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

man of middle-age, whose solemn gaze dwelt on the middle distance in that fixed way which a man achieves only in photographs.

“Skinner!”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Sturgis, taking the photograph from her and putting it back in his pocket. “I recognised him directly he opened the door to me.”

“But⁠—but I am almost certain that Skinner is the man who let me in when I called on my sister in London.”

“Almost,” repeated the detective. “Did you observe him very closely?”

“No. I suppose I did not.”

“The type is a very common one. It would be very easy indeed for a clever crook to make himself up as your sister’s butler closely enough to deceive anyone who had only seen the original once and for a short time then. What their game is I could not say at present, but, taking everything into consideration, there can be no doubt whatever that the man who calls himself your nephew and the man who calls himself your sister’s butler are working together, and that Jerry Mitchell is working in with them. As I say, I cannot tell you what they are after at present, but there is no doubt that your unexpected dismissal of Mitchell must have upset their plans. That would account for the eagerness to get him back into the house again.”

“Lord Wisbeach thought that they were trying to steal my nephew’s explosive. Perhaps you have read in the papers that my nephew, Willie Partridge, has completed an explosive which is more powerful than any at present known. His father⁠—you have heard of him, of course⁠—Dwight Partridge.”

Mr. Sturgis nodded.

“His father was working on it at the time of his death, and Willie has gone on with his experiments where he left off. Today at lunch he showed us a test-tube full of the explosive. He put it in my husband’s safe in the library. Lord Wisbeach is convinced that these scoundrels are trying to steal this, but I cannot help feeling that this is another of those attempts to kidnap my son Ogden. What do you think?”

“It is impossible to say at this stage of the proceedings. All we can tell is that there is some plot going on. You refused, of course, to allow Mitchell to come back to the house?”

“Yes. You think that was wise?”

“Undoubtedly. If his absence did not handicap them, they would not be so anxious to have him on the spot.”

“What shall we do?”

“You wish me to undertake the case?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Sturgis frowned thoughtfully.

“It would be useless for me to come here myself. By bad luck the man who pretends to be your nephew has seen me. If I were to come to stay here, he would suspect something. He would be on his guard.” He pondered with closed eyes. “Miss Trimble,” he exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You want Miss Trimble. She is the smartest worker in my office. This is precisely the type of case she could handle to perfection.”

“A woman?” said Mrs. Pett doubtfully.

“A woman in a thousand,” said Mr. Sturgis. “A woman in a million.”

“But physically would a woman be⁠—?”

“Miss Trimble knows more about jiujitsu than the Japanese professor who taught her. At one time she was a Strong Woman in small-time vaudeville. She is an expert revolver-shot. I am not worrying about Miss Trimble’s capacity to do the work. I am only wondering in what capacity it would be best for her to enter the house. Have you a vacancy for a parlourmaid?”

“I could make one.”

“Do so at once. Miss Trimble is at her best as a parlourmaid. She handled the Marling divorce case in that capacity. Have you a telephone in the room?”

Mrs. Pett opened the stuffed owl. The detective got in touch with his office.

“Mr. Sturgis speaking. Tell Miss Trimble to come to the phone.⁠ ⁠… Miss Trimble? I am speaking from Mrs. Pett’s on Riverside Drive. You know the house? I want you to come up at once. Take a taxi. Go to the back door and ask to see Mrs. Pett. Say you have come about getting a place here as a maid. Understand? Right. Say, listen, Miss Trimble. Hello? Yes, don’t hang up for a moment. Do you remember those photographs I showed you yesterday? Yes, the photographs from Anderson’s. I’ve found the man. He’s the butler here. Take a look at him when you get to the house. Now go and get a taxi. Mrs. Pett will explain everything when you arrive.” He hung up the receiver. “I think I had better go now, Mrs. Pett. It would not do for me to be here while these fellows are on their guard. I can safely leave the matter to Miss Trimble. I wish you good afternoon.”

After he had gone, Mrs. Pett vainly endeavoured to interest herself again in her book, but in competition with the sensations of life, fiction, even though she had written it herself, had lost its power and grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble must be walking to the house instead of journeying thither in a taxicab. But a glance at the clock assured her that only five minutes had elapsed since the detective’s departure. She went to the window and looked out. She was hopelessly restless.

At last a taxicab stopped at the corner, and a young woman got out and walked towards the house. If this were Miss Trimble, she certainly looked capable. She was a stumpy, square-shouldered person, and even at that distance it was possible to perceive that she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination. The next moment she had turned down the side-street in the direction of the back-premises of Mrs. Pett’s house: and a few minutes later Mr. Crocker presented himself.

“A young person wishes to see you, madam. A young person of the name of Trimble.” A pang passed through Mrs. Pett as she listened to his measured tones. It was tragic that so perfect a butler should be a scoundrel. “She says that you desired her to call in connection with a situation.”

“Show her up here, Skinner. She is the new parlourmaid. I