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

Cats’ House. I have breathed a sigh of relief. I am saved.

That is what I say to myself as I return. My troubles are over, and once more I can be gay, debonair, vivacious with Miss Marion, for no longer will there be present the cat Alexander to ’arass me.

When I have returned there is commotion in the ’ouse. I pass on the stairs domestics calling “Puss, puss!” The butler is chirruping loudly and poking beneath the furniture with a umbrella. All is confusion and agitation.

In the drawing-room is Miss Marion. She is distressed.

“Nowhere,” she has said, “can there be found the cat Alexander of whom I am so fond. Nowhere in the ’ouse is he. Where can he be? He is lost.”

I am gentle, sympathetic. I endeavour to console her. I ’int to her that am I not sufficient substitute for a beastly cat? She is, however, inconsolable. I must be patient. I must wait my time.

Captain Bassett is announced. He is informed of what has ’appened. He is distressed. He has the air as if he, too, would endeavour to be gentle, sympathetic. But I am Johnny-on-the-spot. I stay till he ’as gone.

Next day again it is “Puss, puss!” Again the butler has explored under the furniture with the umbrella. Again Miss Marion is distressed. Again ’ave I endeavoured to console.

This time I think I am not so unsuccessful. I am, you understand, young, ’andsome, sympathetic. In another two ticks I am about to seize ’er ’and and declare my passion.

But, before I can do so, Captain Bassett is announced.

I gaze at him as at unsuccessful rival. I am confident. I am conqueror. Ah, I little know! It is in the moments of our highest ’ope, monsieur, that we are destroyed.

Captain Bassett, he, too, ’as the air of the conqueror.

He has begun to speak.

“Miss ’Enderson,” he has said, “I have once more the bally good news. I rather fancy that I ’ave tracked down the missing Alexander, do you not know?”

Miss Marion ’as cried out with joy. But I am calm, for is not Alexander already yesterday destroyed?

“It is like this,” he has resumed. “I have thought to myself where is lost cat most likely to be? And I have answered, ‘In the Cats’ House.’ I go this morning to the Cats’ House, and there I see a cat which is either lost Alexander or his living image. Exactly is he the same to all appearances as the lost Alexander. But there is, when I try to purchase ’im, some curious ’itch which they do not explain. They must ’ave time, they say, to consider. They cannot at once decide.”

“Why, what nonsense!” Miss Marion ’ave cried. “If the cat is my cat, surely then must they return ’im to me! Come,” she has said, “let us all three at once in a taxicab go to the Cats’ House. If the all three of us identify the lost Alexander, then must they return ’im.”

Monsieur, I am uneasy. I have foreboding. But I go. What choice? We go in a taxicab to the Cats’ House.

The directeur is courteous and sympathetic. He has introduced us to the cat, and my ’eart ’as turned to water, for it is Alexander. Why has he not been destroyed?

The directeur is speaking. I ’ear him in a dream.

“If you identify ’im as your cat, miss,” he has said, “the matter is ended. My ’esitation when you, sir, approached me this morning on the matter was due to the fact that a messenger was sent with instructions that he be destroyed at once.”

“Rather rough, wasn’t it, that, on the messenger, yes,” Captain Bassett has said. He is facetious, you understand, for he is conqueror.

I am silent. I am not facetious. For already I feel⁠—how do you say?⁠—my fowl is cooked.

“Not the messenger, sir,” the directeur has said. “You ’ave misunderstood me. It was the cat which was to be destroyed as per instructions of the anonymous sender.”

“Who could have played such a wicked trick?” Miss Marion has asked, indignant.

The directeur has stooped, and from behind a table he has brought a ’at-box.

“In this,” he has said, “the above animal was conveyed. But with it was no accompanying letter. The sender was anonymous.”

“Per’aps,” Captain Bassett has said⁠—and still more in a dream I ’ear him⁠—“per’aps on the ’at-box there is some bally name or other, do you not know⁠—what?”

I clutch at the table. The room is spinning round and round. I have no stomach⁠—only emptiness.

“Why, bless me,” the directeur has said, “you’re quite right, sir. So there is. Funny of me not to have before observed it. There is a name, and also an address. It is the name of Jean Priaulx, and the address is the Hotel Jules Priaulx, Paris.”

My companion stopped abruptly. He passed a handkerchief over his forehead. With a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueur brandy and drained it at a gulp.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you will not wish me to describe the scene? There is no need for me⁠—hein?⁠—to be Zolaesque. You can imagine?”

“She chucked you?” In moments of emotion it is the simplest language that comes to the lips.

He nodded.

“And married Captain Bassett?”

He nodded again.

“And your uncle?” I said. “How did he take it?”

He sighed.

“There was once more,” he said, “blooming row, monsieur.”

“He washed his hands of you?”

“Not altogether. He was angry, but he gave me one more chance. I am still ’is dear brother’s child, and he cannot forget it. An acquaintance of his, a man of letters, a M. Paul Sartines, was in need of a secretary. The post was not well paid, but it was permanent. My uncle insist that I take it. What choice? I took it. It is the post which I still ’old.”

He ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down.

“The name is familiar to you, monsieur? You ’ave ’eard of M. Sartines?”

“I don’t think I have. Who is he?”

“He is a man