Something New, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [best historical biographies TXT] 📗
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
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Nobody Came To Rouse Him. He Did Not Ring His Bell, So He Was Not
Disturbed; And He Slept On Until Half Past Eleven, By Which Time,
It Being Sunday Morning And The House Party Including One Bishop
And Several Of The Minor Clergy, Most Of The Occupants Of The
Place Had Gone Off To Church.
Baxter Shaved And Dressed Hastily, For He Was In State Of Nervous
Apprehension. He Blamed Himself For Having Lain In Bed So Long.
When Every Minute He Was Away Might Mean The Loss Of The Scarab,
He Had Passed Several Hours In Dreamy Sloth. He Had Wakened With
A Presentiment. Something Told Him The Scarab Had Been Stolen In
The Night, And He Wished Now That He Had Risked All And Kept
Guard.
The House Was Very Quiet As He Made His Way Rapidly To The Hall.
As He Passed A Window He Perceived Lord Emsworth, In An
Un-Sabbatarian Suit Of Tweeds And Bearing A Garden Fork--Which
Must Have Pained The Bishop--Bending Earnestly Over A Flower Bed;
But He Was The Only Occupant Of The Grounds, And Indoors There
Was A Feeling Of Emptiness. The Hall Had That Sunday-Morning Air
Of Wanting To Be Left To Itself, And Disapproving Of The Entry Of
Anything Human Until Lunch Time, Which Can Be Felt Only By A
Guest In A Large House Who Remains At Home When His Fellows Have
Gone To Church.
The Portraits On The Walls, Especially The One Of The Countess Of
Emsworth In The Character Of Venus Rising From The Sea, Stared At
Baxter As He Entered, With Cold Reproof. The Very Chairs Seemed
Distant And Unfriendly; But Baxter Was In No Mood To Appreciate
Their Attitude. His Conscience Slept. His Mind Was Occupied, To
The Exclusion Of All Other Things, By The Scarab And Its Probable
Fate. How Disastrously Remiss It Had Been Of Him Not To Keep
Guard Last Night! Long Before He Opened The Museum Door He Was
Chapter 9 Pg 150Feeling The Absolute Certainty That The Worst Had Happened.
It Had. The Card Which Announced That Here Was An Egyptian Scarab
Of The Reign Of Cheops Of The Fourth Dynasty, Presented By J.
Preston Peters, Esquire, Still Lay On The Cabinet In Its Wonted
Place; But Now Its Neat Lettering Was False And Misleading. The
Scarab Was Gone.
* * *
For All That He Had Expected This, For All His Premonition Of
Disaster, It Was An Appreciable Time Before The Efficient Baxter
Rallied From The Blow. He Stood Transfixed, Goggling At The Empty
Place.
Then His Mind Resumed Its Functions. All, He Perceived, Was Not
Yet Lost. Baxter The Watchdog Must Retire, To Be Succeeded By
Baxter The Sleuthhound. He Had Been Unable To Prevent The Theft
Of The Scarab, But He Might Still Detect The Thief.
For The Doctor Watsons Of This World, As Opposed To The Sherlock
Holmeses, Success In The Province Of Detective Work Must Always
Be, To A Very Large Extent, The Result Of Luck. Sherlock Holmes
Can Extract A Clew From A Wisp Of Straw Or A Flake Of Cigar Ash;
But Doctor Watson Has To Have It Taken Out For Him And Dusted,
And Exhibited Clearly, With A Label Attached.
The Average Man Is A Doctor Watson. We Are Wont To Scoff In A
Patronizing Manner At That Humble Follower Of The Great
Investigator; But As A Matter Of Fact We Should Have Been Just As
Dull Ourselves. We Should Not Even Have Risen To The Modest
Height Of A Scotland Yard Bungler.
Baxter Was A Doctor Watson. What He Wanted Was A Clew; But It Is
So Hard For The Novice To Tell What Is A Clew And What Is Not.
And Then He Happened To Look Down--And There On The Floor Was A
Clew That Nobody Could Have Overlooked.
Baxter Saw It, But Did Not Immediately Recognize It For What It
Was. What He Saw, At First, Was Not A Clew, But Just A Mess. He
Had A Tidy Soul And Abhorred Messes, And This Was A Particularly
Messy Mess. A Considerable Portion Of The Floor Was A Sea Of Red
Paint. The Can From Which It Had Flowed Was Lying On Its
Side--Near The Wall. He Had Noticed That The Smell Of Paint Had
Seemed Particularly Pungent, But Had Attributed This To A New
Freshet Of Energy On The Part Of Lord Emsworth. He Had Not
Perceived That Paint Had Been Spilled.
"Pah!" Said Baxter.
Then Suddenly, Beneath The Disguise Of The Mess, He Saw The Clew.
A Footmark! No Less. A Crimson Footmark On The Polished Wood! It
Was As Clear And Distinct As Though It Had Been Left There For
The Purpose Of Assisting Him. It Was A Feminine Footmark, The
Chapter 9 Pg 151Print Of A Slim And Pointed Shoe.
This Perplexed Baxter. He Had Looked On The Siege Of The Scarab
As An Exclusively Male Affair. But He Was Not Perplexed Long.
What Could Be Simpler Than That Mr. Peters Should Have Enlisted
Female Aid? The Female Of The Species Is More Deadly Than The
Male. Probably She Makes A Better Purloiner Of Scarabs. At Any
Rate, There The Footprint Was, Unmistakably Feminine.
Inspiration Came To Him. Aline Peters Had A Maid! What More
Likely Than That Secretly She Should Be A Hireling Of Mr. Peters,
On Whom He Had Now Come To Look As A Man Of The Blackest And Most
Sinister Character? Mr. Peters Was A Collector; And When A
Collector Makes Up His Mind To Secure A Treasure, He Employs,
Baxter Knew, Every Possible Means To That End.
Baxter Was Now In A State Of Great Excitement. He Was Hot On The
Scent And His Brain Was Working Like A Buzz Saw In An Ice Box.
According To His Reasoning, If Aline Peters' Maid Had Done This
Thing There Should Be Red Paint In The Hall Marking Her Retreat,
And Possibly A Faint Stain On The Stairs Leading To The Servants'
Bedrooms.
He Hastened From The Museum And Subjected The Hall To A Keen
Scrutiny. Yes; There Was Red Paint On The Carpet. He Passed
Through The Green-Baize Door And Examined The Stairs. On The
Bottom Step There Was A Faint But Conclusive Stain Of Crimson!
He Was Wondering How Best To Follow Up This Clew When He
Perceived Ashe Coming Down The Stairs. Ashe, Like Baxter, And As
The Result Of A Night Disturbed By Anxious Thoughts, Had Also
Overslept Himself.
There Are Moments When The Giddy Excitement Of Being Right On The
Trail Causes The Amateur--Or Watsonian--Detective To Be
Incautious. If Baxter Had Been Wise He Would Have Achieved His
Object--The Getting A Glimpse Of Joan's Shoes--By A Devious And
Snaky Route. As It Was, Zeal Getting The Better Of Prudence, He
Rushed Straight On. His Early Suspicion Of Ashe Had Been
Temporarily Obscured. Whatever Ashe's Claims To Be A Suspect, It
Had Not Been His Footprint Baxter Had Seen In The Museum.
"Here, You!" Said The Efficient Baxter Excitedly.
"Sir?"
"The Shoes!"
"I Beg Your Pardon?"
"I Wish To See The Servants' Shoes. Where Are They?"
"I Expect They Have Them On, Sir."
Chapter 9 Pg 152
Yesterday's Shoes, Man--Yesterday's Shoes. Where Are They?"
"Where Are The Shoes Of Yesteryear?" Murmured Ashe. "I Should Say
At A Venture, Sir, That They Would Be In A Large Basket Somewhere
Near The Kitchen. Our Genial Knife-And-Shoe Boy Collects Them, I
Believe, At Early Dawn."
"Would They Have Been Cleaned Yet?"
"If I Know The Lad, Sir--No."
"Go And Bring That Basket To Me. Bring It To Me In This Room."
* * *
The Room To Which He Referred Was None Other Than The Private
Sanctum Of Mr. Beach, The Butler, The Door Of Which, Standing
Open, Showed It To Be Empty. It Was Not Baxter's Plan, Excited As
He Was, To Risk Being Discovered Sifting Shoes In The Middle Of A
Passage In The Servants' Quarters.
Ashe's Brain Was Working Rapidly As He Made For The Shoe
Cupboard, That Little Den Of Darkness And Smells, Where Billy,
The Knife-And-Shoe Boy, Better Known In The Circle In Which He
Moved As Young Bonehead, Pursued His Menial Tasks. What Exactly
Was At The Back Of The Efficient Baxter's Mind Prompting These
Maneuvers He Did Not Know; But That There Was Something He Was
Certain.
He Had Not Yet Seen Joan This Morning, And He Did Not Know
Whether Or Not She Had Carried Out Her Resolve Of Attempting To
Steal The Scarab On The Previous Night; But This Activity And
Mystery On The Part Of Their Enemy Must Have Some Sinister
Significance. He Gathered Up The Shoe Basket Thoughtfully. He
Staggered Back With It And Dumped It Down On The Floor Of Mr.
Beach's Room. The Efficient Baxter Stooped Eagerly Over It.
Ashe, Leaning Against The Wall, Straightened The Creases In His
Clothes And Flicked Disgustedly At An Inky Spot Which The Journey
Had Transferred From The Basket To His Coat.
"We Have Here, Sir," He Said, "A Fair Selection Of Our Various
Foot Coverings."
"You Did Not Drop Any On Your Way?"
"Not One, Sir."
The Efficient Baxter Uttered A Grunt Of Satisfaction And Bent
Once More To His Task. Shoes Flew About The Room. Baxter Knelt On
The Floor Beside The Basket, And Dug Like A Terrier At A Rat
Hole. At Last He Made A Find And With An Exclamation Of Triumph
Rose To His Feet. In His Hand He Held A Shoe.
"Put Those Back," He Said.
Chapter 9 Pg 153
Ashe Began To Pick Up The Scattered Footgear.
"That's The Lot, Sir," He Said, Rising.
"Now Come With Me. Leave The Basket There. You Can Carry It Back
When You Return."
"Shall I Put Back That Shoe, Sir?"
"Certainly Not. I Shall Take This One With Me."
"Shall I Carry It For You, Sir?"
Baxter Reflected.
"Yes. I Think That Would Be Best."
Trouble Had Shaken
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