"Jeeves," I said, "I would be the last man to accuse you of dithering,
but this is not like you. It is not the old form, Jeeves. You are
losing your grip. It might be years before Mr. Sipperley had a serious
injury."
"There is that to be considered, sir."
"I cannot believe that it is you, Jeeves, who are meekly suggesting
that we should suspend all activities in this matter year after year,
on the chance that some day Mr. Sipperley may fall under a truck or
something. No! The programme will be as I have sketched it out,
Jeeves. After breakfast, kindly step out and purchase about a pound and
a half of the best flour. The rest you may leave to me."
"Very good, sir."
* * * * *
The first thing you need in matters of this kind, as every general
knows, is a thorough knowledge of the terrain. Not know the terrain,
and where are you? Look at Napoleon and that sunken road at Waterloo.
Silly ass!
I had a thorough knowledge of the terrain of Sippy's office, and it
ran as follows. I won't draw a plan, because my experience is that,
when you're reading one of those detective stories and come to the bit
where the author draws a plan of the Manor, showing room where body was
found, stairs leading to passageway, and all the rest of it, one just
skips. I'll simply explain in a few brief words.
The offices of the _Mayfair Gazette_ were on the first floor of a
mouldy old building off Covent Garden. You went in at a front door and
ahead of you was a passage leading to the premises of Bellamy Bros.,
dealers in seeds and garden produce. Ignoring the Bros. Bellamy, you
proceeded upstairs and found two doors opposite you. One, marked
Private, opened into Sippy's editorial sanctum. The other--sub-title:
Inquiries--shot you into a small room where an office boy sat, eating
peppermints and reading the adventures of Tarzan. If you got past the
office boy, you went through another door and there you were in Sippy's
room, just as if you had nipped through the door marked Private.
Perfectly simple.
It was over the door marked Inquiries that I proposed to suspend the
flour.
Now, setting a booby trap for a respectable citizen like a head
master (even of a school inferior to your own) is not a matter to be
approached lightly and without careful preparation. I don't suppose
I've ever selected a lunch with more thought than I did that day. And
after a nicely balanced meal, preceded by a couple of dry Martinis,
washed down with half a bot. of a nice light, dry champagne, and
followed by a spot of brandy, I could have set a booby trap for a
bishop.
The only really difficult part of the campaign was to get rid of the
office boy; for naturally you don't want witnesses when you're shoving
bags of flour on doors. Fortunately, every man has his price, and it
wasn't long before I contrived to persuade the lad that there was
sickness at home and he was needed at Cricklewood. This done, I mounted
a chair and got to work.
* * * * *
It was many, many years since I had tackled this kind of job, but the
old skill came back as good as ever. Having got the bag so nicely
poised that a touch on the door would do all that was necessary, I
skipped down from my chair, popped off through Sippy's room, and went
into the street. Sippy had not shown up yet, which was all to the good,
but I knew he usually trickled in about five to three. I hung about in
the street, and presently round the corner came the bloke Waterbury.
He went in at the front door, and I started off for a short stroll.
It was no part of my policy to be in the offing when things began to
happen.
It seemed to me that, allowing for wind and weather, the scales should
have fallen from old Sippy's eyes by about three-fifteen, Greenwich
mean time; so, having prowled around Covent Garden among the spuds and
cabbages for twenty minutes or so, I retraced my steps and pushed up
the stairs. I went in at the door marked Private, fully expecting to
see old Sippy, and conceive of my astonishment and chagrin when I found
on entering only the bloke Waterbury. He was seated at Sippy's desk,
reading a paper, as if the place belonged to him.
And, moreover, there was of flour on his person not a trace.
"Great Scott!" I said.
It was a case of the sunken road, after all. But, dash it, how could I
have been expected to take into consideration the possibility that this
cove, head master though he was, would have had the cold nerve to walk
into Sippy's private office instead of pushing in a normal and orderly
manner through the public door?
He raised the nose, and focussed me over it.
"Yes?"
"I was looking for old Sippy."
"Mr. Sipperley has not yet arrived."
He spoke with a good deal of pique, seeming to be a man who was not
used to being kept waiting.
"Well, how is everything?" I said, to ease things along.
He started reading again. He looked up as if he found me pretty
superfluous.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, nothing."
"You spoke."
"I only said, 'How is everything?' don't you know."
"How is what?"
"Everything."
"I fail to understand you."
"Let it go," I said.
I found a certain difficulty in boosting along the chit-chat. He was
not a responsive cove.
"Nice day," I said.
"Quite."
"But they say the crops need rain."
He had buried himself in his paper once more, and seemed peeved this
time on being lugged to the surface.
"What?"
"The crops."
"The crops?"
"Crops."
"What crops?"
"Oh, just crops."
He laid down his paper.
"You appear to be desirous of giving me some information about crops.
What is it?"
"I hear they need rain."
"Indeed?"
That concluded the small talk. He went on reading, and I found a chair
and sat down and sucked the handle of my stick. And so the long day
wore on.
It may have been some two hours later, or it may have been about five
minutes, when there became audible in the passage outside a strange
wailing sound, as of some creature in pain. The bloke Waterbury looked
up. I looked up.
The wailing came closer. It came into the room. It was Sippy, singing.
"... I love you. That's all that I can say. I love you, I lo-o-ve you.
The same old----"
He suspended the chant, not too soon for me.
"Oh, hullo!" he said.
I was amazed. The last time I had seen old Sippy, you must remember,
he had had all the appearance of a man who didn't know it was loaded.
Haggard. Drawn face. Circles under the eyes. All that sort of thing.
And now, not much more than twenty-four hours later, he was simply
radiant. His eyes sparkled. His mobile lips were curved in a happy
smile. He looked as if he had been taking as much as will cover a
sixpence every morning before breakfast for years.
"Hullo, Bertie!" he said. "Hullo, Waterbury old man! Sorry I'm late."
The bloke Waterbury seemed by no means pleased at this cordial form of
address. He froze visibly.
"You are exceedingly late. I may mention that I have been waiting for
upward of half an hour, and my time is not without its value."
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry," said Sippy, jovially. "You wanted
to see me about that article on the Elizabethan dramatists you left
here yesterday, didn't you? Well, I've read it, and I'm sorry to say,
Waterbury, my dear chap, that it's N.G."
"I beg your pardon?"
"No earthly use to us. Quite the wrong sort of stuff. This paper is
supposed to be all light Society interest. What the débutante will
wear for Goodwood, you know, and I saw Lady Betty Bootle in the park
yesterday--she is, of course, the sister-in-law of the Duchess of
Peebles, 'Cuckoo' to her intimates--all that kind of rot. My readers
don't want stuff about Elizabethan dramatists."
"Sipperley----!"
Old Sippy reached out and patted him in a paternal manner on the back.
"Now listen, Waterbury," he said, kindly. "You know as well as I do
that I hate to turn down an old pal. But I have my duty to the paper.
Still, don't be discouraged. Keep trying, and you'll do fine. There is
a lot of promise in your stuff, but you want to study your market. Keep
your eyes open and see what editors need. Now, just as a suggestion,
why not have a dash at a light, breezy article on pet dogs. You've
probably noticed that the pug, once so fashionable, has been superseded
by the Peke, the griffon, and the Sealyham. Work on that line and----"
The bloke Waterbury navigated toward the door.
"I have no desire to work on that line, as you put it," he said,
stiffly. "If you do not require my paper on the Elizabethan dramatists
I shall no doubt be able to find another editor whose tastes are more
in accord with my work."
"The right spirit absolutely, Waterbury," said Sippy cordially. "Never
give in. Perseverance brings home the gravy. If you get an article
accepted, send another article to that editor. If you get an article
refused, send that article to another editor. Carry on, Waterbury. I
shall watch your future progress with considerable interest."
"Thank you," said the bloke Waterbury bitterly. "This expert advice
should prove most useful."
He biffed off, banging the door behind him, and I turned to Sippy, who
was swerving about the room like an exuberant snipe.
"Sippy----"
"Eh? What? Can't stop, Bertie, can't stop. Only looked in to tell you
the news. I'm taking Gwendolen to tea at the Carlton. I'm the happiest
man in the world, Bertie. Engaged, you know. Betrothed. All washed
up and signed on the dotted line. Wedding, June the first, at 11
A. M. sharp, at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. Presents should be
delivered before the end of May."
"But, Sippy! Come to roost for a second. How did this happen? I
thought----"
"Well, it's a long story. Much too long to tell you now. Ask Jeeves.
He came along with me, and is waiting outside. But when I found her
bending over me, weeping, I knew that a word from me was all that was
needed. I took her little hand in mine and----"
"What do you mean, bending over you? Where?"
"In your sitting room."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why was she bending over you?"
"Because I was on the floor, ass. Naturally a girl would bend over a
fellow who was on the floor. Good-bye, Bertie. I must rush."
He was out of the room before I knew he had started. I followed at a
high rate of speed, but he was down the stairs before I reached the
passage. I legged it after him, but when I got into the street it was
empty.
No, not absolutely empty. Jeeves was standing on the pavement, gazing
dreamily at a brussels sprout which lay in the fairway.
"Mr. Sipperley has this moment gone, sir," he said, as I came charging
out.