Something New by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (rom com books to read .TXT) 📖

Of String,

Perhaps. Maybe An Old Pipe Or Something Of That Kind. Probably

Nothing Of Value Or Interest."

 

"Open It."

 

"It Appears To Be Locked,  Sir--"

 

"Unlock It."

 

Chapter 9 Pg 158

But Where Is The Key?"

 

Baxter Thought For A Moment.

 

"Lord Emsworth," He Said,  "I Have My Reasons For Thinking That

This Man Is Deliberately Keeping The Contents Of This Closet From

Me. I Am Convinced That The Shoe Is In There. Have I Your Leave

To Break Open The Door?"

 

The Earl Looked A Little Dazed,  As If He Were Unequal To The

Intellectual Pressure Of The Conversation.

 

"Now,  My Dear Baxter," Said The Earl Impatiently,  "Please Tell Me

Once Again Why You Have Brought Me In Here. I Cannot Make Head Or

Tail Of What You Have Been Saying. Apparently You Accuse This

Young Man Of Keeping His Shoes In A Closet. Why Should You

Suspect Him Of Keeping His Shoes In A Closet? And If He Wishes To

Do So,  Why On Earth Should Not He Keep His Shoes In A Closet?

This Is A Free Country."

 

"Exactly,  Your Lordship," Said Ashe Approvingly. "You Have

Touched The Spot."

 

"It All Has To Do With The Theft Of Your Scarab,  Lord Emsworth.

Somebody Got Into The Museum And Stole The Scarab."

 

"Ah,  Yes; Ah,  Yes--So They Did. I Remember Now. You Told Me.

Bad Business That,  My Dear Baxter. Mr. Peters Gave Me That

Scarab. He Will Be Most Deucedly Annoyed If It's Lost. Yes,

Indeed."

 

"Whoever Stole It Upset The Can Of Red Paint And Stepped In It."

 

"Devilish Careless Of Them. It Must Have Made The Dickens Of A

Mess. Why Don't People Look Where They Are Walking?"

 

"I Suspect This Man Of Shielding The Criminal By Hiding Her Shoe

In This Closet."

 

"Oh,  It's Not His Own Shoes That This Young Man Keeps In

Closets?"

 

"It Is A Woman's Shoe,  Lord Emsworth."

 

"The Deuce It Is! Then It Was A Woman Who Stole The Scarab? Is

That The Way You Figure It Out? Bless My Soul,  Baxter,  One

Wonders What Women Are Coming To Nowadays. It's All This

Movement,  I Suppose. The Vote,  And All That--Eh? I Recollect

Having A Chat With The Marquis Of Petersfield Some Time Ago. He

Is In The Cabinet,  And He Tells Me It Is Perfectly Infernal The

Way These Women Carry On. He Said Sometimes It Got To Such A

Pitch,  With Them Waving Banners And Presenting Petitions,  And

Throwing Flour And Things At A Fellow,  That If He Saw His Own

Mother Coming Toward Him,  With A Hand Behind Her Back,  He Would

Chapter 9 Pg 159

Run Like A Rabbit. Told Me So Himself."

 

"So," Said The Efficient Baxter,  Cutting In On The Flow Of

Speech,  "What I Wish To Do Is To Break Open This Closet."

 

"Eh? Why?"

 

"To Get The Shoe."

 

"The Shoe? . . . Ah,  Yes,  I Recollect Now. You Were Telling Me."

 

"If Your Lordship Has No Objection."

 

"Objection,  My Dear Fellow? None In The World. Why Should I Have

Any Objection? Let Me See! What Is It You Wish To Do?"

 

"This," Said Baxter Shortly.

 

He Seized The Poker From The Fireplace And Delivered Two Rapid

Blows On The Closet Door. The Wood Was Splintered. A Third Blow

Smashed The Flimsy Lock. The Closet,  With Any Skeletons It Might

Contain,  Was Open For All To View.

 

It Contained A Corkscrew,  A Box Of Matches,  A Paper-Covered Copy

Of A Book Entitled "Mary,  The Beautiful Mill-Hand," A Bottle Of

Embrocation,  A Spool Of Cotton,  Two Pencil-Stubs,  And Other

Useful And Entertaining Objects. It Contained,  In Fact,  Almost

Everything Except A Paint-Splashed Shoe,  And Baxter Gazed At The

Collection In Dumb Disappointment.

 

"Are You Satisfied Now,  My Dear Baxter," Said The Earl,  "Or Is

There Any More Furniture That You Would Like To Break? You Know,

This Furniture Breaking Is Becoming A Positive Craze With You,  My

Dear Fellow. You Ought To Fight Against It. The Night Before

Last,  I Don't Know How Many Tables Broken In The Hall; And Now

This Closet. You Will Ruin Me. No Purse Can Stand The Constant

Drain."

 

Baxter Did Not Reply. He Was Still Trying To Rally From The Blow.

A Chance Remark Of Lord Emsworth's Set Him Off On The Trail Once

More. Lord Emsworth,  Having Said His Say,  Had Dismissed The

Affair From His Mind And Begun To Potter Again. The Course Of His

Pottering Had Brought Him To The Fireplace,  Where A Little Pile

Of Soot On The Fender Caught His Eye. He Bent Down To Inspect It.

 

"Dear Me!" He Said. "I Must Remember To Tell Beach To Have His

Chimney Swept. It Seems To Need It Badly."

 

No Trumpet-Call Ever Acted More Instantaneously On Old War-Horse

Than This Simple Remark On The Efficient Baxter. He Was Still

Convinced That Ashe Had Hidden The Shoe Somewhere In The Room,

And,  Now That The Closet Had Proved An Alibi,  The Chimney Was The

Only Spot That Remained Unsearched. He Dived Forward With A Rush,

Nearly Knocking Lord Emsworth Off His Feet,  And Thrust An Arm Up

Chapter 9 Pg 160

Into The Unknown. The Startled Peer,  Having Recovered His

Balance,  Met Ashe's Respectfully Pitying Gaze.

 

"We Must Humor Him," Said The Gaze,  More Plainly Than Speech.

 

Baxter Continued To Grope. The Chimney Was A Roomy Chimney,  And

Needed Careful Examination. He Wriggled His Hand About

Clutchingly. From Time To Time Soot Fell In Gentle Showers.

 

"My Dear Baxter!"

 

Baxter Was Baffled. He Withdrew His Hand From The Chimney,  And

Straightened Himself. He Brushed A Bead Of Perspiration From His

Face With The Back Of His Hand. Unfortunately,  He Used The Sooty

Hand,  And The Result Was Too Much For Lord Emsworth's Politeness.

He Burst Into A Series Of Pleased Chuckles.

 

"Your Face,  My Dear Baxter! Your Face! It Is Positively Covered

With Soot--Positively! You Must Go And Wash It. You Are Quite

Black. Really,  My Dear Fellow,  You Present Rather An

Extraordinary Appearance. Run Off To Your Room."

 

Against This Crowning Blow The Efficient Baxter Could Not Stand

Up. It Was The End.

 

"Soot!" He Murmured Weakly. "Soot!"

 

"Your Face Is Covered,  My Dear Fellow--Quite Covered."

 

"It Certainly Has A Faintly Sooty Aspect,  Sir," Said Ashe.

 

His Voice Roused The Sufferer To One Last Flicker Of Spirit.

 

"You Will Hear More Of This," He Said. "You Will--"

 

At This Moment,  Slightly Muffled By The Intervening Door And

Passageway,  There Came From The Direction Of The Hall A Sound

Like The Delivery Of A Ton Of Coal. A Heavy Body Bumped Down The

Stairs,  And A Voice Which All Three Recognized As That Of The

Honorable Freddie Uttered An Oath That Lost Itself In A Final

Crash And A Musical Splintering Sound,  Which Baxter For One Had

No Difficulty In Recognizing As The Dissolution Of Occasional

China.

 

Even If They Had Not So Able A Detective As Baxter With Them,

Lord Emsworth And Ashe Would Have Been At No Loss To Guess What

Had Happened. Doctor Watson Himself Could Have Deduced It From

The Evidence. The Honorable Freddie Had Fallen Downstairs.

 

       

 

With A Little Ingenuity This Portion Of The Story Of Mr. Peters'

Scarab Could Be Converted Into An Excellent Tract,  Driving Home

The Perils,  Even In This World,  Of Absenting One's Self From

Chapter 9 Pg 161

Church On Sunday Morning. If The Honorable Freddie Had Gone To

Church He Would Not Have Been Running Down The Great Staircase At

The Castle At This Hour; And If He Had Not Been Running Down The

Great Staircase At The Castle At That Hour He Would Not Have

Encountered Muriel.

 

Muriel Was A Persian Cat Belonging To Lady Ann Warblington. Lady

Ann Had Breakfasted In Bed And Lain There Late,  As She Rather

Fancied She Had One Of Her Sick Headaches Coming On. Muriel Had

Left Her Room In The Wake Of The Breakfast Tray,  Being Anxious To

Be Present At The Obsequies Of A Fried Sole That Had Formed Lady

Ann's Simple Morning Meal,  And Had Followed The Maid Who Bore It

Until She Had Reached The Hall.

 

At This Point The Maid,  Who Disliked Muriel,  Stopped And Made A

Noise Like An Exploding Pop Bottle,  At The Same Time Taking A

Little Run In Muriel's Direction And Kicking At Her With A

Menacing Foot. Muriel,  Wounded And Startled,  Had Turned In Her

Tracks And Sprinted Back Up The Staircase At The Exact Moment

When The Honorable Freddie,  Who For Some Reason Was In A Great

Hurry,  Ran Lightly Down.

 

There Was An Instant When Freddie Could Have Saved Himself By

Planting A Number-Ten Shoe On Muriel's Spine,  But Even In That

Crisis He Bethought Him That He Hardly Stood Solid Enough With

The Authorities To Risk Adding To His Misdeeds The Slaughter Of

His Aunt's Favorite Cat,  And He Executed A Rapid Swerve. The

Spared Cat Proceeded On Her Journey Upstairs,  While Freddie,

Touching The Staircase At Intervals,  Went On Down.

 

Having Reached The Bottom,  He Sat Amid The Occasional China,  Like

Marius Among The Ruins Of Carthage,  And Endeavored To Ascertain

The Extent Of His Injuries. He Had A Dazed Suspicion That He Was

Irretrievably Fractured In A Dozen Places. It Was In This

Attitude That The Rescue Party Found Him. He Gazed Up At Them

With Silent Pathos.

 

"In The Name Of Goodness,  Frederick," Said Lord Emsworth

Peevishly,  "What Do You Imagine You Are Doing?"

 

Freddie Endeavored To Rise,  But Sank Back Again With A Stifled

Howl.

 

"It Was That Bally Cat Of Aunt Ann's," He Said. "It Came Legging

It Up The Stairs. I Think I've Broken My Leg."

 

"You Have Certainly Broken Everything Else," Said His Father

Unsympathetically. "Between You And Baxter,  I Wonder There's A

Stick Of Furniture Standing In The House."

 

"Thanks,  Old Chap," Said Freddie Gratefully As Ashe Stepped

Forward And Lent Him An Arm. "I Think My Bally Ankle Must Have

Got Twisted. I Wish You Would Give Me A Hand Up To