Mabelle glanced up as Bulstrode reached the table.
'Good afternoon,' she said with a welcoming smile. 'I think you know my fiancé, Mr Murgatroyd?'
Bulstrode reeled.
'Your what did you say?' he exclaimed.
'We're engaged,' said Mr Murgatroyd sombrely.
'Since this morning,' added Mabelle. 'It was at exactly six minutes past eleven that we found ourselves linked in a close embrace.'
Bulstrode endeavoured to conceal his despair.
'I hope you will be very happy,' he said.
'A swell chance!' rejoined Mr Murgatroyd. 'I'm not saying this beasel here doesn't exert a strange fascination over me, but I think it only fair to inform her here and now – before witnesses – that at the same time the mere sight of her makes me sick.'
'It is the same with me,' said Mabelle. 'When in Mr Murgatroyd's presence, I feel like some woman wailing for her demon lover, and all the while I am shuddering at that awful stuff he puts on his hair.'
'The best hair-oil in Chicago,' said Mr Murgatroyd, a little stiffly.
'It is as if I were under some terrible hypnotic influence which urged me against the promptings of my true self to love Mr Murgatroyd,' explained Mabelle.
'Make that double, sister,' said the bootlegger. 'It goes for me, too.'
'Precisely,' cried Bulstrode, 'how I feel towards my fiancée, Miss Bootle.'
'Are you engaged to that broad?' asked Mr Murgatroyd.
'I am.'
Ed Murgatroyd paled and swallowed a mouthful of cheese sandwich. There was silence for a while.
'I see it all,' said Mabelle. 'We have fallen under the hideous spell of this place. It is as you said, Bulstrode, when you wanted me to take the case of a couple on a raft in the Caribbean Sea. There is a miasma in the atmosphere of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum lot which undoes all who come within its sphere of influence. And here I am, pledged to marry a gargoyle like Mr Murgatroyd.'
'And what about me?' demanded the bootlegger. 'Do you think I enjoy being teamed up with a wren that doesn't know the first principles of needling beer? A swell helpmeet you're going to make for a man in my line of business!'
'And where do I get off?' cried Bulstrode passionately. 'My blood races at the sight of Genevieve Bootle, and yet all the while I know that she is one of Nature's prunes. The mere thought of marrying her appals me. Apart from the fact that I worship you, Mabelle, with every fibre of my being.'
'And I worship you, Bulstrode.'
'And I'm that way about Genevieve,' said Mr Murgatroyd.
There was another silence.
'There is only one way out of this dreadful situation,' said Mabelle. 'We must go to Mr Schnellenhamer and hand in our resignations. Once we are free from this noxious environment, everything will adjust itself nicely. Let us go and see him immediately.'
They did not see Mr Schnellenhamer immediately, for nobody ever did. But after a vigil of two hours in the reception-room, they were finally admitted to his presence, and they filed in and stated their case.
The effect on the President of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation of their request that they be allowed to resign was stupendous. If they had been Cossacks looking in at the office to start a pogrom, he could not have been more moved. His eyes bulged, and his nose drooped like the trunk of an elephant which has been refused a peanut.
'It can't be done,' he said curtly. He reached in the drawer of his desk, produced a handful of documents, and rapped them with an ominious decision. 'Here are the contracts, duly signed by you, in which you engage to remain in the employment of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Corporation until the completion of the picture entitled "Scented Sinners." Did you take a look at Para. 6, where it gives the penalties for breach of same? No, don't read them,' he said, as Mabelle stretched out a hand. 'You wouldn't sleep nights. But you can take it from me they're some penalties. We've had this thing before of writers wanting to run out on us, so we took steps to protect ourselves.'
'Would we be taken for a ride?' asked Mr Murgatroyd uneasily.
Mr Schnellenhamer smiled quietly but did not reply. He replaced the contracts in the drawer, and his manner softened and became more appealing. This man knew well when to brandish the iron fist and when to display the velvet glove.
'And, anyway,' he said, speaking now in almost a fatherly manner, 'you wouldn't want to quit till the picture was finished. Of course, you wouldn't, not three nice, square-shooting folks like you. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be co-operation. You know what "Scented Sinners" means to this organization. It's the biggest proposition we have. Our whole programme is built around it. We are relying on it to be our big smash. It cost us a barrel of money to buy "Scented Sinners," and naturally we aim to get it back.'
He rose from his chair, and tears came into his eyes. It was as if he had been some emotional American football coach addressing a faint-hearted team.
'Stick to it!' he urged. 'Stick to it, folks! You can do it if you like. Get back in there and fight. Think of the boys in the Front Office rooting for you, depending on you. You wouldn't let them down? No, no, not you. You wouldn't let me down? Of course you wouldn't. Get back in the game, then, and win – win – win ... for dear old Perfecto-Zizzbaum and me.'
He flung himself into his chair, gazing at them with appealing eyes.
'May I read Para. 6?' asked Mr Murgatroyd after a pause.
'No, don't read Para. 6,' urged Mr Schnellenhamer. 'Far, far better not read Para. 6.'
Mabelle looked hopelessly at Bulstrode.
'Come,' she said. 'It is useless for us to remain here.'
They left the office with dragging steps. Mr Schnellenhamer, a grave expression on his face, pressed the bell for his secretary.
'I don't like the look of things, Miss Stern,' he said. 'There seems to be a spirit of unrest among the "Scented Sinners" gang. Three of them have just been in, wanting to quit. I shouldn't be surprised if rebellion isn't seething. Say, listen,' he asked keenly, 'nobody's been ill-treating them, have they?'
'Why, the idea, Mr Schnellenhamer!'
'I thought I heard screams coming from their building yesterday.'
'That was Mr Doakes. He was working on his treatment, and he had some kind of a fit. Frothed at the mouth and kept shouting, "No, no! It isn't possible!" If you ask me,' said Miss Stern, 'it's just the warm weather. We most generally always lose a few writers this time of year.'
Mr Schnellenhamer shook his head.
'This ain't the ordinary thing of authors going cuckoo. It's something deeper. It's the spirit of unrest, or rebellion seething, or something like that. What am I doing at five o'clock?'
'Conferencing with Mr Levitsky.'
'Cancel it. Send round notice to all writers on "Scented Sinners" to meet me on Stage Four. I'll give them a pep-talk.'
At a few minutes before five, accordingly, there debouched from the Leper Colony and from the Ohio State Penitentiary a motley collection of writers. There were young writers, old writers, middle-aged writers; writers with matted beards at which they plucked nervously, writers with horn-rimmed spectacles who muttered to themselves, writers with eyes that stared blankly or blinked in the unaccustomed light. On all of them 'Scented Sinners' had set its unmistakable seal. They shuffled listlessly along till they came to Stage Four, where they seated themselves on wooden benches, waiting for Mr Schnellenhamer to arrive.
Bulstrode had found a place next to Mabelle Ridgway. The girl's face was drawn and despondent.
'Edward is breaking in a new quart of hair-oil for the wedding,' she said, after a moment of silence.
Bulstrode shivered.
'Genevieve,' he replied, 'has bought one of those combination eyebrow-tweezers and egg-scramblers. The advertisement said that no bride should be without them.'
Mabelle drew her breath in sharply.
'Can nothing be done?' asked Bulstrode.
'Nothing,' said Mabelle dully. 'We cannot leave till "Scented Sinners" is finished,
and it never will be finished – never ... never ... never.' Her spiritual face was contorted for a moment. 'I hear there are writers who have been working on it for years and years. That grey-bearded gentleman over there, who is sticking straws in his hair,' she said, pointing. 'That is Mr Markey. He has the office next to ours, and comes in occasionally to complain that there are spiders crawling up his wall. He has been doing treatments of "Scented Sinners" since he was a young man.'
In the tense instant during which they stared at each other with mournful, hopeless eyes, Mr Schnellenhamer bustled in and mounted the platform. He surveyed the gathering authoritatively: then, clearing his throat, began to speak.
He spoke of Service and Ideals, of Co-operation and the Spirit That Wins to Success. He had just begun to touch on the glories of the Southern Californian climate, when the scent of a powerful cigar floated over the meeting, and a voice spoke.
'Hey!'
All eyes were turned in the intruder's direction. It was Mr Isadore Levitsky, the chief business operative, who stood there, he with whom Mr Schnellenhamer had had an appointment to conference.
'What's all this?' demanded Mr Levitsky. 'You had a date with me in my office.'
Mr Schnellenhamer hurried down from the platform and drew Mr Levitsky aside.
'I'm sorry, I.G.,' he said. 'I had to break our date. There's all this spirit of unrest broke out among the "Scented Sinners" gang, and I thought I'd better talk to them. You remember that time five years ago when we had to call out the State Militia.'
Mr Levitsky looked puzzled.
'The what gang?'
'The writers who are doing treatments on "Scented Sinners." You know "Scented Sinners" that we bought.'
'But we didn't,' said Mr Levitsky.
'We didn't?' said Mr Schnellenhamer, surprised.
'Certainly we didn't. Don't you remember the Medulla-Oblongata-Glutz people outbid us?'
Mr Schnellenhamer stood for a moment, musing.
'That's right, too,' he said at length. 'They did, didn't they?'
'Certainly they did.'
'Then the story doesn't belong to us at all?'
'Certainly it doesn't. M-O-G has owned it for the last eleven years.'
Mr Schnellenhamer smote his forehead.
'Of course! It all comes back to me now. I had quite forgotten.'
He mounted the platform once more.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'all work on "Scented Sinners" will cease immediately. The studio has discovered that it doesn't own it.'
It was a merry gathering that took place in the commissary of the Perfecto-Zizzbaum Studio some half-hour later. Genevieve Bottle had broken her engagement to Bulstrode and was sitting with her hand linked in that of Ed Murgatroyd. Mabelle Ridgway had broken her engagement to Ed Murgatroyd and was stroking Bulstrode's arm. It would have been hard to find four happier people, unless you had stepped outside and searched among the horde of emancipated writers who were dancing the Carmagnole so blithely around the shoe-shining stand.
'And what are you two good folks going to do now?' asked Ed Murgatroyd, surveying Bulstrode and Mabelle with kindly eyes. 'Have you made any plans?'
'I came out here to strike Oil,' said Bulstrode. 'I'll do it now.'
He raised a cheery hand and brought it down with an affectionate smack on the bootlegger's gleaming head.
'Ha, ha!' chuckled Bulstrode.
'Ha, ha!' roared Mr Murgatroyd.
'Ha, ha!' tittered Mabelle and Genevieve.
A perfect camaraderie prevailed among these four young people, delightful to see.
'No, but seriously,' said Mr Murgatroyd, wiping the tears from his eyes, 'are you fixed all right? Have you got enough dough to get married on?'
Mabelle looked at Bulstrode. Bulstrode looked at Mabelle. For the first time, a shadow seemed to fall over their happiness.
'We haven't,' Bulstrode was forced to admit.
Ed Murgatroyd slapped him on the shoulder.
'Then come and join my little outfit,' he said heartily. 'I've always room for a personal friend. Besides, we're muscling into the North Side beer industry next month, and I shall need willing helpers.'
Bulstrode clasped his hand, deeply moved.
'Ed,' he exclaimed, 'I call that square of you. I'll buy a machine-gun to-morrow.'
With his other hand he sought Mabelle's hand and pressed it. Outside, the laughter of the mob had turned to wild cheering. A bonfire had been started, and Mr Doakes, Mr Noakes, Miss Faversham, Miss Wilson, Mr Fotheringay, Mr Mendelsohn, Mr Markey and the others were feeding it with their scripts of 'Scented Sinners.'
In the Front Office, Mr Schnellenhamer and Mr Levitsky, suspending their seven hundred and forty-first conference for an instant, listened to the tumult.
'Makes you feel like Lincoln, doesn't it?' said Mr Levitsky.
'Ah!' said Mr Schnellenhamer.
They smiled indulgently. They were kindly men at heart, and they liked the girls and boys to be happy.
P. G. Wodehouse
IN ARROW BOOKS
If you have enjoyed Blandings, you'll love Jeeves and Wooster
FROM
The Code of the Woosters
I reached out a hand from under the blankets, and rang the bell for Jeeves.
'Good evening, Jeeves.'
'Good morning, sir.'
This surprised me.
'Is it morning?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Are you sure? It seems very dark outside.'
'There is a fog, sir. If you will recollect, we are now in Autumn – season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.'
'Season of what?'
'Mists, sir, and mellow fruitfulness.'
'Oh? Yes. Yes, I see. Well, be that as it may, get me one of those bracers of yours, will you?'
'I have one in readiness, sir, in the ice-box.'
He shimmered out, and I sat up in bed with that rather unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you're going to die in about five minutes. On the previous night, I had given a little dinner at the Drones to Gussie Fink-Nottle as a friendly send-off before his approaching nuptials with Madeline, only daughter of Sir Watkyn Bassett, CBE, and these things take their toll. Indeed, just before Jeeves came in, I had been dreaming that some bounder was driving spikes through my head – not just ordinary spikes, as used by Jael the wife of Heber, but red-hot ones.
He returned with the tissue-restorer. I loosed it down the hatch, and after undergoing the passing discomfort, unavoidable when you drink Jeeves's patent morning revivers, of having the top of the skull fly up to the ceiling and the eyes shoot out of their sockets and rebound from the opposite wall like racquet balls, felt better. It would have been overstating it to say that even now Bertram was back again in mid-season form, but I had at least slid into the convalescent class and was equal to a spot of conversation.
'Ha!' I said, retrieving the eyeballs and replacing them in position. 'Well, Jeeves, what goes on in the great world? Is that the paper you have there?'
'No, sir. It is some literature from the Travel Bureau. I thought that you might care to glance at it.'
'Oh?' I said. 'You did, did you?'
And there was a brief and – if that's the word I want – pregnant silence.
I suppose that when two men of iron will live in close association with one another, there are bound to be occasional clashes, and one of these had recently popped up in the Wooster home. Jeeves was trying to get me to go on a Round-The-World cruise, and I would have none of it. But in spite of my firm statements to this effect, scarcely a day passed without him bringing me a sheaf or nosegay of those illustrated folders which the Ho-for-the-open-spaces birds send out in the hope of drumming up custom. His whole attitude recalled irresistibly to the mind that of some assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the drawing-room carpet, though repeatedly apprised by word and gesture that the market for same is sluggish or even non-existent.
'Jeeves,' I said, 'this nuisance must
now cease.'
'Travel is highly educational, sir.'
'I can't do with any more education. I was full up years ago. No, Jeeves, I know what's the matter with you. That old Viking strain of yours has come out again. You yearn for the tang of the salt breezes. You see yourself walking the deck in a yachting cap. Possibly someone has been telling you about the Dancing Girls of Bali. I understand, and I sympathize. But not for me. I refuse to be decanted into any blasted ocean-going liner and lugged off round the world.'
'Very good, sir.'
He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled, so I tactfully changed the subject.
'Well, Jeeves, it was quite a satisfactory binge last night.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'Oh, most. An excellent time was had by all. Gussie sent his regards.'
'I appreciate the kind thought, sir. I trust Mr Fink-Nottle was in good spirits?'
'Extraordinarily good, considering that the sands are running out and that he will shortly have Sir Watkyn Bassett for a father-in-law. Sooner him than me, Jeeves, sooner him than me.'
I spoke with strong feeling, and I'll tell you why. A few months before, while celebrating Boat Race night, I had fallen into the clutches of the Law for trying to separate a policeman from his helmet, and after sleeping fitfully on a plank bed had been hauled up at Bosher Street next morning and fined five of the best. The magistrate who had inflicted this monstrous sentence – to the accompaniment, I may add, of some very offensive remarks from the bench – was none other than old Pop Bassett, father of Gussie's bride-to-be.
As it turned out, I was one of his last customers, for a couple of weeks later he inherited a pot of money from a distant relative and retired to the country. That, at least, was the story that had been put about. My own view was that he had got the stuff by sticking like glue to the fines. Five quid here, five quid there – you can see how it would mount up over a period of years.