Short Fiction P. G. Wodehouse (good books to read in english .txt) 📖

lot. He remembered confiding to a friend in the station-house, as he rubbed with liniment the spot on his right shin where the well-shod foot of a joyous costermonger had got home, that this sort of thing⁠—meaning militant costermongers⁠—was “a bit too thick.” A bit too thick! Why, he would pay one to kick him now. And as for the three loyal friends of the would-be wife-murderer who had broken his nose, if he saw them coming round the corner he would welcome them as brothers.

And Battersea Park Road dozed on⁠—calm, intellectual, law-abiding.

A friend of his told him that there had once been a murder in one of these flats. He did not believe it. If any of these white-corpuscled clams ever swatted a fly, it was much as they could do. The thing was ridiculous on the face of it. If they were capable of murder, they would have murdered Alf Brooks.

He stood in the road, and looked up at the placid buildings resentfully.

“Grr-rr-rr!” he growled, and kicked the sidewalk.

And, even as he spoke, on the balcony of a second-floor flat there appeared a woman, an elderly, sharp-faced woman, who waved her arms and screamed, “Policeman! Officer! Come up here! Come up here at once!”

Up the stone stairs went Constable Plimmer at the run. His mind was alert and questioning. Murder? Hardly murder, perhaps. If it had been that, the woman would have said so. She did not look the sort of woman who would be reticent about a thing like that. Well, anyway, it was something; and Edward Plimmer had been long enough in Battersea to be thankful for small favours. An intoxicated husband would be better than nothing. At least he would be something that a fellow could get his hands on to and throw about a bit.

The sharp-faced woman was waiting for him at the door. He followed her into the flat.

“What is it, ma’am?”

“Theft! Our cook has been stealing!”

She seemed sufficiently excited about it, but Constable Plimmer felt only depression and disappointment. A stout admirer of the sex, he hated arresting women. Moreover, to a man in the mood to tackle anarchists with bombs, to be confronted with petty theft is galling. But duty was duty. He produced his notebook.

“She is in her room. I locked her in. I know she has taken my brooch. We have missed money. You must search her.”

“Can’t do that, ma’am. Female searcher at the station.”

“Well, you can search her box.”

A little, bald, nervous man in spectacles appeared as if out of a trap. As a matter of fact, he had been there all the time, standing by the bookcase; but he was one of those men you do not notice till they move and speak.

“Er⁠—Jane.”

“Well, Henry?”

The little man seemed to swallow something.

“I⁠—I think that you may possibly be wronging Ellen. It is just possible, as regards the money⁠—” He smiled in a ghastly manner and turned to the policeman. “Er⁠—officer, I ought to tell you that my wife⁠—ah⁠—holds the purse-strings of our little home; and it is just possible that in an absentminded moment I may have⁠—”

“Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you have been taking my money?”

“My dear, it is just possible that in the abs⁠—”

“How often?”

He wavered perceptibly. Conscience was beginning to lose its grip.

“Oh, not often.”

“How often? More than once?”

Conscience had shot its bolt. The little man gave up the Struggle.

“No, no, not more than once. Certainly not more than once.”

“You ought not to have done it at all. We will talk about that later. It doesn’t alter the fact that Ellen is a thief. I have missed money half a dozen times. Besides that, there’s the brooch. Step this way, officer.”

Constable Plimmer stepped that way⁠—his face a mask. He knew who was waiting for them behind the locked door at the end of the passage. But it was his duty to look as if he were stuffed, and he did so.

She was sitting on her bed, dressed for the street. It was her afternoon out, the sharp-faced woman had informed Constable Plimmer, attributing the fact that she had discovered the loss of the brooch in time to stop her a direct interposition of Providence. She was pale, and there was a hunted look in her eyes.

“You wicked girl, where is my brooch?”

She held it out without a word. She had been holding it in her hand.

“You see, officer!”

“I wasn’t stealing of it. I ’adn’t but borrowed it. I was going to put it back.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Borrow it, indeed! What for?”

“I⁠—I wanted to look nice.”

The woman gave a short laugh. Constable Plimmer’s face was a mere block of wood, expressionless.

“And what about the money I’ve been missing? I suppose you’ll say you only borrowed that?”

“I never took no money.”

“Well, it’s gone, and money doesn’t go by itself. Take her to the police-station, officer.”

Constable Plimmer raised heavy eyes.

“You make a charge, ma’am?”

“Bless the man! Of course I make a charge. What did you think I asked you to step in for?”

“Will you come along, miss?” said Constable Plimmer.

Out in the street the sun shone gaily down on peaceful Battersea. It was the hour when children walk abroad with their nurses; and from the green depths of the Park came the sound of happy voices. A cat stretched itself in the sunshine and eyed the two as they passed with lazy content.

They walked in silence. Constable Plimmer was a man with a rigid sense of what was and what was not fitting behaviour in a policeman on duty: he aimed always at a machine-like impersonality. There were times when it came hard, but he did his best. He strode on, his chin up and his eyes averted. And beside him⁠—

Well, she was not crying. That was something.

Round the corner, beautiful in light flannel, gay at both ends with a new straw hat and the yellowest shoes in Southwest London, scented, curled, a prince among young men, stood Alf Brooks. He was feeling piqued. When he