Piccadilly Jim, P. G. Wodehouse [romantic novels to read .TXT] 📗

the point was ridiculous. Yet, try as he would, he could not be sure. There were moments when he seemed on the very verge of settling the matter, and then some invisible person would meanly insert a red-hot corkscrew in the top of his head and begin to twist it, and this would interfere with calm thought. He was still in a state of uncertainty when Bayliss returned, bearing healing liquids on a tray.

“Shall I set it beside you, sir?”

Jimmy opened one eye.

“Indubitably. No mean word, that, Bayliss, for the morning after. Try it yourself next time. Bayliss, who let me in this morning?”

“Let you in, sir?”

“Precisely. I was out and now I am in. Obviously I must have passed the front door somehow. This is logic.”

“I fancy you let yourself in, Mr. James, with your key.”

“That would seem to indicate that I was in a state of icy sobriety. Yet, if such is the case, how is it that I can’t remember whether I murdered somebody or not last night? It isn’t the sort of thing your sober man would lightly forget. Have you ever murdered anybody, Bayliss?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if you had, you would remember it next morning?”

“I imagine so, Mr. James.”

“Well, it’s a funny thing, but I can’t get rid of the impression that at some point in my researches into the night life of London yestreen I fell upon some person to whom I had never been introduced and committed mayhem upon his person.”

It seemed to Bayliss that the time had come to impart to Mr. James a piece of news which he had supposed would require no imparting. He looked down upon his young master’s recumbent form with a grave commiseration. It was true that he had never been able to tell with any certainty whether Mr. James intended the statements he made to be taken literally or not, but on the present occasion he seemed to have spoken seriously and to be genuinely at a loss to recall an episode over the printed report of which the entire domestic staff had been gloating ever since the arrival of the halfpenny morning paper to which they subscribed.

“Do you really mean it, Mr. James?” he enquired cautiously.

“Mean what?”

“You have really forgotten that you were engaged in a fracas last night at the Six Hundred Club?”

Jimmy sat up with a jerk, staring at this omniscient man. Then the movement having caused a renewal of the operations of the red-hot corkscrew, he fell back again with a groan.

“Was I? How on earth did you know? Why should you know all about it when I can’t remember a thing? It was my fault, not yours.”

“There is quite a long report of it in today’s Daily Sun, Mr. James.”

“A report? In the Sun?”

“Half a column, Mr. James. Would you like me to fetch the paper? I have it in my pantry.”

“I should say so. Trot a quick heat back with it. This wants looking into.”

Bayliss retired, to return immediately with the paper. Jimmy took it, gazed at it, and handed it back.

“I overestimated my powers. It can’t be done. Have you any important duties at the moment, Bayliss?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind reading me the bright little excerpt, then?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“It will be good practice for you. I am convinced I am going to be a confirmed invalid for the rest of my life, and it will be part of your job to sit at my bedside and read to me. By the way, does the paper say who the party of the second part was? Who was the citizen with whom I went to the mat?”

“Lord Percy Whipple, Mr. James.”

“Lord who?”

“Lord Percy Whipple.”

“Never heard of him. Carry on, Bayliss.”

Jimmy composed himself to listen, yawning.

V The Morning After

Bayliss took a spectacle-case from the recesses of his costume, opened it, took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, dived into the jungle again, came out with a handkerchief, polished the spectacles, put them on his nose, closed the case, restored it to its original position, replaced the handkerchief, and took up the paper.

“Why the hesitation, Bayliss? Why the coyness?” enquired Jimmy, lying with closed eyes. “Begin!”

“I was adjusting my glasses, sir.”

“All set now?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I read the headlines first?”

“Read everything.”

The butler cleared his throat.

“Good Heavens, Bayliss,” moaned Jimmy, starting, “don’t gargle. Have a heart! Go on!”

Bayliss began to read.

Fracas in Fashionable Nightclub
Sprigs of Nobility Brawl

Jimmy opened his eyes, interested.

“Am I a sprig of nobility?”

“It is what the paper says, sir.”

“We live and learn. Carry on.”

The butler started to clear his throat, but checked himself.

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Jimmy sat up.

“Bayliss, you’re indulging that distorted sense of humour of yours again. That isn’t in the paper?”

“Yes, sir. Very large headlines.”

Jimmy groaned.

“Bayliss, I’ll give you a piece of advice which may be useful to you when you grow up. Never go about with newspaper men. It all comes back to me. Out of pure kindness of heart I took young Bill Blake of the Sun to supper at the Six Hundred last night. This is my reward. I suppose he thinks it funny. Newspaper men are a low lot, Bayliss.”

“Shall I go on, sir?”

“Most doubtless. Let me hear all.”

Bayliss resumed. He was one of those readers who, whether their subject be a murder case or a funny anecdote, adopt a measured and sepulchral delivery which gives a suggestion of tragedy and horror to whatever they read. At the church which he attended on Sundays, of which he was one of the most influential and respected members, children would turn pale and snuggle up to their mothers when Bayliss read the lessons. Young Mr. Blake’s account of the overnight proceedings at the Six Hundred Club he rendered with a gloomy gusto more marked even than his wont. It had a topical interest for him which urged him to extend himself.

“At an early hour this morning, when our myriad readers were enjoying that refreshing and brain-restoring sleep so