My Man Jeeves, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [ebook reader for pc and android TXT] 📗

the rummiest affairs I was ever mixed up with, in the

course of a lifetime devoted to butting into other people’s business,

was that affair of George Lattaker at Monte Carlo. I wouldn’t bore you,

don’t you know, for the world, but I think you ought to hear about it.

 

We had come to Monte Carlo on the yacht Circe, belonging to an

old sportsman of the name of Marshall. Among those present were myself,

my man Voules, a Mrs. Vanderley, her daughter Stella, Mrs. Vanderley’s

maid Pilbeam and George.

 

George was a dear old pal of mine. In fact, it was I who had worked him

into the party. You see, George was due to meet his Uncle Augustus, who

was scheduled, George having just reached his twenty-fifth birthday, to

hand over to him a legacy left by one of George’s aunts, for which he

had been trustee. The aunt had died when George was quite a kid. It was

a date that George had been looking forward to; for, though he had a

sort of income—an income, after-all, is only an income, whereas a

chunk of o’ goblins is a pile. George’s uncle was in Monte Carlo, and

had written George that he would come to London and unbelt; but it

struck me that a far better plan was for George to go to his uncle at

Monte Carlo instead. Kill two birds with one stone, don’t you know. Fix

up his affairs and have a pleasant holiday simultaneously. So George

had tagged along, and at the time when the trouble started we were

anchored in Monaco Harbour, and Uncle Augustus was due next day.

 

*

 

Looking back, I may say that, so far as I was mixed up in it, the

thing began at seven o’clock in the morning, when I was aroused from

a dreamless sleep by the dickens of a scrap in progress outside my

state-room door. The chief ingredients were a female voice that sobbed

and said: “Oh, Harold!” and a male voice “raised in anger,” as they say,

which after considerable difficulty, I identified as Voules’s. I hardly

recognized it. In his official capacity Voules talks exactly like you’d

expect a statue to talk, if it could. In private, however, he evidently

relaxed to some extent, and to have that sort of thing going on in my

midst at that hour was too much for me.

 

“Voules!” I yelled.

 

Spion Kop ceased with a jerk. There was silence, then sobs diminishing

in the distance, and finally a tap at the door. Voules entered with

that impressive, my-lord-the-carriage-waits look which is what I pay

him for. You wouldn’t have believed he had a drop of any sort of

emotion in him.

 

“Voules,” I said, “are you under the delusion that I’m going to be

Queen of the May? You’ve called me early all right. It’s only just

seven.”

 

“I understood you to summon me, sir.”

 

“I summoned you to find out why you were making that infernal noise

outside.”

 

“I owe you an apology, sir. I am afraid that in the heat of the moment

I raised my voice.”

 

“It’s a wonder you didn’t raise the roof. Who was that with you?”

 

“Miss Pilbeam, sir; Mrs. Vanderley’s maid.”

 

“What was all the trouble about?”

 

“I was breaking our engagement, sir.”

 

I couldn’t help gaping. Somehow one didn’t associate Voules with

engagements. Then it struck me that I’d no right to butt in on his

secret sorrows, so I switched the conversation.

 

“I think I’ll get up,” I said.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I can’t wait to breakfast with the rest. Can you get me some right

away?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

So I had a solitary breakfast and went up on deck to smoke. It was

a lovely morning. Blue sea, gleaming Casino, cloudless sky, and all

the rest of the hippodrome. Presently the others began to trickle up.

Stella Vanderley was one of the first. I thought she looked a bit

pale and tired. She said she hadn’t slept well. That accounted for

it. Unless you get your eight hours, where are you?

 

“Seen George?” I asked.

 

I couldn’t help thinking the name seemed to freeze her a bit. Which was

queer, because all the voyage she and George had been particularly

close pals. In fact, at any moment I expected George to come to me and

slip his little hand in mine, and whisper: “I’ve done it, old scout;

she loves muh!”

 

“I have not seen Mr. Lattaker,” she said.

 

I didn’t pursue the subject. George’s stock was apparently low that

a.m.

 

The next item in the day’s programme occurred a few minutes later when

the morning papers arrived.

 

Mrs. Vanderley opened hers and gave a scream.

 

“The poor, dear Prince!” she said.

 

“What a shocking thing!” said old Marshall.

 

“I knew him in Vienna,” said Mrs. Vanderley. “He waltzed divinely.”

 

Then I got at mine and saw what they were talking about. The paper was

full of it. It seemed that late the night before His Serene Highness

the Prince of Saxburg-Leignitz (I always wonder why they call these

chaps “Serene”) had been murderously assaulted in a dark street on

his way back from the Casino to his yacht. Apparently he had developed

the habit of going about without an escort, and some rough-neck, taking

advantage of this, had laid for him and slugged him with considerable

vim. The Prince had been found lying pretty well beaten up and insensible

in the street by a passing pedestrian, and had been taken back to his

yacht, where he still lay unconscious.

 

“This is going to do somebody no good,” I said. “What do you get for

slugging a Serene Highness? I wonder if they’ll catch the fellow?”

 

“‘Later,’” read old Marshall, “‘the pedestrian who discovered His

Serene Highness proves to have been Mr. Denman Sturgis, the eminent

private investigator. Mr. Sturgis has offered his services to the

police, and is understood to be in possession of a most important

clue.’ That’s the fellow who had charge of that kidnapping case in

Chicago. If anyone can catch the man, he can.”

 

About five minutes later, just as the rest of them were going to move

off to breakfast, a boat hailed us and came alongside. A tall, thin man

came up the gangway. He looked round the group, and fixed on old

Marshall as the probable owner of the yacht.

 

“Good morning,” he said. “I believe you have a Mr. Lattaker on

board—Mr. George Lattaker?”

 

“Yes,” said Marshall. “He’s down below. Want to see him? Whom shall I

say?”

 

“He would not know my name. I should like to see him for a moment on

somewhat urgent business.”

 

“Take a seat. He’ll be up in a moment. Reggie, my boy, go and hurry him

up.”

 

I went down to George’s state-room.

 

“George, old man!” I shouted.

 

No answer. I opened the door and went in. The room was empty. What’s

more, the bunk hadn’t been slept in. I don’t know when I’ve been more

surprised. I went on deck.

 

“He isn’t there,” I said.

 

“Not there!” said old Marshall. “Where is he, then? Perhaps he’s gone

for a stroll ashore. But he’ll be back soon for breakfast. You’d better

wait for him. Have you breakfasted? No? Then will you join us?”

 

The man said he would, and just then the gong went and they trooped

down, leaving me alone on deck.

 

I sat smoking and thinking, and then smoking a bit more, when I thought

I heard somebody call my name in a sort of hoarse whisper. I looked

over my shoulder, and, by Jove, there at the top of the gangway in

evening dress, dusty to the eyebrows and without a hat, was dear old

George.

 

“Great Scot!” I cried.

 

“‘Sh!” he whispered. “Anyone about?”

 

“They’re all down at breakfast.”

 

He gave a sigh of relief, sank into my chair, and closed his eyes. I

regarded him with pity. The poor old boy looked a wreck.

 

“I say!” I said, touching him on the shoulder.

 

He leaped out of the chair with a smothered yell.

 

“Did you do that? What did you do it for? What’s the sense of it? How

do you suppose you can ever make yourself popular if you go about

touching people on the shoulder? My nerves are sticking a yard out of

my body this morning, Reggie!”

 

“Yes, old boy?”

 

“I did a murder last night.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s the sort of thing that might happen to anybody. Directly Stella

Vanderley broke off our engagement I–-”

 

“Broke off your engagement? How long were you engaged?”

 

“About two minutes. It may have been less. I hadn’t a stop-watch. I

proposed to her at ten last night in the saloon. She accepted me. I was

just going to kiss her when we heard someone coming. I went out. Coming

along the corridor was that infernal what’s-her-name—Mrs. Vanderley’s

maid—Pilbeam. Have you ever been accepted by the girl you love,

Reggie?”

 

“Never. I’ve been refused dozens–-”

 

“Then you won’t understand how I felt. I was off my head with joy. I

hardly knew what I was doing. I just felt I had to kiss the nearest

thing handy. I couldn’t wait. It might have been the ship’s cat. It

wasn’t. It was Pilbeam.”

 

“You kissed her?”

 

“I kissed her. And just at that moment the door of the saloon opened

and out came Stella.”

 

“Great Scott!”

 

“Exactly what I said. It flashed across me that to Stella, dear girl,

not knowing the circumstances, the thing might seem a little odd. It

did. She broke off the engagement, and I got out the dinghy and rowed

off. I was mad. I didn’t care what became of me. I simply wanted to

forget. I went ashore. I—It’s just on the cards that I may have drowned

my sorrows a bit. Anyhow, I don’t remember a thing, except that I can

recollect having the deuce of a scrap with somebody in a dark street

and somebody falling, and myself falling, and myself legging it for all

I was worth. I woke up this morning in the Casino gardens. I’ve lost my

hat.”

 

I dived for the paper.

 

“Read,” I said. “It’s all there.”

 

He read.

 

“Good heavens!” he said.

 

“You didn’t do a thing to His Serene Nibs, did you?”

 

“Reggie, this is awful.”

 

“Cheer up. They say he’ll recover.”

 

“That doesn’t matter.”

 

“It does to him.”

 

He read the paper again.

 

“It says they’ve a clue.”

 

“They always say that.”

 

“But—My hat!”

 

“Eh?”

 

“My hat. I must have dropped it during the scrap. This man, Denman

Sturgis, must have found it. It had my name in it!”

 

“George,” I said, “you mustn’t waste time. Oh!”

 

He jumped a foot in the air.

 

“Don’t do it!” he said, irritably. “Don’t bark like that. What’s the

matter?”

 

“The man!”

 

“What man?”

 

“A tall, thin man with an eye like a gimlet. He arrived just before you

did. He’s down in the saloon now, having breakfast. He said he wanted

to see you on business, and wouldn’t give his name. I didn’t like the

look of him from the first. It’s this fellow Sturgis. It must be.”

 

“No!”

 

“I feel it. I’m sure of it.”

 

“Had he a hat?”

 

“Of course he had a hat.”

 

“Fool! I mean mine. Was he carrying a hat?”