Jeeves Stories · Clustering Round Young Bingo (2/3)

“Well, get rid of it, then,” said young Bingo. “The woman is a menace to society, a home-wrecker, and a pest. Do you know what she’s done? She’s got Rosie to write an article for that rag of hers.”

“I know that.”

“Yes, but you don’t know what it’s about.”

“No. She only told me Aunt Dahlia had given her a splendid idea for the thing.”

“It’s about me!”

“You?”

“Yes, me! Me! And do you know what it’s called? It is called ‘How I Keep the Love of My Husband-Baby.’ ”

“My what?”

“Husband-baby!”

“What’s a husband-baby?”

“I am, apparently,” said young Bingo, with much bitterness. “I am also, according to this article, a lot of other things which I have too much sense of decency to repeat even to an old friend. This beastly composition, in short, is one of those things they call ‘human interest stories’; one of those intimate revelations of married life over which the female public loves to gloat; all about Rosie and me and what she does when I come home cross, and so on. I tell you, Bertie, I am still blushing all over at the recollection of something she says in paragraph two.”

“What?”

“I decline to tell you. But you can take it from me that it’s the edge. Nobody could be fonder of Rosie than I am, but⁠—dear, sensible girl as she is in ordinary life⁠—the moment she gets in front of a dictating-machine she becomes absolutely maudlin. Bertie, that article must not appear!”

“But⁠—”

“If it does I shall have to resign from my clubs, grow a beard, and become a hermit. I shall not be able to face the world.”

“Aren’t you pitching it a bit strong, old lad?” I said. “Jeeves, don’t you think he’s pitching it a bit strong?”

“Well, sir⁠—”

“I am pitching it feebly,” said young Bingo, earnestly. “You haven’t heard the thing. I have. Rosie shoved the cylinder on the dictating-machine last night before dinner, and it was grisly to hear the instrument croaking out those awful sentences. If that article appears I shall be kidded to death by every pal I’ve got. Bertie,” he said, his voice sinking to a hoarse whisper, “you have about as much imagination as a warthog, but surely even you can picture to yourself what Jimmy Bowles and Tuppy Rogers, to name only two, will say when they see me referred to in print as ‘half god, half prattling, mischievous child’?”

I jolly well could.

“She doesn’t say that?” I gasped.

“She certainly does. And when I tell you that I selected that particular quotation because it’s about the only one I can stand hearing spoken, you will realize what I’m up against.”

I picked at the coverlet. I had been a pal of Bingo’s for many years, and we Woosters stand by our pals.

“Jeeves,” I said, “you have heard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The position is serious.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We must cluster round.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does anything suggest itself to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What! You don’t really mean that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bingo,” I said, “the sun is still shining. Something suggests itself to Jeeves.”

“Jeeves,” said young Bingo in a quivering voice, “if you see me through this fearful crisis, ask of me what you will even unto half my kingdom.”

“The matter,” said Jeeves, “fits in very nicely, sir, with another mission which was entrusted to me this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Travers rang me up on the telephone shortly before I brought you your tea, sir, and was most urgent that I should endeavour to persuade Mr. Little’s cook to leave Mr. Little’s service and join her staff. It appears that Mr. Travers was fascinated by the man’s ability, sir, and talked far into the night of his astonishing gifts.”

Young Bingo uttered a frightful cry of agony.

“What! Is that⁠—that buzzard trying to pinch our cook?”

“Yes, sir.”

“After eating our bread and salt, dammit?”

“I fear, sir,” sighed Jeeves, “that when it comes to a matter of cooks ladies have but a rudimentary sense of morality.”

“Half a second, Bingo,” I said, as the fellow seemed about to plunge into something of an oration. “How does this fit in with the other thing, Jeeves?”

“Well, sir, it has been my experience that no lady can ever forgive another lady for taking a really good cook away from her. I am convinced that, if I am able to accomplish the mission which Mrs. Travers entrusted to me, an instant breach of cordial relations must inevitably ensue. Mrs. Little will, I feel certain, be so aggrieved with Mrs. Travers that she will decline to contribute to her paper. We shall therefore not only bring happiness to Mr. Travers, but also suppress the article. Thus killing two birds with one stone, if I may use the expression, sir.”

“Certainly you may use the expression, Jeeves,” I said, cordially. “And I may add that in my opinion this is one of your best and ripest.”

“Yes, but I say, you know,” bleated young Bingo. “I mean to say⁠—old Anatole, I mean⁠—what I’m driving at is that he’s a cook in a million.”

“You poor chump, if he wasn’t there would be no point in the scheme.”

“Yes, but what I mean⁠—I shall miss him, you know. Miss him fearfully.”

“Good heavens!” I cried. “Don’t tell me that you are thinking of your tummy in a crisis like this?”

Bingo sighed heavily.

“Oh, all right,” he said. “I suppose it’s a case of the surgeon’s knife. All right, Jeeves, you may carry on. Yes, carry on, Jeeves. Yes, yes, Jeeves, carry on. I’ll look in tomorrow morning and hear what you have to report.”

And with bowed head young Bingo biffed off.

He was bright and early next morning. In fact, he turned up at such an indecent hour that Jeeves very properly refused to allow him to break in on my slumbers.

By the time I was awake and receiving, he and Jeeves had had a heart-to-heart chat in the kitchen; and when Bingo eventually crept into my room I could see by the look on his face that something had gone wrong.

“It’s all off,” he said, slumping down on the bed.

“Off?”

“Yes; that cook-pinching business. Jeeves tells me he saw Anatole last night, and Anatole refused to leave.”

“But surely Aunt Dahlia had the sense to offer him more than he was getting with you?”

“The sky was the limit, as far as she was concerned. Nevertheless, he refused to skid. It seems he’s in love with our parlourmaid.”

“But you haven’t got a parlourmaid.”

“We have got a parlourmaid.”

“I’ve never seen her. A sort of bloke who looked like a provincial undertaker waited at table the night before last.”

“That was the local greengrocer, who comes to help out when desired. The parlourmaid is away on her holiday⁠—or was till last night. She returned about ten minutes before Jeeves made his call, and Anatole, I take it, was in such a state of elation and devotion and whatnot on seeing her again that the contents of the Mint wouldn’t have bribed him to part from her.”

“But look here, Bingo,” I said, “this is all rot. I see the solution right off. I’m surprised that a bloke of Jeeves’s mentality overlooked it. Aunt Dahlia must engage the parlourmaid as well as Anatole. Then they won’t be parted.”

“I thought of that, too. Naturally.”

“I bet you didn’t.”

“I certainly did.”

“Well, what’s wrong with the scheme?”

“It can’t be worked. If your aunt engaged our parlourmaid she would have to sack her own, wouldn’t she?”

“Well?”

“Well, if she sacks her parlourmaid, it will mean that the chauffeur will quit. He’s in love with her.”

“With my aunt?”

“No, with the parlourmaid. And apparently he’s the only chauffeur your uncle has ever found who drives carefully enough for him.”

I gave it up. I had never imagined before that life below stairs was so frightfully mixed up with what these coves call the sex complex. The personnel of domestic staffs seemed to pair off like characters in a musical comedy.

“Oh!” I said. “Well, that being so, we do seem to be more or less stymied. That article will have to appear after all, what?”

“No, it won’t.”

“Has Jeeves thought of another scheme?”

“No, but I have.” Bingo bent forward and patted my knee affectionately. “Look here, Bertie,” he said, “you and I were at school together. You’ll admit that?”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“And you’re a fellow who never lets a pal down. That’s well known, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but listen, Bingo⁠—”

“You’ll cluster round. Of course you will. As if,” said Bingo with a scornful laugh, “I ever doubted it! You won’t let an old schoolfriend down in his hour of need. Not you. Not Bertie Wooster. No, no!”

“Yes, but just one moment⁠—”

Bingo massaged my shoulder soothingly.

“It’s all settled, Bertie, old man. Nothing for you to worry about. Nothing whatever. I see now that we made a mistake in ever trying to tackle this job in Jeeves’s silly, roundabout way. Much better to charge straight ahead without any of that finesse and fooling about. This afternoon I’m going to take Rosie to a matinée. I shall leave the window of her study open, and when we have got well away you will climb in, pinch the cylinder, and pop off again. It’s absurdly simple.”

“Yes, but half a second⁠—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Bingo, raising his hand. “How are you to find the cylinder? That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? Well, it’ll be quite easy. Not a chance of a mistake. The thing is in the top left-hand drawer of the desk, and the drawer will be left unlocked because Rosie’s stenographer is to come round at four o’clock and type the thing.”

“Now listen, Bingo,” I said. “I’m frightfully sorry for you and all that, but I must firmly draw the line at burglary. I⁠—”

He gazed at me, astonished and hurt.

“Is this Bertie Wooster speaking?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, it is!”

“But, Bertie,” he said gently, “we agreed that you were at school with me.”

“I don’t care.”

“At school, Bertie. The dear old school.”

“I don’t care. I will not⁠—”

“Bertie!”

“I will not⁠—”

“Bertie!”

“No!”

“Bertie!”

“Oh, all right,” I said.

“There,” said young Bingo, patting me on the shoulder, “spoke the true Bertram Wooster!”

I don’t know if it has ever occurred to you, but to the thoughtful cove there is something dashed reassuring in all the reports of burglaries you read in the papers. I mean, if you’re keen on Great Britain maintaining her prestige and all that. I mean, there can’t be much wrong with the morale of a country whose sons go in to such a large extent for housebreaking, because you can take it from me that the job requires a nerve of the most cast-iron description. I suppose I was walking up and down in front of that house for half an hour before I could bring myself to dash in at the front gate and slide round to the side where the study-window was. And even then I stood for about ten minutes cowering against the wall and listening for police-whistles.

Eventually, however, I braced myself up and got to business. The study was on the ground floor and the window was nice and large, and, what is more, wide open. I got the old knee over the sill, gave a jerk which took an inch of skin off my ankle, and hopped down into the room. And there I was, if you follow me.

I stood for a moment, listening. Everything seemed to be all right. I was apparently alone in the world.

In fact, I was so much alone that the atmosphere seemed positively creepy. You know how it is on these occasions. There was a clock on the mantelpiece that ticked in a slow, shocked sort of way that was dashed unpleasant. And over the clock a large portrait stared at me with a good deal of dislike and suspicion. It was a portrait of somebody’s grandfather. Whether he was Rosie’s or Bingo’s I didn’t know, but he was certainly a grandfather. In fact, I wouldn’t be prepared to swear that he wasn’t a great-grandfather. He was a big, stout old buffer in a high collar that seemed to hurt his neck, for he had drawn his chin back a goodish way and was looking down his nose as much as to say, “You made me put this dam’ thing on!”

Well, it was only a step to the desk, and nothing between me and it but a brown shaggy rug; so I avoided grandfather’s eye and, summoning up the good old bulldog courage of the Woosters, moved forward and started to navigate the rug. And I had hardly taken a step when the southeast corner of it suddenly detached itself from the rest and sat up with a snuffle.

Well, I mean to say, to bear yourself fittingly in the face of an occurrence of this sort you want to be one of those strong, silent, phlegmatic birds who are ready for anything. This type of bloke, I imagine, would simply have cocked an eye at the rug, said to himself, “Ah, a Pekingese dog, and quite a good one, too!” and started at once to make cordial overtures to the animal in order to win its sympathy and moral support. I suppose I must be one of the neurotic younger generation you read about in the papers nowadays, because it was pretty plain within half a second that I wasn’t strong and I wasn’t phlegmatic. This wouldn’t have mattered so much, but I wasn’t silent either. In the emotion of the moment I let out a sort of sharp yowl and leaped about four feet in a northwesterly direction. And there was a crash that sounded as though somebody had touched off a bomb.

What a female novelist wants with an occasional table in her study containing a vase, two framed photographs, a saucer, a lacquer box, and a jar of potpourri, I don’t know; but that was what Bingo’s Rosie had, and I caught it squarely with my right hip and knocked it endways. It seemed to me for a moment as if the whole world had dissolved into a kind of cataract of glass and china. A few years ago, when I legged it to America to elude my Aunt Agatha, who was out with her hatchet, I remember going to Niagara and listening to the Falls. They made much the same sort of row, but not so loud.

And at the same instant the dog began to bark.

It was a small dog⁠—the sort of animal from which you would have expected a noise like a squeaking slate-pencil: but it was simply baying. It had retired into a corner, and was leaning against the wall with bulging eyes; and every two seconds it chucked its head back in a kind of pained way and let out another terrific bellow.

Well, I know when I’m licked. I was sorry for Bingo and regretted the necessity of having to let him down; but the time had come, I felt, to shift. “Outside for Bertram!” was the slogan, and I took a running leap at the window and scrambled through.

And there on the path, as if they had been waiting for me by appointment, stood a policeman and a parlourmaid.

It was an embarrassing moment.

“Oh⁠—er⁠—there you are!” I said. And there was what you might call a contemplative silence for a moment.

“I told you I heard something,” said the parlourmaid.

The policeman was regarding me in a boiled way.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

I smiled in a sort of saintlike manner.

“It’s a little hard to explain,” I said.

“Yes, it is!” said the policeman.

“I was just⁠—er⁠—just having a look round, you know. Old friend of the family, you understand.”

“How did you get in?”

“Through the window. Being an old friend of the family, if you follow me.”

“Old friend of the family, are you?”

“Oh, very. Very. Very old. Oh, a very old friend of the family.”

“I’ve never seen him before,” said the parlourmaid.

I looked at the girl with positive loathing. How she could have inspired affection in anyone, even a French cook, beat me. Not that she was a bad looking girl, mind you. Not at all. On another and happier occasion I might even have thought her rather pretty. But now she seemed one of the most unpleasant females I had ever encountered.

“No,” I said. “You have never seen me before. But I’m an old friend of the family.”

“Then why didn’t you ring at the front door?”

“I didn’t want to give any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble answering front doors, that being what you’re paid for,” said the parlourmaid, virtuously. “I’ve never seen him before in my life,” she added, perfectly gratuitously. A horrid girl.

“Well, look here,” I said, with an inspiration, “the undertaker knows me.”

“What undertaker?”

“The cove who was waiting at table when I dined here the night before last.”