‘Intensely, sir.’
‘A tough bird like him? Practically a bucko mate of a tramp steamer?’
‘Even bucko mates stand in awe of the captains of their vessels, sir.’
‘Well, you absolutely astound me. I should have thought that if ever there was a bimbo who was master in his own home, that bimbo was Percival, Lord Worplesdon.’
‘I am inclined to doubt whether the gentleman exists who could be master in a home that contained her ladyship, sir.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I breathed deeply. For the first time since Boko had outlined the night’s programme, I was conscious of a relaxation of the strain. It would be paltering with the truth to say that even now Bertram Wooster looked forward with any actual relish to busting that scullery window, but it was stimulating to feel that the action was likely to produce solid results.
‘Then you think this scheme of Boko’s will drag home the gravy?’
‘Quite conceivably, sir.’
‘That’s a comfort.’
‘On the other hand—’
‘Oh, golly, Jeeves. What’s wrong now?’
‘I was merely about to say that Mr Fittleworth has selected a somewhat unfortunate moment for his enterprise, sir. It tends to clash with his lordship’s arrangements.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘By an unfortunate coincidence, his lordship will in a few moments from now be proceeding to the potting shed to confer with Mr Chichester Clam.’
‘Chichester Clam?’
‘Yes, sir.’
I shook the head.
‘I think the strain to which I have been subjected must have affected my hearing. You sound to me just as if you were saying Chichester Clam.’
‘Yes, sir. Mr J. Chichester Clam, managing director of the Clam Line.’
‘What on earth’s a clam line?’
‘The shipping line, sir, which, if you remember, is on the eve of being merged with his lordship’s Pink Funnel.’
I got it at last.
‘You mean the chap Uncle Percy is trying to get together with? The ancient mariner from America?’
‘Precisely, sir. Owing to the conflagration at Wee Nooke, it became necessary to think of some other spot where the two gentlemen could meet and discuss their business without fear of interruption.’
‘And you chose the potting shed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘God bless you, Jeeves.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Is this bird in the potting shed now?’
‘I should be disposed to imagine so, sir. When I motored to London this afternoon, it was with instructions from his lordship to establish telephonic communication with Mr Clam at his hotel and urge him to hasten to Steeple Bumpleigh and be in the potting shed half an hour after midnight. The gentleman expressed complete understanding and agreement, and assured me that he would drive down in good time to keep the appointment.’
I could not repress a pang of gentle pity for this hand across the sea. Born and brought up in America, he would, of course, not have the slightest idea of the sort of place Steeple Bumpleigh was and what he was letting himself in for in going there. I couldn’t, offhand, say what Steeple Bumpleigh was saving up for Chich-ester Clam, but obviously he was headed for a sticky evening.
I saw, too, what Jeeves meant about Boko having selected an unfortunate moment for his enterprise.
‘Half an hour after midnight? It must be nearly that now.’
‘Exactly that, sir.’
‘Then Uncle Percy will be manifesting himself at any moment.’
‘If I am not mistaken, sir, this would be his lordship whom you can hear approaching.’
And, sure enough, from somewhere to the nor’-nor’-east there came the sound of some solid object shuffling through the night.
I inhaled in quick concern.
‘Egad, Jeeves!’
‘Sir?’
‘‘Tis he!’
‘Yes, sir.’
I mused a moment.
‘Well,’ I said, though not liking the prospect and wishing that the civility could have been avoided, ‘I suppose I’d better pass the time of day. What ho,’ I continued, as he came abreast. ‘What ho, what ho!’
I must say the results were not unpleasing – to a man, I mean, who, like myself, had twice to-night been forced to skip like the high hills on finding himself unexpectedly addressed from the shadows. Watching the relative soar skywards with a wordless squeak, obviously startled out of a year’s growth, I was conscious of a distinct sensation of getting a bit of my own back. I felt that, whatever might befall, I was at least that much to the good.
In introducing this uncle by marriage, I showed him to be a man who, in moments of keen emotion, had a tendency to say ‘What?’ and keep on saying it. He did so now.
‘What? What? What? What? What?’ he ejaculated, making five in all. ‘What?’ he added, bringing it up to the round half dozen.
‘Lovely evening, Uncle Percy,’ I said, hoping by the exercise of suavity to keep the conversation on an amicable plane. ‘Jeeves and I were just talking about the stars. What was it you said about the stars, Jeeves?’
‘I alluded to the fact that there was not the smallest orb which did not sing in its motion like an angel, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims, sir.’
‘That’s right. Worth knowing, that, eh, Uncle Percy?’
During these exchanges, the relative had been going on saying ‘What?’ in a sort of strangled voice, as if still finding it a bit hard to cope with the pressure of events. He now came forward and peered at me, feasting the eyes as far as was possible in the uncertain light.
‘You!’ he said, with a kind of gasp, like some strong swimmer in his agony. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Just sauntering.’
‘Then go and saunter somewhere else, damn it.’
The Woosters are quick to take a hint, and are generally able to spot when our presence is not desired. Reading between the lines, I could see that he was wishing me elsewhere.
‘Right ho, Uncle Percy,’ I said, still maintaining the old suavity, and was about to withdraw, when another of those voices which seemed to be so common in these parts spoke in my immediate rear, causing me to equal, if not to improve upon, the old relative’s recent standing high jump.
‘What’s all this?’ it said, and with what is sometimes called a sickening qualm I perceived that it was Stilton who had joined our little group. Boko had been completely wrong about the man. Rosy though his cheeks may have been, here was no eight-hour slumberer, who had to be brought to life by alarm clocks, but a vigilant guardian of the peace who was always up and doing, working while others slept.
Stilton was looking gruesomely official. His helmet gleamed in the starlight. His regulation boots had settled themselves solidly into the turf. I rather think he had got his notebook out.
‘What’s all this?’ he repeated.
I suppose Uncle Percy was still feeling a bit edgy. Nothing else could have explained the crisp, mouth-filling expletive which now proceeded from him like a shot out of a gun. It sounded to me like something he must have picked up from one of the sea captains in his employment. These rugged mariners always have excellent vocabularies, and no doubt they frequently drop in at the office on their return from a voyage and teach him something new.
‘What the devil do you mean, what’s all this? And who the devil are you to come trespassing in my grounds, asking what’s all this? What’s all this yourself? What,’ proceeded Uncle Percy, warming to his work, ‘are you doing here, you great oaf? I suppose you’re just sauntering, too? Good God! I try to enjoy a quiet stroll in my garden, and before I can so much as inhale a breath of air I find it crawling with nephews and policemen. I come out to be alone with Nature, and the first thing I know I can’t move for the crowd. What is this place? Piccadilly Circus? Hampstead Heath on Bank Holiday? The spot ch
osen for the annual outing of the police force?’
I saw his point. Nothing is more annoying to a man who is seeking privacy than to discover that, without knowing it, he has thrown his grounds open to the public. In addition to which, of course, Chichester Clam was waiting for him in the potting shed.
The acerbity of his tone had not been lost on Stilton. Well, I mean to say, it couldn’t very well have been. That expletive alone would have been enough to tell him that he was not a welcome visitor. I could see that he was piqued. His was in many ways a haughty spirit, and it was plain that he resented this brusqueness. From the fact that the top of his helmet moved sharply in the direction of the stars, I knew that he had drawn himself to his full height.
He found himself, however, in a somewhat embarrassing position. He could not come back with anything really snappy, Uncle Percy being a Justice of the Peace and, as such, able to put it across him like the dickens if he talked out of his turn. Besides being his future father-in-law. He was compelled, accordingly, to temper his resentment with a modicum of reserve and to take it out in stiffness of manner.
‘I am sorry—’
‘No use being sorry. Thing is not to do it, blast it.’
‘– to intrude—’
‘Then stop intruding.’
‘– but I am here in the performance of my duty.’
‘What do you mean? Never heard such nonsense.’
‘I received a telephone call just now, desiring me to proceed to the Hall immediately.’
‘Telephone call? Telephone call? What rot! At this time of night? Who telephoned you?’
I suppose that stiff, official manner is difficult to keep up. Quite a bit of a strain, probably. At any rate, Stilton now lapsed from it.
‘Young ruddy Edwin,’ he replied sullenly.
‘My son Edwin?’
‘Yes. He said he had seen a burglar in the grounds.’
A spasm seemed to pass through Uncle Percy. The word ‘burglar’ had plainly touched a chord. He spun round with a passionate gesture.
‘Jeeves!’
‘M’lord?’
‘Did you post that letter?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘Phew!’ said Uncle Percy, and mopped his brow.
He was still mopping it, when there came the sound of galloping feet and somebody started giving tongue in the darkness.
‘Hi! Hi! Hi! Wake up, everybody. Turn out the guard. I’ve caught a burglar in the potting shed.’
The voice was Boko’s, and with another pang of pity I realized that J. Chichester Clam’s troubles had begun. He knew now what happened to people who came to Steeple Bumpleigh.
CHAPTER 15
In the brief interval which elapsed before Boko sighted us and came to join our little circle, I fell to musing on this Clam and thinking how different he must be finding all this from what he had been accustomed to.
Here, I mean to say, was one of those solid business men who are America’s pride, whose lives are as regular and placid as that of a bug in a rug. On my visits to New York I had met dozens of them, so I could envisage without difficulty a typical Clam day.
Up in the morning bright and early at his Long Island home. The bath. The shave. The eggs. The cereal. The coffee. The drive to the station. The 8.15. The cigar. The New York Times. The arrival at the Pennsylvania terminus. The morning’s work. The lunch. The afternoon’s work. The cocktail. The 5.50. The drive from the station. The return home. The kiss for the wife and tots, the pat for the welcoming dog. The shower. The change into something loose. The well-earned dinner. The quiet evening. Bed.
That was the year in, year out routine of a man like Chich-ester Clam, Sundays and holidays excepted, and it was one ill calculated to fit him for the raw excitements and jungle conditions of Steeple Bumpleigh. Steeple Bumpleigh must have come upon him as a totally new experience, causing him to wonder what had hit him – like a man who, stooping to pluck a nosegay of wild flowers on a railway line, is unexpectedly struck in the small of the back by the Cornish Express. As he now sat in the potting shed, listening to Boko’s view halloos, he was probably convinced that all this must be that Collapse of Civilization, of which he had no doubt so often spoken at the Union League Club.
In spite of the floor of heaven being thick inlaid with patines of bright gold, it was, as I have said, a darkish night, not easy to see things in. The visibility was, however, quite good enough to enable one to perceive that Boko was pretty pleased with himself. Indeed, it would not be overstating it to say that he had got it right up his nose. That this was so was borne in upon me by the fact that he started right away calling Uncle Percy ‘my dear Worplesdon’ – a thing which in his calmer moments he wouldn’t have done on a bet.
‘Ah, my dear Worplesdon,’ he said, having peered into the relative’s face and identified him, ‘so you’re up and about, are you? Capital, capital. Stilton, too? And Jeeves? And Bertie? Fine. Between the five of us, we ought to be well able to overpower the miscreant. I don’t know if you were listening to what I was saying just now, but I’ve locked a burglar up in the potting shed.’
He spoke these words with the air of a man getting ready to receive the thanks of the nation, tapping Uncle Percy’s chest the while as if to suggest that the latter was a lucky chap to have Boko Fittleworths working day and night in his interests. It did not surprise me to observe the relative’s growing restiveness under the treatment.
‘Will you stop prodding me, sir!’ he cried, plainly stirred. ‘What’s all this nonsense about burglars?’
Boko seemed taken aback. One could see that he was feeling that this was not quite the tone.
‘Nonsense, Worplesdon?’
‘How do you know the fellow’s a burglar?’
‘My dear Worplesdon! Would anybody but a burglar be lurking in potting sheds at this time of night? But, if you still need convincing, let me tell you that I was passing the scullery window just now, and I noticed that it was covered with a piece of brown paper.’
‘Brown paper?’
‘Brown paper. Pretty sinister, eh?’
‘Why?’
‘My dear Worplesdon, it proves to the hilt the man’s criminal intentions. You are possibly not aware of it, but when these fellows plan to enter a house and snaffle contents, they always stick a bit of brown paper on a window with treacle and then smash it with a blow of the fist. It’s the regular procedure. The fragments of glass adhere to the paper, and they are thus enabled to climb in without mincing themselves into hash. Oh, no, my dear Worplesdon, there can be no doubt concerning the scoundrel’s guilty purpose. I bottled him up in the nick of time. I heard something moving in the potting shed, peeped in, saw a dark form, and slammed the door and fastened it, thus laying him a dead stymie and foiling all his plans.’
This statement drew a word of professional approbation from the sleepless guardian of the law.
‘Good work, Boko.’
‘Thanks, Stilton.’
‘You showed great presence of mind.’
‘Nice of you to say so.’
‘I’ll go and pinch him.’
‘Just what I was about to suggest.’
‘Has he a gun?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll soon find out.’
‘I don’t care if he has.’
‘The right spirit.’
‘I shall just make a quick spring—’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘– and disarm him.’
‘We will hope so. We will certainly hope so. Yes, let us hope for the best. Still, whatever happens, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your duty.’
Throughout these exchanges, starting at the words ‘Good work’ and continuing right through to the tab line ‘done your duty’, Uncle Percy had been exhibiting much of the frank perturbation of a cat on hot bricks. Nor could one blame him. He had invited J. Chichester Clam for a quiet talk in the potting shed, and the thought of constables making quick springs at him
must have been a very bitter one. You can’t conduct delicate business negotiations with that sort of thing going on. In his agony of spirit, he now began saying ‘What?’ again, leading Boko to apply that patronizing finger to his brisket once more.
‘It’s quite all right, my dear Worplesdon,’ said Boko, tapping like a woodpecker. ‘Have no concern about Stilton. He won’t get hurt. At least, I don’t think so. One may be wrong, of course. Anyway, he is paid to take these risks. Ah, Florence,’ he added, addressing the daughter of the house, who had just come alongside in a dressing-gown, with her hair in curling pins.
It was plain that Florence was not her usual calm and equable self. When she spoke, one noted a testiness.
‘Never mind the “Ah, Florence.” What is going on out here? What is all this noise and disturbance? I was woken up by someone shouting.’
‘Me,’ said Boko, and even in the uncertain light I could see that he was smirking. I doubt if in all Hampshire that night you could have found a fellow more thoroughly satisfied with himself. He had got it firmly rooted in his mind that he was the popular hero, beloved of all – little knowing that Uncle Percy’s favourite reading would have been his name on a tombstone. Rather saddening, the whole thing.
‘Well, I wish you wouldn’t. It is perfectly impossible to sleep, with people romping all over the garden.’
‘Romping? I was catching a burglar.’
‘Catching a burglar?’
‘You never spoke a truer word. A great desperate brute of a midnight marauder, who may or may not be armed to the teeth. That question we shall be able to answer better after Stilton has got together with him.’
‘But how did you catch a burglar?’
‘Oh, it’s just a knack.’
‘I mean, what were you doing here at this time of night?’
It was as if Uncle Percy had been waiting for someone to come along and throw him just that cue.
‘Exactly,’ he cried, having snorted the snort of a lifetime. ‘The very thing I want to know. The precise question I was about to ask myself. What the devil are you doing here? I am not aware that I invited you to infest my private grounds and go charging about them like a buffalo, making an appalling din and rendering peace and quiet impossible. You have a garden of your own, I believe? If you must behave like a buffalo, kindly go and do so there. And the idea of locking people in my potting shed! I never heard of anything so officious in my life.’