Part 8

"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!"

"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 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 out of here alive, 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 cozy behind the settee, and I was glad to be elsewhere. Jeeves trickled 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. 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."

"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 during your absence at the shop in Bond Street. Except to the eye of love, one Aberdeen terrier looks very much like another Aberdeen 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. I am on velvet. Aunt Agatha is 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 the world thought that Bertram Wooster considered 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 the "Yes, madam," "Certainly, madam," stuff. He came back.

"Mrs. Spenser Gregson, 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.

Jeeves and the Spot of Art

I was lunching at my aunt Dahlia's, and despite the fact that Anatole, her outstanding cook, had rather excelled himself in the matter of the bill of fare or menu, I'm bound to say the food was more or less turning to ashes in my mouth. You see, I had some bad news to break to her--always a prospect that takes the edge off the appetite.

She wouldn't be pleased, I knew, and when not pleased, Aunt Dahlia, having spent most of her youth in the hunting field, has a crispish way of expressing herself.

However, I supposed I had better have a dash at it and get it over.

"Aunt Dahlia," I said.

"Hullo?"

"You know that cruise of yours?"

"Yes."

"That yachting cruise you are planning?"

"Yes."

"That jolly cruise in your yacht in the Mediterranean to which you so kindly invited me and to which I have been looking forward with such keen anticipation?"

"What about it?"

I swallowed a chunk of _côtelette suprême aux chouxfleurs_ and slipped her the distressing info.

"I'm frightfully sorry, Aunt Dahlia," I said, "but I shan't be able to come."

She goggled. "What!"

"I'm afraid not."

"You poor, miserable hellhound, what do you mean, you won't be able to come?"

"Well, I won't."

"Why not?"

"Matters of the most extreme urgency render my presence in the metropolis imperative."

She sniffed. "I suppose what you really mean is that you're hanging round some unfortunate girl again!"

I didn't like the way she put it, but I admit I was stunned by her penetration, if that's the word I want. I mean the sort of thing detectives have.

"Yes, Aunt Dahlia," I said. "You have guessed my secret. I do indeed love."

"Who is she?"

"A Miss Pendlebury. Christian name, Gwladys. She spells it with a _w_."

"With a _g_, you mean."

"With a _w and_ a _g_."

"Not Gwladys?"

"That's it."

The relative uttered a yowl.

"You sit there and tell me you haven't enough sense to steer clear of a girl who calls herself Gwladys? Listen, Bertie," said Aunt Dahlia earnestly. "I'm an older woman than you are--well, you know what I mean--and I can tell you a thing or two. And one of them is that no good can come of association with anything labelled Gwladys or Ysobel or Ethyl or Mabelle or Kathryn. But particularly Gwladys. What sort of girl is she?"

"Slightly divine."

"She isn't that female I saw driving you at sixty miles p.h. in the park the other day? In a red two-seater."

"She did drive me in the park the other day. I thought it rather a hopeful sign. And her Widgeon Seven is red."

Aunt Dahlia looked relieved. "Oh, well, then, she'll probably break your silly fat neck before she can get you to the altar. That's some consolation. Where did you meet her?"

"At a party in Chelsea. She's an artist."

"Ye gods!"

"And swings a jolly fine brush, let me tell you. She's painted a portrait of me. Jeeves and I hung it up in the flat this morning. I have an idea Jeeves doesn't like it."

"Well, if it's anything like you I don't see why he should. An artist! Calls herself Gwladys. And drives a car in the sort of way Segrave would if he was pressed for time." She brooded awhile. "Well, it's all very sad, but I can't see why you won't come on the yacht."

I explained.

"It would be madness to leave the metrop. at this juncture," I said. "You know what girls are. They forget the absent face. And I'm not at all easy in my mind about a certain cove by the name of Lucius Pim. Apart from the fact that he's an artist, too, which forms a bond, his hair waves.

"One must never discount wavy hair, Aunt Dahlia. Moreover, this bloke is one of those strong, masterful men. He treats Gwladys as if she were less than the dust beneath his taxi wheels. He criticizes her hats and says nasty things about her _chiaroscuro_.

"For some reason, I've often noticed, this always seems to fascinate girls, and it has sometimes occurred to me that, being myself more the _parfait_ gentle knight, if you know what I mean, I am in grave danger of getting the short end. Taking all these things into consideration, then, I cannot possibly breeze off to the Mediterranean, leaving this Pim a clear field. You must see that?"

Aunt Dahlia laughed. Rather a nasty laugh. Scorn in its timbre, or so it seemed to me.

"I shouldn't worry," she said. "You don't suppose for a moment that Jeeves will sanction the match?"

I was stung.

"Do you imply, Aunt Dahlia," I said, and I can't remember if I rapped the table with the handle of my fork or not, but I rather think I did, "that I allow Jeeves to boss me to the extent of stopping me marrying somebody I want to marry?"

"Well, he stopped you wearing a moustache. And purple socks. And soft-fronted shirts with dress clothes."

"That is a different matter altogether."

"Well, I'm prepared to make a small bet with you, Bertie. Jeeves will stop this match."

"What absolute rot!"

"And if he doesn't like that portrait he will get rid of it."

"I never heard such dashed nonsense in my life."

"And finally, you wretched, pie-faced wambler, he will present you on board my yacht at the appointed hour. I don't know how he will do it, but you will be there, all complete with yachting cap and spare pair of socks."

"Let us change the subject, Aunt Dahlia," I said.

Being a good deal stirred up by the attitude of the flesh-and-blood at the luncheon table, I had to go for a bit of a walk in the park after leaving, to soothe the nervous system. By about four-thirty the ganglions had ceased to vibrate, and I returned. Jeeves was in the sitting room, looking at the portrait.

I felt a trifle embarrassed in the man's presence, because just before leaving I had informed him of my intention to scratch the yacht trip, and he had taken it on the chin a bit. You see, he had been looking forward to it rather.

From the moment I had accepted the invitation there had been a sort of nautical glitter in his eye, and I'm not sure I hadn't heard him trolling chanteys in the kitchen.

I think some ancestor of his must have been one of Nelson's tars or something, for he has always had the urge of the salt sea in his blood. I have noticed him on liners, when we were going to America, striding the deck with a sailorly roll and giving the distinct impression of being just about to heave the main brace or splice the binnacle.

So, though I had explained my reasons, taking the man fully into my confidence and concealing nothing, I knew that he was distinctly peeved; and my first act on entering was to do the cheery a bit. I joined him in front of the portrait.

"Looks good, Jeeves, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nothing like a spot of art for brightening the home. Seems to lend the room a certain what-shall-I-say?"

"Yes, sir."

The responses were all right, but his manner was far from hearty, and I decided to tackle him squarely. I mean, dash it--I mean, I don't know if you have ever had your portrait painted, but if you have you will understand my feelings.

The spectacle of one's portrait hanging on the wall creates in one a sort of paternal fondness for the thing; and what you demand from the outside public is approval and enthusiasm--not the curling lip, the twitching nostril, and the kind of supercilious look which you see in the eye of a dead fish. Especially is this so when the artist is a girl for whom you have conceived sentiments deeper and warmer than those of ordinary friendship.

"Jeeves," I said, "you don't like this spot of art."

"Oh, yes, sir."

"No. Subterfuge is useless. I can read you like a book. For some reason this spot of art fails to appeal to you. What do you object to about it?"

"Is not the colour scheme a trifle bright, sir?"

"I had not observed it, Jeeves. Anything else?"

"Well, in my opinion, sir, Miss Pendlebury has given you a somewhat too-hungry expression."

"Hungry?"

"A little like that of a dog regarding a distant bone, sir."

I checked the fellow. "There is no resemblance whatever, Jeeves, to a dog regarding a distant bone. The look to which you allude is wistful and denotes Soul."

"I see, sir."

I proceeded to another subject. "Miss Pendlebury said she might look in this afternoon. Did she turn up?"

"Yes, sir."

"But has left?"

"Yes, sir."

"She didn't say anything about coming back?"

"No, sir. I received the impression that it was not Miss Pendlebury's intention to return. She was a little upset, sir, and expressed a desire to go to her studio and rest."

"Upset? What about?"

"The accident, sir."

I didn't actually clutch the brow, but I did a bit of mental brow clutching, as it were.

"Don't tell me she had an accident!"

"Yes, sir."

"What sort of accident?"

"Automobile, sir."

"Was she hurt?"

"No, sir. Only the gentleman."

"What gentleman?"

"Miss Pendlebury had the misfortune to run over a gentleman in her car almost immediately opposite this building. He sustained a slight fracture of the leg."

"Too bad! But Miss Pendlebury is all right?"

"Physically, sir, her condition appeared to be satisfactory. She was suffering a certain distress of mind."

"Of course, with her beautiful, sympathetic nature. Naturally it's a hard world for a girl, Jeeves, with fellows flinging themselves under the wheels of her car in one long, unending stream. It must have been a great shock to her. What became of the chump?"

"The gentleman, sir?"

"Yes."

"He is in your spare bedroom, sir."

"What!"

"Yes, sir."

"In my spare bedroom?"

"Yes, sir. It was Miss Pendlebury's desire that he should be taken there. She instructed me to telegraph to the gentleman's sister, sir, who is in Paris, advising her of the accident. I also summoned a medical man, who gave it as his opinion that the patient should remain for the time being _in statu quo_."

"You mean the corpse is on the premises for an indefinite visit?"

"Yes, sir."

"Jeeves, this is a bit thick!"

"Yes, sir."

And I meant it, dash it! I mean to say, a girl can be pretty heftily divine and ensnare the heart and what not, but she's no right to turn a fellow's flat into a morgue. I'm bound to say that for a moment the Wooster passion ebbed a trifle.

"Well, I suppose I'd better go and introduce myself to the blighter. After all, I am his host. Has he a name?"

"Mr. Pim, sir."

"Pim!"

"Yes, sir. And the young lady addressed him as Lucius. It was owing to the fact that he was on his way here to examine the portrait which she had painted that Mr. Pim happened to be in the roadway at the moment when Miss Pendlebury turned the corner."

I headed for the spare bedroom. I was perturbed to a degree. I don't know if you have ever loved and been handicapped in your wooing by a wavy-haired rival, but one of the things you don't want in such circs. is the rival parking himself on the premises with a broken leg.

Apart from anything else, the advantage the position gives him is obviously terrific. There he is, sitting up and toying with a grape and looking pale and interesting, the object of the girl's pity and concern; and where do you get off, bounding about the place in morning costume and spats and with the rude flush of health on the cheek? It seemed to me that things were beginning to look pretty scaly.

I found Lucius Pim lying in bed, draped in a suit of my pajamas, smoking one of my cigarettes, and reading a detective story. He waved the cigarette at me in what I considered a dashed patronizing manner.

"Ah, Wooster!" he said.

"Not so much of the 'Ah, Wooster!'" I replied brusquely. "How soon can you be moved?"

"In a week or so, I fancy."

"In a week!"

"Or so. For the moment, the doctor insists on perfect quiet and repose. So forgive me, old man, for asking you not to raise your voice. A hushed whisper is the stuff to give the troops. And now, Wooster, about this accident. We must come to an understanding."

"Are you sure you can't be moved?"

"Quite. The doctor said so."

"I think we ought to get a second opinion."

"Useless, my dear fellow. He was most emphatic, and evidently a man who knew his job. Don't worry about my not being comfortable here. I shall be quite all right. I like this bed. And now, to return to the subject of this accident. My sister will be arriving to-morrow. She will be greatly upset. I am her favourite brother."

"You are?"

"I am."

"How many of you are there?"

"Six."

"And you're her favourite?"

"I am."

It seemed to me that the other five must be pretty fairly subhuman, but I didn't say so. We Woosters can curb the tongue.

"She married a bird named Slingsby. Slingsby's Superb Soups. He rolls in money. But do you think I can get him to lend a trifle from time to time to a needy brother-in-law?" said Lucius Pim bitterly. "No, indeed. However, that is neither here nor there.

"The point is that my sister loves me devotedly; and, this being the case, she might try to prosecute and persecute and generally bite pieces out of poor little Gwladys if she knew that it was she who was driving the car that laid me out. She must never know, Wooster. I appeal to you as a man of honour to keep your mouth shut."

"Naturally."

"I'm glad you grasp the point so readily, Wooster. You are not the fool people take you for."

"Who takes me for a fool?"

The Pim raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Don't people?" he said. "Well, well. Anyway, that's settled. Unless I can think of something better, I shall tell my sister that I was knocked down by a car which drove on without stopping and I didn't get its number.

"And now perhaps you had better leave me. The doctor made a point of quiet and repose. Moreover, I want to go on with this story. The villain has just dropped a cobra down the heroine's chimney, and I must be at her side. I'll ring if I want anything."

I headed for the sitting room. I found Jeeves there, staring at the portrait in rather a marked manner, as if it hurt him.

"Jeeves," I said, "Mr. Pim appears to be a fixture."

"Yes, sir."

"For the nonce, at any rate. And to-morrow we shall have his sister, Mrs. Slingsby, of Slingsby's Superb Soups, in our midst."

"Yes, sir. I telegraphed to Mrs. Slingsby shortly before four. Assuming her to have been at her hotel in Paris at the moment of the telegram's delivery, she will no doubt take a boat early to-morrow afternoon, reaching Dover--or, should she prefer the alternative route, Folkestone--in time to arrive in London at about seven. She will possibly proceed first to her London residence----"

"Yes, Jeeves," I said; "yes. A gripping story, full of action and human interest. You must have it set to music sometime and sing it. Meanwhile, get this into your head. It is imperative that Mrs. Slingsby does not learn that it was Miss Pendlebury who broke her brother in two places. I shall require you, therefore, to approach Mr. Pim before she arrives, ascertain exactly what tale he intends to tell, and be prepared to back it up in every particular."

"Very good, sir."

"And now, Jeeves, what of Miss Pendlebury?"

"Sir?"

"She's sure to call to make inquiries."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, she mustn't find me here. You know all about women, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then tell me this. Am I not right in supposing that if Miss Pendlebury is in a position to go into the sickroom, take a long look at the interesting invalid, and then pop out, with the memory of that look fresh in her mind, and get a square sight of me lounging about in sponge-bag trousers, she will draw damaging comparisons? You see what I mean? Look on this picture and on that--the one romantic, the other not.... Eh?"

"Very true, sir. It's a point which I had intended to bring to your attention. An invalid undoubtedly exercises a powerful appeal to the motherliness which exists in every woman's heart, sir. Invalids seem to stir their deepest feelings. The poet Scott has put the matter neatly in the lines:

"'O Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, When pain and anguish wring the brow----'"

I held up a hand.

"At some other time, Jeeves," I said, "I shall be delighted to hear your piece, but just now I am not in the mood. The position being as I have outlined, I propose to clear out early to-morrow morning and not to reappear until nightfall. I shall take the car and dash down to Brighton for the day."

"Very good, sir."

"It is better so, is it not, Jeeves?"

"Indubitably, sir."

"I think so, too. The sea breezes will tone up my system, which sadly needs a dollop of toning. I leave you in charge of the old home."

"Very good, sir."

"Convey my regrets and sympathy to Miss Pendlebury and tell her I have been called away on business."

"Yes, sir."

"Should the Slingsby require refreshment, feed her in moderation."

"Very good, sir."

"And in poisoning Mr. Pim's soup, don't use arsenic, which is readily detected. Go to a good chemist and get something that leaves no traces." I sighed, and cocked an eye at the portrait. "All this is very wonky, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"When that portrait was painted I was a happy man."

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, well, Jeeves!"

"Very true, sir."

And we left it at that.

* * * * *

It was latish when I got back on the following evening. What with a bit of ozone sniffing, a good dinner, and a nice run home in the moonlight with the old car going as sweet as a nut, I was feeling in pretty good shape once more. In fact, I went so far as to sing a trifle. The spirit of the Woosters is a buoyant spirit, and optimism had begun to reign again in the W. bosom.

The way I looked at it was, I saw I had been mistaken in assuming that a girl must necessarily love a fellow just because he has a broken leg. At first, no doubt, Gwladys Pendlebury would feel strangely drawn to the Pim when she saw him lying there a more or less total loss. But it would not be long before other reflections crept in.

She would ask herself if she were wise in trusting her life's happiness to a man who hadn't enough sense to leap out of the way when he saw a car coming. She would tell herself that if this sort of thing had happened once who knew that it might not go on happening again and again all down the long years.

And she would recoil from a married life which consisted entirely of going to hospitals and taking her husband fruit. She would realize how much better off she would be teamed up with a fellow like Bertram Wooster, who, whatever his faults, at least walked on the pavement and looked up and down a street before he crossed it.

It was in excellent spirits, accordingly, that I put the car in the garage, and it was with a merry Tra-la on my lips that I let myself into the flat as Big Ben began to strike eleven. I rang the bell and presently, as if he had divined my wishes, Jeeves came in with siphon and decanter.

"Home again, Jeeves," I said.

"Yes, sir."

"What has been happening in my absence? Did Miss Pendlebury call?"

"Yes, sir. At about two o'clock."

"And left?"

"At about six, sir."

I didn't like this so much. A four-hour visit struck me as a bit sinister.

"And Mrs. Slingsby?"

"She arrived shortly after eight and left at ten, sir."

"Ah? Agitated?"

"Yes, sir. Particularly when she left. She was desirous of seeing you, sir."

"Wanted to thank me brokenly, I suppose, for so courteously allowing her favourite brother a place to have his game legs in, eh?"