due to the fact that D’Arcy Cheesewright is a low, mean,
creeping, crawling, slinking, spying, despicable worm,’ she proceeded, dishing
out the words from between clenched teeth. ‘Do you know what he did?’
‘I
haven’t a notion.’
She
refreshed herself with a further gooseberry and returned to the upper air,
breathing a few puffs of flame through the nostrils.
‘He
sneaked round to that night club yesterday and made inquiries.’
‘Oh, my
gosh!’
‘Yes.
You wouldn’t think a man could stoop so low, but he bribed people and was
allowed to look at the head waiter’s book and found that a table had been
reserved that night in your name. This confirmed his degraded suspicions. He
knew that I had been there with you. I suppose,’ said Florence, diving at the
gooseberry bush once more and starting to strip it of its contents, ‘a man gets
a rotten, spying mind like that from being a policeman.’
To say
that I was appalled would not be putting it any too strongly. I was, moreover,
astounded. It was a revelation to me that a puff—faced poop like Stilton could
have been capable of detective work on this uncanny scale. I had always
respected his physique, of course, but had supposed that the ability to fell an
ox with a single blow more or less let him out. Not for an instant had I
credited him with reasoning powers which might well have made Hercule Poirot
himself draw the breath in with a startled ‘What ho’. It just showed how one ought
never to underestimate a man simply because he devotes his life to shoving oars
into rivers and pulling them out again, this being about as silly a way of
passing the time as could be hit upon.
No
doubt, as Florence had said, this totally unforeseen snakiness was the result
of his having been, if only briefly, a member of the police force. One presumes
that when the neophyte has been issued his uniform and regulation boots, the
men up top take him aside and teach him a few things likely to be of use to him
in his chosen profession. Stilton, it was plain, had learned his lesson well
and, if one did but know, was probably capable of measuring blood stains and
collecting cigar ash.
However,
it was only a fleeting attention that I gave to this facet of the situation. My
thoughts were concentrated on something of far greater pith and moment, as
Jeeves would say. I allude to the position — now that the man knew all — of B.
Wooster, which seemed to me sticky to a degree. Florence, having sated herself
with gooseberries, was starting to move off, and I arrested her with a sharp
‘Hoy!’
‘That
telegram,’ I said.
‘I
don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I do.
Was there anything about me in it?’
‘Oh,
yes, quite a lot.’
I
swallowed a couple of times and passed a finger round the inside of my collar.
I had thought there might be.
‘Did he
hint at any plans he had with regard to me?’
‘He
said he was going to break your spine in five places.’
‘Five places?’
‘I
think he said five. Don’t you let him,’ said Florence warmly, and it was nice,
of course, to know that she disapproved. ‘Breaking spines! I never heard of
such a thing. He ought to be ashamed of himself.’
And she
moved off in the direction of the house, walking like a tragedy queen on one of
her bad mornings.
What I
have heard Jeeves call the glimmering landscape was now fading on the sight,
and it was getting on for the hour when dressing-gongs are beaten. But though
I knew how rash it is ever to be late for one of Anatole’s dinners, I could not
bring myself to go in and don the soup-and-fish. I had so much to occupy the
mind that I lingered on in a sort of stupor. Winged creatures of the night kept
rolling up and taking a look at me and rolling off again, but I remained
motionless, plunged in thought. A man pursued by a thug like D’Arcy
Cheesewright has need of all the thought he can get hold of.
And
then, quite suddenly, out of the night that covered me, black as a pit
creeping, crawling, slinking, spying, despicable worm,’ she proceeded, dishing
out the words from between clenched teeth. ‘Do you know what he did?’
‘I
haven’t a notion.’
She
refreshed herself with a further gooseberry and returned to the upper air,
breathing a few puffs of flame through the nostrils.
‘He
sneaked round to that night club yesterday and made inquiries.’
‘Oh, my
gosh!’
‘Yes.
You wouldn’t think a man could stoop so low, but he bribed people and was
allowed to look at the head waiter’s book and found that a table had been
reserved that night in your name. This confirmed his degraded suspicions. He
knew that I had been there with you. I suppose,’ said Florence, diving at the
gooseberry bush once more and starting to strip it of its contents, ‘a man gets
a rotten, spying mind like that from being a policeman.’
To say
that I was appalled would not be putting it any too strongly. I was, moreover,
astounded. It was a revelation to me that a puff—faced poop like Stilton could
have been capable of detective work on this uncanny scale. I had always
respected his physique, of course, but had supposed that the ability to fell an
ox with a single blow more or less let him out. Not for an instant had I
credited him with reasoning powers which might well have made Hercule Poirot
himself draw the breath in with a startled ‘What ho’. It just showed how one ought
never to underestimate a man simply because he devotes his life to shoving oars
into rivers and pulling them out again, this being about as silly a way of
passing the time as could be hit upon.
No
doubt, as Florence had said, this totally unforeseen snakiness was the result
of his having been, if only briefly, a member of the police force. One presumes
that when the neophyte has been issued his uniform and regulation boots, the
men up top take him aside and teach him a few things likely to be of use to him
in his chosen profession. Stilton, it was plain, had learned his lesson well
and, if one did but know, was probably capable of measuring blood stains and
collecting cigar ash.
However,
it was only a fleeting attention that I gave to this facet of the situation. My
thoughts were concentrated on something of far greater pith and moment, as
Jeeves would say. I allude to the position — now that the man knew all — of B.
Wooster, which seemed to me sticky to a degree. Florence, having sated herself
with gooseberries, was starting to move off, and I arrested her with a sharp
‘Hoy!’
‘That
telegram,’ I said.
‘I
don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I do.
Was there anything about me in it?’
‘Oh,
yes, quite a lot.’
I
swallowed a couple of times and passed a finger round the inside of my collar.
I had thought there might be.
‘Did he
hint at any plans he had with regard to me?’
‘He
said he was going to break your spine in five places.’
‘Five places?’
‘I
think he said five. Don’t you let him,’ said Florence warmly, and it was nice,
of course, to know that she disapproved. ‘Breaking spines! I never heard of
such a thing. He ought to be ashamed of himself.’
And she
moved off in the direction of the house, walking like a tragedy queen on one of
her bad mornings.
What I
have heard Jeeves call the glimmering landscape was now fading on the sight,
and it was getting on for the hour when dressing-gongs are beaten. But though
I knew how rash it is ever to be late for one of Anatole’s dinners, I could not
bring myself to go in and don the soup-and-fish. I had so much to occupy the
mind that I lingered on in a sort of stupor. Winged creatures of the night kept
rolling up and taking a look at me and rolling off again, but I remained
motionless, plunged in thought. A man pursued by a thug like D’Arcy
Cheesewright has need of all the thought he can get hold of.
And
then, quite suddenly, out of the night that covered me, black as a pit
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