Something New by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

Other Unfortunates At Muldoon's Froze Him With Horror. He Knew

Those Health Cranks Who Believed That All Mortal Ailments Could

Be Cured By Cold Showers And Brisk Walks. They Were All Alike And

They Nearly Killed You. His Worst Nightmare Was The One Where He

Dreamed He Was Back At Muldoon's,  Leading His Horse Up That

Endless Hill Outside The Village.

He Would Not Stand It! He Would Be Hanged If He'd Stand It! He

Would Defy Ashe. But If He Defied Ashe,  Ashe Would Go Away; And

Then Whom Could He Find To Recover His Lost Scarab?

Mr. Peters Began To Appreciate The True Meaning Of The Phrase

About The Horns Of A Dilemma. The Horns Of This Dilemma Occupied

His Attention Until The End Of The Dinner. He Shifted Uneasily

From One To The Other And Back Again. He Rose From The Table In A

Thoroughly Overwrought Condition Of Mind. And Then,  Somehow,  In

The Course Of The Evening,  He Found Himself Alone In The Hall,

Not A Dozen Feet From The Unlocked Museum Door.

It Was Not Immediately That He Appreciated The Significance Of

This Fact. He Had Come To The Hall Because Its Solitude Suited

His Mood. It Was Only After He Had Finished A Cigar--Ashe Could

Not Stop His Smoking After Dinner--That It Suddenly Flashed On

Him That He Had Ready At Hand A Solution Of All His Troubles. A

Brief Minute's Resolute Action And The Scarab Would Be His Again,

And The Menace Of Ashe A Thing Of The Past. He Glanced About Him.

Yes; He Was Alone.

Not Once Since The Removal Of The Scarab Had Begun To Exercise

His Mind Had Mr. Peters Contemplated For An Instant The

Possibility Of Recovering It Himself. The Prospect Of The

Unpleasantness That Would Ensue Had Been Enough To Make Him

Regard Such An Action As Out Of The Question. The Risk Was Too

Great To Be Considered For A Moment; But Here He Was,  In A

Position Where The Risk Was Negligible!

Like Ashe,  He Had Always Visualized The Recovery Of His Scarab As

A Thing Of The Small Hours,  A Daring Act To Be Performed When

Sleep Held The Castle In Its Grip. That An Opportunity Would Be

Presented To Him Of Walking In Quite Calmly And Walking Out Again

With The Cheops In His Pocket,  Had Never Occurred To Him As A

Possibility.

Yet Now This Chance Was Presenting Itself In All Its Simplicity,

And All He Had To Do Was To Grasp It. The Door Of The Museum Was

Not Even Closed. He Could See From Where He Stood That It Was

Ajar.

He Moved Cautiously In Its Direction--Not In A Straight Line As

One Going To A Museum,  But Circuitously As One Strolling Without

An Aim. From Time To Time He Glanced Over His Shoulder. He

Reached The Door,  Hesitated,  And Passed It. He Turned,  Reached

The Door Again--And Again Passed It. He Stood For A Moment

Darting His Eyes About The Hall; Then,  In A Burst Of Resolution,

He Dashed For The Door And Shot In Like A Rabbit.

At The Same Moment The Efficient Baxter,  Who,  From The Shelter Of

A Pillar On The Gallery That Ran Around Two-Thirds Of The Hall,

Had Been Eyeing The Peculiar Movements Of The Distinguished Guest

With Considerable Interest For Some Minutes,  Began To Descend The

Stairs.

Rupert Baxter,  The Earl Of Emsworth's Indefatigable Private

Secretary,  Was One Of Those Men Whose Chief Characteristic Is A

Vague Suspicion Of Their Fellow Human Beings. He Did Not Suspect

Them Of This Or That Definite Crime; He Simply Suspected Them. He

Prowled Through Life As We Are Told The Hosts Of Midian Prowled.

His Powers In This Respect Were Well-Known At Blandings Castle.

The Earl Of Emsworth Said: "Baxter Is Invaluable--Positively

Invaluable." The Honorable Freddie Said: "A Chappie Can't Take A

Step In This Bally House Without Stumbling Over That Damn Feller,

Baxter!" The Manservant And The Maidservant Within The Gates,

Like Miss Willoughby,  Employing That Crisp Gift For

Characterization Which Is The Property Of The English Lower

Orders,  Described Him As A Nosy Parker.

Peering Over The Railing Of The Balcony And Observing The Curious

Movements Of Mr. Peters,  Who,  As A Matter Of Fact,  While Making

Up His Mind To Approach The Door,  Had Been Backing And Filling

About The Hall In A Quaint Serpentine Manner Like A Man Trying To

Invent A New Variety Of The Tango,  The Efficient Baxter Had Found

Himself In Some Way--Why,  He Did Not Know--Of What,  He Could Not

Say--But In Some Nebulous Way,  Suspicious.

He Had Not Definitely Accused Mr. Peters In His Mind Of Any

Specific Tort Or Malfeasance. He Had Merely Felt That Something

Fishy Was Toward. He Had A Sixth Sense In Such Matters.

But When Mr. Peters,  Making Up His Mind,  Leaped Into The Museum,

Baxter's Suspicions Lost Their Vagueness And Became Crystallized.

Certainty Descended On Him Like A Bolt From The Skies. On Oath,

Before A Notary,  The Efficient Baxter Would Have Declared That J.

Preston Peters Was About To Try To Purloin The Scarab.

Lest We Should Seem To Be Attributing Too Miraculous Powers Of

Intuition To Lord Emsworth's Secretary,  It Should Be Explained

That The Mystery Which Hung About That Curio Had Exercised His

Mind Not A Little Since His Employer Had Given It To Him To Place

In The Museum. He Knew Lord Emsworth's Power Of Forgetting And He

Did Not Believe His Account Of The Transaction. Scarab Maniacs

Like Mr. Peters Did Not Give Away Specimens From Their

Collections As Presents. But He Had Not Divined The Truth Of What

Had Happened In London.

The Conclusion At Which He Had Arrived Was That Lord Emsworth Had

Bought The Scarab And Had Forgotten All About It. To Support This

Theory Was The Fact That The Latter Had Taken His Check Book To

London With Him. Baxter's Long Acquaintance With The Earl Had

Left Him With The Conviction That There Was No Saying What He

Might Not Do If Left Loose In London With A Check Book.

As To Mr. Peters' Motive For Entering The Museum,  That,  Too,

Seemed Completely Clear To The Secretary. He Was A Curio

Enthusiast Himself And He Had Served Collectors In A Secretarial

Capacity; And He Knew,  Both From Experience And Observation,  That

Strange Madness Which May At Any Moment Afflict The Collector,

Blotting Out Morality And The Nice Distinction Between Meum And

Tuum,  As With A Sponge. He Knew That Collectors Who Would Not

Steal A Loaf If They Were Starving Might--And Did--Fall Before

The Temptation Of A Coveted Curio.

He Descended The Stairs Three At A Time,  And Entered The Museum

At The Very Instant When Mr. Peters' Twitching Fingers Were About

To Close On His Treasure. He Handled The Delicate Situation With

Eminent Tact. Mr. Peters,  At The Sound Of His Step,  Had Executed A

Backward Leap,  Which Was As Good As A Confession Of Guilt,  And

His Face Was Rigid With Dismay; But The Efficient Baxter

Pretended Not To Notice These Phenomena. His Manner,  When He

Spoke,  Was Easy And Unembarrassed.

"Ah! Taking A Look At Our Little Collection,  Mr. Peters? You Will

See That We Have Given The Place Of Honor To Your Cheops. It Is

Certainly A Fine Specimen--A Wonderfully Fine Specimen."

Mr. Peters Was Recovering Slowly. Baxter Talked On,  To Give Him

Time. He Spoke Of Mut And Bubastis,  Of Ammon And The Book Of The

Dead. He Directed The Other's Attention To The Roman Coins.

He Was Touching On Some Aspects Of The Princess Gilukhipa Of

Mitanni,  In Whom His Hearer Could Scarcely Fail To Be Interested,

When The Door Opened And Beach,  The Butler,  Came In,  Accompanied

By Ashe. In The Bustle Of The Interruption Mr. Peters Escaped,

Glad To Be Elsewhere,  And Questioning For The First Time In His

Life The Dictum That If You Want A Thing Well Done You Must Do It

Yourself.

"I Was Not Aware,  Sir," Said Beach,  The Butler,  "That You Were In

Occupation Of The Museum. I Would Not Have Intruded; But This

Young Man Expressed A Desire To Examine The Exhibits,  And I Took

The Liberty Of Conducting Him."

"Come In,  Beach--Come In," Said Baxter.

The Light Fell On Ashe's Face,  And He Recognized Him As The

Cheerful Young Man Who Had Inquired The Way To Mr. Peters' Room

Before Dinner And Who,  He Had By This Time Discovered,  Was Not

The Honorable Freddie's Friend,  George Emerson--Or,  Indeed,  Any

Other Of The Guests Of The House. He Felt Suspicious.

"Oh,  Beach!"

"Sir?"

"Just A Moment."

He Drew The Butler Into The Hall,  Out Of Earshot.

"Beach,  Who Is That Man?"

"Mr. Peters' Valet,  Sir."

"Mr. Peters' Valet!"

"Yes,  Sir."

"Has He Been In Service Long?" Asked Baxter,  Remembering That A

Mere Menial Had Addressed Him As "Old Man."

Beach Lowered His Voice. He And The Efficient Baxter Were Old

Allies,  And It Seemed Right To Beach To Confide In Him.

"He Has Only Just Joined Mr. Peters,  Sir; And He Has Never Been

In Service Before. He Told Me So Himself,  And I Was Unable To

Elicit From Him Any Information As To His Antecedents. His Manner

Struck Me,  Sir,  As Peculiar. It Crossed My Mind To Wonder Whether

Mr. Peters Happened To Be Aware Of This. I Should Dislike To Do

Any Young Man An Injury; But It Might Be Anyone Coming To A

Gentleman Without A Character,  Like This Young Man. Mr. Peters

Might Have Been Deceived,  Sir."

The Efficient Baxter's Manner Became Distraught. His Mind Was

Working Rapidly.

"Should He Be Informed,  Sir?"

"Eh! Who?"

"Mr. Peters,  Sir--In Case He Should Have Been Deceived?"

"No,  No; Mr. Peters Knows His Own Business."

"Far From Me Be It To Appear Officious,  Sir; But--"

"Mr. Peters Probably Knows All About Him. Tell