Carry On, Jeeves!, Page 2

  I began to understand. As I say, Uncle Willoughby had been somewhat on the tabasco side as a young man, and it began to look as if he might have turned out something pretty fruity if he had started recollecting his long life.

  ‘If half of what he has written is true,’ said Florence, ‘your uncle’s youth must have been perfectly appalling. The moment we began to read he plunged straight into a most scandalous story of how he and my father were thrown out of a music-hall in 1887!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I decline to tell you why.’

  It must have been something pretty bad. It took a lot to make them chuck people out of music-halls in 1887.

  ‘Your uncle specifically states that father had drunk a quart and a half of champagne before beginning the evening,’ she went on. ‘The book is full of stories like that. There is a dreadful one about Lord Emsworth.’

  ‘Lord Emsworth? Not the one we know? Not the one at Blandings?’

  A most respectable old Johnnie, don’t you know. Doesn’t do a thing nowadays but dig in the garden with a spud.

  ‘The very same. That is what makes the book so unspeakable. It is full of stories about people one knows who are the essence of propriety to-day, but who seem to have behaved, when they were in London in the ’eighties, in a manner that would not have been tolerated in the fo’c’sle of a whaler. Your uncle seems to remember everything disgraceful that happened to anybody when he was in his early twenties. There is a story about Sir Stanley Gervase-Gervase at Rosherville Gardens which is ghastly in its perfection of detail. It seems that Sir Stanley – but I can’t tell you!’

  ‘Have a dash!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, well, I shouldn’t worry. No publisher will print the book if it’s as bad as all that.’

  ‘On the contrary, your uncle told me that all negotiations are settled with Riggs and Ballinger, and he’s sending off the manuscript to-morrow for immediate publication. They make a special thing of that sort of book. They published Lady Carnaby’s “Memories of Eighty Interesting Years.”’

  ‘I read ’em!’

  ‘Well, then, when I tell you that Lady Carnaby’s Memories are simply not to be compared with your uncle’s Recollections, you will understand my state of mind. And father appears in nearly every story in the book! I am horrified at the things he did when he was a young man!’

  ‘What’s to be done?’

  ‘The manuscript must be intercepted before it reaches Riggs and Ballinger, and destroyed!’

  I sat up.

  This sounded rather sporting.

  ‘How are you going to do it?’ I inquired.

  ‘How can I do it? Didn’t I tell you the parcel goes off tomorrow? I am going to the Murgatroyds’ dance to-night and shall not be back till Monday. You must do it. That is why I telegraphed to you.’

  ‘What!’

  She gave me a look.

  ‘Do you mean to say you refuse to help me, Bertie?’

  ‘No; but – I say!’

  ‘It’s quite simple.’

  ‘But even if I—What I mean is—Of course, anything I can do – but – if you know what I mean—’

  ‘You say you want to marry me, Bertie?’

  ‘Yes, of course; but still—’

  For a moment she looked exactly like her old father.

  ‘I will never marry you if those Recollections are published.’

  ‘But, Florence, old thing!’

  ‘I mean it. You may look on it as a test, Bertie. If you have the resource and courage to carry this thing through, I will take it as evidence that you are not the vapid and shiftless person most people think you. If you fail, I shall know that your Aunt Agatha was right when she called you a spineless invertebrate and advised me strongly not to marry you. It will be perfectly simple for you to intercept the manuscript, Bertie. It only requires a little resolution.’

  ‘But suppose Uncle Willoughby catches me at it? He’d cut me off with a bob.’

  ‘If you care more for your uncle’s money than for me—’

  ‘No, no! Rather not!’

  ‘Very well, then. The parcel containing the manuscript will, of course, be placed on the hall table to-morrow for Oakshott to take to the village with the letters. All you have to do is to take it away and destroy it. Then your uncle will think it has been lost in the post.’

  It sounded thin to me.

  ‘Hasn’t he got a copy of it?’

  ‘No; it has not been typed. He is sending the manuscript just as he wrote it.’

  ‘But he could write it over again.’

  ‘As if he would have the energy!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘If you are going to do nothing but make absurd objections, Bertie—’

  ‘I was only pointing things out.’

  ‘Well, don’t! Once and for all, will you do me this quite simple act of kindness?’

  The way she put it gave me an idea.

  ‘Why not get Edwin to do it? Keep it in the family, kind of, don’t you know. Besides, it would be a boon to the kid.’

  A jolly bright idea it seemed to me. Edwin was her young brother, who was spending his holidays at Easeby. He was a ferret-faced kid, whom I had disliked since birth. As a matter of fact, talking of Recollections and Memories, it was young blighted Edwin who, nine years before, had led his father to where I was smoking his cigar and caused all the unpleasantness. He was fourteen now and had just joined the Boy Scouts. He was one of those thorough kids, and took his responsibilities pretty seriously. He was always in a sort of fever because he was dropping behind schedule with his daily acts of kindness. However hard he tried, he’d fall behind; and then you would find him prowling about the house, setting such a clip to try and catch up with himself that Easeby was rapidly becoming a perfect hell for man and beast.

  The idea didn’t seem to strike Florence.

  ‘I shall do nothing of the kind, Bertie. I wonder you can’t appreciate the compliment I am paying you – trusting you like this.’

  ‘Oh, I see that all right, but what I mean is, Edwin would do it so much better than I would. These Boy Scouts are up to all sorts of dodges. They spoor, don’t you know, and take cover and creep about, and what not.’

  ‘Bertie, will you or will you not do this perfectly trivial thing for me? If not, say so now, and let us end this farce of pretending that you care a snap of the fingers for me.’

  ‘Dear old soul, I love you devotedly!’

  ‘Then will you or will you not—’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said. ‘All right! All right! All right!’

  And then I tottered forth to think it over. I met Jeeves in the passage just outside.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I was endeavouring to find you.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I felt that I should tell you, sir, that somebody has been putting black polish on our brown walking shoes.’

  ‘What! Who? Why?’

  ‘I could not say, sir.’

  ‘Can anything be done with them?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  I’ve often wondered since then how these murderer fellows manage to keep in shape while they’re contemplating their next effort. I had a much simpler sort of job on hand, and the thought of it rattled me to such an extent in the night watches that I was a perfect wreck next day. Dark circles under the eyes – I give you my word! I had to call on Jeeves to rally round with one of those life-savers of his.

  From breakfast on I felt like a bag-snatcher at a railway station. I had to hang about waiting for the parcel to be put on the hall table, and it wasn’t put. Uncle Willoughby was a fixture in the library, adding the finishing touches to the great work, I supposed, and the more I thought the thing over the less I liked it. The chances against my pulling it off seemed about three to two, and the thought of what would happen if I didn’t gave me cold shivers down the spine. Uncle Willoughby was a pretty
mild sort of old boy, as a rule, but I’ve known him to cut up rough, and, by Jove, he was scheduled to extend himself if he caught me trying to get away with his life work.

  It wasn’t till nearly four that he toddled out of the library with the parcel under his arm, put it on the table, and toddled off again. I was hiding a bit to the south-east at the moment, behind a suit of armour. I bounded out and legged it for the table. Then I nipped upstairs to hide the swag. I charged in like a mustang and nearly stubbed my toe on young blighted Edwin, the Boy Scout. He was standing at the chest of drawers, confound him, messing about with my ties.

  ‘Hallo!’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m tidying your room. It’s my last Saturday’s act of kindness.’

  ‘Last Saturday’s.’

  ‘I’m five days behind. I was six till last night, but I polished your shoes.’

  ‘Was it you—’

  ‘Yes. Did you see them? I just happened to think of it. I was in here, looking round. Mr Berkeley had this room while you were away. He left this morning. I thought perhaps he might have left something in it that I could have sent on. I’ve often done acts of kindness that way.’

  ‘You must be a comfort to one and all!’

  It became more and more apparent to me that this infernal kid must somehow be turned out eftsoons or right speedily. I had hidden the parcel behind my back, and I didn’t think he had seen it; but I wanted to get at that chest of drawers quick, before anyone else came along.

  ‘I shouldn’t bother about tidying the room,’ I said.

  ‘I like tidying it. It’s not a bit of trouble – really.’

  ‘But it’s quite tidy now.’

  ‘Not so tidy as I shall make it.’

  This was getting perfectly rotten. I didn’t want to murder the kid, and yet there didn’t seem any other way of shifting him. I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.

  ‘There’s something much kinder than that which you could do,’ I said. ‘You see that box of cigars? Take it down to the smoking-room and snip off the ends for me. That would save me no end of trouble. Stagger along, laddie.’

  He seemed a bit doubtful; but he staggered. I shoved the parcel into a drawer, locked it, trousered the key, and felt better. I might be a chump, but, dash it, I could out-general a mere kid with a face like a ferret. I went downstairs again. Just as I was passing the smoking-room door out curveted Edwin. It seemed to me that if he wanted to do a real act of kindness he would commit suicide.

  ‘I’m snipping them,’ he said.

  ‘Snip on! Snip on!’

  ‘Do you like them snipped much, or only a bit?’

  ‘Medium.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be getting on, then.’

  ‘I should.’

  And we parted.

  Fellows who know all about that sort of thing – detectives, and so on – will tell you that the most difficult thing in the world is to get rid of the body. I remember, as a kid, having to learn by heart a poem about a bird by the name of Eugene Aram, who had the deuce of a job in this respect. All I can recall of the actual poetry is the bit that goes:

  ‘Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tumty-tum,

  I slew him, tum-tum tum!’

  But I recollect that the poor blighter spent much of his valuable time dumping the corpse into ponds and burying it, and what not, only to have it pop out at him again. It was about an hour after I had shoved the parcel into the drawer when I realised that I had let myself in for just the same sort of thing.

  Florence had talked in an airy sort of way about destroying the manuscript; but when one came down to it, how the deuce can a chap destroy a great chunky mass of paper in somebody else’s house in the middle of summer? I couldn’t ask to have a fire in my bedroom, with the thermometer in the eighties. And if I didn’t burn the thing, how else could I get rid of it? Fellows on the battle-field eat dispatches to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy, but it would have taken me a year to eat Uncle Willoughby’s Recollections.

  I’m bound to say the problem absolutely baffled me. The only thing seemed to be to leave the parcel in the drawer and hope for the best.

  I don’t know whether you have ever experienced it, but it’s a dashed unpleasant thing having a crime on one’s conscience. Towards the end of the day the mere sight of the drawer began to depress me. I found myself getting all on edge; and once when Uncle Willoughby trickled silently into the smoking-room when I was alone there and spoke to me before I knew he was there, I broke the record for the sitting high jump.

  I was wondering all the time when Uncle Willoughby would sit up and take notice. I didn’t think he would have time to suspect that anything had gone wrong till Saturday morning, when he would be expecting, of course, to get the acknowledgment of the manuscript from the publishers. But early on Friday evening he came out of the library as I was passing and asked me to step in. He was looking considerably rattled.

  ‘Bertie,’ he said – he always spoke in a precise sort of pompous kind of way – ‘an exceedingly disturbing thing has happened. As you know, I dispatched the manuscript of my book to Messrs. Riggs and Ballinger, the publishers, yesterday afternoon. It should have reached them by the first post this morning. Why I should have been uneasy I cannot say, but my mind was not altogether at rest respecting the safety of the parcel. I therefore telephoned to Messrs. Riggs and Ballinger a few moments back to make inquiries. To my consternation they informed me that they were not yet in receipt of my manuscript.’

  ‘Very rum!’

  ‘I recollect distinctly placing it myself on the hall table in good time to be taken to the village. But here is a sinister thing. I have spoken to Oakshott, who took the rest of the letters to the post office, and he cannot recall seeing it there. He is, indeed, unswerving in his assertions that when he went to the hall to collect the letters there was no parcel among them.’

  ‘Sounds funny!’

  ‘Bertie, shall I tell you what I suspect?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The suspicion will no doubt sound to you incredible, but it alone seems to fit the facts as we know them. I incline to the belief that the parcel has been stolen.’

  ‘Oh, I say! Surely not!’

  ‘Wait! Hear me out. Though I have said nothing to you before, or to anyone else, concerning the matter, the fact remains that during the past few weeks a number of objects – some valuable, others not – have disappeared in this house. The conclusion to which one is irresistibly impelled is that we have a kleptomaniac in our midst. It is a peculiarity of kleptomania, as you are no doubt aware, that the subject is unable to differentiate between the intrinsic values of objects. He will purloin an old coat as readily as a diamond ring, or a tobacco pipe costing but a few shillings with the same eagerness as a purse of gold. The fact that this manuscript of mine could be of no possible value to any outside person convinces me that—’

  ‘But, uncle, one moment; I know all about those things that were stolen. It was Meadowes, my man, who pinched them. I caught him snaffling my silk socks. Right in the act, by Jove!’

  He was tremendously impressed.

  ‘You amaze me, Bertie! Send for the man at once and question him.’

  ‘But he isn’t here. You see, directly I found that he was a sock-sneaker I gave him the boot. That’s why I went to London – to get a new man.’

  ‘Then, if the man Meadowes is no longer in the house it could not be he who purloined my manuscript. The whole thing is inexplicable.’

  After which we brooded for a bit. Uncle Willoughby pottered about the room, registering baffledness, while I sat sucking at a cigarette, feeling rather like a chappie I’d once read about in a book, who murdered another cove and hid the body under the dining-room table, and then had to be the life and soul of a dinner party, with it there all the time. My guilty secret oppressed me to such an extent that after a while I couldn’t stick it any longe
r. I lit another cigarette and started for a stroll in the grounds, by way of cooling off.

  It was one of those still evenings you get in the summer, when you can hear a snail clear its throat a mile away. The sun was sinking over the hills and the gnats were fooling about all over the place, and everything smelled rather topping – what with the falling dew and so on – and I was just beginning to feel a little soothed by the peace of it all when suddenly I heard my name spoken.

  ‘It’s about Bertie.’

  It was the loathsome voice of young blighted Edwin! For a moment I couldn’t locate it. Then I realised that it came from the library. My stroll had taken me within a few yards of the open window.

  I had often wondered how those Johnnies in books did it – I mean the fellows with whom it was the work of a moment to do about a dozen things that ought to have taken them about ten minutes. But, as a matter of fact, it was the work of a moment with me to chuck away my cigarette, swear a bit, leap about ten yards, dive into a bush that stood near the library window, and stand there with my ears flapping. I was as certain as I’ve ever been of anything that all sorts of rotten things were in the offing.

  ‘About Bertie?’ I heard Uncle Willoughby say.

  ‘About Bertie and your parcel. I heard you talking to him just now. I believe he’s got it.’

  When I tell you that just as I heard these frightful words a fairly substantial beetle of sorts dropped from the bush down the back of my neck, and I couldn’t even stir to squash the same, you will understand that I felt pretty rotten. Everything seemed against me.

  ‘What do you mean, boy? I was discussing the disappearance of my manuscript with Bertie only a moment back, and he professed himself as perplexed by the mystery as myself.’

  ‘Well, I was in his room yesterday afternoon, doing him an act of kindness, and he came in with a parcel. I could see it, though he tried to keep it behind his back. And then he asked me to go to the smoking-room and snip some cigars for him; and about two minutes afterwards he came down – and he wasn’t carrying anything. So it must be in his room.’

  I understand they deliberately teach these dashed Boy Scouts to cultivate their powers of observation and deduction and what not. Devilish thoughtless and inconsiderate of them, I call it. Look at the trouble it causes.