Leave It to Psmith, P. G. Wodehouse [novels to read .txt] 📗

shut in that upper room had Freddie Threepwood ceased to be mindful of Psmith’s parting statement that he would be shot if he tried to escape, and Mr. Cootes’ bullet seemed to him a dramatic fulfilment of that promise. Wrenching his leg with painful energy out of the abyss, he proceeded to execute a backward spring which took him to the far wall⁠—at which point, as it was impossible to get any farther away from the centre of events, he was compelled to halt his retreat. Having rolled himself up into as small a ball as he could manage, he sat where he was, trying not to breathe. His momentary intention of explaining through the hole that the entire thing had been a regrettable accident, he prudently abandoned. Unintelligent though he had often proved himself in other crises of his life, he had the sagacity now to realise that the neighbourhood of the hole was unhealthy and should be avoided. So, preserving a complete and unbroken silence, he crouched there in the darkness, only asking to be left alone.

And it seemed, as the moments slipped by, that this modest wish was to be gratified. Noises and the sound of voices came up to him from the room below, but no more bullets. It would be paltering with the truth to say that this put him completely at his ease, but still it was something. Freddie’s pulse began to return to the normal.

Mr. Cootes’, on the other hand, was beating with a dangerous quickness. Swift and objectionable things had been happening to Edward Cootes in that lower room. His first impression was that the rift in the plaster above him had been instantly followed by the collapse of the entire ceiling, but this was a mistaken idea. All that had occurred was that Psmith, finding Mr. Cootes’ eye and pistol functioning in another direction, had sprung forward, snatched up a chair, hit the unfortunate man over the head with it, relieved him of his pistol, leaped to the mantelpiece, removed the revolver which lay there, and now, holding both weapons in an attitude of menace, was regarding him censoriously through a gleaming eyeglass.

“No funny business, Comrade Cootes,” said Psmith.

Mr. Cootes picked himself up painfully. His head was singing. He looked at the revolvers, blinked, opened his mouth and shut it again. He was oppressed with a sense of defeat. Nature had not built him for a man of violence. Peaceful manipulation of a pack of cards in the smoke-room of an Atlantic liner was a thing he understood and enjoyed: rough-and-tumble encounters were alien to him and distasteful. As far as Mr. Cootes was concerned, the war was over.

But Miss Peavey was a woman of spirit. Her hat was still in the ring. She clutched the necklace in a grasp of steel, and her fine eyes glared defiance.

“You think yourself smart, don’t you?” she said.

Psmith eyed her commiseratingly. Her valorous attitude appealed to him. Nevertheless, business was business.

“I am afraid,” he said regretfully, “that I must trouble you to hand over that necklace.”

“Try and get it,” said Miss Peavey.

Psmith looked hurt.

“I am a child in these matters,” he said, “but I had always gathered that on these occasions the wishes of the man behind the gun were automatically respected.”

“I’ll call your bluff,” said Miss Peavey firmly. “I’m going to walk straight out of here with this collection of ice right now, and I’ll bet you won’t have the nerve to start any shooting. Shoot a woman? Not you!”

Psmith nodded gravely.

“Your knowledge of psychology is absolutely correct. Your trust in my sense of chivalry rests on solid ground. But,” he proceeded, cheering up, “I fancy that I see a way out of the difficulty. An idea has been vouchsafed to me. I shall shoot⁠—not you, but Comrade Cootes. This will dispose of all unpleasantness. If you attempt to edge out through that door I shall immediately proceed to plug Comrade Cootes in the leg. At least, I shall try. I am a poor shot and may hit him in some more vital spot, but at least he will have the consolation of knowing that I did my best and meant well.”

“Hey!” cried Mr. Cootes. And never, in a life liberally embellished with this favourite ejaculation of his, had he uttered it more feelingly. He shot a feverish glance at Miss Peavey; and, reading in her face indecision rather than that instant acquiescence which he had hoped to see, cast off his customary attitude of respectful humility and asserted himself. He was no caveman, but this was one occasion when he meant to have his own way. With an agonised bound he reached Miss Peavey’s side, wrenched the necklace from her grasp and flung it into the enemy’s camp. Eve stooped and picked it up.

“I thank you,” said Psmith with a brief bow in her direction.

Miss Peavey breathed heavily. Her strong hands clenched and unclenched. Between her parted lips her teeth showed in a thin white line. Suddenly she swallowed quickly, as if draining a glass of unpalatable medicine.

“Well,” she said in a low, even voice, “that seems to be about all. Guess we’ll be going. Come along, Ed, pick up the Henries.”

“Coming, Liz,” replied Mr. Cootes humbly.

They passed together into the night.

V

Silence followed their departure. Eve, weak with the reaction from the complex emotions which she had undergone since her arrival at the cottage, sat on the battered sofa, her chin resting in her hands. She looked at Psmith, who, humming a light air, was delicately piling with the toe of his shoe a funeral mound over the second of the dead bats.

“So that’s that!” she said.

Psmith looked up with a bright and friendly smile.

“You have a very happy gift of phrase,” he said. “That, as you sensibly say, is that.”

Eve was silent for awhile. Psmith completed the obsequies and stepped back with the air of a man who has done what he can for a fallen friend.

“Fancy Miss Peavey being a thief!” said Eve.