Ukridge Stories - P. G. Wodehouse (e book free reading TXT) 📗

“Or a bus?”

“Not a bus,” I said firmly. I was quite decided on a cab⁠—one with blinds that would pull down, if possible.

“ ’Ave it your own way,” said Flossie’s mother, agreeably. “Speaking as far as I’m personally concerned, I’m shaw there’s nothing I would rather prefer than a nice ride in a keb. Jear what the gentleman says, Cecil? You’re goin’ to ride in a keb.”

“Urgh!” said Cecil, as if he would believe it when he saw it. A sceptical boy.

It was not an afternoon to which I look back as among the happiest I have spent. For one thing, the expedition far exceeded my hasty estimates in the matter of expense. Why it should be so I cannot say, but all the best murders appear to take place in remote spots like Stepney and Canning Town, and cab fares to these places run into money. Then, again, Cecil’s was not one of those personalities which become more attractive with familiarity. I should say at a venture that those who liked him best were those who saw the least of him. And, finally, there was a monotony about the entire proceedings which soon began to afflict my nerves. The cab would draw up outside some mouldering house in some desolate street miles from civilisation, Cecil would thrust his unpleasant head out of the window and drink the place in for a few moments of silent ecstasy, and then he would deliver his lecture. He had evidently read well and thoughtfully. He had all the information.

“The Canning Town ’Orror,” he would announce.

“Yes, dearie?” His mother cast a fond glance at him and a proud one at me. “In this very ’ouse, was it?”

“In this very ’ouse,” said Cecil, with the gloomy importance of a confirmed bore about to hold forth on his favourite subject. “Jimes Potter ’is nime was. ’E was found at seven in the morning underneaf the kitchen sink wiv ’is froat cut from ear to ear. It was the landlady’s brother done it. They ’anged ’im at Pentonville.”

Some more data from the child’s inexhaustible store, and then on to the next historic site.

“The Bing Street ’Orror!”

“In this very ’ouse, dearie?”

“In this very ’ouse. Body was found in the cellar in an advanced stige of dee-cawm-po-sition wiv its ’ead bashed in, prezoomably by some blunt instrument.”

At six-forty-six, ignoring the pink hat which protruded from the window of a third-class compartment and the stout hand that waved a rollicking farewell, I turned from the train with a pale, set face, and, passing down the platform of Euston Station, told a cabman to take me with all speed to Ukridge’s lodgings in Arundel Street, Leicester Square. There had never, so far as I knew, been a murder in Arundel Street, but I was strongly of opinion that that time was ripe. Cecil’s society and conversation had done much to neutralise the effects of a gentle upbringing, and I toyed almost luxuriously with the thought of supplying him with an Arundel Street Horror for his next visit to the Metropolis.

“Aha, laddie,” said Ukridge, as I entered. “Come in, old horse. Glad to see you. Been wondering when you would turn up.”

He was in bed, but that did not remove the suspicion which had been growing in me all the afternoon that he was a low malingerer. I refused to believe for a moment in that sprained ankle of his. My view was that he had had the advantage of a first look at Flossie’s mother and her engaging child and had shrewdly passed them on to me.

“I’ve been reading your book, old man,” said Ukridge, breaking a pregnant silence with an overdone carelessness. He brandished winningly the only novel I had ever written, and I can offer no better proof of the black hostility of my soul than the statement that even this did not soften me. “It’s immense, laddie. No other word for it. Immense. Damme, I’ve been crying like a child.”

“It is supposed to be a humorous novel,” I pointed out, coldly.

“Crying with laughter,” explained Ukridge, hurriedly.

I eyed him with loathing.

“Where do you keep your blunt instruments?” I asked.

“My what?”

“Your blunt instrument. I want a blunt instrument. Give me a blunt instrument. My God! Don’t tell me you have no blunt instrument.”

“Only a safety-razor.”

I sat down wearily on the bed.

“Hi! Mind my ankle!”

“Your ankle!” I laughed a hideous laugh, the sort of laugh the landlady’s brother might have emitted before beginning operations on James Potter. “A lot there is the matter with your ankle.”

“Sprained it yesterday, old man. Nothing serious,” said Ukridge, reassuringly. “Just enough to lay me up for a couple of days.”

“Yes, till that ghastly female and her blighted boy had got well away.”

Pained astonishment was written all over Ukridge’s face.

“You don’t mean to say you didn’t like her? Why, I thought you two would be all over each other.”

“And I suppose you thought that Cecil and I would be twin souls?”

“Cecil?” said Ukridge, doubtfully. “Well, to tell you the truth, old man, I’m not saying that Cecil doesn’t take a bit of knowing. He’s the sort of boy you have to be patient with and bring out, if you understand what I mean. I think he grows on you.”

“If he ever tries to grow on me, I’ll have him amputated.”

“Well, putting all that on one side,” said Ukridge, “how did things go off?”

I described the afternoon’s activities in a few tense words.

“Well, I’m sorry, old horse,” said Ukridge, when I had finished. “I can’t say more than that, can I? I’m sorry. I give you my solemn word I didn’t know what I was letting you in for. But it was a life and death matter. There was no other way out. Flossie insisted on it. Wouldn’t budge an inch.”

In my anguish I had forgotten all about the impenetrable mystery of Flossie.

“Who the devil is Flossie?” I asked.

“What! Flossie? You don’t know who Flossie is? My dear old man, collect yourself. You