"Ha!" I said.
"Sir?"
"Once again 'Ha,' Jeeves, but this time signifying mild surprise. This
letter is from Miss Wickham."
"Indeed, sir?"
I sensed--if that is the word I want--the note of concern in the man's
voice, and I knew he was saying to himself, "Is the young master about
to slip?" You see, there was a time when the Wooster heart was to some
extent what you might call ensnared by this Roberta Wickham, and Jeeves
had never approved of her.
He considered her volatile and frivolous and more or less of a menace
to man and beast. And events, I'm bound to say, had rather borne out
his view.
"She wants me to give her lunch to-day."
"Indeed, sir?"
"And two friends of hers."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Here. At one-thirty."
"Indeed, sir?"
I was piqued. "Correct this parrot complex, Jeeves," I said, waving
a slice of bread and butter rather sternly at the man. "There is
no need for you to stand there saying, 'Indeed, sir?' I know what
you're thinking, and you're wrong. The old fire is dead. As far as
Miss Wickham is concerned, Bertram Wooster is chilled steel. I see no
earthly reason why I should not comply with this request. A Wooster may
have ceased to love, but he can still be civil."
"Very good, sir."
"Employ the rest of the morning, then, in buzzing to and fro and
collecting provender. The old King Wenceslaus touch, Jeeves. You
remember? Bring me fish and bring me fowl----"
"Bring me flesh and bring me wine, sir."
"Just as you say. You know best. Oh, and roly-poly pudding, Jeeves."
"Sir?"
"Roly-poly pudding with lots of jam in it, Jeeves. Miss Wickham
specifically mentions this. Mysterious, what?"
"Extremely, sir."
"Also oysters, ice cream, and plenty of chocolates with that gooey,
slithery stuff in the middle. Makes you sick to think of it, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"So it does me. But that's what she says. I think she must be on some
kind of diet. Well, be that as it may, see to it, Jeeves, will you?"
"Yes, sir."
"At one-thirty of the clock."
"Very good, sir."
"Very good, Jeeves."
* * * * *
At half-past twelve I took the dog McIntosh for his morning saunter in
the park; and, returning at about one-ten, found young Bobbie Wickham
in the sitting room, smoking a cigarette and chatting to Jeeves, who
seemed a bit distant, I thought.
I have an idea I've told you before about this Bobbie Wickham. She was
the red-haired girl who let me down so disgracefully in the sinister
affair of Tuppy Glossop and the hot-water bottle, that Christmas when I
went to stay at Skeldings Hall, her mother's place in Hertfordshire.
Her mother is Lady Wickham, who writes novels which, I believe, command
a ready sale among those who like their literature pretty sloppy. A
formidable old bird, rather like my aunt Agatha in appearance. Bobbie
does not resemble her, being constructed more on the lines of Clara Bow.
She greeted me cordially as I entered--in fact, so cordially that I saw
Jeeves pause at the door before biffing off to mix the cocktails and
shoot me the sort of grave, warning look a wise old father might pass
out to the effervescent son on seeing him going fairly strong with the
local vamp. I nodded back at him, as much as to say, "Chilled steel!"
and he oozed out, leaving me to play the sparkling host.
"It was awfully sporting of you to give us this luncheon, Bertie," said
Bobbie.
"Don't mention it, my dear old thing," I said. "Always a pleasure."
"You got all the stuff I told you about?"
"The garbage, as specified, is in the kitchen. But since when have you
become a roly-poly-pudding addict?"
"That isn't for me," said Bobbie. "There's a small boy coming."
"What!"
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, noting my agitation. "I know just how
you feel, and I'm not going to pretend that this child isn't pretty
near the edge. In fact, he has to be seen to be believed. But it's
simply vital that he be cosseted and sucked up to and generally treated
as the guest of honour, because everything depends on him."
"How do you mean?"
"I'll tell you. You know Mother?"
"Whose mother?"
"My mother."
"Oh, yes," I said. "I thought you meant the kid's mother."
"He hasn't got a mother. Only a father, who is a big theatrical manager
in America. I met him at a party the other night," Bobbie explained.
"The father?"
"Yes, the father."
"Not the kid?"
"No, not the kid."
"Right. All clear so far. Proceed."
"Well, Mother--my mother--has dramatized one of her novels, and when
I met this father, this theatrical-manager father, and, between
ourselves, made rather a hit with him, I said to myself, 'Why not?'"
"Why not what?"
"Why not plant Mother's play on him."
"Your mother's play?"
"Yes; not his mother's play. He is like his son: he hasn't got a
mother, either."
"These things run in families, don't they?"
"You see, Bertie, what with one thing and another, my stock isn't very
high with Mother just now. There was that matter of my smashing up the
car--oh, and several things. So I thought, here is where I get a chance
to put myself right. I cooed to old Blumenfeld----"
"Name sounds familiar."
"Oh, yes, he's a big man over in America. He has come to London to see
if there's anything in the play line worth buying. So I cooed to him
a goodish bit and then asked if he would listen to Mother's play. He
said he would, so I asked him to come to luncheon and I'd read it to
him."
"You're going to read your mother's play--here?" I said, paling.
"Yes."
"My Lord!"
Bobbie nodded. "I know what you mean," she said. "I admit it's pretty
scaly stuff. But I have an idea I shall put it over. It all depends on
how the child likes it. You see, old Blumenfeld for some reason always
banks on his verdict. I suppose he thinks the child's intelligence is
exactly the same as an average audience's and----"
I uttered a slight yelp, causing Jeeves, who had entered with
cocktails, to look at me in a pained sort of way. I had remembered.
"Jeeves!"
"Sir?"
"Do you recollect, when we were in New York, a dish-faced kid of
the name of Blumenfeld, who on a memorable occasion snootered Cyril
Bassington-Bassington when the latter tried to go on the stage?"
"Very vividly, sir."
"Well, prepare for a shock. He's coming to lunch."
"Indeed, sir?"
"I'm glad you can speak in that light, careless way. I only met the
young pot of poison for a few brief minutes, but I don't mind telling
you the prospect of hobnobbing with him again makes me tremble like a
leaf."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Don't keep saying, 'Indeed, sir?' You have seen this kid in action and
you know what he's like. He told Cyril Bassington-Bassington, a fellow
to whom he had never been formally introduced, that he had a face like
a fish. And this not thirty seconds after their initial meeting. I give
you fair warning that if he tells me I have a face like a fish I shall
clump his head."
"Bertie!" cried the Wickham, contorted with anguish and apprehension
and what not.
"Yes, I shall."
"Then you'll simply ruin the whole thing."
"I don't care. We Woosters have our pride."
"Perhaps the young gentleman will not say that you have a face like a
fish, sir."
"Ah! There's that, of course."
"But we can't just trust to luck," said Bobbie. "It's probably the
first thing he will say."
"In that case, miss," said Jeeves, "it might be the best plan if Mr.
Wooster did not attend the luncheon."