Books: The Intrusion of Jimmy
P >>
P. G. Wodehouse >> The Intrusion of Jimmy
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16
Such was the Dreever of old. In later days, the Welshman having
calmed down considerably, it had lost its militant character. The
old walls still stood, gray, menacing and unchanged, hut they were
the only link with the past. The castle was now a very comfortable
country-house, nominally ruled over by Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de
Burgh John Hannasyde Coombe-Crombie, twelfth Earl of Dreever
("Spennie" to his relatives and intimates), a light-haired young
gentleman of twenty-four, but in reality the possession of his uncle
and aunt, Sir Thomas and Lady Julia Blunt.
Lord Dreever's position was one of some embarrassment. At no point
in their history had the Dreevers been what one might call a
parsimonious family. If a chance presented itself of losing money in
a particularly wild and futile manner, the Dreever of the period had
invariably sprung at it with the vim of an energetic blood-hound.
The South Sea Bubble absorbed two hundred thousand pounds of good
Dreever money, and the remainder of the family fortune was
squandered to the ultimate penny by the sportive gentleman who held
the title in the days of the Regency, when Watier's and the Cocoa
Tree were in their prime, and fortunes had a habit of disappearing
in a single evening. When Spennie became Earl of Dreever, there was
about one dollar and thirty cents in the family coffers.
This is the point at which Sir Thomas Blunt breaks into Dreever
history. Sir Thomas was a small, pink, fussy, obstinate man with a
genius for trade and the ambition of an Alexander the Great;
probably one of the finest and most complete specimens of the came-
over-Waterloo-Bridge-with-half-a crown-in-my-pocket-and-now-look-at-
me class of millionaires in existence. He had started almost
literally with nothing. By carefully excluding from his mind every
thought except that of making money, he had risen in the world with
a gruesome persistence which nothing could check. At the age of
fifty-one, he was chairman of Blunt's Stores, L't'd, a member of
Parliament (silent as a wax figure, but a great comfort to the party
by virtue of liberal contributions to its funds), and a knight. This
was good, but he aimed still higher; and, meeting Spennie's aunt,
Lady Julia Coombe-Crombie, just at the moment when, financially, the
Dreevers were at their lowest ebb, he had effected a very
satisfactory deal by marrying her, thereby becoming, as one might
say, Chairman of Dreever, L't'd. Until Spennie should marry money,
an act on which his chairman vehemently insisted, Sir Thomas held
the purse, and except in minor matters ordered by his wife, of whom
he stood in uneasy awe, had things entirely his own way.
One afternoon, a little over a year after the events recorded in the
preceding chapter, Sir Thomas was in his private room, looking out
of the window, from which the view was very beautiful. The castle
stood on a hill, the lower portion of which, between the house and
the lake, had been cut into broad terraces. The lake itself and its
island with the little boat-house in the center gave a glimpse of
fairyland.
But it was not altogether the beauty of the view that had drawn Sir
Thomas to the window. He was looking at it chiefly because the
position enabled him to avoid his wife's eye; and just at the moment
be was rather anxious to avoid his wife's eye. A somewhat stormy
board-meeting was in progress, and Lady Julia, who constituted the
board of directors, had been heckling the chairman. The point under
discussion was one of etiquette, and in matters of etiquette Sir
Thomas felt himself at a disadvantage.
"I tell you, my dear," he said to the window, "I am not easy in my
mind."
"Nonsense," snapped Lady Julia; "absurd--ridiculous!"
Lady Julia Blunt, when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than
anything else.
"But your diamonds, my dear."
"We can take care of them."
"But why should we have the trouble? Now, if we--"
"It's no trouble."
"When we were married, there was a detective--"
"Don't be childish, Thomas. Detectives at weddings are quite
customary."
"But--"
"Bah!"
"I paid twenty thousand pounds for that rope of diamonds," said Sir
Thomas, obstinately. Switch things upon a cash basis, and he was
more at ease.
"May I ask if you suspect any of our guests of being criminals?"
inquired Lady Julia, with a glance of chill disdain.
Sir Thomas looked out of the window. At the moment, the sternest
censor could have found nothing to cavil at in the movements of such
of the house-party as were in sight. Some were playing tennis, some
clock-golf, and others were smoking.
"Why, no," he admitted.
"Of course. Absurd--quite absurd!"
"But the servants. We have engaged a number of new servants lately."
"With excellent recommendations."
Sir Thomas was on the point of suggesting that the recommendations
might be forged, but his courage failed him. Julia was sometimes so
abrupt in these little discussions! She did not enter into his point
of view. He was always a trifle inclined to treat the castle as a
branch of Blunt's Stores. As proprietor of the stores, he had made a
point of suspecting everybody, and the results had been excellent.
In Blunt's Stores, you could hardly move in any direction without
bumping into a gentlemanly detective, efficiently disguised. For the
life of him, Sir Thomas could not see why the same principle should
not obtain at Dreever. Guests at a country house do not as a rule
steal their host's possessions, but then it is only an occasional
customer at a store who goes in for shop-lifting. It was the
principle of the thing, he thought: Be prepared against every
emergency. With Sir Thomas Blunt, suspiciousness was almost a mania.
He was forced to admit that the chances were against any of his
guests exhibiting larcenous tendencies, but, as for the servants, he
thoroughly mistrusted them all, except Saunders, the butler. It had
seemed to him the merest prudence that a detective from a private
inquiry agency should be installed at the castle while the house was
full. Somewhat rashly, he had mentioned this to his wife, and Lady
Julia's critique of the scheme had been terse and unflattering.
"I suppose," said Lady Julia sarcastically, "you will jump to the
conclusion that this man whom Spennie is bringing down with him to-
day is a criminal of some sort?"
"Eh? Is Spennie bringing a friend?"
There was not a great deal of enthusiasm in Sir Thomas's voice. His
nephew was not a young man whom he respected very highly. Spennie
regarded his uncle with nervous apprehension, as one who would deal
with his short-comings with vigor and severity. Sir Thomas, for his
part, looked on Spennie as a youth who would get into mischief
unless under his uncle's eye.
"I had a telegram from him just now," Lady Julia explained.
"Who is his friend?"
"He doesn't say. He just says he's a man he met in London."
"H'm!"
"And what does, 'H'm!' mean?" demanded Lady Julia.
"A man can pick up strange people in London," said Sir Thomas,
judicially.
"Nonsense!"
"Just as you say, my dear."
Lady Julia rose.
"As for what you suggest about the detective, it is of course
absolutely absurd."
"Quite so, my dear."
"You mustn't think of it."
"Just as you say, my dear."
Lady Julia left the room.
What followed may afford some slight clue to the secret of Sir
Thomas Blunt's rise in the world. It certainly suggests singleness
of purpose, which is one of the essentials of success.
No sooner had the door closed behind Lady Julia than he went to his
writing-table, took pen and paper, and wrote the following letter:
To the Manager, Wragge's Detective Agency. Holborn Bars, London E.
C.
SIR: With reference to my last of the 28th, ult., I should be glad
if you would send down immediately one of your best men. Am making
arrangements to receive him. Kindly instruct him to present himself
at Dreever Castle as applicant for position of valet to myself. I
will see and engage him on his arrival, and further instruct him in
his duties.
Yours faithfully,
THOS. BLUNT.
P. S. I shall expect him to-morrow evening. There is a good train
leaving Paddington at 2:15.
Sir Thomas read this over, put in a comma, then placed it in an
envelope, and lighted a cigar with the air of one who can be
checked, yes, but vanquished, never.
CHAPTER IX
FRIENDS, NEW AND OLD
On the night of the day on which Sir Thomas Blunt wrote and
dispatched his letter to Wragge's Detective Agency, Jimmy Pitt
chanced to stop at the Savoy.
If you have the money and the clothes, and do not object to being
turned out into the night just as you are beginning to enjoy
yourself, there are few things pleasanter than supper at the Savoy
Hotel, London. But, as Jimmy sat there, eying the multitude through
the smoke of his cigarette, he felt, despite all the brightness and
glitter, that this was a flat world, and that he was very much alone
in it.
A little over a year had passed since the merry evening at Police-
Captain McEachern's. During that time, he had covered a good deal of
new ground. His restlessness had reasserted itself. Somebody had
mentioned Morocco in his hearing, and a fortnight later he was in
Fez.
Of the principals in that night's drama, he had seen nothing more.
It was only when, after walking home on air, rejoicing over the
strange chance that had led to his finding and having speech with
the lady of the Lusitania, he had reached Fifty-Ninth Street, that
he realized how he had also lost her. It suddenly came home to him
that not only did he not know her address, but he was ignorant of
her name. Spike had called the man with the revolver "boss"
throughout--only that and nothing more. Except that he was a police-
captain, Jimmy knew as little about the man as he had before their
meeting. And Spike, who held the key to the mystery, had vanished.
His acquaintances of that night had passed out of his life like
figures in a waking dream. As far as the big man with the pistol was
concerned, this did not distress him. He had known that massive
person only for about a quarter of an hour, but to his thinking that
was ample. Spike he would have liked to meet again, but he bore the
separation with much fortitude. There remained the girl of the ship;
and she had haunted him with unfailing persistence during every one
of the three hundred and eighty-four days that had passed since
their meeting.
It was the thought of her that had made New York seem cramped. For
weeks, Jimmy had patrolled the likely streets, the Park, and
Riverside Drive, in the hope of meeting her. He had gone to the
theaters and restaurants, but with no success. Sometimes, he had
wandered through the Bowery, on the chance of meeting Spike. He had
seen red heads in profusion, but never again that of his young
disciple in the art of burglary. In the end, he had wearied of the
other friends of the Strollers, had gone out again on his
wanderings. He was greatly missed, especially by that large section
of his circle which was in a perpetual state of wanting a little to
see it through till Saturday. For years, Jimmy had been to these
unfortunates a human bank on which they could draw at will. It
offended them that one of those rare natures which are always good
for two dollars at any hour of the day should be allowed to waste
itself on places like Morocco and Spain--especially Morocco, where,
by all accounts, there were brigands with almost a New York sense of
touch.
They argued earnestly with Jimmy. They spoke of Raisuli and Kaid
MacLean. But Jimmy was not to be stopped. The gad-fly was vexing
him, and he had to move.
For a year, he had wandered, realizing every day the truth of
Horace's philosophy for those who travel, that a man cannot change
his feelings with his climate, until finally he had found himself,
as every wanderer does, at Charing Cross.
At this point, he had tried to rally. Such running away, he told
himself, was futile. He would stand still and fight the fever in
him.
He had been fighting it now for a matter of two weeks, and already
he was contemplating retreat. A man at luncheon had been talking
about Japan--
Watching the crowd, Jimmy had found his attention attracted chiefly
by a party of three, a few tables away. The party consisted of a
girl, rather pretty, a lady of middle age and stately demeanor,
plainly her mother, and a light-haired, weedy young man in the
twenties. It had been the almost incessant prattle of this youth and
the peculiarly high-pitched, gurgling laugh which shot from him at
short intervals that had drawn Jimmy's notice upon them. And it was
the curious cessation of both prattle and laugh that now made him
look again in their direction.
The young man faced Jimmy; and Jimmy, looking at him, could see that
all was not well with him. He was pale. He talked at random. A
slight perspiration was noticeable on his forhead.
Jimmy caught his eye. There was a hunted look in it.
Given the time and the place, there were only two things that could
have caused this look. Either the light-haired young man had seen a
ghost, or he had suddenly realized that he had not enough money to
pay the check.
Jimmy's heart went out to the sufferer. He took a card from his
case, scribbled the words, "Can I help?" on it, and gave it to a
waiter to take to the young man, who was now in a state bordering on
collapse.
The next moment, the light-haired one was at his table, talking in a
feverish whisper.
"I say," he said, "it's frightfully good of you, old chap! It's
frightfully awkward. I've come out with too little money. I hardly
like to--you've never seen me before--"
"Don't rub in my misfortunes," pleaded Jimmy. "It wasn't my fault."
He placed a five-pound note on the table.
"Say when," he said, producing another.
"I say, thanks fearfully," the young man said. "I don't know what
I'd have done." He grabbed at the note. "I'll let you have it back
to-morrow. Here's my card. Is your address on your card? I can't
remember. Oh, by Jove, I've got it in my hand all the time." The
gurgling laugh came into action again, freshened and strengthened by
its rest. "Savoy Mansions, eh? I'll come round to-morrow. Thanks
frightfully again, old chap. I don't know what I should have done."
"It's been a treat," said Jimmy, deprecatingly.
The young man flitted back to his table, bearing the spoil. Jimmy
looked at the card he had left. "Lord Dreever," it read, and in the
corner the name of a well-known club. The name Dreever was familiar
to Jimmy. Everyone knew of Dreever Castle, partly because it was one
of the oldest houses in England, but principally because for
centuries it had been advertised by a particularly gruesome ghost-
story. Everyone had heard of the secret of Dreever, which was known
only to the earl and the family lawyer, and confided to the heir at
midnight on his twenty-first birthday. Jimmy had come across the
story in corners of the papers all over the States, from New York to
Onehorseville, Iowa. He looked with interest at the light-haired
young man, the latest depository of the awful secret. It was
popularly supposed that the heir, after hearing it, never smiled
again; but it did not seem to have affected the present Lord Dreever
to any great extent. His gurgling laugh was drowning the orchestra.
Probably, Jimmy thought, when the family lawyer had told the light-
haired young man the secret, the latter's comment had been, "No,
really? By Jove, I say, you know!"
Jimmy paid his bill, and got up to go.
It was a perfect summer night--too perfect for bed. Jimmy strolled
on to the Embankment, and stood leaning over the balustrade, looking
across the river at the vague, mysterious mass of buildings on the
Surrey side.
He must have been standing there for some time, his thoughts far
away, when a voice spoke at his elbow.
"I say. Excuse me, have you--Hullo!" It was his light-haired
lordship of Dreever. "I say, by Jove, why we're always meeting!"
A tramp on a bench close by stirred uneasily in his sleep as the
gurgling laugh rippled the air.
"Been looking at the water?" inquired Lord Dreever. "I have. I often
do. Don't you think it sort of makes a chap feel--oh, you know. Sort
of--I don't know how to put it."
"Mushy?" said Jimmy.
"I was going to say poetical. Suppose there's a girl--"
He paused, and looked down at the water. Jimmy was sympathetic with
this mood of contemplation, for in his case, too, there was a girl.
"I saw my party off in a taxi," continued Lord Dreever, "and came
down here for a smoke; only, I hadn't a match. Have you--?"
Jimmy handed over his match-box. Lord Dreever lighted a cigar, and
fixed his gaze once more on the river.
"Ripping it looks," he said.
Jimmy nodded.
"Funny thing," said Lord Dreever. "In the daytime, the water here
looks all muddy and beastly. Damn' depressing, I call it. But at
night--" He paused. "I say," he went on after a moment, "Did you see
the girl I was with at the Savoy?"
"Yes," said Jimmy.
"She's a ripper," said Lord Dreever, devoutly.
On the Thames Embankment, in the small hours of a summer morning,
there is no such thing as a stranger. The man you talk with is a
friend, and, if he will listen--as, by the etiquette of the place,
he must--you may pour out your heart to him without restraint. It is
expected of you!
"I'm fearfully in love with her," said his lordship.
"She looked a charming girl," said Jimmy.
They examined the water in silence. From somewhere out in the
night came the sound of oars, as the police-boat moved on its
patrol.
"Does she make you want to go to Japan?" asked Jimmy, suddenly.
"Eh?" said Lord Dreever, startled. "Japan?"
Jimmy adroitly abandoned the position of confidant, and seized that
of confider.
"I met a girl a year ago--only really met her once, and even then--
oh, well! Anyway, it's made me so restless that I haven't been able
to stay in one place for more than a month on end. I tried Morocco,
and had to quit. I tried Spain, and that wasn't any good, either.
The other day, I heard a fellow say that Japan was a pretty
interesting sort of country. I was wondering whether I wouldn't give
it a trial."
Lord Dreever regarded this traveled man with interest.
"It beats me," he said, wonderingly. "What do you want to leg it
about the world like that for? What's the trouble? Why don't you
stay where the girl is?"
"I don't know where she is."
"Don't know?"
"She disappeared."
"Where did you see her last?" asked his lordship, as if Molly were a
mislaid penknife.
"New York."
"But how do you mean, disappeared? Don't you know her address?"
"I don't even know her name."
"But dash it all, I say, I mean! Have you ever spoken to her?"
"Only once. It's rather a complicated story. At any rate, she's
gone."
Lord Dreever said that it was a rum business. Jimmy conceded the
point.
"Seems to me," said his lordship, "we're both in the cart."
"What's your trouble?"
Lord Dreever hesitated.
"Oh, well, it's only that I want to marry one girl, and my uncle's
dead set on my marrying another."
"Are you afraid of hurting your uncle's feelings?"
"It's not so much hurting his feelings. It's--oh, well, it's too
long to tell now. I think I'll be getting home. I'm staying at our
place in Eaton Square."
"How are you going? If you'll walk, I'll come some of the way with
you."
"Right you are. Let's be pushing along, shall we?"
They turned up into the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square into
Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a restful aspect in the small hours. Some
men were cleaning the road with water from a long hose. The swishing
of the torrent on the parched wood was musical.
Just beyond the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands
a cabmen's shelter. Conversation and emotion had made Lord Dreever
thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable conclusion to the night's
revels.
"I often go in here when I'm up in town," he said. "The cabbies
don't mind. They're sportsmen."
The shelter was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very
warm inside. A cabman gets so much fresh air in the exercise of his
professional duties that he is apt to avoid it in private life. The
air was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried onions seemed to be
having the best of the struggle for the moment, though plug tobacco
competed gallantly. A keenly analytical nose might also have
detected the presence of steak and coffee.
A dispute seemed to be in progress as they entered.
"You don't wish you was in Russher," said a voice.
"Yus, I do wish I wos in Russher," retorted a shriveled mummy of a
cabman, who was blowing patiently at a saucerful of coffee.
"Why do you wish you was in Russher?" asked the interlocutor,
introducing a Massa Bones and Massa Johnsing touch into the
dialogue.
"Because yer can wade over yer knees in bla-a-a-ad there," said the
mummy.
"In wot?"
"In bla-a-ad--ruddy bla-a-ad! That's why I wish I wos in Russher."
"Cheery cove that," said Lord Dreever. "I say, can you give us some
coffee?"
"I might try Russia instead of Japan," said Jimmy, meditatively.
The lethal liquid was brought. Conversation began again. Other
experts gave their views on the internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy
would have enjoyed it more if he had been less sleepy. His back was
wedged comfortably against the wall of the shelter, and the heat of
the room stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants grew
fainter and fainter.
He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and
woke him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar
accent.
"Gents! Excuse me."
He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with
a crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the
occupants of the shelter with a grin, half-whimsical, half-defiant.
Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.
"Excuse me," said Spike Mullins. "Is dere any gent in dis bunch of
professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a
painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not
to speak all in a crowd."
"Shet that blanky door," said the mummy cabman, sourly.
"And 'op it," added his late opponent. "We don't want none of your
sort 'ere."
"Den you ain't my long-lost brudders after all," said the newcomer,
regretfully. "I t'ought youse didn't look handsome enough for dat.
Good-night to youse, gents."
"Shet that door, can't yer, when I'm telling yer!" said the mummy,
with increased asperity.
Spike was reluctantly withdrawing, when Jimmy rose.
"One moment," he said.
Never in his life had Jimmy failed to stand by a friend in need.
Spike was not, perhaps, exactly a friend, but even an acquaintance
could rely on Jimmy when down in the world. And Spike was manifestly
in that condition.
A look of surprise came into the Bowery Boy's face, followed by one
of stolid woodenness. He took the sovereign that Jimmy held out to
him with a muttered word of thanks, and shuffled out of the room.
"Can't see what you wanted to give him anything for," said Lord
Dreever. "Chap'll only spend it getting soused."
"Oh, he reminded me of a man I used to know."
"Did he? Barnum's what-is-it, I should think," said his lordship.
"Shall we be moving?"
CHAPTER X
JIMMY ADOPTS A LAME DOG
A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows, and
shuffled stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep.
"That you, Spike?" asked Jimmy.
"Dat's right, boss."
"Come on in."
He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, and
shut the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled
his battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely.
Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the
conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike's
costume differed in several important details from that of the
ordinary well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the
flaneur about the Bowery Boy. His hat was of the soft black felt
fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poor condition,
and looked as if it had been up too late the night before. A black
tail-coat, burst at the elbows and stained with mud, was tightly
buttoned across his chest, this evidently with the idea of
concealing the fact that he wore no shirt--an attempt which was not
wholly successful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and boots out of
which two toes peeped coyly completed the picture.
Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his
appearance which would have distressed the editor of a men's
fashion-paper.
"'Scuse these duds," he said. "Me man's bin an' mislaid de trunk
wit' me best suit in. Dis is me number two."
"Don't mention it, Spike," said Jimmy. "You look a perfect matinee
idol. Have a drink?"
Spike's eyes gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.
"Cigar, Spike?"
"Sure. T'anks, boss."
Jimmy lighted his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off
his restraint, and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp.
"Try another," suggested Jimmy.
Spike's grin showed that the idea had been well received.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16