P G Wodehouse, page 23
“I could make one.”
“Do so at once. Miss Trimble is at her best as a parlour-maid.
She handled the Marling divorce case in that capacity. Have you a
telephone in the room?”
Mrs. Pett opened the stuff ed owl. Th
e detective got in touch
with his offi
ce.
“Mr. Sturgis speaking. Tell Miss Trimble to come to the phone.
. . . Miss Trimble? I am speaking from Mrs. Pett’s on Riverside
Drive. You know the house? I want you to come up at once. Take
a taxi. Go to the back-door and ask to see Mrs. Pett. Say you have
come about getting a place here as a maid. Understand? Right. Say,
listen, Miss Trimble. Hello? Yes, don’t hang up for a moment. Do
you remember those photographs I showed you yesterday? Yes, the
photographs from Anderson’s. I’ve found the man. He’s the butler
here. Take a look at him when you get to the house. Now go and
get a taxi. Mrs. Pett will explain everything when you arrive.” He
hung up the receiver. “I think I had better go now, Mrs. Pett. It
would not do for me to be here while these fellows are on their
guard. I can safely leave the matter to Miss Trimble. I wish you good
afternoon.”
After he had gone, Mrs. Pett vainly endeavoured to interest her-
self again in her book, but in competition with the sensations of life,
fi ction, even though she had written it herself, had lost its power
and grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble must be walking to
157
P. G. WODEHOUSE
the house instead of journeying thither in a taxi-cab. But a glance
at the clock assured her that only fi ve minutes had elapsed since the
detective’s departure. She went to the window and looked out. She
was hopelessly restless.
At last a taxi-cab stopped at the corner, and a young woman
got out and walked towards the house. If this were Miss Trimble,
she certainly looked capable. She was a stumpy, square-shouldered
person, and even at that distance it was possible to perceive that
she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination. Th
e
next moment she had turned down the side-street in the direction of
the back-premises of Mrs. Pett’s house: and a few minutes later Mr.
Crocker presented himself.
“A young person wishes to see you, madam. A young person
of the name of Trimble.” A pang passed through Mrs. Pett as she
listened to his measured tones. It was tragic that so perfect a butler
should be a scoundrel. “She says that you desired her to call in con-
nection with a situation.”
“Show her up here, Skinner. She is the new parlour-maid. I will
send her down to you when I have fi nished speaking to her.”
“Very good, madam.”
Th
ere seemed to Mrs. Pett to be a faint touch of defi ance in Miss
Trimble’s manner as she entered the room. Th
e fact was that Miss
Trimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property, and
rich people’s houses always aff ected her adversely. Mr. Crocker re-
tired, closing the door gently behind him.
A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett’s visitor as she looked
round at the achievements of the interior decorator, who had lav-
ished his art unsparingly in this particular room. At this close range
she more than fulfi lled the promise of that distant view which Mrs.
Pett had had of her from the window. Her face was not only shrewd
and determined: it was menacing. She had thick eyebrows, from be-
neath which small, glittering eyes looked out like dangerous beasts
in undergrowth: and the impressive eff ect of these was accentuated
by the fact that, while the left eye looked straight out at its object,
the right eye had a sort of roving commission and was now, while
its colleague fi xed Mrs. Pett with a gimlet stare, examining the ceil-
ing. As to the rest of the appearance of this remarkable woman,
her nose was stubby and aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly
forbidding look of the closed door of a subway express when you
158
PICADILLY JIM
have just missed the train. It bade you keep your distance on pain of
injury. Mrs. Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of
a curious weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much
deadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered: and came
near feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this dy-
namic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to open
the conversation.
Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She always
preferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, and words
fl ew out as if shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs. Pett could
observe, she considered it unnecessary to part her teeth, preferring
to speak with them clenched. Th
is gave an additional touch of men-
ace to her speech.
“Dafternoon,” said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backed convul-
sively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if somebody
had thrown a brick at her.
“Good afternoon,” she said faintly.
“Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y’ad job
f ’r me. Came here squick scould.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Squick scould. Got slow taxi.”
“Oh, yes.”
Miss Trimble’s right eye fl ashed about the room like a search-
light, but she kept the other hypnotically on her companion’s face.
“Whass trouble?” Th
e right eye rested for a moment on a mag-
nifi cent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again. “Not
s’prised y’have trouble. All rich people ’ve trouble. Noth’ t’do with
their time ’cept get ’nto trouble.”
She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.
“You – ah – appear to dislike the rich,” said Mrs. Pett, as nearly
in her grand manner as she could contrive.
Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had
been a small fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and
squashed it fl at.
“Hate ’em! Sogelist!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Pett humbly. Th
is woman was
beginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.
159
P. G. WODEHOUSE
“Sogelist! No use f ’r idle rich. Ev’ read B’nard Shaw? Huh? Or
Upton Sinclair? Uh? Read’m. Make y’think a bit. Well, y’haven’t
told me whasser trouble.”
Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which
had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which had
had more than its share of detectives, both real and fi ctitious, she
had never been confronted with a detective like this. Th
e galling
thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged a detective
for his or her shrewdness and effi
ciency, not for suavity and polish.
A detective who hurls speech at you through clenched teeth and yet
detects is better value for the money than one who, though an ideal
companion for the drawing-room, is incompetent: and Mrs. Pett,
like most other people, subconsciously held the view that the ruder
a person is the more effi
cient he must be. It is but rarely that any one
is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed
down her resentment at her visitor’s tone, and tried to concentrate
her mind on the fact that this was a business matter and that what
she wanted was results rather than fair words. She found it easier to
do this when looking at the other’s face. It was a capable face. Not
beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise of action. Miss Trimble hav-
ing ceased temporarily to speak, her mouth was in repose, and when
her mouth was in repose it looked more effi
cient than anything else
of its size in existence.
“I want you,” said Mrs. Pett, “to come here and watch some men—”
“Men! Th
ought so! Wh’ there’s trouble, always men’t bottom’f it!”
“You do not like men?”
“Hate ’em! Suff -gist!” She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett.
Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow. “You
S’porter of th’ Cause?”
Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suff ragist, but, though she held strong
opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that mo-
ment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this
woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme.
“A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be my
nephew, James Crocker. He is an impostor. I want you to watch him
very carefully.”
“Whassiz game?”
“I do not know. Personally I think he is here to kidnap my
son Ogden.”
160
PICADILLY JIM
“I’ll fi x’m,” said the fair Trimble confi dently. “Say, that butler ’f
yours. He’s a crook!”
Mrs. Pett opened her eyes. Th
is woman was manifestly compe-
tent at her work.
“Have you found that out already?”
“D’rectly saw him.” Miss Trimble opened her purse. “Go’ one
’f his photographs here. Brought it from offi
ce. He’s th’ man that’s
wanted ’ll right.”
“Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man,
the one who pretends to be my nephew.”
“Sure. I’ll fi x ’m.”
She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch
with vicious emphasis.
“Th
ere is another possibility,” said Mrs. Pett. “My nephew, Mr.
William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it is
quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it.”
“Sure. Men’ll do anything. If y’ put all the men in th’ world in
th’ cooler, wouldn’t be ’ny more crime.”
She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket
and removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series
of calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of mas-
culinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy in the
dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor.
Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would lightly be
deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whom Man, unless
short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would go out of his
way to deceive. She was still turning this mystery over in her mind,
when her visitor spoke.
“Well, gimme th’ rest of th’ dope,” said Miss Trimble.
“I beg your pardon?”
“More facts. Spill ’m!”
“Oh, I understand,” said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on a
brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her
to desire skilled assistance.
“Lor’ W’sbeach?” said Miss Trimble, breaking the story.
“Who’s he?”
“A very great friend of ours.”
“You vouch f ’r him pers’n’lly? He’s all right, uh? Not a
crook, huh?”
161
P. G. WODEHOUSE
“Of course he is not!” said Mrs. Pett indignantly. “He’s a great
friend of mine.”
“All right. Well, I guess thass ’bout all, huh? I’ll be going down-
stairs ’an starting in.”
“You can come here immediately?”
“Sure. Got parlour-maid rig round at m’ boarding-house round
corner. Come back with it ’n ten minutes. Same dress I used when I
w’s working on th’ Marling D’vorce case. D’jer know th’ Marlings?
Idle rich! Bound t’ get ’nto trouble. I fi xed ’m. Well, g’bye. Mus’ be
going. No time t’ waste.”
Mrs. Pett leaned back faintly in her chair. She felt overcome.
Downstairs, on her way out, Miss Trimble had paused in the
hall to inspect a fi ne statue which stood at the foot of the stairs. It
was a noble work of art, but it seemed to displease her. She snorted.
“Idle rich!” she muttered scornfully. “Brrh!”
Th
e portly form of Mr. Crocker loomed up from the direction of
the back stairs. She fi xed her left eye on him piercingly. Mr. Crocker
met it, and quailed. He had that consciousness of guilt which phi-
losophers tell is the worst drawback to crime. Why this woman’s
gaze should disturb him so thoroughly, he could not have said. She
was a perfect stranger to him. She could know nothing about him.
Yet he quailed.
“Say,” said Miss Trimble. “I’m c’ming here ’s parlour-maid.”
“Oh, ah?” said Mr. Crocker, feebly.
“Grrrh!” observed Miss Trimble, and departed.
Chapter
The Voice Prom the Past
The library, whither Jimmy had made his way after leaving Mrs.
Pett, was a large room on the ground fl oor, looking out on the street
which ran parallel to the south side of the house. It had French win-
dows, opening onto a strip of lawn which ended in a high stone wall
with a small gate in it, the general eff ect of these things being to cre-
ate a resemblance to a country house rather than to one in the centre
of the city. Mr. Pett’s town residence was full of these surprises.
In one corner of the room a massive safe had been let into the
wall, striking a note of incongruity, for the remainder of the wall-
162
PICADILLY JIM
space was completely covered with volumes of all sorts and sizes,
which fi lled the shelves and overfl owed into a small gallery, reached
by a short fl ight of stairs and running along the north side of the
room over the door.
Jimmy cast a glance at the safe, behind the steel doors of which
he presumed the test-tube of Partridgite which Willie had carried
from the luncheon-table lay hid: then transferred his attention to
the shelves. A cursory inspection of these revealed nothing which
gave promise of whiling away entertainingly the moments which
must elapse before the return of Ann. Jimmy’s tastes in literature lay
in the direction of the lighter kind of modern fi ction, and Mr. Pett
did not appear to possess a single volume that had been written later
than the eighteenth century – and mostly poetry at that. He turned
to the writing-desk near the window, on which he had caught sight
of a standing shelf full of books of a more modern aspect. He picked
one up at random and opened it.
He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. Th
is man Pett ap-
peared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would never have
suspected it, to look at him. Jimmy had just resigned himself, after
another glance at the shelf, to a bookless vigil, when his eye was
caught by a name on the cover of the last in the row so unexpected
that he had to look again to verify the discovery.
He had been perfectly right. Th
ere it was, in gold letters.
The Lonely Heart By Ann Chester
He extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Even
now he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair the benefi t
of the doubt, and assume that some one else of the same name had
written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy’s character – one of his many
defects – that he loathed and scorned minor poetry and considered
minor poets, especially when feminine, an unnecessary affl
iction.
He declined to believe that Ann, his Ann, a girl full of the fi nest
traits of character, the girl who had been capable of encouraging a
comparative stranger to break the law by impersonating her cousin
Jimmy Crocker, could also be capable of writing Th
e Lonely Heart
and other poems. He skimmed through the fi rst one he came across,
and shuddered. It was pure slush. It was the sort of stuff they fi lled
up pages with in the magazines when the detective story did not run
long enough. It was the sort of stuff which long-haired blighters read
163
P. G. WODEHOUSE
alone to other long-haired blighters in English suburban drawing-
rooms. It was the sort of stuff which – to be brief – gave him the
Willies. No, it could not be Ann who had written it.
Th
e next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. Th
ere
was an inscription on the title page.
“To my dearest uncle Peter, with love from the author, Ann
Chester.”
Th
e room seemed to reel before Jimmy’s eyes. He felt as if a
friend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings. He felt as if some
loved one had smitten him over the back of the head with a sandbag.
For one moment, in which time stood still, his devotion to Ann
