Indiscretions of Archie - P. G. Wodehouse (essential books to read txt) 📗

The question was not repeated, but from the other side of the room came the sound of a patted dog.

“Did he think his muzzer had fallen down dead and was never coming up?”

The beautiful picture which these words conjured up filled Archie with that yearning for the might-have-been which is always so painful. He was finding his position physically as well as mentally distressing. It was cramped under the bed, and the boards were harder than anything he had ever encountered. Also, it appeared to be the practice of the housemaids at the Hotel Hermitage to use the space below the beds as a depository for all the dust which they swept off the carpet, and much of this was insinuating itself into his nose and mouth. The two things which Archie would have liked most to do at that moment were first to kill Miss Silverton⁠—if possible, painfully⁠—and then to spend the remainder of his life sneezing.

After a prolonged period he heard a drawer open, and noted the fact as promising. As the old married man, he presumed that it signified the putting away of hairpins. About now the dashed woman would be looking at herself in the glass with her hair down. Then she would brush it. Then she would twiddle it up into thingummies. Say, ten minutes for this. And after that she would go to bed and turn out the light, and he would be able, after giving her a bit of time to go to sleep, to creep out and leg it. Allowing at a conservative estimate three-quarters of⁠—

“Come out!”

Archie stiffened. For an instant a feeble hope came to him that this remark, like the others, might be addressed to the dog.

“Come out from under that bed!” said a stern voice. “And mind how you come! I’ve got a pistol!”

“Well, I mean to say, you know,” said Archie, in a propitiatory voice, emerging from his lair like a tortoise and smiling as winningly as a man can who has just bumped his head against the leg of a bed, “I suppose all this seems fairly rummy, but⁠—”

“For the love of Mike!” said Miss Silverton.

The point seemed to Archie well taken and the comment on the situation neatly expressed.

“What are you doing in my room?”

“Well, if it comes to that, you know⁠—shouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t brought the subject up in the course of general chitchat⁠—what are you doing in mine?”

“Yours?”

“Well, apparently there’s been a bloomer of some species somewhere, but this was the room I had last night,” said Archie.

“But the desk clerk said that he had asked you if it would be quite satisfactory to you giving it up to me, and you said yes. I come here every summer, when I’m not working, and I always have this room.”

“By Jove! I remember now. The chappie did say something to me about the room, but I was thinking of something else and it rather went over the top. So that’s what he was talking about, was it?”

Miss Silverton was frowning. A moving-picture director, scanning her face, would have perceived that she was registering disappointment.

“Nothing breaks right for me in this darned world,” she said, regretfully. “When I caught sight of your leg sticking out from under the bed, I did think that everything was all lined up for a real find and, at last, I could close my eyes and see the thing in the papers. On the front page, with photographs: ‘Plucky Actress Captures Burglar.’ Darn it!”

“Fearfully sorry, you know!”

“I just needed something like that. I’ve got a press agent, and I will say for him that he eats well and sleeps well and has just enough intelligence to cash his monthly cheque without forgetting what he went into the bank for, but outside of that you can take it from me he’s not one of the world’s workers! He’s about as much solid use to a girl with aspirations as a pain in the lower ribs. It’s three weeks since he got me into print at all, and then the brightest thing he could think up was that my favourite breakfast fruit was an apple. Well, I ask you!”

“Rotten!” said Archie.

“I did think that for once my guardian angel had gone back to work and was doing something for me. ‘Stage Star and Midnight Marauder,’ ” murmured Miss Silverton, wistfully. “ ‘Footlight Favourite Foils Felon.’ ”

“Bit thick!” agreed Archie, sympathetically. “Well, you’ll probably be wanting to get to bed and all that sort of rot, so I may as well be popping, what! Cheerio!”

A sudden gleam came into Miss Silverton’s compelling eyes.

“Wait!”

“Eh?”

“Wait! I’ve got an idea!” The wistful sadness had gone from her manner. She was bright and alert. “Sit down!”

“Sit down?”

“Sure. Sit down and take the chill off the armchair. I’ve thought of something.”

Archie sat down as directed. At his elbow the bulldog eyed him gravely from the basket.

“Do they know you in this hotel?”

“Know me? Well, I’ve been here about a week.”

“I mean, do they know who you are? Do they know you’re a good citizen?”

“Well, if it comes to that, I suppose they don’t. But⁠—”

“Fine!” said Miss Silverton, appreciatively. “Then it’s all right. We can carry on!”

“Carry on!”

“Why, sure! All I want is to get the thing into the papers. It doesn’t matter to me if it turns out later that there was a mistake and that you weren’t a burglar trying for my jewels after all. It makes just as good a story either way. I can’t think why that never struck me before. Here have I been kicking because you weren’t a real burglar, when it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans whether you are or not. All I’ve got to do is to rush out and yell and rouse the hotel, and they come in and pinch you, and I give the story to the papers, and everything’s fine!”

Archie leaped from his chair.

“I say! What!”

“What’s on your mind?” enquired Miss Silverton, considerately. “Don’t you think it’s