BAXTER SUSPECTS
§ 1
T
HE five o’clock train, having itself a jerk, to move slowly out of Paddington Station. The past which it was was with a number of the always to be at railway at such moments, but in their ranks there was no of Mr. Ralston McTodd: and Psmith, as he sat opposite Lord Emsworth in a seat of a first-class compartment, that of which comes to the man who has taken a chance. Until now, he had been that McTodd, having his mind, might appear with and baggage—an event which must necessarily have and discomfort. His mind was now tranquil. Concerning the he to worry. It would, no doubt, its little difficulties, but he was prepared to meet them in the right spirit; and his only trouble in the world now was the he was in his lordship’s legs, which a to the like the of an octopus. Lord Emsworth ran to leg, and his of when at on the of his was him to straddle, like Apollyon in Pilgrim’s Progress, “right across the way.” It that in a hours his was likely to prove irksome. For the time being, however, he it, and with attention to his host’s on the of the Blandings gardens. Lord Emsworth, in a train moving in the direction of home, was like a for his stable. He eagerly, and spoke at length and with of roses and borders.
“It will be dark, I suppose, by the time we arrive,” he said regretfully, “but the thing to-morrow, my dear fellow, I must take you and you my gardens.”
“I shall look to it keenly,” said Psmith. “They are, I can imagine, oojah-cum-spiff.”
“I your pardon?” said Lord Emsworth with a start.
“Not at all,” said Psmith graciously.
“Er—what did you say?” asked his after a pause.
“I was saying that, from all reports, you must have a very of garden-produce at your seat.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, most,” said his lordship, looking puzzled. He Psmith across the with something of the which he would have upon a new and shrub. “Most extraordinary!” he murmured. “I trust, my dear fellow, you will not think me personal, but, do you know, nobody would that you were a poet. You don’t look like a poet, and, it, you don’t talk like a poet.”
“How should a talk?”
“Well . . .” Lord Emsworth the point. “Well, Miss Peavey . . . But of you don’t know Miss Peavey . . . Miss Peavey is a poetess, and she me the other while I was having a most with McAllister on the of and asked me if I didn’t think that it was fairies’ tear-drops that the dew. Did you such nonsense?”
“Evidently an case. Is Miss Peavey at the castle?”
“My dear fellow, you couldn’t shift her with blasting-powder. Really this of my sister Constance for the house with these people is on my nerves. I can’t these and what not. Never could.”
“We must always remember, however,” said Psmith gravely, “that are also God’s creatures.”
“Good heavens!” his lordship, aghast. “I had that you were one. What will you think of me, my dear fellow! But, of course, as I said a moment ago, you are different. I admit that when Constance told me that she had you to the house I was not cheered, but, now that I have had the of meeting you . . .”
The had to the very point to which Psmith had been to direct it. He was of out why Mr. McTodd had been to Blandings and—a still more matter—of whether, on his there as Mr. McTodd’s understudy, he was going to meet people who the by sight. On this point, it to him, the question of he was about to a visit to a country house in the of Eve Halliday—or the train at the next stop and to return to it.
“It was of Lady Constance,” he hazarded, “to a perfect to Blandings.”
“Oh, she’s always doing that of thing,” said his lordship. “It didn’t to her that she’d you in her life. She had read your books, you know, and liked them: and when she that you were to England, she to you.”
“I see,” said Psmith, relieved.
“Of course, it is all right as it has out,” said Lord Emsworth handsomely. “As I say, you’re different. And how you came to that . . . that . . .”
“Bilge?” Psmith.
“The very word I was about to employ, my dear . . . No, no, I don’t that . . . I—I . . . Capital stuff, no doubt, . . . but . . .”
“I understand.”
“Constance to make me read the things, but I couldn’t. I asleep over them.”
“I you rested well.”
“I—er—the is, I they were me. I couldn’t see any in the things.”
“If you would to have another at them,” said Psmith agreeably, “I have a complete set in my bag.”
“No, no, my dear fellow, thank you very much, thank you a thousand times. I—er—find that reading in the train my eyes.”
“Ah! You would that I read them aloud?”
“No, no.” A look of came into his lordship’s speaking at the suggestion. “As a of fact, I take a at the of a railway journey. I it and—er—in short, refreshing. You will me?”
“If you think you can to sleep all right without the of my poems, certainly.”
“You won’t think me rude?”
“Not at all, not at all. By the way, am I likely to meet any old friends at Blandings?”
“Eh? Oh no. There will be nobody but ourselves. Except my sister and Miss Peavey, of course. You said you had not met Miss Peavey, I think?”
“I have not had that pleasure. I am, of course, looking to it with the keenness.”
Lord Emsworth him for a moment, astonished: then the by his defensively. Psmith was left to his reflections, which a minutes later were by a on the shin, as Lord Emsworth, a sleeper, to his long about. Psmith moved to the other end of the seat, and, taking his from the rack, a in mauve. After at this in an manner for a moment, he opened it at and to read. His move on Lord Emsworth at the florist’s had been to a of his on the of Ralston McTodd in order not to be taken at a in the event of questions about them at Blandings: but he realised, as he into the poems, that anything in the nature of a study of them was likely to his little holiday. They were not light reading.
“Across the of Joy . . .”
A from the other end of the his mind from its with this line. He that his had on to his and was now with open mouth in an of dislocation. And as he looked, there was a sound, and another from the of his lordship’s throat.
Psmith rose and took his book of out into the with the purpose of along the train until he should an empty in which to read in peace.
With the two he had no luck. One was by an man with a retriever, while the presence of a in the other it out of consideration. The third, however, looked more promising. It was not actually empty, but there was only one occupant, and he was asleep. He was in the with a large over his and his up on the seat opposite. His did not likely to act as a to the study of Mr. McTodd’s masterpieces. Psmith sat and his reading.
“Across the of Joy . . .”
Psmith his brow. It was just the of line which was likely to have puzzled his patroness, Lady Constance, and he that she would come to him directly he and ask for an explanation. It would be a start for his visit to that he had no as to its meaning himself. He it again.
“Across the of Joy . . .”
A like two or three pigs in the middle of a his meditations. Psmith his book and in a way across the compartment. There came to him a of being put upon, as the end of his it might have come upon Job. This, he felt, was too much. He was being harried.
The man in the on snoring.
* * * * *
There is always a way. Almost Psmith saw what Napoleon would have done in this crisis. On the seat the was a little suit-case with hard, edges. Rising softly, Psmith along the and this. Then, having it on the above the sleeper’s stomach, he returned to his seat to developments.
These were not long in coming. The train, now at its best speed through open country, was itself at in a way as it along. A later it passed over some points, and its whole length. The suit-case insecurely, hesitated, and in the exact middle of its owner’s waistcoat. There was a the handkerchief. The sat up with a jerk. The off. And there was to Psmith’s the of the Hon. Freddie Threepwood.
§ 2
“Goo!” Freddie. He the from his and to the spot. Then that he was not alone he looked up and saw Psmith.
“Goo!” said Freddie, and sat wildly.
Nobody is more alive than we are to the that the of Frederick Threepwood, recorded above, is not bright. Nevertheless, those were his opening remarks, and the must be that he had passed through a trying time and had just two shocks, one after the other. From the of these, the physical impact of the suit-case, he was recovering; but the second had him. When, the of sleep having away, he saw but a away from him on the train that was him home the very man with he had plotted in the of the Piccadilly Palace Hotel, a cold Freddie’s very vitals.
Freddie’s had when he just missed the twelve-fifty train. This had him greatly, for he not his father’s on the subject. But what had him was the that he had come an of missing the five o’clock train as well. He had the in a motion-picture palace, and the of the had him to all of time, so that only the slow fade-out on the and the “The End” him to look at his watch. A had got him to Paddington just as the five o’clock was the station. Exhausted, he had into a sleep, from which he had been by a in the and the of Psmith in the seat across the compartment. One cannot wonder in these that Freddie did not to the of eloquence.
The picture which the Hon. Frederick Threepwood had for his that was the well-known super-super-film, “Fangs Of The Past,” Bertha Blevitch and Maurice Heddlestone—which, as knows, is all about blackmail. Green-walled by hills, in the of peace and happiness, the village of Honeydean in the clear air. But off the train from the city A Stranger—(The Stranger—Maxwell Bannister). He of a rustic—(The Passing Rustic—Claude Hepworth)—the way to the great house where Myrtle Dale, the Lady Bountiful of the village . . . well, anyway, it is all about blackmail, and it had Freddie profoundly. It still his imagination, and the to which he came the moment he saw Psmith was that the had him and was him home with the purpose of hush-money.
While he was still wordlessly, Psmith opened the conversation.
“A and pleasure, comrade. I you had left the Metropolis some hours since.”
As Freddie sat looking like a a voice from the spoke.
“Ah, there you are, my dear fellow!”
Lord Emsworth was in the doorway. His slumbers, like those of Freddie, had not long. He had been only a minutes after Psmith’s by the of the from the next compartment, which, by the of its owner, had off on a of and, next door an old in the person of his lordship, had jumped on the seat and his with such good will that sleep was out of the question. Being awake, Lord Emsworth, as always when he was awake, had to potter.
When he saw Freddie his a shock.
“Frederick! I I told you to be sure to return on the twelve-fifty train!”
“Missed it, guv’nor,” Freddie thickly. “Not my fault.”
“H’mph!” His father about to the subject, but the that a and one who was his guest was present him to avoid anything in the shape of family wrangles. He from Freddie to Psmith and again. “Do you two know each other?” he said.
“Not yet,” said Psmith. “We only met a moment ago.”
“My son Frederick,” said Lord Emsworth, in the voice with which he would have called attention to the presence of a among his flowers. “Frederick, this is Mr. McTodd, the poet, who is to at Blandings.”
Freddie started, and his mouth opened. But, meeting Psmith’s gaze, he closed the again without speaking. He his in an way.
“You’ll me next door, if you want me,” said Lord Emsworth to Psmith. “Just that George Willard, very old friend of mine, is in there. Never saw him on the train. His dog came into my and my face. One of my neighbours. A rose-grower. As you are so in flowers, I will take you over to his place some time. Why don’t you join us now?”
“I would prefer, if you do not mind,” said Psmith, “to here for the moment and what I sure is about to into a great and friendship. I am that your son and I will have much to talk about together.”
“Very well, my dear fellow. We will meet at dinner in the restaurant-car.”
Lord Emsworth off, and Psmith rose and closed the door. He returned to his seat to Freddie him with a in his eyes. Freddie’s brain had had more in the last minutes than in years of his normal life, and he was the strain.
“I say, what?” he feebly.
“If there is anything,” said Psmith kindly, “that I can do to clear up any little that is you, call on me. What is you?”
Freddie convulsively.
“I say, he said your name was McTodd!”
“Precisely.”
“But you said it was Psmith.”
“It is.”
“Then why did father call you McTodd?”
“He thinks I am. It is a error, and I see no why it should be discouraged.”
“But why he think you’re McTodd?”
“It is a long story, which you may tedious. But, if you wish to it . . .”
Nothing have the of Freddie’s attention as he to the of the with Lord Emsworth at the Senior Conservative Club.
“Do you to say,” he at its conclusion, “that you’re to Blandings to be this blighter?”
“That is the scheme.”
“But why?”
“I have my reasons, Comrade—what is the name? Threepwood? I thank you. You will me, Comrade Threepwood, if I do not go into them. And now,” said Psmith, “to our very which was cut this morning, why do you want me to your aunt’s necklace?”
Freddie jumped. For the moment, so had the of his companion’s his interest, he had actually about the necklace.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course!”
“You still have not it clear.”
“It splendidly.”
“The necklace?”
“I to say, the great would have been to a way of you into the house, and here you are, there as this bird. Topping!”
“If,” said Psmith, him through his eyeglass, “I do not to be by your enthusiasm, put it to the that I haven’t the idea what you’re talking about. Could you give me a or two? What, for instance, that I to your aunt’s necklace, would you me to do with it, when and if stolen?”
“Why, hand it over to me.”
“I see. And what would you do with it?”
“Hand it over to my uncle.”
“And would he hand it over to?”
“Look here,” said Freddie, “I might as well start at the beginning.”
“An excellent idea.”
The speed at which the train was now had to in anything but difficult. Freddie till his mouth almost touched Psmith’s ear.
“You see, it’s like this. My uncle, old Joe Keeble . . .”
“Keeble?” said Psmith. “Why,” he meditatively, “is that name familiar?”
“Don’t interrupt, old lad,” Freddie.
“I corrected.”
“Uncle Joe has a stepdaughter—Phyllis her name is—and some time ago she off and married a called Jackson . . .”
Psmith did not the again, but as it his look of deepened. And at the he his on the shoulder.
“The proceeds, then, of this jewel-robbery, if it comes off,” he said, “will go to the Jackson home on a footing? Am I right in that?”
“Absolutely.”
“There is no danger—you will the suggestion—of you like to the and using it to maintain in the position to which you are accustomed?”
“Absolutely not. Uncle Joe is me—er—giving me a for myself. Just a small bit, you understand. This is the scheme. You the necklace and hand it over to me. I push the necklace over to Uncle Joe, who it for the moment. There is the of a fuss, and Uncle Joe comes out by telling Aunt Constance that he’ll her another necklace, just as good. Then he takes the out of the necklace, has them reset, and them to Aunt Constance. Looks like a new necklace, if you see what I mean. Then he a cheque for twenty thousand quid, which Aunt Constance naturally thinks is for the new necklace, and he the money as a little private account. He Phyllis her money, and everybody’s happy. Aunt Constance has got her necklace, Phyllis has got her money, and all that’s is that Aunt Constance’s and Uncle Joe’s bank has had a of a in it. See?”
“I see. It is a little difficult to all the necklaces. I to count about seventeen of them while you were talking, but I I was wrong. Yes, I see, Comrade Threepwood, and I may say at once that you can on my co-operation.”
“You’ll do it?”
“I will.”
“Of course,” said Freddie awkwardly, “I’ll see that you a all right. I . . .”
Psmith his hand deprecatingly.
“My dear Comrade Threepwood, let us not on this occasion. As as I am concerned, there will be no charge.”
“What! But look here . . .”
“Any I can give will be offered in a purely spirit. I would have mentioned before, only I was to you, that Comrade Jackson is my chum, and that Phyllis, his wife, into my life the of that its round. I have long to do something to their lot, and now that the has come I am delighted. It is true that I am not a man of affluence—my bank-manager, I am told, in a painful manner my name is mentioned—but I am not so that I must a for performing, on of a pal, a act of like a twenty thousand necklace.”
“Good Lord! Fancy that!”
“Fancy what, Comrade Threepwood?”
“Fancy your Phyllis and her husband.”
“It is odd, no doubt. But true. Many a at the cold have I had on Sunday under their roof, and I am much to you for in my way this opportunity of their hospitality. Thank you!”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Freddie, by this eloquence.
“Even if the little enterprise meets with disaster, the that I did my best for the will be a great to me when I am my of time in Wormwood Scrubbs. It will me up. The will the door to to me in my cell. My rat, as he out to the of my breakfast, will wonder why I as I the morning’s oakum. I shall join in the on Sundays in a way that will the chaplain. That is to say, if anything goes and I am what I is ‘copped.’ I say ‘if,’” said Psmith, at his companion. “But I do not to be copped. I have gone in for hitherto, but something tells me I shall be good at it. I look to making a nice, clean job of the thing. And now, Comrade Threepwood, I must ask you to me while I the half-nelson on this of good old McTodd’s. From the I have taken at it, the doesn’t to anything. I think the boy’s compos. You don’t to the ‘Across the of Joy,’ do you? . . . I as much. Well, pip-pip for the present, Comrade Threepwood. I shall now ask you to retire into your and for as you best can. I must concentrate, concentrate.”
And Psmith, having put his up on the opposite seat and reopened the volume, to read. Freddie, his mind still in a whirl, looked out of the window at the in a mood which was a of and apprehension.
§ 3
Although the hands of the station clock pointed to minutes past nine, it was still early when the train up at the of Market Blandings and its passengers. The sun, taken in as by the never-failing practical joke of the Daylight Saving Act, had only just set, and a on the as the car which had met the train over the two miles of country road that the little town from the castle. As they passed in the great gate-posts and up the drive, the soft of the to than the stillness. The air was with English scents. Somewhere in the sheep-bells tinkled; rabbits, white tails, across the path; and once a of deer a among the trees. The only thing that the magic was the voice of Lord Emsworth, on the of his property had as an stimulant. Unlike his son Freddie, who sat in his with his and fears, Lord Emsworth had into a perfect Niagara of speech the moment the car entered the park. In a high voice, and with wide, gestures, he pointed out to Psmith with a history and with a past: his as they near the and came in of the flower-beds taking on an almost note and a of of gladness, through which, like some in the minor, ran a series of on the of Angus McAllister.
Beach, the butler, them out of the car at the door, that her and Miss Peavey were taking their after-dinner coffee in the by the bowling-green; and presently Psmith, by his lordship, himself hands with a woman in whom, though her manner was itself, he a marked of the formidable. Æsthetically, he Lady Constance’s appearance, but he not from himself that in the he would have something more and drooping. Lady Constance the that who had the choice anything from her and up a of with a walking-stick would do well to choose the hornets.
“How do you do, Mr. McTodd?” said Lady Constance with great amiability. “I am so you were able to come after all.”
Psmith what she meant by “after all,” but there were so many about his present calculated to tax the mind that he had no to ambiguities. He her hand and that it was very of her to say so.
“We are a small party at present,” Lady Constance, “but we are a number of people soon. For the moment Aileen and you are our only guests. Oh, I am sorry, I should have . . . Miss Peavey, Mr. McTodd.”
The and female who this had been waiting in an of animation, at Psmith with large, eyes, forward. She Psmith’s hand in hers, it, and in a low, soft voice, like thick audible, one word.
“Maître!”
“I your pardon?” said Psmith. A man of himself with and in most circumstances, trying, he his under the impact of Miss Aileen Peavey.
Miss Peavey often had this on the less type of man, in the mornings, when such men are not at their and best. When she came into the breakfast-room of a country house, men who had been up a late the night and to newspapers. She was the of woman who tells a man who is his open with his and to a with tea, that she was up at six the off the grass, and didn’t he think that those of were the elves’ bridal-veils. She had large, fine, eyes, and was to dreamily.
“Master!” said Miss Peavey, translating.
There did not to be any come-back to a like this, so Psmith himself with at her through his monocle: and Miss Peavey came to again.
“How that you were able to come—after all!”
Again this “after all” into the theme. . . .
“You know Miss Peavey’s work, of course?” said Lady Constance, on her two celebrities.
“Who not?” said Psmith courteously.
“Oh, do you?” said Miss Peavey, her to perform a of its whole length. “I that you would know my name. My Canadian have not been large.”
“Quite large enough,” said Psmith. “I mean, of course,” he added with a smile, “that, while your art may not have a in a country, it is by a small and select of the intelligentsia.”
And if that was not the to give them, he with not a little complacency, he was dashed.
“Your own poems,” Miss Peavey, “are, of course, the whole world over. Oh, Mr. McTodd, you can how I feel, meeting you. It is like the of some of childhood. It is like . . .”
Here the Hon. Freddie Threepwood that he was going to into the house for a and soda. As he had not spoken, his had something of the of a voice from the tomb. The was fast now, and in the he had to pass out of as well as out of mind. Miss Peavey started like an somnambulist, and Psmith was at last able to his hand, which he had to look on as gone his for ever. Until this there had no why Miss Peavey should not have to it till bedtime.
Freddie’s had the of a spell. Lord Emsworth, who had been perfectly still with eyes, like a dog to a noise a long way off, came to life with a jerk.
“I’m going to have a look at my flowers,” he announced.
“Don’t be silly, Clarence,” said his sister. “It’s much too dark to see flowers.”
“I ’em,” his argumentatively.
It as if the party must up, for already his had to off, when a new-comer to it again.
“Ah, Baxter, my dear fellow,” said Lord Emsworth. “Here we are, you see.”
“Mr. Baxter,” said Lady Constance, “I want you to meet Mr. McTodd.”
“Mr. McTodd!” said the new arrival, on a note of surprise.
“Yes, he himself able to come after all.”
“Ah!” said the Efficient Baxter.
It to Psmith as a thought, to which he gave no more than a attention, that this and capable-looking man was at him, as they hands, with a intensity. But possibly, he reflected, this was a of to the other’s spectacles. Baxter, through his spectacles, often gave people the of an that six of and out on the other side. Having registered in his the that he had been at by this stranger, Psmith no more of the matter.
In thus the Baxterian stare, Psmith had injudiciously. He should have it more closely and an to it, for it was by no means without its message. It was a of suspicion. Vague as yet, but suspicion. Rupert Baxter was one of those men is a to their fellows. He did not them of this or that crime: he them. He had not yet definitely Psmith in his mind of any or malfeasance. He had a that he would watching.
Miss Peavey now again into the centre of things. On the of Baxter she had for a moment into the background, but she was not the woman to there long. She came out a small book, which, with a firmness, she pressed into Psmith’s hands.
“Could I you, Mr. McTodd,” said Miss Peavey pleadingly, “to some little in my autograph-book and it? I have a fountain-pen.”
Light the arbour. The Efficient Baxter, who where was, had and pressed the switch. He did this not so much to Miss Peavey as to him to obtain a view of the visitor. With each minute that passed the Efficient Baxter was himself more and more in his mind about this visitor.
“There!” said Miss Peavey, the illumination.
Psmith his with the fountain-pen. He that he should have this earlier. If there was a woman who was to have an autograph-book, that woman was Miss Peavey.
“Just some little . . .”
Psmith no longer. In a hand he the “Across the of Joy . . .” added an “Ralston McTodd,” and the book back.
“How strange,” Miss Peavey.
“May I look?” said Baxter, moving to her side.
“How strange!” Miss Peavey. “To think that you should have that line! There are of your more passages that I meant to ask you to explain, but particularly ‘Across the of Joy’ . . .”
“You it difficult to understand?”
“A little, I confess.”
“Well, well,” said Psmith indulgently, “perhaps I did put a of top-spin on that one.”
“I your pardon?”
“I say, it is a little obscure. We must have a long about it—later on.”
“Why not now?” the Efficient Baxter, his spectacles.
“I am tired,” said Psmith with reproach, “after my journey. Fatigued. We . . .”
“Of course,” said Miss Peavey, with an at the secretary. “Mr. Baxter not the temperament.”
“A unspiritual, eh?” said Psmith tolerantly. “A earthy? So I thought, so I thought. One of these strong, hard men of affairs, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Shall we go and Lord Emsworth, Mr. McTodd?” said Miss Peavey, the Baxter with a look. “He off just now. I he is among his flowers. Flowers are very by night.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Psmith. “And also by day. When I am by flowers, a of peace over me, and the rough, world away. I soothed, tranquil. I sometimes think, Miss Peavey, that flowers must be the of little children who have died in their innocence.”
“What a thought, Mr. McTodd!” Miss Peavey rapturously.
“Yes,” Psmith. “Don’t pinch it. It’s copyright.”
The them up. Lady Constance to the Efficient Baxter, who was with brow.
“Charming, is he not?”
“I your pardon?”
“I said I Mr. McTodd was charming.”
“Oh, quite.”
“Completely unspoiled.”
“Oh, decidedly.”
“I am so that he was able to come after all. That he sent this his visit so and final.”
“So I it.”
“Almost as if he had taken at something and to have nothing to do with us.”
“Quite.”
Lady Constance delicately. A had up. She her more closely about her shoulders, and to walk to the house. Baxter did not her. The moment she had gone he off the light and sat down, in hand. That brain was hard.
