“Jeeves,” I said, “I admit that after that pick-me-up of yours I feel
better, but don’t try me too high. Don’t stand by my sick bed talking
absolute rot. We shot Gussie into a cab and he started forth, headed
for wherever this fancy-dress ball was. He must have arrived.”
“No, sir. As I gather from Mr. Fink-Nottle, he entered the cab
convinced in his mind that the entertainment to which he had been
invited was to be held at No. 17, Suffolk Square, whereas the actual
rendezvous was No. 71, Norfolk Terrace. These aberrations of memory are
not uncommon with those who, like Mr. Fink-Nottle, belong essentially
to what one might call the dreamer-type.”
“One might also call it the fatheaded type.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“On reaching No. 17, Suffolk Square, Mr. Fink-Nottle endeavoured to
produce money to pay the fare.”
“What stopped him?”
“The fact that he had no money, sir. He discovered that he had left
it, together with his ticket of invitation, on the mantelpiece of his
bedchamber in the house of his uncle, where he was residing. Bidding
the cabman to wait, accordingly, he rang the door-bell, and when the
butler appeared, requested him to pay the cab, adding that it was all
right, as he was one of the guests invited to the dance. The butler
then disclaimed all knowledge of a dance on the premises.”
“And declined to unbelt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Upon which----”
“Mr. Fink-Nottle directed the cabman to drive him back to his uncle’s
residence.”
“Well, why wasn’t that the happy ending? All he had to do was go in,
collect cash and ticket, and there he would have been, on velvet.”
“I should have mentioned, sir, that Mr. Fink-Nottle had also left his
latchkey on the mantelpiece of his bedchamber.”
“He could have rung the bell.”
“He did ring the bell, sir, for some fifteen minutes. At the
expiration of that period he recalled that he had given permission to
the caretaker--the house was officially closed and all the staff on
holiday--to visit his sailor son at Portsmouth.”
“Golly, Jeeves!”
“Yes, sir.”
“These dreamer types do live, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Fink-Nottle appears to have realized at this point that his
position as regards the cabman had become equivocal. The figures on
the clock had already reached a substantial sum, and he was not in a
position to meet his obligations.”
“He could have explained.”
“You cannot explain to cabmen, sir. On endeavouring to do so, he found
the fellow sceptical of his bona fides.”
“I should have legged it.”
“That is the policy which appears to have commended itself to Mr.
Fink-Nottle. He darted rapidly away, and the cabman, endeavouring to
detain him, snatched at his overcoat. Mr. Fink-Nottle contrived to
extricate himself from the coat, and it would seem that his appearance
in the masquerade costume beneath it came as something of a shock to
the cabman. Mr. Fink-Nottle informs me that he heard a species of
whistling gasp, and, looking round, observed the man crouching against
the railings with his hands over his face. Mr. Fink-Nottle thinks
he was praying. No doubt an uneducated, superstitious fellow, sir.
Possibly a drinker.”
“Well, if he hadn’t been one before, I’ll bet he started being one
shortly afterwards. I expect he could scarcely wait for the pubs to
open.”
“Very possibly, in the circumstances he might have found a restorative
agreeable, sir.”
“And so, in the circumstances, might Gussie too, I should think. What
on earth did he do after that? London late at night--or even in the
daytime, for that matter--is no place for a man in scarlet tights.”
“No, sir.”
“He invites comment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can see the poor old bird ducking down side-streets, skulking in
alley-ways, diving into dust-bins.”
“I gathered from Mr. Fink-Nottle’s remarks, sir, that something very
much on those lines was what occurred. Eventually, after a trying
night, he found his way to Mr. Sipperley’s residence, where he was able
to secure lodging and a change of costume in the morning.”
I nestled against the pillows, the brow a bit drawn. It is all very
well to try to do old school friends a spot of good, but I could not
but feel that in espousing the cause of a lunkhead capable of mucking
things up as Gussie had done, I had taken on a contract almost too big
for human consumption. It seemed to me that what Gussie needed was not
so much the advice of a seasoned man of the world as a padded cell in
Colney Hatch and a couple of good keepers to see that he did not set
the place on fire.
Indeed, for an instant I had half a mind to withdraw from the case and
hand it back to Jeeves. But the pride of the Woosters restrained me.
When we Woosters put our hands to the plough, we do not readily sheathe
the sword. Besides, after that business of the mess-jacket, anything
resembling weakness would have been fatal.
“I suppose you realize, Jeeves,” I said, for though one dislikes to rub
it in, these things have to be pointed out, “that all this was your
fault?”
“Sir?”
“It’s no good saying ‘Sir?’ You know it was. If you had not insisted
on his going to that dance--a mad project, as I spotted from the
first--this would not have happened.”
“Yes, sir, but I confess I did not anticipate----”
“Always anticipate everything, Jeeves,” I said, a little sternly. “It
is the only way. Even if you had allowed him to wear a Pierrot costume,
things would not have panned out as they did. A Pierrot costume has
pockets. However,” I went on more kindly, “we need not go into that
now. If all this has shown you what comes of going about the place in
scarlet tights, that is something gained. Gussie waits without, you
say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then shoot him in, and I will see what I can do for him.”
-6-
Gussie, on arrival, proved to be still showing traces of his grim
experience. The face was pale, the eyes gooseberry-like, the ears
drooping, and the whole aspect that of a man who has passed through the
furnace and been caught in the machinery. I hitched myself up a bit
higher on the pillows and gazed at him narrowly. It was a moment, I
could see, when first aid was required, and I prepared to get down to
cases.
“Well, Gussie.”
“Hullo, Bertie.”
“What ho.”
“What ho.”
These civilities concluded, I felt that the moment had come to touch
delicately on the past.
“I hear you’ve been through it a bit.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks to Jeeves.”
“It wasn’t Jeeves’s fault.”
“Entirely Jeeves’s fault.”
“I don’t see that. I forgot my money and latchkey----”
“And now you’d better forget Jeeves. For you will be interested to
hear, Gussie,” I said, deeming it best to put him in touch with the
position of affairs right away, “that he is no longer handling your
little problem.”
This seemed to slip it across him properly. The jaws fell, the ears
drooped more limply. He had been looking like a dead fish. He now
looked like a deader fish, one of last year’s, cast up on some lonely
beach and left there at the mercy of the wind and tides.
“What!”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mean that Jeeves isn’t going to----”
“No.”
“But, dash it----”