Plum Pie (11 page)

"Beach," he said, "this opens up a new line of thought. You speak of a prowler."

"Yes, sir."

"Who was lurking at the Fanshawe back door and is now in the Fanshawe cellar."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, here's something for your files. The prowler you have in mind was none other than Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth."

"Sir!"

"I assure you. I sent him to Marling Hall on a secret mission, the nature of which I am not empowered to disclose, and how he managed to get copped we shall never know. Suffice it that he did and is now in the cellar. Wine cellar or coal?"

"Coal, I was given to understand, sir."

"Our task, then, is to get him out of it. Don't speak. I must think, I must think."

When an ordinary man is trying to formulate a scheme for extricating his brother from a coal cellar, the procedure is apt to be a lengthy one involving the furrowed brow, the scratched head and the snapped finger, but in the case of a man like Gaily this is not so. Only a minimum of time had elapsed before he was able to announce that he had got it.

"Beach!"

"Sir?"

"Go to my bedroom, look in the drawer where the handkerchiefs are, and you will find a small bottle containing white tablets. Bring it to me."

"Very good, sir. Would this be the bottle to which you refer, sir?" asked Beach, returning a few minutes later.

"That's the one. Now a few necessary facts. Is the butler at the Fanshawes a pal of yours?"

"We are acquainted, sir."

"Then he won't be surprised if you suddenly pay him a call?"

"I imagine not, Mr. Galahad. I sometimes do when I find myself in the neighbourhood of Marling Hall."

"And on these occasions he sets them up?"

"Sir?"

"You drain a cup or two?"

"Oh yes, sir. I am always offered refreshment."

"Then it's all over but the cheering. You see this bottle, Beach? It contains what are known as Micky Finns. The name is familiar to you?"

"No, sir."

"They are a recognized sedative in the United States. When I last went to New York, a great friend of mine, a bartender on Eighth Avenue, happened to speak of them and was shocked to learn that I had none in my possession. They were things, he said, which nobody should be without. He gave me a few, assuring me that sooner or later they were bound to come in useful. Hitherto I have had no occasion to make use of them, but I think you will agree that now is the time for them to come to the aid of the party. You follow me, Beach?"

"No, sir."

"Come, come. You know my methods, apply them. Slip one of these into this butler's drink, and almost immediately you will see him fold up like a tired lily. Your path thus made straight, you proceed to the cellar, unleash his lordship and bring him home."

"But, Mr. Galahad!"

"Now what?"

"I hardly like---"

"Don't stand there making frivolous objections. If Clarence is not extracted from that cellar before tomorrow morning, his name will be mud. He will become a hissing and a byword."

"Yes, sir, but---"

"And don't overlook another aspect of the matter. Perform this simple task, and there will be no limit to his gratitude. Purses of gold will change hands. Camels bearing apes, ivory and peacocks, all addressed to you, will shortly be calling at the back door of Blandings Castle. You will clean up to an unimaginable extent."

It was a powerful plea. Beach's two chins, which had been waggling unhappily, ceased to waggle. A light of resolution came into his eyes. He looked like a butler who has stiffened the sinews and summoned up the blood, as recommended by Henry the Fifth.

"Very good, Mr. Galahad," he said.

Gaily resumed his crossword puzzle, more than ever convinced that the compiler of the clues was suffering from softening of the brain, and in due course heavy breathing woke him from the light doze into which he had fallen while endeavouring to read sense into '7 across' and he found that Beach was back from the front. He had the air of one who has recently passed through some great spiritual experience.

"Well?" said Gaily. "All washed up? Everything nice and smooth?"

"Yes, Mr. Galahad."

"You administered the medium dose for an adult?"

"Yes, Mr. Galahad."

"And released his lordship?"

"Yes, Mr. Galahad."

"That's my boy. Where is he?"

"Taking a bath, Mr. Galahad. He was somewhat begrimed. Would there be anything further, sir?"

"Not a thing. You can go to bed and sleep peacefully. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

It was some minutes later, while Gaily was wrestling with '12-down', that he found his privacy invaded by a caller with whom he had not expected to hobnob. It was very seldom that his sister Constance sought his society. Except for shivering austerely whenever they met, she rarely had much to do with him.

"Oh, hullo, Connie," he said. "Are you any good at crossword puzzles?"

Lady Constance did not say "To hell with crossword puzzles," but it was plain that only her breeding restrained her from doing so. She was in one of those moods of imperious wrath which so often had reduced Lord Emsworth to an apologetic jelly.

"Galahad," she said. "Have you seen Beach?"

"Just been chatting with him. Why?"

"I have been ringing for him for half an hour. He really is quite past his duties."

"Clarence was telling me that that was how you felt about him. He said you were thinking of firing him."

“I am.”

"I shouldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll rue the day."

"I don't understand you."

"Then let me tell you a little bedtime story."

"Please do not drivel, Galahad. Really I sometimes think that you have less sense than Clarence."

"It is a story," Gaily proceeded, ignoring the slur, "of a feudal devotion to the family interests which it would be hard to overpraise. It shows Beach in so favourable a light that I think you will agree that when you speak of giving him the heave-ho you are talking, if you will forgive me saying so, through the back of your neck."

"Have you been drinking, Galahad?"

"Only a series of toasts to a butler who will go down in legend and song. Here comes the story."

He told it well, omitting no detail however slight, and as his narrative unfolded an ashen pallor spread over Lady Constance's face and she began to gulp in a manner which would have interested any doctor specializing in ailments of the thoracic cavity.

"So there you are," said Gaily, concluding. "Even if you are not touched by his selfless service and lost in admiration of his skill in slipping Micky Finns into people's drinks, you must realize that it would be madness to hand him the pink slip. You can't afford to have him spreading the tale of Clarence's activities all over the county, and you know as well as I do that, if sacked, he will dine out on the thing for months. If I were you, Connie, I would reconsider."

He eyed the wreck of what had once been a fine upstanding sister with satisfaction. He could read the message of those gulps, and could see that she was reconsidering.

Our Man in America

One of the disadvantages you fellows have who live in England and don't see the New York papers regularly is that you miss a lot of interesting stuff. I don't suppose, for instance, that any of you have been able to follow the Fooshe-Harris case, have you? It culminated in the headline in the press:

WOMAN
WHO
CAME
TO
DINNER
DEPARTS
AFTER
11-
YEAR
STAY

and the ensuing brief announcement:

St. Louis, April 30. Mrs. Eleanor Elaine Lee Harris, who stretched a dinner invitation into an eleven-year stay at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller Fooshe of this city, packed up and departed today on a judge's order. The Fooshes, who are now separated, joined in the eviction suit against her.

Now one can understand that correspondence which has been going on so long between Worried (St. Louis) and Loretta Biggs Tuttle, the well-known adviser on social etiquette whose column is so widely syndicated.

October 10, 1947 

Dear Loretta Biggs Tuttle,—I
am hoping that you will be able to tell me what to do in a case like this, for I have no mother to advise me.

Here are the facts very briefly. On April 14, 1944,
I
was in
vited to dinner by some friends of mine... well,
I
suppose they were more acquaintances at that time...and it was all most enjoyable. My host and hostess could not have been more charming. But now that
I
have been with them three years and six months something seems to have happened. Their manner has changed. I do my best to be bright and entertaining, and have even gone to the trouble of learning a few simple card tricks, but they keep falling into long silences and Mr. F., my host, groans a good deal. Do you think that without knowing it
I
can have done something to offend them?

(You must not be so sensitive, Worried. We are all a little inclined to be diffident and to think ourselves responsible when some trifling thing goes wrong. There are a hundred reasons why Mr. F. should groan ... high taxation, increased cost of living, heavy day at the office and so on. As for the long silences, so many people go into long silences these days. All this Yogi meditation stuff, you know.)

August
3, 1952

Dear Loretta Biggs Tuttle,—I
am
sure
there is something wrong. Mrs. F. has not spoken to me since 1949, and Mr. F. is still groaning. He seems to have aged a good deal, and
I
am afraid his memory is failing him. This afternoon a friend of his called, and when introducing me he said: "Shake hands with Mrs. Barnacle-Limpet."
I
thought it so odd, because after more than eight years he
must
know what my name is.

(You must not let your imagination run away with you, Worried. Mr. F.'s little slip is so easily explained. His mind was on his work and he was thinking of the representative of some English firm with which he is doing business. Barnacle-Limpet is obviously an English  name like Knatchbull
-Hugessen or Binks-Binks-Binks. May I say in passing, what a pleasure it is to me to learn that you are still visiting the F.'s. So difficult to find an apartment nowadays. If Mr. F. seems to have aged, surely that is quite natural. We none of us get younger.)

April
15, 1954

So you have been with the F.s ten years, Worried! How the time does fly, does it not? Yes, I suppose, as you say, it
has
been quite a long dinner party, but I am sure that the F.s have enjoyed every minute of it. The bottle containing a sample of the arrowroot which Mr. F. so kindly brought to your room to help you sleep, and which you thought tasted kind of funny, has not yet reached me, but I will, of course send it to the analyst, as you ask, the moment it arrives.

April
10, 1955

No, Worried, I see no reason for your suspicions. The man who you say attacked you in the street with a bludgeon was probably just some casual passer-by filling in time before lunch. I cannot agree with you when you call it odd that you should have seen him on the previous day in conversation with Mr. F., and that Mr. F. was giving him money. No doubt some old acquaintance of his who had fallen on evil times. To the rattlesnake you say you found in your bed I attach little importance. Do what you will, it is almost impossible to keep rattlesnakes from coming into the house.

May
1, 1955

You could knock me down with a feather, Worried! "Judge's order" indeed! Is this our boasted American hospitality! But cheer up, my poor Worried. I am sure you will soon find some
one else to put you up for the next few years. No, I am sorry, I am afraid I cannot break my rule of never giving correspond
ents my private address.

4. Ukridge Starts a Bank Account

Except that he was quite well-dressed and plainly prosperous, the man a yard or two ahead of me as I walked along Piccadilly looked exactly like my old friend. Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, and I was musing on these odd resemblances and (speculating idly as to what my little world would be like if there were two of him in it, when he stopped to peer into a tobacconist's window and I saw that it was Ukridge. It was months since I had seen that battered man of wrath, and though my guardian angel whispered to me that it would mean parting with a loan of five or even ten shillings if I made my presence known, I tapped him on the shoulder.

Usually if you tap Ukridge on the shoulder, he leaps at least six inches into the air, a guilty conscience making him feel that the worst has happened and his sins have found him out, but now he merely beamed, as if being tapped by me had made his day.

"Corky, old horse! " he cried. "The very man I wanted to see. Come in here while I buy one of those cigarette lighters, and then you must have a bite of lunch with me. And when I say lunch, I don't mean the cup of coffee and roll and butter to which you are accustomed, but something more on the lines of a Babylonian orgy."

We went into the shop and he paid for the lighter from a wallet stuffed with currency.