Piccadilly Jim - P. G. Wodehouse (best romance ebooks TXT) 📗

“Very good, madam.”

There seemed to Mrs. Pett to be a faint touch of defiance in Miss Trimble’s manner as she entered the room. The fact was that Miss Trimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property, and rich people’s houses always affected her adversely. Mr. Crocker retired, closing the door gently behind him.

A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett’s visitor as she looked round at the achievements of the interior decorator, who had lavished his art unsparingly in this particular room. At this close range she more than fulfilled the promise of that distant view which Mrs. Pett had had of her from the window. Her face was not only shrewd and determined: it was menacing. She had thick eyebrows, from beneath which small, glittering eyes looked out like dangerous beasts in undergrowth: and the impressive effect of these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eye looked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort of roving commission and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs. Pett with a gimlet stare, examining the ceiling. As to the rest of the appearance of this remarkable woman, her nose was stubby and aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly forbidding look of the closed door of a subway express when you have just missed the train. It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury. Mrs. Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curious weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much deadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered: and came near feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this dynamic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to open the conversation.

Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She always preferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, and words flew out as if shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs. Pett could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part her teeth, preferring to speak with them clenched. This gave an additional touch of menace to her speech.

“Dafternoon,” said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backed convulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if somebody had thrown a brick at her.

“Good afternoon,” she said faintly.

“Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y’ad job f’r me. Came here squick scould.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Squick scould. Got slow taxi.”

“Oh, yes.”

Miss Trimble’s right eye flashed about the room like a searchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on her companion’s face.

“Whass trouble?” The right eye rested for a moment on a magnificent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again. “Not s’prised y’have trouble. All rich people ’ve trouble. Noth’ t’do with their time ’cept get ’nto trouble.”

She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.

“You⁠—ah⁠—appear to dislike the rich,” said Mrs. Pett, as nearly in her grand manner as she could contrive.

Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been a small fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed it flat.

“Hate ’em! Sogelist!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Pett humbly. This woman was beginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.

“Sogelist! No use f’r idle rich. Ev’ read B’nard Shaw? Huh? Or Upton Sinclair? Uh? Read’m. Make y’think a bit. Well, y’haven’t told me whasser trouble.”

Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which had had more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious, she had never been confronted with a detective like this. The galling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged a detective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not for suavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you through clenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money than one who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, is incompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people, subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the more efficient he must be. It is but rarely that anyone is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed down her resentment at her visitor’s tone, and tried to concentrate her mind on the fact that this was a business matter and that what she wanted was results rather than fair words. She found it easier to do this when looking at the other’s face. It was a capable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise of action. Miss Trimble having ceased temporarily to speak, her mouth was in repose, and when her mouth was in repose it looked more efficient than anything else of its size in existence.

“I want you,” said Mrs. Pett, “to come here and watch some men⁠—”

“Men! Thought so! Wh’ there’s trouble, always men’t bottom’f it!”

“You do not like men?”

“Hate ’em! Suff-gist!” She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett. Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow. “You S’porter of th’ Cause?”

Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strong opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that moment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme.

“A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be my nephew, James Crocker. He is an impostor. I want you to watch him very carefully.”

“Whassiz game?”

“I do not know. Personally I think he is here to kidnap my son Ogden.”

“I’ll fix’m,” said the fair Trimble confidently. “Say, that butler ’f yours. He’s a crook!”

Mrs. Pett opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent at her work.

“Have you found that out already?”

“D’rectly saw him.” Miss Trimble opened her purse. “Go’ one ’f his photographs here. Brought it from office. He’s th’ man that’s wanted ’ll right.”

“Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man, the one who pretends to be my nephew.”

“Sure. I’ll fix ’m.”

She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch with