Psmith, Journalist - P. G. Wodehouse (i am reading a book TXT) 📗

might or might not be friendly. In the meantime, there was no harm in being on one’s guard. Billy’s experience as a cub reporter had given him the knowledge that is only given in its entirety to police and newspaper men: that there are two New Yorks. One is a modern, well-policed city, through which one may walk from end to end without encountering adventure. The other is a city as full of sinister intrigue, of whisperings and conspiracies, of battle, murder, and sudden death in dark byways, as any town of medieval Italy. Given certain conditions, anything may happen to anyone in New York. And Billy realised that these conditions now prevailed in his own case. He had come into conflict with New York’s underworld. Circumstances had placed him below the surface, where only his wits could help him.

“It’s about that tenement business,” said the stranger.

Billy bristled. “Well, what about it?” he demanded truculently.

The stranger raised a long and curiously delicately shaped hand. “Don’t bite at me,” he said. “This isn’t my funeral. I’ve no kick coming. I’m a friend.”

“Yet you don’t tell us your name.”

“Never mind my name. If you were in my line of business, you wouldn’t be so durned stuck on this name thing. Call me Smith, if you like.”

“You could select no nobler pseudonym,” said Psmith cordially.

“Eh? Oh, I see. Well, make it Brown, then. Anything you please. It don’t signify. See here, let’s get back. About this tenement thing. You understand certain parties have got it in against you?”

“A charming conversationalist, one Comrade Parker, hinted at something of the sort,” said Psmith, “in a recent interview. Cosy Moments, however, cannot be muzzled.”

“Well?” said Billy.

“You’re up against a big proposition.”

“We can look after ourselves.”

“Gum! you’ll need to. The man behind is a big bug.”

Billy leaned forward eagerly.

“Who is he?”

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know. You wouldn’t expect a man like that to give himself away.”

“Then how do you know he’s a big bug?”

“Precisely,” said Psmith. “On what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman’s bughood?”

The stranger lit a cigar.

“By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you done in.”

Billy’s eyes snapped.

“Oh?” he said. “And which gang has he given the job to?”

“I wish I could tell you. He⁠—his agent, that is⁠—came to Bat Jarvis.”

“The cat expert?” said Psmith. “A man of singularly winsome personality.”

“Bat turned the job down.”

“Why was that?” inquired Billy.

“He said he needed the money as much as the next man, but when he found out who he was supposed to lay for, he gave his job the frozen face. Said you were a friend of his and none of his fellows were going to put a finger on you. I don’t know what you’ve been doing to Bat, but he’s certainly Willie the Long-Lost Brother with you.”

“A powerful argument in favour of kindness to animals!” said Psmith. “Comrade Windsor came into possession of one of Comrade Jarvis’s celebrated stud of cats. What did he do? Instead of having the animal made into a nourishing soup, he restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe the sequel. He is now as a prize tortoiseshell to Comrade Jarvis.”

“So Bat wouldn’t stand for it?” said Billy.

“Not on his life. Turned it down without a blink. And he sent me along to find you and tell you so.”

“We are much obliged to Comrade Jarvis,” said Psmith.

“He told me to tell you to watch out, because another gang is dead sure to take on the job. But he said you were to know he wasn’t mixed up in it. He also said that any time you were in bad, he’d do his best for you. You’ve certainly made the biggest kind of hit with Bat. I haven’t seen him so worked up over a thing in years. Well, that’s all, I reckon. Guess I’ll be pushing along. I’ve a date to keep. Glad to have met you. Glad to have met you, Mr. Smith. Pardon me, you have an insect on your coat.”

He flicked at Psmith’s coat with a quick movement. Psmith thanked him gravely.

“Good night,” concluded the stranger, moving off. For a few moments after he had gone, Psmith and Billy sat smoking in silence. They had plenty to think about.

“How’s the time going?” asked Billy at length. Psmith felt for his watch, and looked at Billy with some sadness.

“I am sorry to say, Comrade Windsor⁠—”

“Hullo,” said Billy, “here’s that man coming back again.”

The stranger came up to their table, wearing a light overcoat over his dress clothes. From the pocket of this he produced a gold watch.

“Force of habit,” he said apologetically, handing it to Psmith. “You’ll pardon me. Good night, gentlemen, again.”

XII A Red Taximeter

The Astor Hotel faces on to Times Square. A few paces to the right of the main entrance the Times Building towers to the sky; and at the foot of this the stream of traffic breaks, forming two channels. To the right of the building is Seventh Avenue, quiet, dark, and dull. To the left is Broadway, the Great White Way, the longest, straightest, brightest, wickedest street in the world.

Psmith and Billy, having left the Astor, started to walk down Broadway to Billy’s lodgings in Fourteenth Street. The usual crowd was drifting slowly up and down in the glare of the white lights.

They had reached Herald Square, when a voice behind them exclaimed, “Why, it’s Mr. Windsor!”

They wheeled round. A flashily dressed man was standing with outstetched hand.

“I saw you come out of the Astor,” he said cheerily. “I said to myself, ‘I know that man.’ Darned if I could put a name to you, though. So I just followed you along, and right here it came to me.”

“It did, did it?” said Billy politely.

“It did, sir. I’ve never set eyes on you before, but I’ve seen so many photographs of you that I reckon we’re old friends. I know your father very well, Mr. Windsor. He showed me