"None, sir. I am not fond of sardines."
"You mean, you thought of this great, this ripe, this amazing scheme
entirely without the impetus given to the brain by fish?"
"Yes, sir."
"You stand alone, Jeeves."
"Thank you, sir."
"But, I say!"
"Sir?"
"Suppose the dog won't come away with me? You know how meagre his
intelligence is. By this time, especially when he's got used to a new
place, he may have forgotten me completely and will look on me as a
perfect stranger."
"I had thought of that, sir. The most judicious move will be for you to
sprinkle your trousers with aniseed."
"Aniseed?"
"Yes, sir. It is extensively used in the dog-stealing industry."
"But Jeeves--dash it!--aniseed?"
"I consider it essential, sir."
"But where do you get the stuff?"
"At any chemist's, sir. If you will go out now and procure a small
bottle I will be telephoning to Miss Wickham to apprise her of the
contemplated arrangements and to ascertain whether she is to be
admitted to the suite."
I don't know what the record is for popping out and buying aniseed, but
I should think I hold it. The thought of Aunt Agatha getting nearer and
nearer to the metropolis every minute induced a rare burst of speed. I
was back at the flat so quickly that I nearly met myself coming out.
Jeeves had good news.
"Everything is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Mr. Blumenfeld did leave
instructions that Miss Wickham was to be admitted to his suite. The
young lady is now on her way to the hotel. By the time you reach it you
will find her there."
You know, whatever you may say against old Jeeves--and I, for one, have
never wavered in my opinion that his views on shirts for evening wear
are hidebound and reactionary to a degree--you've got to admit that the
man can plan a campaign. Napoleon could have taken his correspondence
course. When he sketches out a scheme all you have to do is to follow
it in every detail, and there you are.
On the present occasion everything went absolutely according to plan. I
never had realized before that dog stealing could be so simple, always
having regarded it rather as something that called for the ice-cool
brain and the nerve of steel. I see now that a child can do it, if
directed by Jeeves.
I got to the hotel, sneaked up the stairs, hung about in the corridor
trying to look like a potted palm in case anybody came along, and
presently the door of the suite opened and Bobbie appeared, and
suddenly, as I approached, out shot McIntosh, sniffing passionately,
and the next moment his nose was up against my trousers and he was
drinking me in with every evidence of enjoyment. If I had been a
bird that had been dead some time he could not have nuzzled me more
heartily. Aniseed isn't a scent that I care for particularly myself,
but it seemed to speak straight to the deeps in McIntosh's soul.
The connection, as it were, having been established in this manner, the
rest was simple. I merely withdrew, followed by the animal in the order
named. We passed down the stairs in good shape, self reeking to heaven
and animal inhaling the bouquet, and after a few anxious moments were
safe in a cab, homeward bound. As smooth a bit of work as London had
seen that day.
Arrived at the flat, I handed McIntosh to Jeeves and instructed him
to shut him up in the bathroom or somewhere where the spell cast by
my trousers would cease to operate. This done, I again paid the man a
marked tribute.
"Jeeves," I said, "I have had occasion to express the view before, and
I now express it again--fearlessly. You stand in a class of your own."
"Thank you very much, sir. I am glad that everything proceeded
satisfactorily."
"The festivities went like a breeze from start to finish. Tell me, were
you always like this, or did it come on suddenly?"
"Sir?"
"The brain. The gray matter. Were you an outstandingly brilliant boy?"
"My mother thought me intelligent, sir."
"You can't go by that. My mother thought _me_ intelligent. Anyway,
setting that aside for the moment, would a fiver be any use to you?"
"Thank you very much, sir."
"Not that a fiver begins to cover it. Figure to yourself--try to
envisage, Jeeves, if you follow what I mean, the probable behaviour of
my aunt Agatha if I had gone to her between the hours of six and seven
and told her that McIntosh had passed out of the picture. I should have
had to leave London and grow a beard."
"I can readily imagine, sir, that Mrs. Spenser Gregson would have been
somewhat perturbed."
"She would. And on the occasions when my aunt Agatha is perturbed
strong men dive down drain pipes to get out of her way. However, as it
is, all has ended happily.... Oh, great Scott!"
"Sir?"
I hesitated. It seemed a shame to cast a damper on the man just when he
had extended himself so notably in the young master's cause, but it had
to be done.
"You've overlooked something, Jeeves."
"Surely not, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves, I regret to say that the late scheme, or plan of action,
while gilt-edged as far as I am concerned, has rather landed Miss
Wickham in the cart."
"In what way, sir?"
"Why, don't you see that, if they know she was in the suite, the
Blumenfelds, father and son, will instantly assume that she was mixed
up in McIntosh's disappearance, with the result that in their pique and
chagrin they will call off the deal about the play? I'm surprised at
you not spotting that, Jeeves. You would have done much better to eat
those sardines, as I advised."
I waggled the head rather sadly, and at this moment there was a ring
at the front doorbell. And not an ordinary ring, mind you, but one of
those resounding peals that suggest that somebody with a high blood
pressure and a grievance stands without. I leaped in my tracks. My busy
afternoon had left the old nervous system not quite in mid-season form.
"Good Lord, Jeeves!"
"Somebody at the door, sir."
"Yes."
"Probably Mr. Blumenfeld, Senior, sir."
"What!"
"He rang up on the telephone, sir, shortly before you returned, to say
that he was about to pay you a call."
"You don't mean that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Advise me, Jeeves!"
"I fancy the most judicious procedure would be for you to conceal
yourself behind the settee, sir."
I saw that his advice was good. I had never met this Blumenfeld
socially, but I had seen him from afar on the occasion when he and
Cyril Bassington-Bassington had had their falling-out, and he hadn't
struck me then as a bloke with whom, if in one of his emotional moods,
it would be agreeable to be shut up in a small room. A large, round,
fat, overflowing bird, who might quite easily, if stirred, fall on a
fellow and flatten him to the carpet.
So I nestled behind the settee, and in about five seconds there was
a sound like a mighty, rushing wind and something extraordinarily
substantial bounded into the sitting room.
"This guy Wooster!" bellowed a voice that had been strengthened by a
lifetime of ticking actors off at dress rehearsals from the back of the
theatre. "Where is he?"