A Gentleman of Leisure P. G. Wodehouse (list of ebook readers TXT) 📖

the subject of discussion only dawned upon him now.

“What do you mean?” he cried. “Who is it that you have arrested?”

“Blest if I know. You can tell me that, I should think, seeing he’s an old Timbuktu friend of yours. Galer’s the name he goes by here.”

“Galer!”

“That’s the man. And do you know what he had the impudence, the gall, to tell me? That he was in my own line of business. A detective! He said you had sent for him to come here.”

He laughed amusedly at the recollection.

“And so he is, you fool. So I did.”

“Oh, you did, did you? And what business had you bringing detectives into other people’s houses?”

Mr. McEachern started to answer, but checked himself. Never before had he appreciated to the full the depth and truth of the proverb relating to the frying pan and the fire. To clear himself he must mention his suspicions of Jimmy, and also his reasons for those suspicions. And to do that would mean revealing his past. It was Scylla and Charybdis.

A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple.

“What’s the good?” said the detective. “Mighty ingenious idea, that, only you hadn’t allowed for there being a real detective in the house. It was that chap pitching me that yarn that made me suspicious of you. I put two and two together. ‘Partners,’ I said to myself. I’d heard all about you, scraping acquaintance with Sir Thomas and all. Mighty ingenious. You become the old family friend, and then you let in your pal. He gets the stuff and hands it over to you. Nobody dreams of suspecting you, and there you are. Honestly, now, wasn’t that the game?”

“It’s all a mistake⁠—” McEachern was beginning, when the door handle turned.

The detective looked over his shoulder. McEachern glared dumbly. This was the crowning blow, that there should be spectators of his predicament.

Jimmy strolled into the room.

“Dreever told me you were in here,” he said to McEachern. “Can you spare me a⁠⸺ Halloa!”

The detective had pocketed his revolver at the first sound of the handle⁠—to be discreet was one of the chief articles in the creed of the young men from Wragge’s Detective Agency⁠—but handcuffs are not easily concealed. Jimmy stood staring in amazement at McEachern’s wrists.

“Some sort of a round game?” he inquired with interest.

The detective became confidential.

“It’s this way, Mr. Pitt. There’s been some pretty deep work going on here. There’s a regular gang of burglars in the place. This chap here’s one of them.”

“What, Mr. McEachern?”

“That’s what he calls himself.”

It was all Jimmy could do to keep himself from asking Mr. McEachern whether he attributed his downfall to drink. He contented himself with a sorrowful shake of the head at the fermenting captive. Then he took up the part of counsel for the defence.

“I don’t believe it,” he said. “What makes you think so?”

“Why, this afternoon I caught this man’s pal⁠—the fellow that calls himself Galer⁠—”

“I know the man,” said Jimmy. “He’s a detective really. Mr. McEachern brought him down here.”

The sleuth’s jaw dropped limply, as if he had received a blow.

“What?” he said, in a feeble voice.

“Didn’t I tell you⁠—” began Mr. McEachern; but the sleuth was occupied with Jimmy. That sickening premonition of disaster was beginning to steal over him. Dimly he began to perceive that he had blundered.

“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Why, I can’t say; but Mr. McEachern was afraid someone might try to steal Lady Julia Blunt’s rope of diamonds, so he wrote to London for this man Galer. It was officious, perhaps, but not criminal. I doubt if, legally, you could handcuff a man for a thing like that. What have you done with good Mr. Galer?”

“I’ve locked him in the coal cellar,” said the detective dismally. The thought of the interview in prospect with the human bloodhound he had so mishandled was not exhilarating.

“Locked him in the cellar, did you?” said Jimmy. “Well, well, I dare say he’s very happy there. He’s probably busy detecting black beetles. Still, perhaps you had better go and let him out. Possibly if you were to apologise to him⁠—Eh? Just as you think⁠—I only suggest. If you want somebody to vouch for Mr. McEachern’s non-burglariousness, I can do it. He is a gentleman of private means, and we knew each other out in New York.”

“I never thought⁠—”

“That,” said Jimmy, with sympathetic friendliness, “if you will allow me to say so, is the cardinal mistake you detectives make. You never do think.”

“It never occurred to me⁠—”

He took the key of the handcuffs from his pocket and toyed with it. Mr. McEachern emitted a low growl. It was enough.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Pitt,” said the detective obsequiously. He thrust the key into Jimmy’s hands and fled. Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs. Mr. McEachern rubbed his wrists.

“Ingenious little things,” said Jimmy.

“I’m much obliged to you,” growled Mr. McEachern, without looking up.

“Not at all⁠—a pleasure. This circumstantial evidence business is the devil, isn’t it? I knew a man who broke into a house in New York to win a bet, and to this day the owner of the house thinks him a professional burglar.”

“What’s that?” said Mr. McEachern sharply.

“Why do I say ‘a man’? Why am I so elusive and mysterious? You’re quite right. It sounds more dramatic; but, after all, what you want is facts. Very well. I broke into your house that night to win a bet. That’s the limpid truth.”

McEachern was staring at him. Jimmy proceeded.

“You are just about to ask⁠—what was Spike Mullins doing with me? Well, Spike had broken into my flat an hour before, and I took him along with me as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend.”

“Spike Mullins said you were a burglar from England.”

“I’m afraid I rather led him to think so. I had been to see the opening performance of a burglar-play called Love, the Cracksman that night, and I worked off on Spike some severely technical information I had received from a pal of mine who played lead in the show. I told you when I came in that I had been talking to