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

Nobody Came To Rouse Him. He Did Not Ring His Bell,  So He Was Not

Disturbed; And He Slept On Until Half Past Eleven,  By Which Time,

It Being Sunday Morning And The House Party Including One Bishop

And Several Of The Minor Clergy,  Most Of The Occupants Of The

Place Had Gone Off To Church.

Baxter Shaved And Dressed Hastily,  For He Was In State Of Nervous

Apprehension. He Blamed Himself For Having Lain In Bed So Long.

When Every Minute He Was Away Might Mean The Loss Of The Scarab,

He Had Passed Several Hours In Dreamy Sloth. He Had Wakened With

A Presentiment. Something Told Him The Scarab Had Been Stolen In

The Night,  And He Wished Now That He Had Risked All And Kept

Guard.

The House Was Very Quiet As He Made His Way Rapidly To The Hall.

As He Passed A Window He Perceived Lord Emsworth,  In An

Un-Sabbatarian Suit Of Tweeds And Bearing A Garden Fork--Which

Must Have Pained The Bishop--Bending Earnestly Over A Flower Bed;

But He Was The Only Occupant Of The Grounds,  And Indoors There

Was A Feeling Of Emptiness. The Hall Had That Sunday-Morning Air

Of Wanting To Be Left To Itself,  And Disapproving Of The Entry Of

Anything Human Until Lunch Time,  Which Can Be Felt Only By A

Guest In A Large House Who Remains At Home When His Fellows Have

Gone To Church.

The Portraits On The Walls,  Especially The One Of The Countess Of

Emsworth In The Character Of Venus Rising From The Sea,  Stared At

Baxter As He Entered,  With Cold Reproof. The Very Chairs Seemed

Distant And Unfriendly; But Baxter Was In No Mood To Appreciate

Their Attitude. His Conscience Slept. His Mind Was Occupied,  To

The Exclusion Of All Other Things,  By The Scarab And Its Probable

Fate. How Disastrously Remiss It Had Been Of Him Not To Keep

Guard Last Night! Long Before He Opened The Museum Door He Was

Feeling The Absolute Certainty That The Worst Had Happened.

It Had. The Card Which Announced That Here Was An Egyptian Scarab

Of The Reign Of Cheops Of The Fourth Dynasty,  Presented By J.

Preston Peters,  Esquire,  Still Lay On The Cabinet In Its Wonted

Place; But Now Its Neat Lettering Was False And Misleading. The

Scarab Was Gone.

                        *   *   *

For All That He Had Expected This,  For All His Premonition Of

Disaster,  It Was An Appreciable Time Before The Efficient Baxter

Rallied From The Blow. He Stood Transfixed,  Goggling At The Empty

Place.

Then His Mind Resumed Its Functions. All,  He Perceived,  Was Not

Yet Lost. Baxter The Watchdog Must Retire,  To Be Succeeded By

Baxter The Sleuthhound. He Had Been Unable To Prevent The Theft

Of The Scarab,  But He Might Still Detect The Thief.

For The Doctor Watsons Of This World,  As Opposed To The Sherlock

Holmeses,  Success In The Province Of Detective Work Must Always

Be,  To A Very Large Extent,  The Result Of Luck. Sherlock Holmes

Can Extract A Clew From A Wisp Of Straw Or A Flake Of Cigar Ash;

But Doctor Watson Has To Have It Taken Out For Him And Dusted,

And Exhibited Clearly,  With A Label Attached.

The Average Man Is A Doctor Watson. We Are Wont To Scoff In A

Patronizing Manner At That Humble Follower Of The Great

Investigator; But As A Matter Of Fact We Should Have Been Just As

Dull Ourselves. We Should Not Even Have Risen To The Modest

Height Of A Scotland Yard Bungler.

Baxter Was A Doctor Watson. What He Wanted Was A Clew; But It Is

So Hard For The Novice To Tell What Is A Clew And What Is Not.

And Then He Happened To Look Down--And There On The Floor Was A

Clew That Nobody Could Have Overlooked.

Baxter Saw It,  But Did Not Immediately Recognize It For What It

Was. What He Saw,  At First,  Was Not A Clew,  But Just A Mess. He

Had A Tidy Soul And Abhorred Messes,  And This Was A Particularly

Messy Mess. A Considerable Portion Of The Floor Was A Sea Of Red

Paint. The Can From Which It Had Flowed Was Lying On Its

Side--Near The Wall. He Had Noticed That The Smell Of Paint Had

Seemed Particularly Pungent,  But Had Attributed This To A New

Freshet Of Energy On The Part Of Lord Emsworth. He Had Not

Perceived That Paint Had Been Spilled.

"Pah!" Said Baxter.

Then Suddenly,  Beneath The Disguise Of The Mess,  He Saw The Clew.

A Footmark! No Less. A Crimson Footmark On The Polished Wood! It

Was As Clear And Distinct As Though It Had Been Left There For

The Purpose Of Assisting Him. It Was A Feminine Footmark,  The

Print Of A Slim And Pointed Shoe.

This Perplexed Baxter. He Had Looked On The Siege Of The Scarab

As An Exclusively Male Affair. But He Was Not Perplexed Long.

What Could Be Simpler Than That Mr. Peters Should Have Enlisted

Female Aid? The Female Of The Species Is More Deadly Than The

Male. Probably She Makes A Better Purloiner Of Scarabs. At Any

Rate,  There The Footprint Was,  Unmistakably Feminine.

Inspiration Came To Him. Aline Peters Had A Maid! What More

Likely Than That Secretly She Should Be A Hireling Of Mr. Peters,

On Whom He Had Now Come To Look As A Man Of The Blackest And Most

Sinister Character? Mr. Peters Was A Collector; And When A

Collector Makes Up His Mind To Secure A Treasure,  He Employs,

Baxter Knew,  Every Possible Means To That End.

Baxter Was Now In A State Of Great Excitement. He Was Hot On The

Scent And His Brain Was Working Like A Buzz Saw In An Ice Box.

According To His Reasoning,  If Aline Peters' Maid Had Done This

Thing There Should Be Red Paint In The Hall Marking Her Retreat,

And Possibly A Faint Stain On The Stairs Leading To The Servants'

Bedrooms.

He Hastened From The Museum And Subjected The Hall To A Keen

Scrutiny. Yes; There Was Red Paint On The Carpet. He Passed

Through The Green-Baize Door And Examined The Stairs. On The

Bottom Step There Was A Faint But Conclusive Stain Of Crimson!

He Was Wondering How Best To Follow Up This Clew When He

Perceived Ashe Coming Down The Stairs. Ashe,  Like Baxter,  And As

The Result Of A Night Disturbed By Anxious Thoughts,  Had Also

Overslept Himself.

There Are Moments When The Giddy Excitement Of Being Right On The

Trail Causes The Amateur--Or Watsonian--Detective To Be

Incautious. If Baxter Had Been Wise He Would Have Achieved His

Object--The Getting A Glimpse Of Joan's Shoes--By A Devious And

Snaky Route. As It Was,  Zeal Getting The Better Of Prudence,  He

Rushed Straight On. His Early Suspicion Of Ashe Had Been

Temporarily Obscured. Whatever Ashe's Claims To Be A Suspect,  It

Had Not Been His Footprint Baxter Had Seen In The Museum.

"Here,  You!" Said The Efficient Baxter Excitedly.

"Sir?"

"The Shoes!"

"I Beg Your Pardon?"

"I Wish To See The Servants' Shoes. Where Are They?"

"I Expect They Have Them On,  Sir."

Yesterday's Shoes,  Man--Yesterday's Shoes. Where Are They?"

"Where Are The Shoes Of Yesteryear?" Murmured Ashe. "I Should Say

At A Venture,  Sir,  That They Would Be In A Large Basket Somewhere

Near The Kitchen. Our Genial Knife-And-Shoe Boy Collects Them,  I

Believe,  At Early Dawn."

"Would They Have Been Cleaned Yet?"

"If I Know The Lad,  Sir--No."

"Go And Bring That Basket To Me. Bring It To Me In This Room."

                        *   *   *

The Room To Which He Referred Was None Other Than The Private

Sanctum Of Mr. Beach,  The Butler,  The Door Of Which,  Standing

Open,  Showed It To Be Empty. It Was Not Baxter's Plan,  Excited As

He Was,  To Risk Being Discovered Sifting Shoes In The Middle Of A

Passage In The Servants' Quarters.

Ashe's Brain Was Working Rapidly As He Made For The Shoe

Cupboard,  That Little Den Of Darkness And Smells,  Where Billy,

The Knife-And-Shoe Boy,  Better Known In The Circle In Which He

Moved As Young Bonehead,  Pursued His Menial Tasks. What Exactly

Was At The Back Of The Efficient Baxter's Mind Prompting These

Maneuvers He Did Not Know; But That There Was Something He Was

Certain.

He Had Not Yet Seen Joan This Morning,  And He Did Not Know

Whether Or Not She Had Carried Out Her Resolve Of Attempting To

Steal The Scarab On The Previous Night; But This Activity And

Mystery On The Part Of Their Enemy Must Have Some Sinister

Significance. He Gathered Up The Shoe Basket Thoughtfully. He

Staggered Back With It And Dumped It Down On The Floor Of Mr.

Beach's Room. The Efficient Baxter Stooped Eagerly Over It.

Ashe,  Leaning Against The Wall,  Straightened The Creases In His

Clothes And Flicked Disgustedly At An Inky Spot Which The Journey

Had Transferred From The Basket To His Coat.

"We Have Here,  Sir," He Said,  "A Fair Selection Of Our Various

Foot Coverings."

"You Did Not Drop Any On Your Way?"

"Not One,  Sir."

The Efficient Baxter Uttered A Grunt Of Satisfaction And Bent

Once More To His Task. Shoes Flew About The Room. Baxter Knelt On

The Floor Beside The Basket,  And Dug Like A Terrier At A Rat

Hole. At Last He Made A Find And With An Exclamation Of Triumph

Rose To His Feet. In His Hand He Held A Shoe.

"Put Those Back," He Said.

Ashe Began To Pick Up The Scattered Footgear.

"That's The Lot,  Sir," He Said,  Rising.

"Now Come With Me. Leave The Basket There. You Can Carry It Back

When You Return."

"Shall I Put Back That Shoe,  Sir?"

"Certainly Not. I Shall Take This One With Me."

"Shall I Carry It For You,  Sir?"

Baxter Reflected.

"Yes. I Think That Would Be Best."

Trouble Had Shaken