Something New - Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (books to read for self improvement TXT) 📗
- Author: Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
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Perhaps. Maybe An Old Pipe Or Something Of That Kind. Probably
Nothing Of Value Or Interest."
"Open It."
"It Appears To Be Locked, Sir--"
"Unlock It."
Chapter 9 Pg 158
But Where Is The Key?"
Baxter Thought For A Moment.
"Lord Emsworth," He Said, "I Have My Reasons For Thinking That
This Man Is Deliberately Keeping The Contents Of This Closet From
Me. I Am Convinced That The Shoe Is In There. Have I Your Leave
To Break Open The Door?"
The Earl Looked A Little Dazed, As If He Were Unequal To The
Intellectual Pressure Of The Conversation.
"Now, My Dear Baxter," Said The Earl Impatiently, "Please Tell Me
Once Again Why You Have Brought Me In Here. I Cannot Make Head Or
Tail Of What You Have Been Saying. Apparently You Accuse This
Young Man Of Keeping His Shoes In A Closet. Why Should You
Suspect Him Of Keeping His Shoes In A Closet? And If He Wishes To
Do So, Why On Earth Should Not He Keep His Shoes In A Closet?
This Is A Free Country."
"Exactly, Your Lordship," Said Ashe Approvingly. "You Have
Touched The Spot."
"It All Has To Do With The Theft Of Your Scarab, Lord Emsworth.
Somebody Got Into The Museum And Stole The Scarab."
"Ah, Yes; Ah, Yes--So They Did. I Remember Now. You Told Me.
Bad Business That, My Dear Baxter. Mr. Peters Gave Me That
Scarab. He Will Be Most Deucedly Annoyed If It's Lost. Yes,
Indeed."
"Whoever Stole It Upset The Can Of Red Paint And Stepped In It."
"Devilish Careless Of Them. It Must Have Made The Dickens Of A
Mess. Why Don't People Look Where They Are Walking?"
"I Suspect This Man Of Shielding The Criminal By Hiding Her Shoe
In This Closet."
"Oh, It's Not His Own Shoes That This Young Man Keeps In
Closets?"
"It Is A Woman's Shoe, Lord Emsworth."
"The Deuce It Is! Then It Was A Woman Who Stole The Scarab? Is
That The Way You Figure It Out? Bless My Soul, Baxter, One
Wonders What Women Are Coming To Nowadays. It's All This
Movement, I Suppose. The Vote, And All That--Eh? I Recollect
Having A Chat With The Marquis Of Petersfield Some Time Ago. He
Is In The Cabinet, And He Tells Me It Is Perfectly Infernal The
Way These Women Carry On. He Said Sometimes It Got To Such A
Pitch, With Them Waving Banners And Presenting Petitions, And
Throwing Flour And Things At A Fellow, That If He Saw His Own
Mother Coming Toward Him, With A Hand Behind Her Back, He Would
Chapter 9 Pg 159Run Like A Rabbit. Told Me So Himself."
"So," Said The Efficient Baxter, Cutting In On The Flow Of
Speech, "What I Wish To Do Is To Break Open This Closet."
"Eh? Why?"
"To Get The Shoe."
"The Shoe? . . . Ah, Yes, I Recollect Now. You Were Telling Me."
"If Your Lordship Has No Objection."
"Objection, My Dear Fellow? None In The World. Why Should I Have
Any Objection? Let Me See! What Is It You Wish To Do?"
"This," Said Baxter Shortly.
He Seized The Poker From The Fireplace And Delivered Two Rapid
Blows On The Closet Door. The Wood Was Splintered. A Third Blow
Smashed The Flimsy Lock. The Closet, With Any Skeletons It Might
Contain, Was Open For All To View.
It Contained A Corkscrew, A Box Of Matches, A Paper-Covered Copy
Of A Book Entitled "Mary, The Beautiful Mill-Hand," A Bottle Of
Embrocation, A Spool Of Cotton, Two Pencil-Stubs, And Other
Useful And Entertaining Objects. It Contained, In Fact, Almost
Everything Except A Paint-Splashed Shoe, And Baxter Gazed At The
Collection In Dumb Disappointment.
"Are You Satisfied Now, My Dear Baxter," Said The Earl, "Or Is
There Any More Furniture That You Would Like To Break? You Know,
This Furniture Breaking Is Becoming A Positive Craze With You, My
Dear Fellow. You Ought To Fight Against It. The Night Before
Last, I Don't Know How Many Tables Broken In The Hall; And Now
This Closet. You Will Ruin Me. No Purse Can Stand The Constant
Drain."
Baxter Did Not Reply. He Was Still Trying To Rally From The Blow.
A Chance Remark Of Lord Emsworth's Set Him Off On The Trail Once
More. Lord Emsworth, Having Said His Say, Had Dismissed The
Affair From His Mind And Begun To Potter Again. The Course Of His
Pottering Had Brought Him To The Fireplace, Where A Little Pile
Of Soot On The Fender Caught His Eye. He Bent Down To Inspect It.
"Dear Me!" He Said. "I Must Remember To Tell Beach To Have His
Chimney Swept. It Seems To Need It Badly."
No Trumpet-Call Ever Acted More Instantaneously On Old War-Horse
Than This Simple Remark On The Efficient Baxter. He Was Still
Convinced That Ashe Had Hidden The Shoe Somewhere In The Room,
And, Now That The Closet Had Proved An Alibi, The Chimney Was The
Only Spot That Remained Unsearched. He Dived Forward With A Rush,
Nearly Knocking Lord Emsworth Off His Feet, And Thrust An Arm Up
Chapter 9 Pg 160Into The Unknown. The Startled Peer, Having Recovered His
Balance, Met Ashe's Respectfully Pitying Gaze.
"We Must Humor Him," Said The Gaze, More Plainly Than Speech.
Baxter Continued To Grope. The Chimney Was A Roomy Chimney, And
Needed Careful Examination. He Wriggled His Hand About
Clutchingly. From Time To Time Soot Fell In Gentle Showers.
"My Dear Baxter!"
Baxter Was Baffled. He Withdrew His Hand From The Chimney, And
Straightened Himself. He Brushed A Bead Of Perspiration From His
Face With The Back Of His Hand. Unfortunately, He Used The Sooty
Hand, And The Result Was Too Much For Lord Emsworth's Politeness.
He Burst Into A Series Of Pleased Chuckles.
"Your Face, My Dear Baxter! Your Face! It Is Positively Covered
With Soot--Positively! You Must Go And Wash It. You Are Quite
Black. Really, My Dear Fellow, You Present Rather An
Extraordinary Appearance. Run Off To Your Room."
Against This Crowning Blow The Efficient Baxter Could Not Stand
Up. It Was The End.
"Soot!" He Murmured Weakly. "Soot!"
"Your Face Is Covered, My Dear Fellow--Quite Covered."
"It Certainly Has A Faintly Sooty Aspect, Sir," Said Ashe.
His Voice Roused The Sufferer To One Last Flicker Of Spirit.
"You Will Hear More Of This," He Said. "You Will--"
At This Moment, Slightly Muffled By The Intervening Door And
Passageway, There Came From The Direction Of The Hall A Sound
Like The Delivery Of A Ton Of Coal. A Heavy Body Bumped Down The
Stairs, And A Voice Which All Three Recognized As That Of The
Honorable Freddie Uttered An Oath That Lost Itself In A Final
Crash And A Musical Splintering Sound, Which Baxter For One Had
No Difficulty In Recognizing As The Dissolution Of Occasional
China.
Even If They Had Not So Able A Detective As Baxter With Them,
Lord Emsworth And Ashe Would Have Been At No Loss To Guess What
Had Happened. Doctor Watson Himself Could Have Deduced It From
The Evidence. The Honorable Freddie Had Fallen Downstairs.
With A Little Ingenuity This Portion Of The Story Of Mr. Peters'
Scarab Could Be Converted Into An Excellent Tract, Driving Home
The Perils, Even In This World, Of Absenting One's Self From
Chapter 9 Pg 161Church On Sunday Morning. If The Honorable Freddie Had Gone To
Church He Would Not Have Been Running Down The Great Staircase At
The Castle At This Hour; And If He Had Not Been Running Down The
Great Staircase At The Castle At That Hour He Would Not Have
Encountered Muriel.
Muriel Was A Persian Cat Belonging To Lady Ann Warblington. Lady
Ann Had Breakfasted In Bed And Lain There Late, As She Rather
Fancied She Had One Of Her Sick Headaches Coming On. Muriel Had
Left Her Room In The Wake Of The Breakfast Tray, Being Anxious To
Be Present At The Obsequies Of A Fried Sole That Had Formed Lady
Ann's Simple Morning Meal, And Had Followed The Maid Who Bore It
Until She Had Reached The Hall.
At This Point The Maid, Who Disliked Muriel, Stopped And Made A
Noise Like An Exploding Pop Bottle, At The Same Time Taking A
Little Run In Muriel's Direction And Kicking At Her With A
Menacing Foot. Muriel, Wounded And Startled, Had Turned In Her
Tracks And Sprinted Back Up The Staircase At The Exact Moment
When The Honorable Freddie, Who For Some Reason Was In A Great
Hurry, Ran Lightly Down.
There Was An Instant When Freddie Could Have Saved Himself By
Planting A Number-Ten Shoe On Muriel's Spine, But Even In That
Crisis He Bethought Him That He Hardly Stood Solid Enough With
The Authorities To Risk Adding To His Misdeeds The Slaughter Of
His Aunt's Favorite Cat, And He Executed A Rapid Swerve. The
Spared Cat Proceeded On Her Journey Upstairs, While Freddie,
Touching The Staircase At Intervals, Went On Down.
Having Reached The Bottom, He Sat Amid The Occasional China, Like
Marius Among The Ruins Of Carthage, And Endeavored To Ascertain
The Extent Of His Injuries. He Had A Dazed Suspicion That He Was
Irretrievably Fractured In A Dozen Places. It Was In This
Attitude That The Rescue Party Found Him. He Gazed Up At Them
With Silent Pathos.
"In The Name Of Goodness, Frederick," Said Lord Emsworth
Peevishly, "What Do You Imagine You Are Doing?"
Freddie Endeavored To Rise, But Sank Back Again With A Stifled
Howl.
"It Was That Bally Cat Of Aunt Ann's," He Said. "It Came Legging
It Up The Stairs. I Think I've Broken My Leg."
"You Have Certainly Broken Everything Else," Said His Father
Unsympathetically. "Between You And Baxter, I Wonder There's A
Stick Of Furniture Standing In The House."
"Thanks, Old Chap," Said Freddie Gratefully As Ashe Stepped
Forward And Lent Him An Arm. "I Think My Bally Ankle Must Have
Got Twisted. I Wish You Would Give Me A Hand Up To
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