a foot causing the officer to go base over apex, but protested that it had been a pure accident without any
arrière-pensée
on my part. I said I had been feeling cramped after a longish sojourn at the table and had merely desired to unlimber the leg muscles.

‘You know how sometimes you want a stretch,’ I said.

‘I am strongly inclined,’ responded the beak, ‘to give you one. A good long stretch.’

Rightly recognizing this as comedy, I uttered a cordial guffaw to show that my heart was in the right place, and an officious blighter in the well of the court shouted ‘Silence!’ I tried to explain that I was convulsed by His Worship’s ready wit, but he shushed me again, and His Worship came to the surface once more.

‘However,’ he went on, adjusting his pince-nez, ‘in consideration of your youth I will exercise clemency.’

‘Oh, fine!’ I said.

‘Fine,’ replied the other half of the cross-talk act, who seemed to know all the answers, ‘is right. Ten pounds. Next case.’

I paid my debt to Society, and pushed off.

Jeeves was earning the weekly envelope by busying himself at some domestic task when I reached the old home. He cocked an inquiring eye at me, and I felt that an explanation was due to him. It would have surprised him, of course, to discover that my room was empty and my bed had not been slept in.

‘A little trouble last night with the minions of the Law, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Quite a bit of that Eugene-Aram-walked-between-with-gyves-upon-his-wrists stuff.’

‘Indeed, sir? Most vexing.’

‘Yes, I didn’t like it very much, but the magistrate – with whom I have just been threshing the thing out – had a wonderful time. I brought a ray of sunshine into his drab life all right. Did you know that these magistrates were expert comedians?’

‘No, sir. The fact had not been drawn to my attention.’

‘Think of Groucho Marx and you will get the idea. One gag after another, and all at my expense. I was just the straight man, and I found the experience most unpleasant, particularly as I had had no breakfast that any conscientious gourmet could call breakfast. Have you ever passed the night in chokey, Jeeves?’

‘No, sir. I have been fortunate in that respect.’

‘It renders the appetite unusually keen. So rally round, if you don’t mind, and busy yourself with the skillet. We have eggs on the premises, I presume?’