Madame Eulalie’s Rare PlumsThe Strand Magazine, October 1929
I WAS jerked from the dreamless by a sound like the rolling of distant thunder, and, the mists of sleep clearing away, was enabled to diagnose this and trace it to its source. It was my Aunt Agatha’s dog, McIntosh, scratching at the door. The above, a West Highland terrier of weak intellect, had been left in my charge by the old relative while she went off to Aix-les-Bains to take the cure, and I had never been able to make it see eye to eye with me on the subject of early rising. Although a glance at my watch informed me that it was barely ten, here was the animal absolutely up and about.
I pressed the bell, and presently in shimmered Jeeves, complete with tea-tray and preceded by dog, which leaped upon the bed, licked me smartly in the right eye, and immediately curled up and fell into a deep slumber. And where the sense is in getting up at some ungodly hour of the morning and coming scratching at people’s doors, when you intend at the first opportunity to go to sleep again, beats me. Nevertheless, every day for the last five weeks this loony hound had pursued the same policy, and I confess I was getting a bit fed.
There were one or two letters on the tray; and, having slipped a refreshing half-cupful into the abyss, I felt equal to dealing with them. The one on top was from my Aunt Agatha.
“Ha!” I said.
“Sir?”
“I said ‘Ha!’, Jeeves. And I meant ‘Ha!’ I was registering relief. My Aunt Agatha returns this evening. She will be at her town residence between the hours of six and seven, and she expects to find McIntosh waiting for her on the mat.”
“Indeed, sir? I shall miss the little fellow.”
“I, too, Jeeves. Despite his habit of rising with the milk and being hearty before breakfast, there is sterling stuff in McIntosh. Nevertheless, I cannot but feel relieved at the prospect of shooting him back to the old home. It has been a guardianship fraught with anxiety. You know what my Aunt Agatha is. She lavishes on that dog a love which might better be bestowed on a nephew: and if the slightest thing had gone wrong with him while I was in loco parentis; if, while in my charge, he had developed rabies or staggers or the botts, I should have been blamed.”
“Very true, sir.”
“And, as you are aware, London is not big enough to hold Aunt Agatha and anybody she happens to be blaming.”
I had opened the second letter, and was giving it the eye.
“Ha!” I said.
“Sir?”
“Once again ‘Ha!’, Jeeves, but this time signifying mild surprise. This letter is from Miss Wickham.”
“Indeed, sir?”
I sensed—if that is the word I want—the note of concern in the man’s voice, and I knew he was saying to himself, “Is the young master about to slip?” You see, there was a time when the Wooster heart was to some extent what you might call ensnared by this Roberta Wickham, and Jeeves had never approved of her. He considered her volatile and frivolous and more or less of a menace to man and beast. And events, I’m bound to say, had rather borne out his view.
“She wants me to give her lunch to-day.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“And two friends of hers.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Here. At one-thirty.”
“Indeed, sir?”
I was piqued.
“Correct this parrot-complex, Jeeves,” I said, waving a slice of bread-and-butter rather sternly at the man. “There is no need for you to stand there saying, ‘Indeed, sir?’ I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. The old fire is dead. As far as Miss Wickham is concerned, Bertram Wooster is chilled steel. I see no earthly reason why I should not comply with this request. A Wooster may have ceased to love, but he can still be civil.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Employ the rest of the morning, then, in buzzing to and fro and collecting provender. The old King Wenceslas touch, Jeeves. You remember? ‘Bring me fish and bring me fowl——’ ”
“ ‘Bring me flesh and bring me wine,’ sir.”
“Just as you say. You know best. Oh, and roly-poly pudding, Jeeves.”
“Sir?”
“Roly-poly pudding with lots of jam in it. Miss Wickham specifically mentions this. Mysterious, what?”
“Extremely, sir.”
“Also oysters, ice-cream, and plenty of chocolates with that goo-ey, slithery stuff in the middle. Makes you sick to think of it, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So it does me. But that’s what she says. I think she must be on some kind of diet. Well, be that as it may, see to it, Jeeves, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At one-thirty of the clock.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Very good, Jeeves.”
At half-past twelve I took the dog McIntosh for his morning saunter in the Park; and, returning at about one-ten, found young Bobbie Wickham in the sitting-room, smoking a cigarette and chatting to Jeeves, who seemed a bit distant, I thought.
I have an idea I’ve told you about this Bobbie Wickham. She was the red-haired girl who let me down so disgracefully in the sinister affair of Tuppy Glossop and the hot-water bottle, that Christmas when I went to stay at Skeldings Hall, her mother’s place in Hertfordshire. Her mother is Lady Wickham, who writes novels which, I believe, command a ready sale among those who like their literature pretty sloppy. A formidable old bird, rather like my Aunt Agatha in appearance. Bobbie does not resemble her, being constructed more on the lines of Clara Bow. She greeted me cordially as I entered—in fact, so cordially that I saw Jeeves pause at the door before biffing off to mix the cocktails and shoot me the sort of grave, warning look a wise old father might pass out to the effervescent son on seeing him going fairly strong with the local vamp. I nodded back, as much as to say “Chilled steel!” and he oozed out, leaving me to play the sparkling host.
“It was awfully sporting of you to give us this lunch, Bertie,” said Bobbie.
“Don’t mention it, my dear old thing,” I said. “Always a pleasure.”
“You got all the stuff I told you about?”
“The garbage, as specified, is in the kitchen. But since when have you become a roly-poly pudding addict?”
“That isn’t for me. There’s a small boy coming.”
“What!”
“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, noting my agitation. “I know just how you feel, and I’m not going to pretend that this child isn’t pretty near the edge. In fact, he has to be seen to be believed. But it’s simply vital that he be cosseted and sucked up to and generally treated as the guest of honour, because everything depends on him.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you. You know Mother?”
“Whose mother?”
“My mother.”
“Oh, yes. I thought you meant the kid’s mother.”
“He hasn’t got a mother. Only a father, who is a big theatrical manager in America. I met him at a party the other night.”
“The father?”
“Yes, the father.”
“Not the kid?”
“No, not the kid.”
“Right. All clear so far. Proceed.”
“Well, mother—my mother—has dramatized one of her novels, and when I met this father, this theatrical manager father, and, between ourselves, made rather a hit with him, I said to myself, ‘Why not?’ ”
“Why not what?”
“Why not plant mother’s play on him?”
“Your mother’s play?”
“Yes, not his mother’s play. He is like his son, he hasn’t got a mother, either.”
“These things run in families, don’t they?”
“You see, Bertie, what with one thing and another, my stock isn’t very high with mother just now. There was that matter of my smashing up the car . . . oh, and several things. So I thought, here is where I get a chance to put myself right. I cooed to old Blumenfeld——”
“Name sounds familiar.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a big man over in America. He has come to London to see if there’s anything in the play line worth buying. So I cooed to him a goodish bit and then asked him if he would listen to mother’s play. He said he would, so I asked him to come to lunch and I’d read it to him.”
“You’re going to read your mother’s play—here?” I said, paling.
“Yes.”
“My God!”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I admit it’s pretty scaly stuff. But I have an idea that I shall put it over. It all depends on how the kid likes it. You see, old Blumenfeld, for some reason, always banks on his verdict. I suppose he thinks the child’s intelligence is exactly the same as an average audience’s and——”
I uttered a slight yelp, causing Jeeves, who had entered with cocktails, to look at me in a pained sort of way. I had remembered.
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“Do you recollect, when we were in New York, a dish-faced kid of the name of Blumenfeld, who, on a memorable occasion, snootered Cyril Bassington-Bassington when the latter tried to go on the stage?”
“Very vividly, sir.”
“Well, prepare yourself for a shock. He’s coming to lunch.”
“Indeed, sir?
“I’m glad you can speak in that light, careless way. I only met the young pot of arsenic for a few brief minutes, but I don’t mind telling you the prospect of hobnobbing with him again makes me tremble like a leaf.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Don’t keep saying ‘Indeed, sir?’ You have seen this kid in action and you know what he’s like. He told Cyril Bassington-Bassington, a fellow to whom he had never been formally introduced, that he had a face like a fish. And this not thirty seconds after their initial meeting. I give you fair warning that, if he tells me I have a face like a fish, I shall clump his head.”
“Bertie!” cried the Wickham, contorted with anguish and apprehension and what not.
“Yes, I shall.”
“Then you’ll simply ruin the whole thing.”
“I don’t care. We Woosters have our pride.”
“Perhaps the young gentleman will not notice that you have a face like a fish, sir,” suggested Jeeves.
“Ah! There’s that, of course.”
“But we can’t just trust to luck,” said Bobbie. “It’s probably the first thing he will notice.”
“In that case, miss,” said Jeeves, “it might be the best plan if Mr. Wooster did not attend the luncheon.”
I BEAMED on the man. As always, he had found the way.
“But Mr. Blumenfeld will think it so odd.”
“Well, tell him I’m eccentric. Tell him I have these moods, which come upon me quite suddenly, when I can’t stand the sight of people. Tell him what you like.”
“He’ll be offended.”
“Not half so offended as if I socked his son on the upper maxillary bone.”
“I really think it would be the best plan, miss.”
“Oh, all right,” said Bobbie. “Push off, then. But I wanted you to be here to listen to the play and laugh in the proper places.”
“I don’t suppose there are any proper places,” I said. And with these words I reached the hall in two bounds, grabbed a hat, and made for the street. A cab was just pulling up at the door as I reached it, and inside it were Pop Blumenfeld and his foul son. With a slight sinking of the old heart, I saw that the kid had recognized me.
“Hullo!” he said.
“Hullo!” I said.
“Where are you off to?” said the kid.
“Ha, ha!” I said, and legged it for the great open spaces.
I lunched at the Drones, doing myself fairly well and lingering pretty considerably over the coffee and cigarettes. At four o’clock I thought it would be safe to think about getting back; but, not wishing to take any chances, I went to the ’phone and rang up the flat.
“All clear, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Blumenfeld junior nowhere about?”
“No, sir.”
“Not hiding in any nook or cranny, what?”
“No, sir.”
“How did everything go off?”
“Quite satisfactorily, I fancy, sir.”
“Was I missed?”
“I think Mr. Blumenfeld and young Master Blumenfeld were somewhat surprised at your absence, sir. Apparently they encountered you as you were leaving the building.”
“They did. An awkward moment, Jeeves. The kid appeared to desire speech with me, but I laughed hollowly and passed on. Did they comment on this at all?”
“Yes, sir. Indeed, young Master Blumenfeld was somewhat outspoken.”
“What did he say?”
“I cannot recall his exact words, sir, but he drew a comparison between your mentality and that of a cuckoo.”
“A cuckoo, eh?”
“Yes, sir. To the bird’s advantage.”
“He did, did he? Now you see how right I was to come away. Just one crack like that out of him face to face, and I should infallibly have done his upper maxillary a bit of no good. It was wise of you to suggest that I should lunch out.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, the coast being clear, I will now return home.”
“Before you start, sir, perhaps you would ring Miss Wickham up. She instructed me to desire you to do so.”
“You mean she asked you to ask me?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Right-ho. And the number?”
“Sloane 8090. I fancy it is the residence of Miss Wickham’s aunt, in Eaton Square.”
I GOT the number. And presently young Bobbie’s voice came floating over the wire. From the timbre I gathered that she was extremely bucked.
“Hullo? Is that you, Bertie?”
“In person. What’s the news?”
“Wonderful. Everything went off splendidly. The lunch was just right. The child stuffed himself to the eyebrows and got more and more amiable, till by the time he had had his third go of ice-cream he was ready to say that any play—even one of mother’s—was the goods. I fired it at him before he could come out from under the influence, and he sat there absorbing it in a sort of gorged way, and at the end old Blumenfeld said, ‘Well, sonny, how about it?’ and the child gave a sort of faint smile, as if he was thinking about roly-poly pudding, and said ‘O.K., pop,’ and that’s all there was to it. Old Blumenfeld has taken him off to the movies, and I’m to look in at the Savoy at five-thirty to sign the contract. I’ve just been talking to mother on the ’phone, and she’s quite consumedly braced.”
“Terrific!”
“I knew you’d be pleased. Oh, Bertie, there’s just one other thing. You remember saying to me once that there wasn’t anything in the world you wouldn’t do for me?”
I paused a trifle warily. It is true that I had expressed myself in some such terms as she had indicated, but that was before the affair of Tuppy and the hot-water bottle, and in the calmer frame of mind induced by that episode I wasn’t feeling quite so spacious. You know how it is. Love’s flame flickers and dies, Reason returns to her throne, and you aren’t nearly as ready to hop about and jump through hoops as in the first pristine glow of the divine passion.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Well, it’s nothing I actually want you to do. It’s something I’ve done that I hope you won’t be sticky about. Just before I began reading the play, that dog of yours, the West Highland terrier, came into the room. The child Blumenfeld was very much taken with it and said he wished he had a dog like that, looking at me in a meaning sort of way. So, naturally, I had to say, ‘Oh, I’ll give you this one.’ ”
I swayed somewhat.
“You—you—— What was that?”
“I gave him the dog. I knew you wouldn’t mind. You see, it was vital to keep cosseting him. If I’d refused, he would have cut up rough and all that roly-poly pudding and stuff would have been thrown away. You see——”
I hung up. The jaw had fallen, the eyes were protruding. I tottered from the booth and, reeling out of the club, hailed a taxi. I got to the flat and yelled for Jeeves.
“Jeeves!”
“Sir?”
“Do you know what?”
“No, sir.”
“The dog—my Aunt Agatha’s dog—McIntosh——”
“I have not seen him for some little while, sir. He left me after the conclusion of luncheon. Possibly he is in your bedroom.”
“Yes, and possibly he jolly dashed well isn’t. If you want to know where he is, he’s in a suite at the Savoy.”
“Sir?”
“Miss Wickham has just told me she gave him to Blumenfeld junior.”
“Sir?”
“Gave him to Jumenfeld blunior, I tell you. As a present. As a gift. With warm personal regards.”
“What was her motive in doing that, sir?”
I explained the circs. Jeeves did a bit of respectful tongue-clicking.
“I have always maintained, if you will remember, sir,” he said, when I had finished, “that Miss Wickham, though a charming young lady——”
“Yes, yes; never mind about that. What are we going to do? That’s the point. Aunt Agatha is due back between the hours of six and seven. She will find herself short one West Highland terrier. And, as she will probably have been considerably sea-sick all the way over, you will readily perceive, Jeeves, that, when I break the news that her dog has been given away to a total stranger, I shall find her in no mood of gentle charity.”
“I see, sir. Most disturbing.”
“What did you say it was?”
“Most disturbing, sir.”
I snorted a trifle.
“Oh?” I said. “And I suppose, if you had been in San Francisco when the earthquake started, you would just have lifted up your finger and said: ‘Tweet, tweet! Shush, shush! Now, now! Come, come!’ The English language, they used to tell me at school, is the richest in the world, crammed full from end to end with about a million red-hot adjectives. Yet the only one you can find to describe this ghastly business is the adjective ‘disturbing.’ It is not disturbing, Jeeves. It is—what’s the word I want?”
“Cataclysmal, sir?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Well, what’s to be done?”
“I will bring you a whisky-and-soda, sir.”
“What’s the good of that?”
“It will refresh you, sir. And in the meantime, if it is your wish, I will give the matter consideration.”
“Carry on.”
“Very good, sir. I assume that it is not your desire to do anything that may in any way jeopardize the cordial relations which now exist between Miss Wickham and Mr. and Master Blumenfeld?”
“Eh?”
“You would not, for example, contemplate proceeding to the Savoy Hotel and demanding the return of the dog?”
It was a tempting thought, but I shook the old onion firmly. There are things which a Wooster can do and things which, if you follow me, a Wooster cannot do. The procedure which he had indicated would undoubtedly have brought home the bacon, but the thwarted kid would have been bound to turn nasty and change his mind about the play. And, while I didn’t think that any drama written by Bobbie’s mother was likely to do the theatre-going public much good, I couldn’t dash the cup of happiness, so to speak, from the blighted girl’s lips, as it were. Noblesse oblige about sums the thing up.
“No, Jeeves,” I said. “But if you can think of some way by which I can oil privily into the suite and sneak the animal out of it without causing any hard feelings, spill it.”
“I will endeavour to do so, sir.”
“Snap into it, then, without delay. They say fish are good for the brain. Have a go at the sardines and come back and report.”
“Very good, sir.”
IT was about ten minutes later that he entered the presence once more.
“I fancy, sir——”
“Yes, Jeeves?”
“I rather fancy, sir, that I have discovered a plan of action.”
“Or scheme.”
“Or scheme, sir. A plan of action, or scheme, which will meet the situation. If I understood you rightly, sir, Mr. and Master Blumenfeld have attended a motion-picture performance?”
“Correct.”
“In which case, they should not return to the hotel before five-fifteen?”
“Correct once more. Miss Wickham is scheduled to blow in at five-thirty to sign the contract.”
“The suite, therefore, is at present unoccupied.”
“Except for McIntosh.”
“Except for McIntosh, sir. Everything, accordingly, must depend on whether Mr. Blumenfeld left instructions that, in the event of her arriving before he did, Miss Wickham was to be shown straight up to the suite, to await his return.”
“Why does everything depend on that?”
“Should he have done so, the matter becomes quite simple. All that is necessary is that Miss Wickham shall present herself at the hotel at five o’clock. She will go up to the suite. You will also have arrived at the hotel at five, sir, and will have made your way to the corridor outside the suite. If Mr. and Master Blumenfeld have not returned, Miss Wickham will open the door and come out and you will go in, secure the dog, and take your departure.”
I stared at the man.
“How many tins of sardines did you eat, Jeeves?”
“None, sir; I am not fond of sardines.”
“You mean, you thought of this great, this ripe, this amazing scheme entirely without the impetus given to the brain by fish?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stand alone, Jeeves.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I say!”
“Sir?”
“Suppose the dog won’t come away with me? You know how meagre his intelligence is. By this time, especially when he’s got used to a new place, he may have forgotten me completely and will look on me as a perfect stranger.”
“I had thought of that, sir. The most judicious move will be for you to sprinkle your trousers with aniseed.”
“Aniseed?”
“Yes, sir. It is extensively used in the dog-stealing industry.”
“But, Jeeves—dash it—aniseed?”
“I consider it essential, sir.”
“But where do you get the stuff?”
“At any chemist’s, sir. If you will go out now and procure a small bottle, I will be telephoning to Miss Wickham to apprise her of the contemplated arrangements and ascertain whether she is to be admitted to the suite.”
I don’t know what the record is for popping out and buying aniseed, but I should think I hold it. The thought of Aunt Agatha getting nearer and nearer to the Metropolis every minute induced a rare burst of speed. I was back at the flat so quick that I nearly met myself coming out.
Jeeves had good news.
“Everything is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Mr. Blumenfeld did leave instructions that Miss Wickham was to be admitted to his suite. The young lady is now on her way to the hotel. By the time you reach it, you will find her there.”
You know, whatever you may say against old Jeeves—and I, for one, have never wavered in my opinion that his views on shirts for evening wear are hidebound and reactionary to a degree—you’ve got to admit that the man can plan a campaign. Napoleon could have taken his correspondence course. When he sketches out a scheme, all you have to do is to follow it in every detail, and there you are.
On the present occasion everything went absolutely according to plan. I had never realized before that dog-stealing could be so simple, having always regarded it rather as something that called for the ice-cool brain and the nerve of iron. I see now that a child can do it, if directed by Jeeves. I got to the hotel, sneaked up the stairs, hung about in the corridor trying to look like a potted palm in case anybody came along, and presently the door of the suite opened and Bobbie appeared, and suddenly, as I approached, out shot McIntosh, sniffing passionately, and the next moment his nose was up against my Spring trouserings and he was drinking me in with every evidence of enjoyment. If I had been a bird that had been dead about five days, he could not have nuzzled me more heartily. Aniseed isn’t a scent that I care for particularly myself, but it seemed to speak straight to the deeps in McIntosh’s soul.
The connection, as it were, having been established in this manner, the rest was simple. I merely withdrew, followed by the animal in the order named. We passed down the stairs in good shape, self reeking to heaven and animal inhaling the bouquet, and after a few anxious moments were safe in a cab, homeward bound. As smooth a bit of work as London had seen that day.
ARRIVED at the flat, I handed McIntosh to Jeeves and instructed him to shut him up in the bathroom or somewhere where the spell cast by my trousers would cease to operate. This done, I again paid the man a marked tribute.
“Jeeves,” I said, “I have had occasion to express the view before, and I now express it again fearlessly—you stand in a class of your own.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I am glad that everything proceeded satisfactorily.”
“The festivities went like a breeze from start to finish. Tell me, were you always like this, or did it come on suddenly?”
“Sir?”
“The brain. The grey matter. Were you an outstandingly brilliant boy?”
“My mother thought me intelligent, sir.”
“You can’t go by that. My mother thought me intelligent. Anyway, setting that aside for the moment, would a fiver be any use to you?”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Not that a fiver begins to cover it. Figure to yourself, Jeeves—try to envisage, if you follow what I mean, the probable behaviour of my Aunt Agatha if I had gone to her between the hours of six and seven and told her that McIntosh had passed out of the picture. I should have had to leave London and grow a beard.”
“I can readily imagine, sir, that she would have been somewhat perturbed.”
“She would. And on the occasions when my Aunt Agatha is perturbed strong men dive down drain-pipes to get out of her way. However, as it is, all has ended happily. Oh, great Scott!”
“Sir?”
I hesitated. It seemed a shame to cast a damper on the man just when he had extended himself so notably in the young master’s cause, but it had to be done.
“You’ve overlooked something, Jeeves.”
“Surely not, sir?”
“Yes, Jeeves, I regret to say that the late scheme or plan of action, while gilt-edged as far as I am concerned, has rather landed Miss Wickham in the cart.”
“In what way, sir?”
“Why, don’t you see that, if they know that she was in the suite at the time of the outrage, the Blumenfelds, father and son, will instantly assume that she was mixed up in McIntosh’s disappearance, with the result that in their pique and chagrin they will call off the deal about the play? I’m surprised at you not spotting that, Jeeves. You’d have done much better to eat those sardines, as I advised.”
I waggled the head rather sadly, and at this moment there was a ring at the front-door bell. And not an ordinary ring, mind you, but one of those resounding peals that suggest that somebody with a high blood-pressure and a grievance stands without. I leaped in my tracks. My busy afternoon had left the old nervous system not quite in mid-season form.
“Good Lord, Jeeves!”
“Somebody at the door, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Probably Mr. Blumenfeld senior, sir.”
“What?”
“He rang up on the telephone, sir, shortly before you returned, to say that he was about to pay you a call.”
“You don’t mean that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Advise me, Jeeves.”
“I fancy the most judicious procedure would be for you to conceal yourself behind the settee, sir.”
I saw that his advice was good. I had never met this Blumenfeld socially, but I had seen him from afar on the occasion when he and Cyril Bassington-Bassington had had their falling-out, and he hadn’t struck me then as a bloke with whom, if in one of his emotional moods, it would be at all agreeable to be shut up in a small room. A large, round, fat, overflowing bird, who might quite easily, if stirred, fall on a fellow and flatten him to the carpet.
So I nestled behind the settee, and in about five seconds there was a sound like a mighty, rushing wind and something extraordinarily substantial bounded into the sitting-room.
“This guy, Wooster,” bellowed a voice that had been strengthened by a lifetime of ticking actors off at dress-rehearsals from the back of the theatre. “Where is he?”
Jeeves continued suave.
“I could not say, sir.”
“He’s sneaked my son’s dog.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Walked into my suite as cool as dammit and took the animal away.”
“Most disturbing, sir.”
“And you don’t know where he is?”
“Mr. Wooster may be anywhere, sir. He is uncertain in his movements.”
The bloke Blumenfeld gave a loud sniff.
“Odd smell here!”
“Yes, sir?”
“What is it?”
“Aniseed, sir.”
“Aniseed?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster sprinkles it on his trousers.”
“Sprinkles it on his trousers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What on earth does he do that for?”
“I could not say, sir. Mr. Wooster’s motives are always somewhat hard to follow. He is eccentric.”
“Eccentric? He must be a loony.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You mean he is?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. A long one.
“Oh?” said old Blumenfeld, and it seemed to me that a good deal of what you might call the vim had gone out of his voice.
He paused again.
“Not dangerous?”
“Yes, sir, when roused.”
“Er—what rouses him chiefly?”
“One of Mr. Wooster’s peculiarities is that he does not like the sight of gentlemen of full habit, sir. They seem to infuriate him.”
“You mean fat men?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“One cannot say, sir.”
There was another pause.
“I’m fat!” said old Blumenfeld in a rather pensive sort of voice.
“I would not have ventured to suggest it myself, sir, but as you say so . . . You may recollect that, on being informed that you were to be a member of the luncheon party, Mr. Wooster, doubting his power of self-control, refused to be present.”
“That’s right. He went rushing out just as I arrived. I thought it odd at the time. My son thought it odd. We both thought it odd.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster, I imagine, wished to avoid any possible unpleasantness, such as has occurred before. . . . With regard to the smell of aniseed, sir, I fancy I have now located it. Unless I am mistaken it proceeds from behind the settee. No doubt Mr. Wooster is sleeping there.”
“Doing what?”
“Sleeping, sir.”
“Does he often sleep on the floor?”
“Most afternoons, sir. Would you desire me to wake him?”
“No!”
“I thought you had something that you wished to say to Mr. Wooster, sir.”
Old Blumenfeld drew a deep breath. “So did I,” he said. “But I find I haven’t. Just get me alive out of here, that’s all I ask.”
I heard the door close, and a little while later the front door banged. I crawled out. It hadn’t been any too cosy behind the settee, and I was glad to be elsewhere. Jeeves came trickling back.
“Gone, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
I bestowed an approving look on him.
“One of your best efforts, Jeeves.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But what beats me is why he ever came here. What made him think that I had sneaked McIntosh away?”
“I took the liberty of recommending Miss Wickham to tell Mr. Blumenfeld that she had observed you removing the animal from his suite, sir. The point which you raised, regarding the possibility of her being suspected of complicity in the affair, had not escaped me. It seemed to me that this would establish her solidly in Mr. Blumenfeld’s good opinion.”
“I see. Risky, of course, but possibly justified. Yes, on the whole, justified. What’s that you’ve got there?”
“A five-pound note, sir.”
“Ah! the one I gave you?”
“No, sir. The one Mr. Blumenfeld gave me.”
“Eh? Why did he give you a fiver?”
“He very kindly presented it to me on my handing him the dog, sir.”
I gaped at the man.
“You don’t mean to say——?”
“Not McIntosh, sir. McIntosh is at present in my bedroom. This was another animal of the same species which I purchased at the shop in Bond Street during your absence. Except to the eye of love, one West Highland terrier looks very much like another West Highland terrier, sir. Mr. Blumenfeld, I am happy to say, did not detect the innocent subterfuge.”
“Jeeves,” I said, and I am not ashamed to confess that there was a spot of chokiness in the voice, “there is none like you, none.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Owing solely to the fact that your head sticks out at the back, thus enabling you to do about twice as much bright thinking in any given time as any other two men in existence, happiness, you might say, reigns supreme. Aunt Agatha is on velvet, I am on velvet, the Wickhams, mother and daughter, are on velvet, the Blumenfelds, father and son, are on velvet. As far as the eye can reach, a solid mass of humanity, owing to you, all on velvet. A fiver is not sufficient, Jeeves. If I thought the world thought that Bertram Wooster thought a measly five pounds an adequate reward for such services as yours, I should never hold my head up again. Have another?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And one more?”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“And a third for luck?”
“Really, sir, I am exceedingly obliged. Excuse me, sir, I fancy I heard the telephone.”
He pushed out into the hall, and I heard him doing a good deal of ‘Yes, madam,’ ‘Certainly, madam,’ stuff. Then he came back.
“Mrs. Spenser Gregson on the telephone, sir.”
“Aunt Agatha?”
“Yes, sir. Speaking from Victoria Station. She desires to communicate with you with reference to the dog McIntosh. I gather that she wishes to hear from your own lips that all is well with the little fellow, sir.”
I straightened the tie. I pulled down the waistcoat. I shot the cuffs. I felt absolutely all-righto.
“Lead me to her,” I said.
Annotations to the story as collected in Very Good, Jeeves are on this site.