The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров. Пелам Гренвилл Вудхаус

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      I eyed her sternly. “Aunt Dahlia, this is blackmail!”

      “Yes, isn’t it?” she said, and beetled off[50]. I resumed my seat, and ate a moody slice of cold bacon.

      Jeeves entered. “The bags are packed, sir.”

      “Very good, Jeeves,” I said. “Then let us be starting.”

      “Jeeves,” I said, breaking a thoughtful silence which had lasted for about eighty seven miles, “I am in a big trouble.”

      “Sir?”

      I frowned. The man was discreet, and this was no time for discretion.

      “Don’t pretend you don’t know all about it, Jeeves,” I said coldly. “You were in the next room throughout my interview with Aunt Dahlia, and her remarks must have been audible in Piccadilly[51].”

      He dropped the mask.

      “Well, yes, sir, I must confess that I gathered the substance of the conversation.”

      “Very well, then. You agree with me that the situation is dreadful?”

      “Certainly a somewhat sharp crisis in your affairs would appear to have been precipitated, sir.”

      “If I had my life to live again, Jeeves, I would start it as an orphan without any aunts. Don’t they put aunts in Turkey in sacks and drop them in the Bosphorus[52]?”

      “Odalisques[53], sir, I understand. Not aunts.”

      “Well, why not aunts? Look at the trouble they cause in the world. I tell you, Jeeves, and you may quote me as saying this—behind every poor, innocent, harmless blighter who is going down, you will find, if you look carefully enough, the aunt.”

      “There is much in what you say, sir.”

      “It is no use telling me that there are bad aunts and good aunts. They are all alike. Consider this Dahlia, Jeeves. I have always respected her. But what did she offer? We are familiar with Wooster, the supposed bag-snatcher. But this aunt is going to present to the world a Wooster who goes to the houses of retired magistrates and, while eating their bread and salt, steals their cow-creamers. Oh!”

      “Most disturbing, sir.”

      “I wonder how old Bassett will receive me, Jeeves.”

      “It will be interesting to observe his reactions, sir.”

      “He can’t throw me out, I suppose, Miss Bassett having invited me?”

      “No sir”.

      “On the other hand, he can—and I think he will—look at me over the top of his pince-nez and make terrible noises. The prospect is not an agreeable one.”

      “No, sir.”

      “I mean to say, even if this cow-creamer thing had not come up, conditions would be terrible.”

      “Yes, sir. Might I enquire how are you going to carry out Mrs Travers’s wishes?”

      “That is the problem which is torturing me, Jeeves. I can’t make up my mind. When I think of being barred from those menus of Anatole’s, I say to myself that I will fulfill the task. Old Bassett is firmly convinced that I am a combination of a swindler and a thief and steal everything I see.”

      “Sir?”

      “Didn’t I tell you about that? I had another encounter with him yesterday. He now looks upon me as the king of the criminal world—if not Public Enemy[54] Number One, certainly Number Two or Three.”

      I informed him briefly of what had occurred. Jeeves does not often smile, but now a distinct simper had begun to wreathe his lips.

      “A laughable misunderstanding, sir.”

      “Laughable, Jeeves?”

      “I beg your pardon, sir. I should have said ‘disturbing’.”

      “Quite. But even if I want to steal cow-creamers, how am I going to find the time? You have to plan and plot and lay schemes. And I shall think about this business of Gussie’s.”

      “Exactly, sir.”

      “And, as if that wasn’t enough to have on my mind, there is that telegram of Stiffy’s. You remember the third telegram that came this morning. It was from Miss Stephanie Byng, Miss Bassett’s cousin, who resides at Totleigh Towers. You’ve met her. She came to lunch at the flat a week or two ago. A very small girl.”

      “Oh, yes, sir. I remember Miss Byng. A charming young lady.”

      “Maybe. But what does she want me to do for her? That’s the question. Probably something completely unfit for me. So I’ve got that to worry about, too. What a life!”

      “Yes, sir.”

      We noted a signpost where had been inscribed the words ‘Totleigh-in-the-Wold, 8 miles’. Soon I braked the car. “Journey’s end, Jeeves?”

      “I can imagine, sir.”

      Having turned in at the gateway and fetched up at the front door, we were informed by the butler that this was indeed the lair of Sir Watkyn Bassett.

      Sir Watkyn, the butler explained, had gone for a walk.

      “I fancy he is somewhere in the garden with Mr. Roderick Spode[55].”

      I was shocked. After that affair at the antique shop, the name Roderick was, as you may imagine, rather deeply graven on my heart.

      “Roderick Spode? Big chap with a small moustache and the sort of eye that can open an oyster at sixty paces?”

      “Yes, sir. He arrived yesterday with Sir Watkyn from London. They went out shortly after lunch. Miss Madeline, I believe, is at home, but it may take some little time to locate her.”

      “How about Mr. Fink-Nottle?”

      “I think he has gone for a walk, sir.”

      “Oh? Well, right. Then I’ll just walk a bit, too.”

      I was glad of the chance of being alone for a while. I strolled off along the terrace. The news that Roderick Spode was here had shaken me greatly.

      I mean, imagine how some unfortunate criminal would feel, on coming down to do a murder somewhere, if he found that not only was Sherlock Holmes[56] putting in the weekend there, but Hercule Poirot[57], as well.

      The more I thought about pinching that cow-creamer, the less I liked the СКАЧАТЬ