 CHAPTER XVIII. The library, wither Jimmy had made his way after leaving Mrs. Pett, was a large room on the ground floor, looking out on a street which ran parallel to the south side of the house. It had French windows, opening onto a strip of lawn which ended in a high stone wall with a small gate in it. The general effect of these things being to create a resemblance to a country house, rather than to one in the center of the city. Mr. Pett's town residence was full of these surprises. In one corner of the room, a massive safe had been let into the wall, striking a note of incongruity, for the remainder of the wall-space was completely covered with volumes of all sorts and sizes, which filled the shelves and overflowed into a small gallery, reached by a short flight of stairs and running along the north side of the room over the door. Jimmy cast a glance at the safe behind the steel doors of which he presumed the test tube of partridgeite, which Willie had carried from the luncheon table, lay hid, then transferred his attention to the shelves. A cursory inspection of these revealed nothing which gave promise to wiling away, entertainingly, the moments which must elapse before the return of Anne. Jimmy's tastes in literature lay in the direction of the lighter kind of modern fiction, and Mr. Pett did not appear to possess a single volume that had been written later than the eighteenth century, and mostly poetry at that. He turned to the writing desk near the window, on which he had caught sight of a standing shelf full of books of a more modern aspect. He picked one up at random and opened it. He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. This man, Pett, appeared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would never have suspected it to look at him. Jimmy had just resigned himself after another glance at the shelf to a bookless vigil when his eye was caught by a name on the cover of the last in the row, so unexpected that he had to look again to verify the discovery. He had been perfectly right. There it was, in gold letters. The Lonely Heart by Anne Chester. He extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Even now he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair the benefit of the doubt, and assume that someone else of the same name had written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy's character, one of his many defects, that he loathed and scorned minor poetry and considered minor poets especially when feminine and unnecessary affliction. He declined to believe that Anne, his Anne, a girl full of the finest traits of character, the girl who had been capable of encouraging a comparative stranger to break the law by impersonating her cousin Jimmy Cawker, could also be capable of writing the Lonely Heart and other poems. He skimmed through the first one he came across and shuddered. It was pure slush. It was a sort of stuff they filled up pages with in the magazines when the detective story did not run long enough. It was a sort of stuff which long-haired blighters read alone to other long-haired blighters in English suburban drawing rooms. It was a sort of stuff which, to be brief, gave him the willies. No, it could not be Anne who had written it. The next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. There was an inscription on the title page. To my dearest Uncle Peter, with love from the author, Anne Chester. The room seemed to reel before Jimmy's eyes. He felt as if a friend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings. He felt as if some loved one had smitten him over the back of his head with a sandbag. For one moment in which time stood still his devotion to Anne wobbled. It was as if he had found her out in some terrible crime that revealed unsuspected flaws in her hitherto ideal character. Then his eye fell upon the date on the title page, and a strong spasm of relief shook him. The clouds rolled away, and he loved her still. This frightful volume had been published five years ago. A wave of pity swept over Jimmy. He did not blame her now. She had been a mere child five years ago, scarcely old enough to distinguish right from wrong. You couldn't blame her for writing sentimental verse at that age. Why, at a similar stage in his own career, he had wanted to be a vaudeville singer. Everything must be excused to youth. It was with a tender glow of affectionate forgiveness that he turned the pages. As he did so a curious thing happened to him. He began to have that feeling, which everyone has experienced at some time or other, that he had done this very thing before. He was almost convinced that this was not the first time he had seen that poem on page 27 entitled A Lament. Why, some of the lines seemed extraordinarily familiar. The people who understood these things explained this phenomenon, he believed, by some stuff about the cells of the brain working simultaneously, or something. Something about cells, anyway. He supposed that that must be it. But that was not it, the feeling that he had read all this before grew instead of vanishing, as is generally the way on these occasions. He had read this stuff before. He was certain of it. But when, and where, and above all, why? Surely he had not done it from choice. It was the total impossibility of his having done it from choice that led his memory in the right direction. There had only been a year or so in his life when he had been obliged to read things which he would not have read of his own free will, and that had been when he worked on The Chronicle. Could it have been that they had given him this book of poems to review, or and then memory, in its usual eccentric way, having taken all this time to make the first part of the journey, finished the rest of it with one lightning swoop, and he knew. And with the illumination came dismay, worse than dismay, horror. Gosh, said Jimmy. He knew now why he had thought on the occasion of their first meeting in London, that he had seen hair like ants before. The mists rolled away, and he saw everything clear and stark. He knew what had happened at that meeting five years before, to which she had so mysteriously eluded. He knew what she meant that evening on the boat when she had charged one Jimmy Crocker with having cured her of sentiment. A cold sweat sprang into being about his temples. He could remember that interview now as clearly as if it had happened five minutes ago, instead of five years. He could recall the article for the Sunday Chronicle which he had written from the interview, and the ghoulish gusto with which he had written it. He had had a boy's undisciplined sense of humor in those days, the sense of humor which riots like a young colt, careless of what it bruises and crushes. He shuddered at the recollection of the things he had hammered out so gleefully on his typewriter down at the Chronicle office. He found himself recoiling and disgust from the man he had been, the man who could have done a wanton thing like that, without compunction or Ruth. He had read extracts from the article to an appreciative colleague. A great sympathy for Anne welled up in him. No wonder she hated the memory of Jimmy Crocker. It is probable that remorse would have tortured him even further, had he not chanced to turn absently to page forty-six and read a poem entitled, Love's Funeral. It was not a long poem, and he had finished it inside of two minutes. But by that time a change had come upon his mood of self-loathing. He no longer felt like a particularly mean murderer. Love's funeral was like a tonic. It braced and invigorated him. It was so unspeakably absurd, so poor in every respect. All things he now perceived had worked together for good. Anne had admitted on the boat that it was his satire that had crushed out of her the fondness for this sort of thing. If that was so, then the part he had played in her life had been that of a rescuer. He thought of her as she was now, and as she must have been then to have written stuff like this, and he rejoiced at what he had done. In a manner of speaking, the Anne of today, the glorious creature who went about the place kidnapping augments, was his handiwork. It was he who had destroyed the minor poetry virus in her. The refrain of an old song came to him. You made me what I am today. I hope you're satisfied. He was more than satisfied. He was proud of himself. He rejoiced, however, after the first flush of enthusiasm, somewhat moderately. There was no disguising the penalty of his deed of kindness. To Anne, Jimmy Crocker was no rescuer, but a sort of blend of ogre and vampire. She must never learn his real identity, or not until he had succeeded by a siguous toil, as he hoped he would, in neutralizing that prejudice of the distant past. A footstep outside broke in on his thoughts. He thrust the book quickly back into its place. Anne came in and shut the door behind her. Well, she said eagerly. Jimmy did not reply for a moment. He was looking at her and thinking how perfect in every way she was now, as she stood there purged of sentimentality, all aglow with curiosity to know how her nefarious plans had succeeded. It was his Anne who stood there, not the author of The Lonely Heart. Did you ask her? Yes, but Anne's face fell. Oh, she won't let him come back? She absolutely refused. I did my best. I know you did. There was a silence. Well, this settles it, said Jimmy. Now you will have to let me help you. Anne looked troubled. But it's such a risk. Something terrible might happen to you. Isn't impersonation a criminal offense? What does it matter? They tell me prisons are excellent places nowadays. Concerts, picnics, all that sort of thing. I shan't mind going there. I have a nice singing voice. I think I will try to make the glee club. I suppose we are breaking the law, said Anne seriously. I told Jerry that nothing could happen to us except the loss of his place to him and being sent to my grandmother to me. But I'm bound to say I said that just to encourage him. Don't you think we ought to know what the penalty is, in case we are caught? It would enable us to make our plans. If it's a life sentence, I shouldn't worry about selecting my future career. You see, explained Anne, I suppose they would hardly send me to prison as I'm a relation, though I would far rather go there than grandmothers. She lives all alone, miles away in the country, and is strong on discipline. But they might do all sorts of things to you, in spite of my pleadings. I really think you had better give up the idea. I'm afraid my enthusiasm carried me away. I didn't think of all this before. Never! This thing goes through or fails over my dead body. What are you looking for? Anne was deep in a bulky volume which stood on a lectern by the window. Catalog, she said briefly, turning the pages. Uncle Peter has heaps of law books. I'll look up kidnapping. Here we are. Law encyclopedia, shelf X. Oh, that's upstairs. I shan't be a minute. She ran to the little staircase and disappeared. Her voice came from the gallery. Here we are. I've got it. Shoot! said Jimmy. There's such a lot of it, called the voice from above. Pages and pages. I'm just skimming. Wait a moment. A rustling followed from the gallery, then a sneeze. This is the dustiest place I was ever in, said the voice. It's inches deep everywhere. It's full of cigarette ends, too. I must tell Uncle. Oh, here it is, kidnapping penalties. Hush! called Jimmy. There is someone coming. The door opened. Hello! said Ogden, strolling in. I was looking for you. Didn't think you would be here. Come right in, my little man, and make yourself at home, said Jimmy. Ogden eyed him with disfavor. You're pretty fresh, aren't you? This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley. Eh? Who's he? Oh, a gentleman who knew what was what. Ogden closed the door. Well, I know what's what, too. I know what you are, for one thing, he chuckled. I've got your number all right. In what respect? Another chuckle proceeded from the bulbous boy. You think you're smooth, don't you? But I'm on to you, Jimmy Crocker. A lot of Jimmy Crocker you are. You're a crook, get me? And I know what you're after at that. You're going to try to kidnap me. From the corner of his eye Jimmy was aware of Anne's startled face, looking over the gallery-rail, and withdrawn hastily. No sound came from the heights, but he knew that she was listening intently. What makes you think that? Ogden lowered himself into the depths of his favorite easy chair, and, putting his feet restfully on the writing desk, met Jimmy's gaze with a glassy but knowing eye. Got a cigarette? he said. I have not, said Jimmy. I'm sorry. So am I. Returning with your permission to our original subject, said Jimmy, what makes you think that I have come here to kidnap you? Ogden yawned. I was in the drawing-room after lunch, and that guy Lord Wisbeach came in and said he wanted to talk to Mother privately. Mother sent me out of the room, so of course I listened at the door. Do you know where little boys go who listen to private conversations? said Jimmy severely. To the witness stand generally, I guess. Well, I listened, and I heard this Lord Wisbeach tell Mother that he only pretended to recognize you as Jimmy Crocker, and that really he had never seen you before in his life. He said you were a crook, and that they had got to watch you. Well, I knew then why you had come here. It was pretty smooth, getting in the way you did. I've got to hand it to you. Jimmy did not reply. His mind was occupied with the contemplation of this dashing counter-scroak on the part of Gentleman Jack. He could hardly refrain from admiring the simple strategy with which the latter had circumvented him. There was an artistry about the move which compelled respect. Well now, see here, said Ogden. You and I have got to get together on this proposition. I've been kidnapped twice before, and the only guys that made anything out of it were the kidnappers. It's pretty soft for them. They couldn't have got assent without me, and they never dreamed of giving me a rake off. I'm getting good and tired of being kidnapped for other people's benefit, and I've made up my mind that the next guy that wants me has got to come across. See? My proposition is fifty-fifty. If you like it, I'm game to let you go ahead. If you don't like it, then the deal's off, and you'll find that you have a darn poor chance of getting me. When I was kidnapped before, I was just a kid. But I can look after myself now. Well, what do you say? Jimmy found it hard at first to say anything. He had never properly understood the possibilities of Ogden's character before. The longer he contemplated him, the more admirable and scheme appeared. It seemed to him that only a resolute keeper of a home for dogs would be adequately equipped for dealing with this remarkable youth. This is a commercial age, he said. You bet it is, said Ogden. My middle name is Business. Say, are you working this on your own, or are you in with Buck McGinnis and his crowd? I don't think I know Mr. McGinnis. He's the guy who kidnapped me the first time. He's a roughneck. Smooth Sam Fisher got away with me the second time. Maybe you're in with Sam? No. No, I guess not. I heard that he had married and retired from business. I rather wish you were one of Buck's lot. I like Buck. When he kidnapped me, I lived with him and he gave me a swell time. When I left him, a woman came and interviewed me about it for one of the Sunday papers, sob stuff, called to peace even kidnappers have tender hearts beneath a rough exterior. I've got it upstairs in my press clipping album. It was pretty bad slush. Buck McGinnis hasn't got any tender heart beneath his rough exterior, but he's a good sort and I liked him. We used to shoot craps, and he taught me to chew. I'd be tickled to death to have Buck get me again. But if you're working on your own, all right. It's all the same to me, provided you meet me on the terms. You certainly are a fascinating child. Less of it, less of it. I've troubles enough to bear without having you getting fresh. Well, what about it? Talk figures. If I let you take me away, do we divvy up or don't we? That's all you've got to say. That's easily settled. I'll certainly give you half of whatever I get. Ogden looked wistfully at the writing desk. I wish I could have that in writing, but I guess it wouldn't stand in law. I suppose I shall have to trust you. Honor among thieves. Less of the thieves. This is just a straight business proposition. I've got something valuable to sell, and I'm darned if I'm going to keep giving it away. I've been too easy. I ought to have thought of this before. All right then. That's settled. Now it's up to you. You can think out the rest of it yourself. He heaved himself out of the chair and left the room, and, coming down from the gallery, found Jimmy meditating. He looked up at the sound of her step. Well, that seems to make it pretty easy for us, doesn't it? He said. It solves the problem of ways and means. But this is awful. This alters everything. It isn't safe for you to stay here. You must go away at once. They found you out. You may be arrested at any moment. That's a side issue. The main point is to put this thing through. Then we can think about what is going to happen to me. But can't you see the risk you're running? I don't mind. I want to help you. I won't let you. You must. But do be sensible. What would you think of me if I allowed you to face this danger? I wouldn't think any differently of you. My opinion of you is a fixed thing. Nothing can alter it. I tried to tell you on the boat, but you wouldn't let me. I think you're the most perfect, wonderful girl in all the world. I've loved you since the first moment I saw you. I knew who you were when we met for a half a minute that day in London. We were utter strangers, but I knew you. You were the girl I had been looking for all my life. Good heavens! You talk of risks. Can't you understand just being with you and speaking to you, and knowing that we share this thing together is enough to wipe out any thought of risk? I'd do anything for you, and you expect me to back out of this thing because there is a certain amount of danger. Anne had retreated to the door and was looking at him with wide eyes. With other young men, and there had been many, who had said much the same sort of thing to her since her debutante days, she had been cool and composed, a little sorry, perhaps, but in no doubt as to her own feelings and her ability to resist their pleadings. But now her heart was racing, and the conviction had begun to steal over her that the cool and composed Anne Chester was in imminent danger of making a fool of herself. Quite suddenly, without any sort of warning, she realized that there was some quality in Jimmy, which called aloud to some corresponding quality in herself a nebulous something that made her know that he and she were mates. She knew herself hard to please where men were concerned. She could not have described what it was in her that all the men she had met, the men with whom she had golfed and ridden and yotted, had failed to satisfy. But ever since she had acquired the power of self-analysis, she had known that it was something which was a solid and indestructible part of her composition. She could not have put into words what quality she demanded in man, but she had always known that she would recognize it when she found it, and she recognized it now in Jimmy. It was a recklessness and irresponsibility, a cheerful daredevilery, the compliment to her own gay lawlessness. Anne, said Jimmy, it's too late. She had not meant to say that. She had meant to say that it was impossible, out of the question, but her heart was running away with her, goaded on by the irony of it all. A veil seemed to have fallen from before her eyes, and she knew now why she had been drawn to Jimmy from the very first. They were mates, and she had thrown away her happiness. I've promised to marry Lord Whizbeach. Jimmy stopped dead, as if the blow had been a physical one. You've promised to marry Lord Whizbeach. Yes. But, but when? Just now, only a few minutes ago, when I was driving him to his hotel. He had asked me to marry him before I left for England, and I promised to give him his answer when I got back. But when I got back, somehow I couldn't make up my mind. The days slipped by. Something seemed to be holding me back. He pressed me to say that I would marry him, and it seemed absurd to go on refusing to be definite. So I said I would. You can't love him, surely you don't. Anne met his gaze frankly. Something seems to have happened to me in the last few minutes, she said, and I can't think clearly. A little while ago it didn't seem to matter much. I liked him. He was good looking and good tempered. I felt that we should get along quite well, and be as happy as most people are. That seemed as near perfection as one could expect to get nowadays. So, well, that's how it was. But you can't marry him. It's out of the question. I've promised. You must break your promise. I can't do that. You must. I can't. One must play the game. Jimmy groped for words. But in this case you mustn't. It's awful in this special case. He broke off. He saw the trap he was in. He could not denounce that crook without exposing himself. And from that he still shrank. Anne's prejudice against Jimmy Crocker might have its root in a trivial and absurd grievance, but it had been growing through the years, and who could say how strong it was now? Anne came a step towards him, then paused doubtfully. Then, as if making up her mind, she drew near and touched his sleeve. I'm sorry, she said. There was a silence. I'm sorry. She moved away. The door closed softly behind her. Jimmy scarcely knew that she had gone. He sat down in that deep chair, which was Mr. Pett's favourite, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. And then, how many minutes or hours later he did not know, the sharp click of the door handle roused him. He sprang from the chair. Was it Anne come back? It was not Anne. Round the edge of the door came inquiringly the fair head of Lord Whizbeach. Oh! said his lordship, citing Jimmy. The head withdrew itself. Come here, shouted Jimmy. The head appeared again. Talking to me? Yes, I was talking to you. Lord Whizbeach followed his superstructure into the room. He was outwardly all that was bland and unperturbed, but there was a wary look in the eye that cocked itself at Jimmy, and he did not move far from the door. His fingers rested easily on the handle behind him. He did not think it probable that Jimmy could have heard of his visit to Mrs. Pett, but there had been something menacing in the latter's voice, and he believed in safety first. They told me Miss Chester was here, he said, by way of relaxing any possible strain there might be in the situation. And what the devil do you want with Miss Chester, you slimy, crawling, second-story worker? You damned, oily, yag, inquired Jimmy. The sunniest optimist could not have diluted himself into the belief that the words were spoken in a friendly and genial spirit. Lord Whizbeach's fingers tightened on the door handle, and he grew a little flushed about the cheekbones. What's all this about? he said. You infernal crook! Lord Whizbeach looked anxious. Don't shout like that, are you crazy? Do you want people to hear? Jimmy drew a deep breath. I shall have to get further away from you, he said more quietly. There's no knowing what may happen if I don't. I don't want to kill you, at least I do, but I had better not. He retired slowly until brought to a halt by the writing-desk. To this he anchored himself with a firm grip. He was extremely anxious to do nothing rash, and the spectacle of gentleman Jack invited rashness. He leaned against the desk, clutching its solidity with both hands. Lord Whizbeach held steadfastly to the door handle, and in this tense fashion the interview proceeded. Miss Chester, said Jimmy, forcing himself to speak calmly, has just been telling me that she has promised to marry you. Quite true, said Lord Whizbeach, it will be announced tomorrow. A remark trembled on his lips to the effect that he had relied on Jimmy for a fish-slice, but Prudence kept it unspoken. He was unable, at present, to understand Jimmy's emotion. Why Jimmy should object to his being engaged to Anne, he could not imagine. But it was plain that for some reason he had taken the thing to heart, and dearly as he loved a bit of quiet fun, Lord Whizbeach decided that the other was at least six inches too tall and fifty pounds too heavy to be bantered in his present mood by one of his own physique. Why not? It won't be announced tomorrow, said Jimmy, because by tomorrow you will be as far away from here as you can get, if you have any sense. What do you mean? Just this. If you haven't left this house by breakfast time tomorrow, I shall expose you. Lord Whizbeach was not feeling particularly happy, but he laughed at this. You! That's what I said. Who do you think you are to go about exposing people? I happen to be Mrs. Pett's nephew, Jimmy Crocker. Lord Whizbeach laughed again. Is that the line you're going to take? It is. You are going to Mrs. Pett to tell her that you are Jimmy Crocker and that I am a crook and that you only pretended to recognize me for reasons of your own? Just that. Forget it! Lord Whizbeach had forgotten to be alarmed in his amusement. He smiled broadly. I'm not saying it's not good stuff to pull, but it's old stuff now. I'm sorry for you, but I thought of it before you did. I went to Mrs. Pett directly after lunch and sprang that line of talk myself. Do you think she'll believe you after that? I tell you I'm ace high with that dame. You can't queer me with her. I think I can, for the simple reason that I really am Jimmy Crocker. Yes, you are. Exactly, yes, I am. Lord Whizbeach smiled tolerantly. It was worth trying this bluff, I guess, but it won't work. I know you'd be glad to get me out of this house, but you've got to make a better play than that to do it. Don't deceive yourself with the idea that I'm bluffing. Look here. He suddenly removed his coat and threw it to Lord Whizbeach. Read the tailor's label inside the pocket. See the name? Also the address? J. Crocker. Drexdale House. Grovener Square. London. Lord Whizbeach picked up the garment and looked as directed. His face turned a little sallower, but he still fought against his growing conviction. That's no proof. Perhaps not, but when you consider the reputation of the tailor whose name is on the label, it's hardly likely that he would be standing in with an impostor, is it? If you want real proof, I have no doubt that there are half a dozen men working on the Chronicle who can identify me. Or are you convinced already? Lord Whizbeach capitulated. I don't know what fool game you think you're playing, but I can't see why you couldn't have told me this when we were talking after lunch. Never mind. I had my reasons. They don't matter. What matters is that you are going to get out of here tomorrow. Do you understand that? I get you. Then that's about all, I think. Don't let me keep you. Say, listen. Gentleman Jack's voice was plaintive. I think you might give a fellow a chance to get out good. Give me time to have a guy in Montreal. Send me a telegram telling me to go up there right away. Otherwise you might just as well put the cops on me at once. The old lady knows I've got business in Canada. You don't need to be rough on a fellow. Jimmy pondered this point. All right. I don't object to that. Thanks. Don't start anything, though. I don't know what you mean. Jimmy pointed to the safe. Come, come, friend of my youth. We have no secrets from each other. I know you're after what's in there, and you know that I know. I don't want to harp on it, but you'll be spending tonight in the house, and I think you would better make up your mind to spend it in your room, getting a nice sleep to prepare you for your journey. Do you follow me, old friend? I get you. That will be all, then, I think. Wine to smile around your neck and recede. The door slammed. Lord Wisbych had restrained his feelings successfully during the interview, but he could not deny himself that slight expression of them. Jimmy crossed the room and took his coat from the chair where the other had dropped it. As he did so, a voice spoke. Say! Jimmy spun round. The room was apparently empty. The thing was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect when the voice spoke again. You think you're darned funny, don't you? It came from above. Jimmy had forgotten the gallery. He directed his gaze thither, and perceived the heavy face of Ogden hanging over the rail like a gargoyle. What are you doing there, he demanded? Listening. How did you get there? There's a door back here that you get to from the stairs. I often come here for a quiet cigarette. Say, you think yourself some Joshua, don't you? Telling me you were a kidnapper. You strung me like an onion. So you're really Jimmy Crocker after all. Where was the sense in pulling all that stuff about taking me away and divvying up the ransom? Ah, you make me tired. The head was withdrawn, and Jimmy heard heavy steps followed by the banging of a door. Peace reigned in the library. Jimmy sat down in the chair, which was Mr. Pett's favorite, and which Ogden was accustomed to occupy to that gentleman's displeasure. The swiftness of recent events had left him a little dizzy, and he desired to think matters over and find out exactly what had happened. The only point which appeared absolutely clear to him in a welter of confusing occurrences was the fact that he had lost a chance of kidnapping Ogden. Everything had arranged itself so beautifully simply and conveniently as regarded that venture until a moment ago, but now that the boy had discovered his identity, it was impossible for him to attempt it. He was loath to accept this fact. Surely, even now, there was a way. Quite suddenly an admirable plan occurred to him. It involved the cooperation of his father, and at that thought he realized with a start that life had been moving so rapidly for him since his return to the house that he had not paid any attention at all to what was really as amazing a mystery as any. He had been too busy to wonder why his father was there. He debated the best method of getting in touch with him. It was out of the question to descend to the pantry or wherever it was that his father lived in this new incarnation of his. Then the happy thought struck him that results might be obtained by the simple process of ringing the bell. It might produce some other unit of the domestic staff. However, it was worth trying. He rang the bell. A few moments later the door opened. Jimmy looked up. It was not his father. It was a dangerous-looking female of uncertain age, dressed as a parlor maid, who eyed him with what seemed to his conscious stricken soul dislike and suspicion. She had a tight-lipped mouth and beady eyes beneath heavy brows. Jimmy had seldom seen a woman who attracted him less at first sight. Jimmy blinked and almost ducked. The words had come at him like a projectile. Oh, uh, yes. Do anything, sir. With an effort Jimmy induced his mind to resume its interrupted equilibrium. Oh, uh, yes. Would you mind sending Skinner the butler to me? Yes, sir. The apparition vanished. Jimmy drew out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. He felt weak and guilty. He felt as if he had just been accused of nameless crimes and had been unable to deny the charge. Such was the magic of Miss Trimble's eye, the left one, which looked directly at its object. Conjecture pauses baffled at the thought of the effect which her gaze might have created in the breasts of the sex she despised, had it been double instead of single-barreled. But half of it had wasted itself on a spot some few feet to his right. Presently the door opened again, and Mr. Crocker appeared, looking like a benevolent priest. End of Chapter 18 Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 19 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Piccadilly Gym by PG Woodhouse Chapter 19 Between Father and Son Well, Skinner, my man, said Jimmy, how goes it? Mr. Crocker looked about him cautiously. Then his priestly manner fell from him like a robe, and he bounded forward. Jimmy, he exclaimed, seizing his son's hand and shaking it violently. Say, it's great seeing you again, Jim. Jimmy drew himself up haughtily. Skinner, my good minial, you forget yourself strangely. You will be getting fired if you mit the handsome guest in this chummy fashion. He slapped his father on the back. Dad, this is great. How on earth do you come to be here? What's the idea? Why the butling? When did you come over? Tell me all. Mr. Crocker hoisted himself nimbly onto the writing desk and set their beaming with dangling legs. It was your letter that did it, Jimmy. Say, Jim, there wasn't any need for you to do a thing like that, just for me. Well, I thought you would have a better chance of being a peer without me around. By the way, Dad, how did my stepmother take the Lord Percy episode? A shadow fell upon Mr. Crocker's happy face. I don't like to do much thinking about your stepmother, he said. She was pretty sore about Percy, and she was pretty sore about your lighting out for America. But gee, what she must be feeling like now that I've come over, I dare not let myself think. You haven't explained that yet. Why did you come over? Well, I'd been feeling homesick. I always do over there in the baseball season, and then talking with Pet made it worse. Talking with Pet, do you see him then when he was in London? See him, I let him in. How? Into the house, I mean. I had just gone to the front door to see what sort of day it was. I wanted to know if there had been enough rain in the night to stop my having to watch that cricket game, and just as I got there the bell rang. I opened the door. A revoltingly plebeian thing to do. I'm ashamed of you, Dad. They won't stand for that sort of thing in the house of lords. Well, before I knew what was happening, they had taken me for the butler. I didn't want your stepmother to know I'd been opening doors. You remember how touchy she was always about it. So I just let it go at that, and jollied them along. But I just couldn't help asking the old man how the pennant race was making out, and that tickled him so much, that he offered me a job here as butler if I ever wanted to make a change. And then your note came, saying that you were going to New York, and, well, I couldn't help myself. You couldn't have kept me in London with ropes. I sneaked out next day and bought a passage on the Kermanic. She sailed the Wednesday after you left, and came straight here. They gave me this job right away. Mr. Crocker paused, and a holy light of enthusiasm made his homely features almost beautiful. Say, Jim, I've seen a ballgame every darn day since I landed. Say, two days running, Lurie Doyle made home runs. But, gosh, that guy Clem is one swell robber. See here? Mr. Crocker sprang down from the desk and snatched up a handful of books, which he proceeded to distribute about the floor. There were two men on bases in the sixth, and what's his name came to bat. He lined one out to center field, where this book is, and, pull yourself together, Skinner. You can't monkey about with the employer's library like that. Jimmy restored the books to their places. Simmer down and tell me more. Postpone the gossip from the diamond. What plans have you made? Have you considered the future at all? You aren't going to hold down this butling job forever, are you? When do you go back to London? The light died out in Mr. Crocker's face. I guess I shall have to go back some time. But how can I yet, with the giants leading the league like this? But did you just light out without saying anything? I left a note for your stepmother telling her I had gone to America for a vacation. Jimmy, I hate to think what she's going to do to me when she gets me back. Assert yourself, Dad. Tell her that woman's place is the home and man's the ballpark. Be firm. Mr. Crocker shook his head dubiously. It's all very well to talk that way when you're 3,000 miles from home, but you know as well as I do, Jim, that your stepmother, though she's a delightful woman, isn't the sort you can assert yourself with. Look at this sister of hers here. I guess you haven't been in the house long enough to have noticed, but she's very like Eugenia in some ways. She's the boss, all right, and old pet does just what he's told to. I guess it's the same with me, Jim. There's a certain type of man that's just born to have it put over on him by a certain type of woman. I'm that sort of man and your stepmother's that sort of woman. No, I guess I'm going to get mine, all right, and the only thing to do is to keep it from stopping me having a good time now. There was truth in what he said, and Jimmy recognized it. He changed the subject. Well, never mind that. There's no sense in worrying oneself about the future. Tell me, Dad, where did you get all the dinner-is-served-madam stuff? How did you ever learn to be a butler? Bayless taught me back in London, and of course I've played butlers when I was on the stage. Jimmy did not speak for a moment. Did you ever play a kidnapper, Dad? He asked at length. Sure, I was Chicago Ed in a crook play called This Way Out. Why, surely you saw me in that. I got some good notices. Jimmy nodded. Of course, I knew I'd seen you play that sort of part sometime. You came on during the dark scene and switched on the lights and covered the bunch with your gun while they were still blinking. You were great in that part, Dad. It was a good part, said Mr. Crocker, modestly. It had fat. I'd like to have a chance to play a kidnapper again. There's a lot of pep to kidnappers. You shall play one again, said Jimmy. I am putting on a little sketch with a kidnapper as the star part. Eh, a sketch? You? Jim? Where? Here, in this house. It is entitled Kidnapping Ogden and Opens Tonight. Mr. Crocker looked at his only son in concern. Jimmy appeared to him to be rambling. Amateur theatricals, he hazarded. In the sense that there is no pay for performing, yes. Dad, you know that kid Ogden upstairs? Well, it's quite simple. I want you to kidnap him for me. Mr. Crocker sat down heavily. He shook his head. I don't follow all this. Of course not. I haven't begun to explain. Dad, in your rambles through this joint, you've noticed a girl with glorious red-gold hair, I imagine. Ann Chester? Ann Chester. I'm going to marry her. Jimmy! But she doesn't know it yet. Now, follow me carefully, Dad. Five years ago Ann Chester wrote a book of poems. It's on that desk there. You were using it a moment back as second base or something. Now, I was working at that time on the Chronicle. I wrote a skit on those poems for the Sunday paper. Do you begin to follow the plot? She's got it in for you? She's sore? Exactly. Get that firmly fixed in your mind, because it's the source from which all the rest of the story springs. Mr. Crocker interrupted. But I don't understand. You say she's sore at you. Well, how is it that you came in together, looking as if you were good friends when I let you in this morning? I was waiting for you to ask that. The explanation is that she doesn't know that I am Jimmy Crocker. But you came here saying that you were Jimmy Crocker. Quite right, and that is where the plot thickens. I made Ann's acquaintance first in London, and then on the boat. I had found out that Jimmy Crocker was the man she hated most in the world, so I took another name. I called myself Bayless. Bayless? I had to think of something quick, because the clerk at the shipping office was waiting to fill in my ticket. I had just been talking to Bayless on the phone, and his was the only name that came into my mind. You know how it is when you try to think of a name suddenly. Now mark the sequel. Old Bayless came to see me off at Paddington. Ann was there and saw me. She said, Good evening, Mr. Bayless, or something, and naturally Old Bayless replied, What-ho! or words to that effect. The only way to handle this situation was to introduce him as my father. I did so. Ann, therefore, thinks that I am a young man named Bayless, who had come over to America to make his fortune. We now come to the third reel. I met Ann by chance at the Knickerbocker and took her to lunch. While we were lunching, that confirmed congenital idiot, Reggie Bartling, who happened to have come over to America as well, came up and called me by my name. I knew that if Ann discovered who I really was, she would have nothing more to do with me, so I gave Reggie the haughty stare and told him that he had made a mistake. He ambled away and possibly committed suicide in his anguish at having made such a bloomer, leaving Ann discussing with me the extraordinary coincidence of my being Jimmy Crocker's double. Do you follow the story of my life so far? Mr. Crocker, who had been listening with wrinkled brow and other signs of rapt attention, nodded. I understand all that, but how did you come to get into this house? That is reel four. I am getting to that. It seems that Ann, who is the sweetest girl on earth, and always on the lookout to do someone a kindness, had decided, in the interests of the boy's future, to remove young Ogden Ford from his present sphere, where he is being spoiled and ruined, and sent him down to a man on Long Island who would keep him for a while and instill the first principles of decency into him. Her accomplice in this admirable scheme was Jerry Mitchell. Jerry Mitchell? Who, as you know, got fired yesterday. Jerry was to have done the rough work of the job, but, being fired, he was no longer available. I, therefore, offered to take his place. So here I am. You are going to kidnap that boy? No, you are. Me? Precisely. You are going to play a benefit performance of your world-famed success, Chicago Ed. Let me explain further. Owing to circumstances which I need not go into, Ogden has found out that I am really Jimmy Crocker, so he refuses to have anything more to do with me. I had deceived him into believing that I was a professional kidnapper, and he came to me and offered to let me kidnap him if I would go 50-50 with him in the ransom. Gosh! Yes, he's an intelligent child, full of that sort of bright ideas. Well, now he has found that I am not all as fancy painted me. He wouldn't come away with me, and I want you to understudy me while the going is good. In the fifth thrill, which will be released tonight after the household has retired to rest, you will be featured. It's got to be tonight, because it has just occurred to me that Ogden, knowing that Lord Wisbeach is a crook, may go to him with the same proposal that he made to me. Lord Wisbeach a crook! Of the worst description, he is here to steal that explosive stuff of Willy Partridges, but as I have blocked that play, he may turn his attention to Ogden. But Jimmy, if that fellow is a crook, how do you know he is? He told me so himself. Well, then why don't you expose him? Because in order to do so, Skinner, my man, I should have to explain that I was really Jimmy Crocker, and the time is not yet ripe for that. To my thinking, the time will not be ripe till you have got safely away with Ogden Ford. I can then go to Anne and say, I may have played you a rotten trick in the past, but I have done you a good turn now, so let's forget the past. So you see that everything now depends on you, Dad. I'm not asking you to do anything difficult. I'll go round to the boarding house now and tell Jerry Mitchell about what we have arranged, and have him waiting outside here in a car. Then all you will have to do is to go to Ogden, play a short scene in Chicago Ed, escort him to the car, and then go back to bed and have a good sleep. Once Ogden thinks you are a professional kidnapper, you won't have any difficulty at all. Get it into your head that he wants to be kidnapped. Surely you can tackle this light and attractive job while it will be a treat for you to do a bit of character acting once more. Jimmy had struck the right note. His father's eyes began to gleam with excitement. The scent of the footlight seemed to dilate his nostrils. I was always good at that roughneck stuff, he murmured meditatively. I used to eat it. Exactly, said Jimmy. Look at it in the right way, and I am doing you a kindness in giving you this chance. Mr. Crocker rubbed his cheek with his forefinger. You'd want me to make up for the part, he asked wistfully. Of course, you want me to do it tonight? At about two in the morning, I thought. I'll do it, Jim. Jimmy grasped his hand. I knew I could rely on you, Dad. Mr. Crocker was following a train of thought. Dark wig, blue chin, heavy eyebrows. I guess I can't do better than my old Chicago Ed makeup. Say, Jimmy, how am I to get to the kid? That'll be all right. You can stay in my room till the time comes to go to him. Use it as a dressing room. How am I to get him out of the house? Through this room, I'll tell Jerry to wait out on the side street with the car from two o'clock on. Mr. Crocker considered these arrangements. That seems to be about all, he said. I don't think there's anything else. I'll slip downtown and buy the props. I'll go and tell Jerry, a thought struck Mr. Crocker. You'd better tell Jerry to make up, too. He doesn't want the kid recognizing him and squealing on him later. Jimmy was lost in admiration of his father's resource. You think of everything, Dad? That wouldn't have occurred to me. You certainly do take to crime in the most wonderful way. It seems to come naturally to you. Mr. Crocker smirked modestly. Please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by PG Woodhouse. Chapter 20. Celestine Imparts Information Plit is only as strong as its weakest link. The best-laid schemes of mice and men gang-agly if one of the mice is a mental defective, or if one of the men is a Jerry Mitchell. Celestine, Mrs. Petz made, she who was really Maggie O'Toole and whom Jerry loved with the strength which deprived him of even that small amount of intelligence which had been bestowed upon him by nature, came into the housekeeper's room at about ten o'clock that night. The domestic staff had gone in a body to the moving pictures, and the only occupant of the room was the new parlor maid who was sitting in a hard chair reading Schopenhauer. Celestine's face was flushed, her dark hair was ruffled, and her eyes were shining. She breathed a little quickly, and her left hand was out of sight behind her back. She eyed the new parlor maid doubtfully for a moment. The latter was a woman of somewhat unencouraging exterior, not the kind that invites confidences. But Celestine had confidences to bestow, and the exodus to the movies had left her in a position where she could not pick and choose. She was faced with the alternative of locking her secret in her palpitating bosom or of revealing it to this one auditor. The choice was one which no impulsive damsel in like circumstances would have hesitated to make. Say, said Celestine. A face rose reluctantly from behind Schopenhauer. A gleaming eye met Celestine's, a second eye no less gleaming glared at the ceiling. Say, I'd just been talking to my fellow outside, said Celestine with a coy temper. Say, he's a grand man. A snort of uncompromising disapproval proceeded from the thin-lipped mouth beneath the eyes, but Celestine was too full of her news to be discouraged. I'm strong for Jare, she said. Huh? said the student of Schopenhauer. Jerry Mitchell, you know, you ain't never met him, have you? Say, he's a grand man. For the first time she had the other's undivided attention. The new parlor maid placed her book upon the table. Huh? she said. Celestine could hold back her dramatic surprise no longer. Her concealed left hand flashed into view, on the third finger glittered a ring. She gazed at it with odd affection. Ain't it a butte? She contemplated its sparkling perfection for a moment in rapturous silence. Say, you could've knocked me down with a feather, she resumed. He telephones me a while ago and says to be outside the back door at ten tonight, because he'd something he wanted to tell me. Of course he couldn't come in and tell it me here, because he's been fired and everything. So I goes out, and there he is. Hello, kid, he says to me. Fresh, I says to him. Say, I got something to be fresh about, he says to me. And then he reaches into his jeans and hauls out the sparkler. What's that, I says to him? It's an engagement ring, he says to me. For you, if you'll wear it. I came over so weak I could've failed. And the next thing I know, he's got it on my finger and— Celestine broke off modestly. Say, ain't it a butte, honest? She gave herself over to contemplation once more. He says to me how he's on Easy Street now, or will be pretty soon. I says to him, have you got a job then? He says to me, now, ain't got a job, but I'm going to pull off a stunt tonight that's going to mean enough to me to start that health farm I've told you about. Say, he's always had a line of talk about starting a health farm down on Long Island. He knowing all about training and health and everything through having been one of them fighters. I asks him what the stunt is, but he won't tell me yet. He says he'll tell me after we're married. But he says it's a sure fire, and he's going to buy the license tomorrow. She paused for comment, and congratulations. I and her companion expectantly. Said the new parlor maid briefly, and resumed her Schopenhauer. Decidedly, hers was not a winning personality. Ain't it a butte, demanded Celestine, damped. The new parlor maid uttered a curious sound at the back of her throat. He's a butte, she said cryptically. She added another remark in a lower tone, too low for Celestine's ears. It could hardly have been that, but it sounded to Celestine like, I'll fix him. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Gary McFadden. Chapter 21 of Piccadilly Gym. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 21. Chicago Ed. Riverside Drive Slept. The moon shone on darkened windows and deserted sidewalks. It was past one o'clock in the morning. The wicked forties were still ablaze with light and noisy foxtrots, but in the virtuous hundreds, where Mr. Pett's house stood, respectable slumber reigned. Only the occasional drone of a passing automobile broke the silence, or the lovesick cry of some feline Romeo patrolling a walltop. Jimmy was awake. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching his father put the finishing touches to his makeup, which was of a shaggy and intimidating nature. The elder Crocker had conceived the outward aspect of Chicago Ed, king of the kidnappers, on broad and impressive lines, and one glance would have been enough to tell the sagacious observer that here was no white-sold comrade for a nocturnal saunter-down's lonely lanes and out-of-the-way alleys. Mr. Crocker seemed to feel this himself. The only trouble is, Jim, he said, purring at himself in the glass. Shant I scare the boy to death directly, he sees me? Aughton I give him some sort of warning? How? Do you suggest sending him a formal note? Mr. Crocker surveyed his repellent features doubtfully. It's a good deal to spring on a kid at one in the morning, he said. Suppose he has a fit. He's far more likely to give you one. Don't you worry about Ogden, Dad? I shouldn't think there was a child alive more equal to handling such a situation. There was an empty glass standing on a tray on the dressing table. Mr. Crocker eyed this sadly. I wish you hadn't thrown that stuff away, Jim. I could have done with it. I'm feeling nervous. Nonsense, Dad. You're all right. I had to throw it away. I'm on the wagon now. But how long I should have stayed on with that smiling up at me? I don't know. I've made up my mind never to lower myself to the level of the beasts that perish with the demon realm again, because my future wife has strong views on the subject. But there's no sense in taking chances. Temptation is all very well, but you don't need it on your dressing table. It was a kindly thought of yours to place it there, Dad, but… Hey, I didn't put it there. I thought that sort of thing came in your department. Isn't it the butler's job to supply drinks to the nobility and gentry? Well, it doesn't matter. It is now distributed over the neighboring soil, thus removing a powerful temptation from your path. You're better without it. He looked at his watch. Well, it ought to be all right now. He went to the window. There's an automobile down there. I suppose it's Jerry. I told him to be outside at one sharp, and it's nearly half past. I think he might be starting, Dad. Oh, by the way, you would better tell Ogden that you represent a gentleman of the name of Buck McGinnis. It was Buck who got away with him last time, and a firm friendship seems to have sprung up between them. There's nothing like coming with a good introduction. Mr. Crocker took a final survey of himself in the mirror. Gee, I'd hate to meet myself on a lonely road. He opened the door and stood for a moment, listening. From somewhere down the passage came the murmur of a muffled snore. Third door on the left, said Jimmy. Three. Count them. Three. Don't go getting mixed. Mr. Crocker slid into the outer darkness like a stout ghost, and Jimmy closed the door gently behind him. Having launched his indulgent parents safely on a career of crime, Jimmy switched off the light and returned to the window. Leaning out, he gave himself up for a moment to sentimental musings. The night was very still. Through the trees which flanked the house, the dimmed headlights of what was presumably Jerry Mitchell's hired car, shown faintly like enlarged fireflies. A boat of some description was tooting reflectively far down the river. Such was the seductive influence of the time and the scene that Jimmy might have remained there indefinitely, weaving dreams, had he not been under the necessity of making his way down to the library. It was his task to close the French windows after his father and Ogden had passed through, and he proposed to remain hid in the gallery there until the time came for him to do this. It was imperative that he avoid being seen by Ogden. Locking his door behind him, he went downstairs. There were no signs of life in the house. Everything was still. He found the staircase leading to the gallery without having to switch on the lights. It was dusty in the gallery, and a smell of old leather enveloped him. He hoped his father would not be long. He lowered himself cautiously to the floor, and resting his head against a convenient shelf, began to wonder how the interview between Chicago Edd and his prey was progressing. Mr. Crocker, meanwhile, masked to the eyes, had crept in fearful silence to the door which Jimmy had indicated. A good deal of the gay enthusiasm with which he had embarked on this enterprise had ebbed away from him. Now that he had become accustomed to the novelty of finding himself once more playing a character part, his intimate respectability began to assert itself. It was one thing to play Chicago Edd at a Broadway theatre, but quite another to give a benefit performance like this. As he tiptoed along the passage, the one thing that presented itself most clearly to him was the appalling outcome of this act of his, should anything go wrong. He would have turned back, but for the thought that Jimmy was depending on him, and that success would mean Jimmy's happiness. Stimulated by this reflection, he opened Ogden's door inch by inch and went in. He stole softly across the room. He had almost reached the bed, and had just begun to wonder how on earth, now that he was there, he could open the proceedings tactfully and without alarming the boy, when he was saved the trouble of pondering further on this problem. A light flashed out of the darkness with the suddenness of a bursting bomb, and a voice from the same general direction said, Hands up! When Mr. Crocker had finished blinking, and had adjusted his eyes to the glare, he perceived Ogden sitting up in bed with a revolver in his hand. The revolver was resting on his knee, and its muzzle pointed directly at Mr. Crocker's ample stomach. Exhaustive as had been the thought which Jimmy's father had given to the possible developments of his enterprise, this was a contingency of which he had not dreamed. He was entirely at a loss. Don't do that, he said huskily. It might go off. I should worry, replied Ogden coldly. I'm at the right end of it. What are you doing here? He looked fondly at the lethal weapon. I got this with cigarette coupons to shoot rabbits when we went to the country. Here's where I got a chance at something part human. Do you want to murder me? Why not? Mr. Crocker's makeup was trickling down his face in sticky streams. The mask, however, prevented Ogden from seeing this peculiar phenomenon. He was gazing interestingly at his visitor. An idea struck him. Say, did you come to kidnap me? Mr. Crocker felt the sense of relief which he had sometimes experienced on the stage when memory had failed him during a scene and a fellow actor had thrown him the line. It would be exaggerating to say that he was himself again. He could never be completely at his case with that pistol pointing at him, but he felt considerably better. He lowered his voice an octave or so and spoke in a husky growl. Ah, cheese it, kid. Nick's on the rough stuff. Keep those hands up, advised Ogden. Sure, sure, growled Mr. Crocker. Garn the gunplay, boy. Say, you've certainly grown since last time we got used. Ogden's manner became magically friendly. Are you one of Buck McInnes's lot, he inquired almost politely. That's right. Mr. Crocker blessed the inspiration which had prompted Jimmy's parting words. I'm with Buck. Why didn't Buck come himself? He's working on another job. To Mr. Crocker's profound relief, Ogden lowered the pistol. I'm strong for Buck, he said conversationally. We're old pals. Did you see the piece and the paper about him kidnapping me last time? I've got it in my press clipping album. Sure, said Mr. Crocker. Say, listen, if you take me now, Buck's got to come across. I like Buck, but I'm not going to let myself be kidnapped for his benefit. It's fifty-fifty or nothing doing, see? I get you, kid. Well, if that's understood, all right. Give me a minute to get some clothes on, and I'll be with you. Don't make a noise, said Mr. Crocker. Who's making any noise? Say, how did you get in here? Drew the library windows. I always knew some Yag would stroll in that way. It beats me why they didn't have bars fixed on them. There's a buzzwagon outside waiting. You do it in style, don't you? Observed Ogden pulling on his shirt. Who's working this with you? Anyone I know? No, a new guy. Oh, say, I don't remember you if it comes to that. You don't, said Mr. Crocker, a little discomposed. Well, maybe I wouldn't with that mask on you. Which of them are you? Chicago Ed's my moniker. I don't remember any Chicago Ed. Well, you will after this, said Mr. Crocker, happily inspired. Ogden was eyeing him with sudden suspicion. Take that mask off, and let's have a look at you. Nothing doing. How am I to know you're on the level? Mr. Crocker played a daring card. All right, he said, making a move towards the door. It's up to you. If you think I'm not on the level, I'll beat it. Here, stop a minute, said Ogden hastily, unwilling that a promising business deal should be abandoned in this summary manner. I'm not saying anything against you. There's no need to fly off the handle like that. I'll tell Buck I couldn't get you, said Mr. Crocker, moving another step. Here, stop. What's the matter with you? Are you coming with me? Sure, if you get the conditions. Buck's got to slip me half whatever he gets out of this. That's right. Buck'll slip you half of anything he gets. All right, then. Wait till I've got this shoe on, and let's start. Now I'm ready. Read it quietly. What did you think I was going to do? Sing? Step this way, said Mr. Crocker, jacocely. They left the room cautiously. Mr. Crocker, for a moment, had a sense of something missing. He had reached the stairs before he realized what it was. Then it dawned upon him what was lacking was the applause. The scene had deserved a round. Jimmy, vigilant in the gallery, heard the library door open softly and, purring over the rail, perceived two dim forms in the darkness. One was large, the other small. They crossed the room together. Whispered words reached him. I thought you said you came in this way. Sure. Then why is the shutter closed? I fixed it after I was in. There was a faint scraping sound, followed by a click. The darkness of the room was relieved by moonlight. The figures passed through. Jimmy ran down from the gallery and closed the windows softly. He had just fastened the shutters when, from the passage outside, there came the unmistakable sound of a footstep. End of Chapter 21 Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 22 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 22 In the Library Jimmy's first emotion on hearing the footstep was the crude instinct of self-preservation. All that he was able to think of at the moment was the fact that he was in a questionable position and one which would require a good deal of explaining away if he were found, and his only sensation was a strong desire to avoid discovery. He made a silent, scrambling leap for the gallery stairs and reached their shelter just as the door opened. He stood there, rigid, waiting to be challenged, but apparently he had moved in time, for no voice spoke. The door closed so gently as to be almost inaudible, and then there was silence again. The room remained in darkness, and it was this perhaps that first suggested to Jimmy the comforting thought that the intruder was equally desirous of avoiding the scrutiny of his fellows. He had taken it for granted in his first panic that he himself was the only person in the room whose motive for being there would not have borne inspection. But now, safely hidden in the gallery, out of sight from the floor below, he had the leisure to consider the newcomer's movements and to draw conclusions from them. An honest man's first act would surely have been to switch on the lights, and an honest man would hardly have crept so stealthily. It became apparent to Jimmy, as he leaned over the rail and tried to pierce the darkness, that there was sinister work afoot, and he had hardly reached this conclusion when his mind took a further leap, and he guessed the identity of the soft-footed person below. It could be none but his old friend Lord Wisbeach, known to the boys as Gentleman Jack. It surprised him that he had not thought of this before. Then it surprised him that, after the talk they had had only a few hours earlier in that very room, Gentleman Jack should have dared to risk this raid. At this moment the blackness was relieved as if by the striking of a match. The man below had brought an electric torch into play, and now Jimmy could see clearly. He had been right in his surmise, it was Lord Wisbeach. He was kneeling in front of the safe. What he was doing to the safe Jimmy could not see, for the man's body was in the way, but the electric torch shone on his face, lighting up grim, serious features quite unlike the amiable and slightly vacant mask which his lordship was wont to present to the world. As Jimmy looked something happened in the pool of light beyond his vision. Gentleman Jack gave a muttered exclamation of satisfaction, and then Jimmy saw that the door of the safe had swung open. The air was full of a penetrating smell of scorched metal. Jimmy was not an expert in these matters, but he had read from time to time of modern burglars and their methods, and he gathered that an oxy-acetylene blowpipe, with its flame that cuts steel as a knife cuts cheese, had been at work. Lord Wisbeach flashed the torch into the open safe, plunged his hand in, and drew it out again, holding something. Handling this in a cautious and gingerly manner, he placed it carefully in his breast pocket. Then he straightened himself. He switched off the torch and moved to the window, leaving the rest of his implements by the open safe. He unfastened the shutter, then raised the catch of the window. At this point it seemed to Jimmy that the time had come to interfere. TUT TUT, he said in a tone of mild reproof. The effect of the rebuke on Lord Wisbeach was remarkable. He jumped convulsively away from the window, then, revolving on his own axis, flashed the torch into every corner of the room. Who's that? he gasped. Conscience, said Jimmy. Lord Wisbeach had overlooked the gallery in his researches. He now turned his torch upwards. The light flooded the gallery on the opposite side of the room from where Jimmy stood. There was a pistol in gentlemen Jack's hand now. It followed the torch uncertainly. Jimmy, lying flat on the gallery floor, spoke again. Throw that gun away, and the torch too, he said. I've got you covered. The torch flashed above his head, but the raised edge of the gallery rail protected him. I'll give you five seconds. If you haven't dropped that gun by then, I shall shoot. As he began to count, Jimmy heartily regretted that he had allowed his appreciation of the dramatic to lead him into this situation. It would have been so simple to have roused the house in a prosaic way, and avoided this delicate position. Suppose his bluff did not succeed. Suppose the other still clung to his pistol at the end of the five seconds. He wished that he had made it ten instead. Gentlemen Jack was an enterprising person, as his previous acts had showed. He might very well decide to take a chance. He might even refuse to believe that Jimmy was armed. He had only Jimmy's word for it. Perhaps he might be as deficient in simple faith as he had proved to be in Norman blood. Jimmy lingered lovingly over his count. Four, he said reluctantly. There was a breathless moment. Then to Jimmy's unspeakable relief, gun and torch dropped simultaneously to the floor. In an instant Jimmy was himself again. Go and stand with your face to that wall, he said crisply. Hold your hands up. Why? I'm going to see how many more guns you've got. I haven't another. I'd like to make sure of that for myself. Get moving. Gentlemen Jack reluctantly obeyed. When he had reached the wall, Jimmy came down. He switched on the lights. He felt in the others' pockets and almost at once encountered something hard and metallic. He shook his head reproachfully. You were very loose and inaccurate in your statements, he said. Why all these weapons? I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier. Now you can turn around and put your hands down. Gentlemen Jacks appeared to be a philosophical nature. The chagrin consequent upon his failure seemed to have left him. He sat on the arm of a chair and regarded Jimmy without apparent hostility. He even smiled a faint smile. I thought I had fixed you, he said. You must have been smarter than I took you for. I never supposed you would get on to that drink and pass it up. Understanding of an incident which had perplexed him came to Jimmy. Was it you who put that high ball in my room? Was it doped? Didn't you know? Well, said Jimmy, I never knew before that virtue got its reward so darned quick in this world. I rejected that high ball not because I suspected it, but out of pure goodness, because I had made up my mind that I was through with all that sort of thing. His companion laughed. If Jimmy had had a more intimate acquaintance with the resourceful individual whom the boys called Gentlemen Jack, he would have been disquieted by that laugh. It was an axiom among those who knew him well that when Gentlemen Jack chuckled in the reflective way, he generally had something unpleasant up his sleeve. It's your lucky night, said Gentlemen Jack. It looks like it. Well, it isn't over yet. Very nearly. You had better go and put that test tube back in than what is left of the safe now. Did you think I had forgotten it? What test tube? Come, come, old friend, the one filled with partridges explosive which you have in your breast pocket. Gentlemen Jack laughed again. Then he moved towards the safe. Place it gently on the top shelf, said Jimmy. The next moment every nerve in his body was leaping and quivering. A great shout split the air. Gentlemen Jack, apparently insane, was giving tongue at the top of his voice. Help, help, help! The conversation having been conducted up to this point in undertones, the effect of this unexpected uproar was like an explosion. The cries seemed to echo round the room and shake the very walls. For a moment Jimmy stood paralyzed, staring feebly. Then there was a sudden deafening increase in the din. Something living seemed to writhe and jump in his hand. He dropped it incontinently and found himself gazing in a stupefied way at a round smoking hole in the carpet. Such had been the effect of Gentlemen Jack's unforeseen outburst that he had quite forgotten that he held the revolver, and he had been unfortunate enough at this juncture to pull the trigger. There was a sudden rush and a swirl of action. Something hit Jimmy under the chin. He staggered back, and when he had recovered himself, found himself looking into the muzzle of the revolver, which had nearly blown a hole in his foot a moment back. The sardonic face of Gentlemen Jack smiled grimly over the barrel. I told you the night wasn't over yet, he said. The blow under the chin had temporarily dulled Jimmy's mentality. He stood swallowing and endeavoring to pull himself together and to get rid of a feeling that his head was about to come off. He backed to the desk and steadied himself against it. As he did so, a voice from behind him spoke. What's all this? He turned his head. A curious procession was filing in through the open French window. First came Mr. Crocker, still wearing his hideous mask, then a heavily bearded individual with round spectacles who looked like an automobile coming through a haystack. Then Ogden Ford, and finally a sturdy, determined looking woman with glittering but poorly coordinated eyes, who held a large revolver in her unshaking right hand, and looked the very embodiment of the modern female who will stand no nonsense. It was part of the nightmare-like atmosphere which seemed to brood inexorably over this particular night that this person looked to Jimmy exactly like the parlor maid who had come to him in this room in answer to the bell and who had sent his father to him. Yet how could it be she? Jimmy knew little of the habits of parlor maids, but surely they did not wonder about with revolvers in the small hours. While he endeavored feverishly to find reason in this chaos, the door opened and a motley crowd roused from sleep by the cries poured in. Jimmy, turning his head back again to attend to this invasion, perceived Mrs. Pett and two or three of the geniuses and willy-partridge in various stages of negligee and babbling questions. The woman with the pistol, assuming instant and unquestioned domination of the assembly, snapped out an order. Shut the door! somebody shut the door. Now what's all this? she said, turning to Gentleman Jack. End of Chapter 22 Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 23 of Piccadilly Jim This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Jim by P.G. Woodhouse Chapter 23 Stirring Times for the Pets Gentleman Jack had lowered his revolver and was standing waiting to explain all, with the unsufferable look of the man who is just going to say that he has only done his duty and requires no thanks. "'Who are you?' he said. "'Nimmon who I am,' said Miss Trimble, curtly. Sis Pet knows who I am. "'I hope you won't be offended, Lord Wis Beach,' said Mrs. Pet from the group by the door. "'I engage to Detective to help you. I really thought you could not manage everything by yourself. I hope you do not mind.' "'Not at all, Mrs. Pet, very wise.' "'I'm so glad to hear you say so.' "'An excellent move.' Miss Trimble broke in on these amiable exchanges. "'What's all this? How do you mean, help me?' "'Lord Wis Beach most kindly offered to do all he could to protect my nephew's explosive,' said Mrs. Pet.' Gentleman Jack smiled modestly. "'I hope I have been of some slight assistance. I think I came down in the nick of time. Look!' he pointed to the safe. He had just got it open. Luckily I had my pistol with me. I covered him and called for help. In another moment he would have got away.' Miss Trimble crossed to the safe and inspected it with a frown, as if she disliked it. She gave a grunt and returned to her place by the window. "'Man, good job!' was her comment. Anne came forward. Her face was glowing in her eyes shown. "'Do you mean to say that you found Jimmy breaking into the safe? I never heard anything so absurd.' Mrs. Pet intervened. "'This is not James Crocker, Anne. This man is an impostor who came into the house in order to steal Willie's invention.' She looked fondly at Gentleman Jack. "'Lord Wis Beach told me so. He only pretended to recognize him this afternoon.' A low gurgle proceeded from the open mouth of Little Ogden. The proceedings bewildered him. The scene he had overheard in the library between the two men had made it clear to him that Jimmy was genuine and Lord Wis Beach a fraud, and he could not understand why Jimmy did not produce his proofs as before. He was not aware that Jimmy's head was only just beginning to clear from the effects of the blow on the chin. Ogden braced himself for resolute lying in the event of Jimmy calling him as a witness, but he did not intend to have his little business proposition dragged into the open. Anne was looking at Jimmy with horror struck eyes. For the first time it came to her how little she knew of him and how very likely it was. In the face of the evidence it was almost certain that he should have come to the house with the intention of stealing Willie's explosive. She fought against it, but a voice seemed to remind her that it was he who had suggested the idea of posing as Jimmy Crocker. She could not help remembering how smoothly and willingly he had embarked on the mad scheme. But had it been so mad? Had it not been a mere cloak for this other venture? If Lord Wis Beach had found him in this room, with the safe blown open, what other explanation could there be? And then, simultaneously with her conviction that he was a criminal, came the certainty that he was the man she loved. It had only needed the spectacle of him in trouble to make her sure. She came to his side with the vague idea of doing something to help him, of giving him her support. Once there she found that there was nothing to do and nothing to say. She put her hand on his and stood waiting helplessly, for she knew not what. It was the touch of her fingers which woke Jimmy from his stupor. He came to himself almost with a jerk. He had been mystically aware of what had been said, but speech had been beyond him. Now quite suddenly he was a whole man once more. He threw himself into the debate with energy. Good heavens! he cried. You're all wrong. I found him blowing open the safe. Gentlemen Jack smiled superciliously. A likely story, what? I mean to say it's a bit thin. Ridiculous, said Mrs. Pet. She turned to Miss Trimble with a gesture. Arrest that man! Wait a moment, replied that clear-headed maiden, picking her teeth thoughtfully with the muzzle of her revolver. Wait a moment. Gotta look into this. Hear both these guys' stories. Really, said gentlemen Jack, swivelly, it seemed somewhat absurd. Never mind how absurd sounds, returned the fair Trimble rebukingly. You close your face, listen to me. That's all you gotta do. I know you didn't do it, cried Anne, tightening her hold on Jimmy's arm. Less fit, please, less fit! Miss Trimble removed the pistol from her mouth and pointed it at Jimmy. What have you to say? Talk quick. I happen to be down there. Why, said Miss Trimble, as if she had touched off a bomb? Jimmy stopped short. He perceived difficulties in the way of explanation. I happen to be down there, he resumed stoutly, and that man came into the room with an electric torch and a blowpipe, and began working on the safe. The polished tones of gentlemen Jack cut in on his story. Really now, is it worthwhile? He turned to Miss Trimble. I came down here having heard a noise. I did not happen to be here for some unexplained purpose. I was lying awake and something attracted my attention. As Mrs. Pet knows I was suspicious of this worthy, and expected it to make an attempt on the explosive at any moment, so I took my pistol and crept downstairs. When I got here the safe was open, and this man making for the window. Miss Trimble scratched her chin caressingly with the revolver, and remained for a moment in thought. Then she turned to Jimmy like a striking rattlesnake. You got to pull something better than that, she said. I got your number. You're caught with the goods. No, cried Anne. Yes, said Mrs. Pet. The thing is obvious. I think the best thing I can do, said gentlemen Jack smoothly, is to go and telephone for the police. You think of everything, Lord Whizbeach, said Mrs. Pet. Not at all, said his lordship. Jimmy watched him moving to the door. At the back of his mind there was a dull feeling that he could solve the whole trouble if only he could remember one fact which had escaped him. The effects of the blow he had received still handicapped him. He struggled to remember, but without result. Gentlemen Jack reached the door and opened it, and as he did so, a shrill yapping, hitherto inaudible because of the intervening oak and the raised voices within, made itself heard from the passage outside. Gentlemen Jack closed the door with a hasty bang. I say, that dog's out there, he said plaintively. The scratching of Ada's busy feet on the wood bore out his words. He looked about embaffled. That dog's out there, he repeated gloomily. Something seemed to give way in Jimmy's brain, the simple fact which had eluded him till now sprang into his mind. Don't let that man get out, he cried. Good Lord, I've only just remembered. You say you found me breaking into the safe. You say you heard a noise and came down to investigate. Well then, what's that test tube of the explosive doing in your breast pocket? He swung round to Miss Trimble. You needn't take my word or his word. There's a much simpler way of finding out who's the real crook. Search us both. He began to turn out his pockets rapidly. Look here, and here, and here. Now ask him to do the same. He was pleased to observe a spasm pass across gentlemen Jack's hitherto composed countenance. Miss Trimble was eyeing the latter with sudden suspicion. That's so, she said. Say, Bill, I've forgotten your name. It's up to you to show us. Let's have a look at what you've got inside there. I really could not agree to. Mrs. Pett interrupted indignantly. I never had such a thing. Lord Wisbeach is an old friend. Less of it, ordered Miss Trimble, whose left eye was now like the left eye of a basilisk. You've got to show us, Bill, so be quick about it. A tired smile played over gentlemen Jack's face. He was the border aristocrat, mutely protesting against something that wasn't done. He dipped his slender fingers into his pocket. Then, drawing out the test tube and holding it up, he spoke with a drawing calm for which even Jimmy could not help admiring him. All right, if I'm done, I'm done. The sensation caused by his action and his words was of the kind usually described as profound. Mrs. Pett uttered a strangled shriek. Willie Partridge yelped like a dog. Sharp exclamations came simultaneously from each of the geniuses. Gentleman Jack waited for the clamor to subside. Then he resumed his gentle drawl. But I'm not done, he explained. I'm going out now through that window, and if anybody tries to stop me, it will be his or her, he vowed politely to Miss Trimble, last act in the world. If anyone makes a move to stop me, I shall drop this test tube and blow the whole damn place to pieces. If his first speech had made a marked impression on his audience, his second paralyzed him. A silence followed as of the tomb. Only the yapping of the dog Ada refused to be stilled. Stay where you are, said Miss Trimble, as the speaker moved towards the window. She held the revolver poised, but for the first time that night, possibly for the first time in her life, she spoke irresolutely. Superbly competent woman that she was, here was a situation that baffled her. Gentleman Jack crossed the room slowly. The test tube held aloft between forefinger and thumb. He was level with Miss Trimble, who had lowered her revolver and had drawn to one side, plainly at a loss to know how to handle this unprecedented crisis, when the door flew open. For an instant the face of Howard Bemis, the poet, was visible. Mrs. Pet, I have telephoned. Then another voice interrupted him. Through the opening the dog Ada, rejoicing in the removal of the obstacle, raced like a firmuff, mysteriously endowed with legs and a tongue. She tore across the room to where Gentleman Jack's ankles waited invitingly. Ever since their first meeting, she had wanted a fair chance at those ankles, but someone had always prevented her. Damn! shouted Gentleman Jack. The word was ground in one vast cataclysm of noise. From every throat in the room there proceeded a shout, a shriek, or some other variety of cry, as the test tube slipping from between the victim's fingers described a parabola through the air. Anne flung herself into Jimmy's arms and he held her tight. He shut his eyes. Even as he waited for the end, the thought flashed through his mind that, if he must die, this was the manner of death which he would prefer. The test tube crashed on the writing desk and burst into a million pieces. Jimmy opened his eyes. Things seemed to be much about the same as before. He was still alive. The room in which he stood was solid and intact. Nobody was in fragments. There was only one respect in which the scene differed from what it had been a moment before. Then it had contained Gentleman Jack. Now it did not. A great sigh seemed to sweep through the room. There was a long silence. Then from the direction of the street came the roar of a starting automobile. And at that sound the bearded man with the spectacles who had formed part of Miss Trimble's procession uttered a wailing cry. Gee! he's beat it in my bubble! And it was a hired one. The words seemed to relieve the tension in the air. One by one the company became masters of themselves once more. Miss Trimble, that masterly woman, was the first to recover. She raised herself from the floor. For with a confused idea that she would be safer there she had flung herself down, and having dusted her skirt with a few decisive dabs of her strong left hand addressed herself once more to business. I let him bluff me with a fake bomb, she commented bitterly. She brooded on this for a moment. Say, shut the door again, someone, to run this mud out. I can't think what that yapping going on. Mrs. Petz, pale and scared, gathered Ada into her arms. At the same time Anne removed herself from Jimmy's. She did not look at him. She was feeling oddly shy. Shyness had never been a failing of hers, but she would have given much now to have been elsewhere. Miss Trimble again took charge of the situation. The sound of the automobile had died away. Gentlemen Jack had passed out of their lives. This fact and bittered Miss Trimble. She spoke with asperity. Well, he's gone, she said acidly. Now we can get down to cases again. Say, she addressed Mrs. Petz, who started nervously. The experience of passing through the shadow of the Valley of Death and of finding herself in one piece instead of several thousand, had robbed her of all her wanted masterfulness. Say, listen me, there's been a double game on here tonight. That guy's just gone was the first part of the entertainment. Now we can start the second part. You see these ducks? She indicated with a wave of the revolver, Mr. Crocker, and his bearded comrade. Them and trying to kidnap his son. Mrs. Petz uttered a piercing cry. Augie! Oh, can it! muttered that youth uncomfortably. He foresaw awkward moments ahead, and he wished to concentrate his faculties entirely on the part he was to play in them. He looked sideways at Chicago Ed. In a few minutes, he supposed, Ed would be attempting to minimize his own crimes by pretending that he, Augden, had invited him to come and kidnap him. Stout denial must be his weapon. I had my suspicions, resumed Miss Strimble, that something was going to be pulled off tonight, and I was waiting outside for it to break loose. This guy here, she indicated the bearded plotter, who blinked deprecatingly through his spectacles. He's been waiting on the corner of the street for the last hour of the automobile. I've been watching him right along. I was on to his game. Well, just now it came the kid with this plug ugly hair. She turned to Mr. Crocker. Say, you take off that mask. Let's have a look at you. Mr. Crocker reluctantly drew the camber from his face. Gush! exclaimed Miss Strimble in strong distaste. Say, you got some kind of plague, but what is it? You look like a colored comic supplement. She confronted the shrinking Mr. Crocker and ran a bony finger over his cheek. Make up, she said, eye in the stains disgustedly. Grease paint! Gush! Skinner! cried Mrs. Pet. Miss Strimble scanned her victim more closely. So it is, if you do a bit of excavating. She turned on the bearded one. And I guess this shrubbery is fake. If you come down to it, she rinsed at the unhappy man's beard. He came off in her hands, leaving a square chin behind it. If this ain't wig, y'all have a headache tomorrow, observed Miss Strimble, weaving her fingers into the luxuriant head covering and pulling. Wish you luck! Ah, twas a wig! Give me those spectacles. She surveyed the results of her handiwork grimly. Say, Clarence, she remarked. You wise guy, you look handsome or with a mon. Does anyone know this duck? It is Mitchell! said Mrs. Pet. My husband's physical instructor. Miss Strimble turned and walking to Jimmy tapped him meaningfully on the chest with her revolver. Say, this is getting interesting. This is where you explain, young man, how twas you happen to be down in the room when that crook who'd just gone was monkeying with the safe. Looks to me as if you're in with these two. A feeling of being on the verge of one of those crises which dot the smooth path of our lives came to Jimmy. To conceal his identity from Anne any longer seemed impossible. He was about to speak when Anne broke in. Anne nested, she said. I can't let this go on any longer. Jerry Mitchell isn't to blame. I told him to kidnap Ogden. There was an awkward silence. Mrs. Pet laughed nervously. I think you'd better go to bed, my dear child. You have had a severe shock. You were not yourself. But it's true. I did tell him. Didn't I, Jerry? Say, Miss Strimble's silence, Jerry, with a gesture. You bid you back to your little bed, honey, like your aunt says. You say you told this guy to steal the kid. Well, what about this here skinner? You didn't tell him, did you? I, I— Anne became confusedly. She was utterly unable to account for skinner, and it made her task of explaining difficult. Jimmy came to the rescue. He did not like to think how Anne would receive the news, but for her own sake he must speak now. It would have required a harder-hearted man than himself to resist the mute pleading of his father's grease-painted face. Mr. Crocker was a game sport. He would not have said a word without the sign from Jimmy, even to save himself from a night in prison, but he hoped that Jimmy would speak. It's perfectly simple, said Jimmy, with an attempt at airiness which broke down miserably under Miss Strimble's eye. Perfectly simple. I really am Jimmy Crocker, you know. He avoided Anne's gaze. I can't think what you were making all this fuss about. Then why did you sit in at a plot to kidnap this boy? That, of course. Might seem at first sight to require a little explanation. You admit it, then? Yes. As a matter of fact, I did have the idea of kidnapping Ogden. Wanted to send him to a dog's hospital if you understand what I mean. He tried to smile a conciliatory smile, but, encountering Miss Strimble's left eye, abandoned the project. He removed a bead of perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. It struck him as a very curious thing that the simplest explanations were so often quite difficult to make. Before I go any further, I ought to explain one thing. Skinner there is my father. Mrs. Pet gasped. Skinner was my sister's butler in London. In a way of speaking, said Jimmy, that is correct. It's rather a long story. It was this way, you see. Miss Strimble uttered an ejaculation of supreme contempt. I never saw such a lot of blabbing crooks in my life. Beats me what you hope to get pulling this stuff. Say, she indicated Mr. Crocker. This guy has wanted for something over in England. We've got his photographs in the office. If you ask me, he lit out with the spoons or something. Say, she fixed one of his geniuses with her compelling eye. About time he made herself useful. Go and call up the Asterbilt on the phone. There's a dame there that's been making inquiries for this duck. She told Anderson, and Anderson handed it on to us, to call her up at any hour of the day or night when they found him. You go get her on the wire and tell her to come right up here in a taxi and identify him. The genius paused at the door. Whom shall I ask for? Mrs. Crocker, snapped Miss Strimble. Says Bingley Crocker. Tell her we've found the guy she's been looking for. The genius backed out. There was a howl of anguish from the doorway. I beg your pardon, said the genius. Can't you look where you're going? I am exceedingly sorry. Mr. Pett entered the room, hopping. He was holding one slippered foot in his hand and appeared to be submitting it to some form of massage. It was plain that the usually mild and gentle little man was in a bad temper. He glowered round him at the company assembled. What the devil's the matter here, he demanded. I stood it as long as I could, but a man can't get a wink of sleep with this noise going on. Yep, yep, yep! Barked data from the shelter of Mrs. Pett's arms. Mr. Pett started violently. Kill that dog! Throw her out! Do something to her! Mrs. Pett was staring blankly at her husband. She had never seen him like this before. It was as if a rabbit had turned and growled at her. Coming on top of the crowded sensations of the night, it had the effect of making her feel curiously weak. In all her married life she had never known what fear was. She had coped dauntlessly with the late Mr. Ford, a man of spirited temperament, and as for the mild Mr. Pett, she had trampled on him. But now she felt afraid. This new Peter intimidated her. CHAPTER XXVIII. SENSATIONAL TURNING OF A WORM. To this remarkable metamorphosis in Mr. Peter Pett, several causes had contributed. In the first place, the sudden dismissal of Jerry Mitchell had obliged him to go two days without the physical exercises to which his system had become accustomed, and this had produced a heavy, irritable condition of body and mind. He had brooded on the injustice of his lot, until he had almost worked himself up to rebellion. And then, as sometimes happened with him when he was out of sorts, a touch of gout came to add to his troubles. Being a patient man by nature, he might have borne up against these trials, had he been granted an adequate night's rest. But just as he had dropped off after tossing restlessly for two hours, things had begun to happen noisily in the library. He awoke to a vague realization of tumult below. Such was the morose condition of his mind as the result of his misfortune that at first not even the cries for help could interest him sufficiently to induce him to leave his bed. He knew that walking in his present state would be painful, and he declined to submit to any more pain just because some party unknown was apparently being murdered in his library. It was not until the shrilled barking of the dog Ada penetrated right in among his nerve centers and began to tie them into knots that he found himself compelled to descend. Even when he did so, it was in no spirit of kindness. He did not come to rescue anybody or to interfere between any murderer and his victim. He came in a fever of militant wrath to suppress Ada. On the threshold of the library, however, the genius, by treading on his gouty foot, had diverted his anger and caused it to become more general. He had not ceased to concentrate his venom on Ada. He wanted to assail everybody. What's the matter here, he demanded, red-eyed? Isn't somebody going to tell me? Have I got to stop here all night? Who on earth is this? He glared at Miss Trimble. What's she doing with that pistol? He stamped him cautiously with his bad foot and emitted a dry howl of anguish. She's a detective, Peter, said Mrs. Pett, timidly. A detective? Why? Where did she come from? Miss Trimble took it upon herself to explain. Mr. Pett's his pet sent for me to watch out so nobody's kidnapped her son. Oggie! explained Mrs. Pett. Miss Trimble was guarding, darling Oggie. Why? To prevent him from being kidnapped, Peter! Mr. Pett glowered at the stout boy, then his eye was attracted by the forlorn figure of Jerry Mitchell. He started. Was this fellow kidnapping the boy? he asked. Sure, said Miss Trimble, caught him with the goods. He was waiting outside there with the car. I held him and this other guy up with a gun and brought him back. Jerry, said Mr. Pett, it wasn't your fault that you didn't bring it off, and I'm going to treat you right. You'd have done it if nobody had butted in to stop you. You'll get the money to start that health farm of yours all right. I'll see to that. Now you run off to bed. There's nothing to keep you here. Say! cried Miss Trimble, outraged. Do you mean to say you aren't going to prosecute? Why aren't I telling you I caught him kidnapping the boy? I told him to kidnap the boy, snarled Mr. Pett. Peter! Mr. Pett looked like an undersized lion as he faced his wife. He bristled. The recollection of all that he had suffered from Ogden came to strengthen his determination. I've tried for two years to get you to send that boy to a good boarding school and you wouldn't do it. I couldn't stand having him loafing around the house any longer, so I told Jerry Mitchell to take him away to a friend of his who keeps a dog's hospital on Long Island and to tell his friend to hold him there till he got some sense into him. Well, you've spoiled that for the moment with your detectives, but it still looks good to me. I'll give you a choice. You can either send that boy to a boarding school next week or he goes to Jerry Mitchell's friend. I'm not going to have him in the house any longer, loafing in my chair and smoking my cigarettes. Which is it to be? But Peter! Well? If I send him to school, he may be kidnapped. Kidnapping can't hurt him. It's what he needs. And anyway, if he is, I'll pay the bill and be glad to do it. Take him off to bed now. Tomorrow you can start looking up schools. Great God-free! He hopped to the writing desk and glared disgustedly at the debris on it. Who's been making this mess on my desk? It's hard. It's darned hard. The only room in this house that I ask to have for my own, where I can get a little peace, and I find it turned into a beer garden and coffee or some damn thing spilled all over my writing desk. That isn't coffee, Peter! said Mrs. Pat mildly. This caveman whom she had married under the impression that he was a gentle domestic pet had taken all the spirit out of her. It's Willy's explosive! Willy's explosive! Lord Wisbeach! I mean the man who pretended to be Lord Wisbeach dropped it there. Dropped it there? Well, why didn't it explode and blow the place to Hoboken then? Mrs. Pat looked helplessly at Willy, who thrust his fingers into his mop of hair and rolled his eyes. There was, fortunately, some slight miscalculation in my formula, Uncle Peter, he said. And I shall have to look into it tomorrow. Whether the Trinitrotoluol, Mr. Pat uttered a sharp howl. He beat the air with his clenched fists. He seemed to be having a brainstorm. Has this fish been living on me all this time? Have I been supporting this buzzard in luxury all these years while he fooled about with an explosive that won't explode? He pointed an accusing finger at the inventor. Look into it tomorrow, will you? Yes, you can look into it tomorrow after six o'clock. Until then, you'll be working, for the first time in your life, working in my office, where you ought to have been all along. He surveyed the crowded room belligerently. Now, perhaps you will all go back to bed and let people get a little sleep. Go home, he said to the detective. Miss Trimble stood her ground. She watched Mrs. Pat pass away with Ogden and Willy Partridge had a stampede of geniuses, but she declined to move. You gotta cut the rough stuff, Mr. Pat, she said calmly. I needn't sleep just as much as everybody else, but I gotta stay here. There's a lady coming right up from the taxi from the Asterbilt to identify this goop. She's after him for something. What, Skinner? That's what he calls himself. What's he done? I don't know, the lady'll tell us that. There was a violent ringing at the front doorbell. I guess that's her, said Miss Trimble. Who's gonna let her in? I can't go. I will, said Anne. Mr. Pat regarded Mr. Crocker with affection and encouragement. I don't know what you've done, Skinner, he said, but I'll stand by you. You're the best fan I ever met, and if I can keep you out of the penitentiary, I will. It isn't the penitentiary, said Mr. Crocker, unhappily. A tall, handsome, and determined-looking woman came into the room. She stood in the doorway, looking about her. Then her eyes rested on Mr. Crocker. For a moment she gazed incredulously at his discolored face. She drew a little nearer, peering. Do you identify him, ma'am? said Miss Trimble. Bingley! Is it the guy you wanted? It's my husband, said Mrs. Crocker. You can't arrest him for that, said Miss Trimble, disgustedly. She thrust her revolver back into the hinterland of her costume. Guess I'll be beaten, she said, with a somber frown. She was plainly in no sunny mood. For all the hunk jobs I was ever on, this is the hunkest. I'm told off to watch a gang of crooks, and after I've lost a night's sleep doing it, it turns out it's a nice, jolly family party. She jerked her thumb towards Jimmy. Say, this guy says he's that guy's son. I suppose it's all right? That is my stepson, James Crocker. Ann uttered a little cry, but it was lost in Miss Trimble's dependous snort, the detective turned to the window. I guess I'll beat it, she observed costically, before it turns out that I'm your little daughter, Genevieve. End of Chapter 24 Recording by Gary McFadden Chapter 25 of Piccadilly Gym This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Piccadilly Gym by PG Woodhouse Chapter 25 Nearly Everybody Happy Mrs. Crocker turned to her husband. Well bingly, she said, a steely tinkle in her voice. Well Eugenia, said Mr. Crocker. A strange light was shining in Mr. Crocker's mild eyes. He had seen a miracle happen that night. He had seen an even more formidable woman than his wife, dominated by an even meeker man than himself, and he had been amazed and impressed by the spectacle. It had never even started to occur to him before, but apparently it could be done. A little resolution, a little determination, nothing more was needed. He looked at Mr. Pett, and yet Mr. Pett had crumpled up Eugenia's sister with about three firm speeches. It could be done. What have you to say, bingly? Mr. Crocker drew himself up. Just this, he said. I'm an American citizen, and the way I've figured it out is that my place is in America. It's no good talking about it, Eugenia. I'm sorry if it upsets your plans, but I am not going back to London. He eyed his speechless wife unflatteringly. I'm going to stick on here and see the pennant race out, and after that, I'm going to take in the World Series. Mrs. Crocker opened her mouth to speak, closed it, reopened it. Then she found that she had nothing to say. I hope you'll be sensible, Eugenia, and stay on this side, and we can all be happy. I'm sorry to have to take this stand, but you've tried me too high. You're a woman, and you don't know what it is to go five years without seeing a ballgame. But take it from me. It's more than any real fan can stand. It nearly killed me, and I am not going to risk it again. If Mr. Pett will keep me on as his butler, I'll stay here in this house. If he won't, I'll get another job somewhere. But whatever happens, I stick to this side. Mr. Pett uttered a whoop of approval. There's always been a place for you in my house, old man, he cried, when I get a butler who, But Bingley, how can you be a butler? You ought to watch him, said Mr. Pett enthusiastically. He's a wonder. He can pull all the starchy stuff, as if he'd lived with the Duke of Housis for the last forty years, and then go right off and fling a pop bottle in an umpire. He's all right. The eulogy was wasted on Mrs. Crocker. She burst into tears. It was a new experience for her husband, and he watched her awkwardly, his resolute demeanor crumbling under this unexpected assault. Eugenia! Mrs. Crocker wiped her eyes. I can't stand it, she sobbed. I've worked and worked all these years, and now, just as success has nearly come. Bingley, do come back. It will only be for a little longer. Mr. Crocker stared. A little longer? Why, that Lord Percy Whipple business. I know you must have had excellent reasons for soaking him, Jimmy, but it did put the lid on it. Surely, after that Lord Percy affair, there's no chance. There is! There is! It has made no difference at all. Lord Percy came to call next day with a black eye, poor boy, and said that James was a sportsman, and that he wanted to know him better. He said he had never felt so drawn towards anyone in his life, and he wanted him to show him how he made some blow, which he called a right hook. The whole affair has simply endeared James to him, and Lady Corstaphine says that the Duke of De Vises read the account of the fight to the Premier that very evening, and they both laughed till they nearly got apoplexy. Jimmy was deeply touched. He had not suspected such a sporting spirit in his antagonist. Percy's all right, he said enthusiastically. Dad, you ought to go back. It's only fair. But Jimmy, surely you can understand. There's only a game separating the giants and the Phillies with the Braves coming along just behind, and the season only half over. Mrs. Crocker looked imploringly at him. It will only be for a little while, Bingley, Lady Corstaphine, who has means of knowing, says that your name is certain to be in the next honours list. After that you can come back as often as you like. We could spend the summer here and the winter in England, or whatever you pleased. Mr. Crocker capitulated. All right, Eugenia, I'll come. Bingley, we shall have to go back by the next boat, dear. People are beginning to wonder where you are. I've told them that you are taking a rest in the country, but they will suspect something if you don't come back at once. Mr. Crocker's face wore a drawn look. He had never felt so attached to his wife as now, when she wept these unexpected tears and begged favours of him with that unfamiliar catch in her voice. On the other hand, a vision rose before him of the polo grounds on a warm afternoon. He crushed it down. Very well, he said. Mr. Pett offered a word of consolation. Maybe you'll be able to run over for the World Series. Mr. Crocker's face cleared. That's true. And I'll cable you the scores every day, Dad, said Jimmy. Mrs. Crocker looked at him with a touch of disapproval, clouding the happiness of her face. Are you staying over here, James? There's no reason why you should not come back, too, if you make up your mind to change your habits. I have made up my mind to change them, but I'm going to do it in New York. Mr. Pett is going to give me a job in his office. I am going to start at the bottom and work my way still further down. Mr. Pett yapped with rapture. He was experiencing something of the emotion of the preacher at the camp meeting who seized a center's bench filling up. To have secured Willie Partridge, whom he intended to lead gradually into the realms of high finance by the way of envelope addressing, was much. But that Jimmy, with a choice in the matter, should have chosen the office, filled him with such content that he only just stopped himself from dancing on his bad foot. Don't worry about me, Dad. I shall do wonders. It's quite easy to make a large fortune. I watched Uncle Pete in his office this morning, and all he does is sit at a mahogany table and tell the office boy to tell the callers that he has gone away for the day. I think I ought to rise to great heights in that branch of industry. From the little I have seen of it, it seems to have been made for me. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Piccadilly Gym by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 26 Everybody Happy Jimmy looked at Ann. They were alone. Mr. Pat had gone back to Ed. Mrs. Crocker to her hotel. Mr. Crocker was removing his makeup in his room. A silence had followed their departure. This is the end of a perfect day, said Jimmy. Ann took a step towards the door. Don't go. Ann stopped. Mr. Crocker, she said. Jimmy, he corrected. Mr. Crocker, he repeated Ann firmly. Or Algernon, if you prefer it. May I ask? Ann regarded him steadily. May I ask? Nearly always, said Jimmy. When people begin with that, they are going to say something unpleasant. May I ask why you went to all this trouble to make a fool of me? Why could you not have told me who you were from the start? Have you forgotten all the harsh things you said to me from time to time about Jimmy Crocker? I thought that, if you knew who I was, you would have nothing more to do with me. You were quite right. Surely, though, you won't let a thing that happened five years ago make so much difference. I shall never forgive you. And yet, a little while ago, when Willie's bomb was about to go off, you flung yourself into my arms. Ann's face flamed. I lost my balance. Why try to recover it? Ann bit her lip. You did a cruel, heartless thing. What does it matter how long ago it was? If you were capable of it then? Be reasonable. Don't you admit the possibility of reformation? Take your own case. Five years ago you were a minor poetess. Now you were an amateur kidnapper, a bright, lovable girl, at whose approach people lock up their children and sit on the key. As for me, five years ago I was a heartless brute. Now I am a sober, serious businessman, specially called in by your uncle to help jack up his tottering firm. Why not bury the dead past? Besides, I don't want to praise myself. I just want to call your attention to it. Think what I have done for you. You admitted yourself that it was my influence that had revolutionized your character. But for me you would now be doing worse than write poetry. You would be writing Ver Libre. I saved you from that, and you spurned me. I hate you, said Ann. Jimmy went to the writing desk and took up a small book. Put that down. I just wanted to read you Love's Funeral. It illustrates my point. Think of yourself as you are now, and remember that it is I who am responsible for the improvement. Here we are, Love's Funeral. My heart is dead. Ann snatched the book from his hands and flung it away. It soared up, clearing the gallery rails, and fell with a thud on the gallery floor. She stood facing him with sparkling eyes. Then she moved away. I beg your pardon, she said stiffly. I lost my temper. It's your hair, said Jimmy, soothingly. You're bound to be quick-tempered with hair of that glorious red shade. You must marry some nice determined fellow, blue-eyed, dark-haired, clean-shaven, about five foot eleven, with a future in business. He will keep you in order. Mr. Crocker! Gently, of course, kindly, lovingly, the velvet thingamy, rather than the iron, what's its name? But nevertheless, firmly, Ann was at the door. To a girl with your ardent nature, someone with whom you can quarrel is an absolute necessity of life. You and I are affinities. Ours will be an ideally happy marriage. You would be miserable if you had to go through life with a human doormat with welcome written on him. You want someone made of sterner stuff. You want, as it were, a sparring partner, someone with whom you can quarrel happily with the certain knowledge that he will not curl up in a ball for you to kick, but will be there with the return wallop. I may have my faults, he paused expectantly, Ann remained silent. No, no, he went on, but I am such a man. Brisk give and take is the foundation of the happy marriage. Do you remember that beautiful line of Tennyson's? We fell out, my wife and I. It always conjures up for me a vision of wonderful domestic happiness. I seem to see us in our old age, you on one side of the radiator, I on the other, warming our old limbs and thinking up snappy stuff to hand to each other. Sweetheart still. If I were to go out of your life now, you would be miserable. You would have nobody to quarrel with. You would be in the position of the female Jaguar of the Indian jungle, who, as you doubtless know, expresses her affection for her mate by biting him shrewdly in the fleshy part of the leg, if she should snap sideways one day and find nothing there. Of all the things which Ann had been trying to say during this discourse, only one succeeded in finding expression. To her mortification it was the only weak one in the collection. Are you asking me to marry you? I am. I won't. You think so now, because I am not appearing at my best. You see me nervous, diffident, tongue-tied. All this will wear off, however, and you will be surprised and delighted as you begin to understand my true self. Beneath the surface I speak conservatively. I am a corker. The door banged behind Ann. Jimmy found himself alone. He walked thoughtfully to Mr. Pett's armchair and sat down. There was a feeling of desolation upon him. He lit a cigarette and began to smoke pensively. What a fool he had been to talk like that! What girl of spirit could possibly stand it? If ever there had been a time for being soothing and serious and pleading, it had been these last few minutes, and he talked like that. Ten minutes passed. Jimmy sprang from his chair. He thought he had heard a footstep. He flung the door open. The passage was empty. He returned miserably to his chair. Of course she had not come back. Why should she? A voice spoke. Jimmy. He leaped up again and looked wildly around. Then he looked up. Ann was leaning over the gallery rail. Jimmy, I've been thinking it over. There's something I want to ask you. Do you admit that you've behaved obonimably five years ago? Yes, shouted Jimmy. And that you've been behaving just as badly ever since? Yes. And that you were really a pretty awful sort of person? Yes. Then it's all right. You deserve it. Deserve it? Deserved a merry-a-girl like me. I was worried about it, but now I see that it's the only punishment bad enough for you. She raised her arm. Here's the dead past, Jimmy. Go and bury it. Good night. A small book fell squashily at Jimmy's feet. He regarded it dully for a moment. Then, with a wild yell which penetrated even to Mr. Pet's bedroom and woke that sufferer just as he was dropping off to sleep for the third time that night.