Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

have seen you somewhere. I’m afraid you will think me a bore for sticking to the point like this, but the fact is, the one thing I pride myself on is my memory for faces. It’s a hobby of mine. If I think I remember a face, and can’t place it, I worry myself into insomnia. It’s partly sheer vanity, and partly because in my job a good memory for faces is a mighty fine asset. It has helped me a hundred times.”

Mr. Birdsey was an intelligent man, and he could see that Waterall’s table-talk was for some reason getting upon Johnson’s nerves. Like a good host, he endeavoured to cut in and make things smooth.

“I’ve heard great accounts of Algiers,” he said helpfully. “A friend of mine was there in his yacht last year. It must be a delightful spot.”

“It’s a hell on earth,” snapped Johnson, and slew the conversation on the spot.

Through a grim silence an angel in human form fluttered in⁠—a waiter bearing a bottle. The pop of the cork was more than music to Mr. Birdsey’s ears. It was the booming of the guns of the relieving army.

The first glass, as first glasses will, thawed the bearded man, to the extent of inducing him to try and pick up the fragments of the conversation which he had shattered.

“I am afraid you will have thought me abrupt, Mr. Birdsey,” he said awkwardly; “but then you haven’t lived in Algiers for five years, and I have.”

Mr. Birdsey chirruped sympathetically.

“I liked it at first. It looked mighty good to me. But five years of it, and nothing else to look forward to till you die.⁠ ⁠…”

He stopped, and emptied his glass. Mr. Birdsey was still perturbed. True, conversation was proceeding in a sort of way, but it had taken a distinctly gloomy turn. Slightly flushed with the excellent champagne which he had selected for this important dinner, he endeavoured to lighten it.

“I wonder,” he said, “which of us three fans had the greatest difficulty in getting to the bleachers today. I guess none of us found it too easy.”

The young man shook his head.

“Don’t count on me to contribute a romantic story to this Arabian Night’s Entertainment. My difficulty would have been to stop away. My name’s Waterall, and I’m the London correspondent of the New York Chronicle. I had to be there this afternoon in the way of business.”

Mr. Birdsey giggled self-consciously, but not without a certain impish pride.

“The laugh will be on me when you hear my confession. My daughter married an English earl, and my wife brought me over here to mix with his crowd. There was a big dinner-party tonight, at which the whole gang were to be present, and it was as much as my life was worth to sidestep it. But when you get the Giants and the White Sox playing ball within fifty miles of you⁠—Well, I packed a grip and sneaked out the back way, and got to the station and caught the fast train to London. And what is going on back there at this moment I don’t like to think. About now,” said Mr. Birdsey, looking at his watch, “I guess they’ll be pronging the hors d’oeuvres and gazing at the empty chair. It was a shame to do it, but, for the love of Mike, what else could I have done?”

He looked at the bearded man.

“Did you have any adventures, Mr. Johnson?”

“No. I⁠—I just came.”

The young man Waterall leaned forward. His manner was quiet, but his eyes were glittering.

“Wasn’t that enough of an adventure for you?” he said.

Their eyes met across the table. Seated between them, Mr. Birdsey looked from one to the other, vaguely disturbed. Something was happening, a drama was going on, and he had not the key to it.

Johnson’s face was pale, and the tablecloth crumpled into a crooked ridge under his fingers, but his voice was steady as he replied:

“I don’t understand.”

“Will you understand if I give you your right name, Mr. Benyon?”

“What’s all this?” said Mr. Birdsey feebly.

Waterall turned to him, the vulturine cast of his face more noticeable than ever. Mr. Birdsey was conscious of a sudden distaste for this young man.

“It’s quite simple, Mr. Birdsey. If you have not been entertaining angels unawares, you have at least been giving a dinner to a celebrity. I told you I was sure I had seen this gentleman before. I have just remembered where, and when. This is Mr. John Benyon, and I last saw him five years ago when I was a reporter in New York, and covered his trial.”

“His trial?”

“He robbed the New Asiatic Bank of a hundred thousand dollars, jumped his bail, and was never heard of again.”

“For the love of Mike!”

Mr. Birdsey stared at his guest with eyes that grew momently wider. He was amazed to find that deep down in him there was an unmistakable feeling of elation. He had made up his mind, when he left home that morning, that this was to be a day of days. Well, nobody could call this an anticlimax.

“So that’s why you have been living in Algiers?”

Benyon did not reply. Outside, the Strand traffic sent a faint murmur into the warm, comfortable room.

Waterall spoke. “What on earth induced you, Benyon, to run the risk of coming to London, where every second man you meet is a New Yorker, I can’t understand. The chances were two to one that you would be recognized. You made a pretty big splash with that little affair of yours five years ago.”

Benyon raised his head. His hands were trembling.

“I’ll tell you,” he said with a kind of savage force, which hurt kindly little Mr. Birdsey like a blow. “It was because I was a dead man, and saw a chance of coming to life for a day; because I was sick of the damned tomb I’ve been living in for five centuries; because I’ve been aching for New York ever since I’ve left it⁠—and here was a chance of being back there for a few hours. I knew there was a risk. I