A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Gem Collector

P >> P. G. Wodehouse >> The Gem Collector




"But detectives at wedding receptions are quite ordinary. Nobody minds
them. You see, the presents are so valuable that it would be silly to
risk losing them."

"And are there not valuable things here," asked McEachern
triumphantly, "which it would be silly to risk losing? And Sir Thomas
is coming to-day with his wife. And you know what a deal of jewelry
she always takes about her."

"Oh, Julia!" said Lady Jane, a little disdainfully. Her late husband's
brother Thomas' wife was one of the few people to whom she objected.
And, indeed, she was not alone in this prejudice. Few who had much to
do with her did like Lady Blunt.

"That rope of pearls of hers," said Mr. McEachern, "cost forty
thousand pounds, no less, so they say."

"So she says. But if you were thinking of bringing down a detective to
watch over Julia's necklace, Pat, you needn't trouble. I believe she
takes one about with her wherever she goes, disguised as Thomas'
valet."

"Still, me dear----"

"Pat, you're absurd," laughed Lady Jane. "I won't have you littering
up the house with great, clumsy detectives. You must remember that you
aren't in horrid New York now, where everybody you meet wants to rob
you. Who is it that you suspect? Who is the--what is the word you're
so fond of? Crook. That's it. Who is the crook?"

"I don't want to mention names," said McEachern cautiously, "and I
cast no suspicions, but who is that pale, thin Willie who came
yesterday? The one that says the clever things that nobody
understands?"

"Lulu Wesson! Why, _Pat_rick! He's the most delightful boy. What
_can_ you suspect him of?"

"I don't suspect him of anything. But you'll remimber what I was
telling about the sort of boy you want to watch. That's what that boy
is. He may be the straightest ever, but if I was told there was a
crook in the company, and wasn't put next who it was, he's the boy
that would get my vote."

"What dreadful nonsense you are talking, Pat. I believe you suspect
every one you meet. I suppose you will jump to the conclusion that
this man whom Spennie is bringing down with him to-day is a criminal
of some sort."

"How's that? Spennie bringing a friend?"

There was not a great deal of enthusiasm in McEachern's voice. His
stepson was not a young man whom he respected very highly. Spennie
regarded his stepfather with nervous apprehension, as one who would
deal with his shortcomings with a vigor and severity of which his
mother was incapable. The change of treatment which had begun after
her marriage with the American had had an excellent effect upon him,
but it had not been pleasant. As Nebuchadnezzar is reported to have
said of his vegetarian diet, it may have been wholesome, but it was
not good. McEachern, for his part, regarded Spennie as a boy who would
get into mischief unless he had an eye fixed upon him. So he proceeded
to fix that eye.

"Yes, I must be seeing Harding about getting the rooms ready.
Spennie's friend is bringing his man with him."

"Who is his friend?"

"He doesn't say. He just says he's a man he met in London."

"H'm!"

"And what does that grunt mean, I should like to know? I believe
you've begun to suspect the poor man already, without seeing him."

"I don't say I have. But a man can pick up strange people in London."

"Pat, you're perfectly awful. I believe you suspect every one you
meet. What do you suspect me of, I wonder?"

"That's easy answered," said McEachern. "Robbery from the person."

"What have I stolen?"

"Me heart, me dear," replied McEachern gallantly, with a vast grin.

"After that," said his wife, "I think I had better go. I had no idea
you could make such pretty speeches. Pat!"

"Well, me dear?"

"Don't send for that detective. It really wouldn't do. If it got about
that we couldn't trust our guests, we should never live it down. You
won't, will you?"

"Very well, me dear."

What followed may afford some slight clue to the secret of Mr. Patrick
McEachern's rise in the world. It certainly suggests singleness of
purpose, which is one of the essentials of success.

No sooner had the door closed behind Lady Jane than he went to his
writing table, took pen and paper, and wrote the following letter:

_To the Manager, Wragge's Detective Agency,_
_Holborn Bars, London, E. C._

Sir:

With ref'ce to my last of the 28th ult., I should be glad if
you would send down immediately one of your best men. Am making
arrangements to receive him. Shall be glad if you will instruct
him as follows, viz. (a) that he shall stay at the village inn
in character of American seeing sights of England and anxious
to inspect the abbey; (b) that he shall call and ask to see me.
I shall then recognize him as old New York friend, and move his
baggage from above inn to the abbey. Yours faithfully,

P. McEACHERN.

P.S.--Kindly not send a rube, but a real smart man.

This brief but pregnant letter cost him some pains in its composition.
He was not a ready writer. But he completed it at last to his
satisfaction. There was a crisp purity in the style which pleased him.
He read it over, and put in a couple of commas. Then he placed it in
an envelope, and lit another cigar.




CHAPTER IV.


Jimmy's acquaintance with Spennie Blunt had developed rapidly in the
few days following their first meeting. Spennie had called next
morning to repay the loan, and two days later had invited Jimmy to
come down to Shropshire with him. Which invitation, Jimmy, bored with
London, had readily accepted. Spike he had decided to take with him in
the rôle of valet. The Bowery boy was probably less fitted for the
post than any one has ever been since the world began; but it would
not do to leave him at Savoy Mansions.

It had been arranged that they should meet Spennie at Paddington
station. Accompanied by Spike, who came within an ace of looking
almost respectable in new blue serge, Jimmy arrived at Paddington with
a quarter of an hour to spare. Nearly all London seemed to be at the
station, with the exception of Spennie. Of that light-haired and
hearted youth there were no signs. But just as the train was about to
start, the missing one came skimming down the platform and hurled
himself in. For the first ten minutes he sat panting. At the
conclusion of that period, he spoke.

"Dash it!" he said. "I've suddenly remembered I never telegraphed home
to let 'em know what train we were coming by. Now what'll happen is
that there won't be anything at Corven to meet us and take us up to
the abbey. And you can't get a cab. They don't grow such things."

"How far is it to walk?"

"Five solid miles. And uphill most of the way. And I've got a bad
foot!"

"As a matter of fact," said Jimmy, "it's just possible that we shall
be met, after all. While I was waiting for you at Paddington I heard a
man asking if he had to change for Corven. He may be going to the
abbey, too."

"What sort of a looking man?"

"Tall. Thin. Rather a wreck."

"Probably my Uncle Thomas. Frightful man. Always trying to roast a
chap, don't, you know. Still, there's one consolation. If it is Uncle
Thomas, they'll have sent the automobile for him. I shouldn't think
he'd ever walked more than a hundred yards in his natural, not at a
stretch. He generally stays with us in the summer. I wonder if he's
bringing Aunt Julia with him. You didn't see her, I suppose, by any
chance? Tall, and talks to beat the band. He married her for her
money," concluded Spennie charitably.

"Isn't she attractive, either?"

"Aunt Julia," said Spennie with feeling, "is the absolute limit. Wait
till you see her. Sort of woman who makes you feel that your hands are
the color of a frightful tomato and the size of a billiard table, if
you know what I mean. By gad, though, you should see her jewels. It's
perfectly beastly the way that woman crams them on. She's got one rope
of pearls which is supposed to have cost forty thousand pounds. Look
out for it to-night at dinner. It's worth seeing."

Jimmy Pitt was distressed to feel distinct symptoms of a revival of
the Old Adam as he listened to these alluring details. It was trying a
reformed man a little high, he could not help thinking with some
indignation, to dangle forty thousand pounds' worth of pearls before
his eyes over the freshly turned sods of the grave of his past. It was
the sort of test which might have shaken the resolution of the oldest
established brand from the burning.

He could not keep his mind from dwelling on the subject. Even the fact
that--commercially--there was no need for him to think of such things
could not restrain him. He was rich now, and could afford to be
honest. He tried to keep that fact steadily before him, but instinct
was too powerful. His operations in the old days had never been
conducted purely with an eye to financial profit. He had collected
gems almost as much for what they were as for what they could bring.
Many a time had the faithful Spike bewailed the flaw in an otherwise
admirable character, which had induced his leader to keep a portion of
the spoil instead of converting it at once into good dollar bills. It
had had to go sooner or later, but Jimmy had always clung to it as
long as possible. To Spike a diamond brooch of cunning workmanship was
merely the equivalent of so many "plunks". That a man, otherwise more
than sane, should value a jewel for its own sake was to him an
inexplicable thing.

Jimmy was still deep in thought when the train, which had been taking
itself less seriously for the last half hour, stopping at stations of
quite minor importance and generally showing a tendency to dawdle,
halted again. A board with the legend "Corven" in large letters showed
that they had reached their destination.

"Here we are," said Spennie. "Hop out. Now what's the betting that
there isn't room for all of us in the bubble?"

From farther down the train a lady and gentleman emerged.

"That's the man. Is that your uncle?" said Jimmy.

"Guilty," said Spennie gloomily. "I suppose we'd better go and tackle
them. Come on."

They walked up the platform to where Sir Thomas stood smoking a
meditative cigar and watching in a dispassionate way the efforts of
his wife to bully the solitary porter attached to the station into a
frenzy. Sir Thomas was a very tall, very thin man, with cold eyes, and
tight, thin lips. His clothes fitted him in the way clothes do fit one
man in a thousand. They were the best part of him. His general
appearance gave one the idea that his meals did him little good, and
his meditations rather less. His conversation--of which there was not
a great deal--was designed for the most part to sting. Many years'
patient and painstaking sowing of his wild oats had left him at
fifty-six with few pleasures; but among those that remained he ranked
high the discomfiting of his neighbors.

"This is my friend Pitt, uncle," said Spennie, presenting Jimmy with a
motion of the hand.

Sir Thomas extended three fingers. Jimmy extended two, and the
handshake was not a success.

At this point in the interview, Spike came up, chuckling amiably, with
a magazine in his hand.

"P'Chee!" said Spike. "Say, Mr. Chames, de mug what wrote dis piece
must ha' bin livin' out in de woods for fair. His stunt ain't writin',
sure. Say, dere's a gazebo what wants to get busy wit' de heroine's
jools what's locked in de drawer in de dressin' room. So dis mug, what
do youse t'ink he does? Why----"

"Another friend of yours, Spennie?" inquired Sir Thomas politely,
eying the red-haired speaker with interest.

"It's----"

He looked appealingly at Jimmy.

"It's only my man," said Jimmy. "Spike," he added in an undertone, "to
the woods. Chase yourself. It's not up to you to do stunts on this
beat. Fade away."

"Sure," said the abashed Spike, restored to a sense of his position.
"Dat's right. I've got wheels in me coco, that's what I've got, comin'
buttin' in here. Sorry, Mr. Chames. Sorry, gents. Me for the tall
grass."

He trotted away.

"Your man seems to have a pretty taste in literature," said Sir Thomas
to Jimmy. "Well, my dear, finished your chat with the porter?"

Lady Blunt had come up, flushed and triumphant, having left the
solitary porter a demoralized wreck.

"I'm through," she announced crisply. "Well, Spencer? How are you?
Who's this? Don't stand gaping, child. Who's your friend?"

Spennie explained with some incoherence that his name was Pitt. His
uncle had shaken him; the arrival of his aunt seemed to unnerve him
completely.

"Pleased to meet you," snapped Lady Blunt. "Spencer, where are your
trunks? Left them behind, I suppose? No? Well, that's a surprise. Tell
that porter to look after them. If you have any trouble with him,
mention it to me. _I'll_ make him jump around. Where's the automobile?
Outside? Where? Take me to it."

Lady Blunt, when conversing, resembled a Maxim gun more than anything
else in the world.

"I'm afraid," said Spennie in an abject manner, as they left the
station, "that it will be rather a bit of a frightful squash--what I
mean to say is, I hardly think we shall all find room in the auto. I
see they have only sent the small one."

Lady Blunt stopped short, and fixed him with a glittering eye.

"I know what it is, Spencer," she said. "You never telegraphed to your
mother to tell her what time you were going to arrive."

Spennie opened his mouth feebly, but apparently changing his mind,
made no reply.

"My dear," said Sir Thomas smoothly, "we must not expect too much of
Spennie."

"Pshaw!" This was a single shot from the Maxim.

The baited youth looked vainly for assistance to Jimmy.

"But--er--aunt," said Spennie. "Really, I--er--I only just caught the
train. Didn't I, Pitt?"

"What? Oh, yes. Got in just as it was moving."

"That was it. I really hadn't time to telegraph. Had I, Pitt?"

"Not a minute."

"And how was it you were so late?"

Spennie plunged into an explanation, feeling all the time that he was
making things worse for himself. Nobody is at his best in the matter
of explanations if a lady whom he knows to be possessed of a firm
belief in the incurable weakness of his intellect is looking fixedly
at him during the recital. A prolonged conversation with Lady Blunt
always made him feel exactly as if he were being tied into knots.

"All this," said Sir Thomas, as his nephew paused for breath, "is
very, very characteristic of our dear Spennie."

Our dear Spennie broke into a perspiration.

"However," continued Sir Thomas, "there's room for either you or----"

"Pitt," said Jimmy. "P--i double t."

Sir Thomas bowed.

"In front with the chauffeur, if you care to take the seat."

"I'll walk," said Jimmy. "I'd rather."

"Frightfully good of you, old chap," whispered Spennie. "Sure you
don't mind? I do hate walking, and my foot's hurting fearfully."

"Which is my way?"

"Straight as you can go. You go to the----"

"Spennie," said Sir Thomas suavely, "your aunt expresses a wish to
arrive at the abbey in time for dinner. If you could manage to come to
some arrangement about that seat----"

Spennie climbed hurriedly into the automobile. The last Jimmy saw of
him was a hasty vision of him being prodded in the ribs by Lady
Blunt's parasol, while its owner said something to him which, judging
by his attitude, was not pleasant.

He watched them out of sight, and started to follow at a leisurely
pace. It certainly was an ideal afternoon for a country walk. The sun
was just hesitating whether to treat the time as afternoon or evening.
Eventually it decided that it was evening, and moderated its beams.
After London, the country was deliciously fresh and cool. Jimmy felt,
as the scent of the hedges came to him, that the only thing worth
doing in the world was to settle down somewhere with three acres and
a cow, and become pastoral.

There was a marked lack of traffic on the road. Once he met a cart,
and once a flock of sheep with a friendly dog. Sometimes a rabbit
would dash out into the road, stop to listen, and dart into the
opposite hedge, all hind legs and white scut. But except for these he
was alone in the world.

And gradually there began to be borne in upon him the conviction that
he had lost his way.

It is difficult to judge distance when one is walking, but it
certainly seemed to Jimmy that he must have covered five miles by this
time. He must have mistaken the way. He had certainly come straight.
He could not have come straighter. On the other hand, it would be
quite in keeping with the cheap substitute which served Spennie Blunt
in place of a mind that he should have forgotten to mention some
important turning. Jimmy sat down by the roadside.

As he sat, there came to him from down the road the sound of a horse's
feet, trotting. He got up. Here was somebody at last who would direct
him.

The sound came nearer. The horse turned the corner; and Jimmy saw with
surprise that it bore no rider.

"Hullo!" he said. "Accident? And, by Jove, a side saddle!"

The curious part of it was that the horse appeared in no way a wild
horse. It did not seem to be running away. It gave the impression of
being out for a little trot on its own account, a sort of equine
constitutional.

Jimmy stopped the horse, and led it back the way it had come. As he
turned the bend in the road, he saw a girl in a riding habit running
toward him. She stopped running when she caught sight of him, and
slowed down to a walk.

"Thank you _so much_," she said, taking the reins from him. "Oh,
Dandy, you naughty old thing."

Jimmy looked at her flushed, smiling face, and uttered an exclamation
of astonishment. The girl was staring at him, open-eyed.

"Molly!" he cried.

"Jimmy!"

And then a curious feeling of constraint fell simultaneously upon them
both.




CHAPTER V.


"How are you, Molly?"

"Quite well, thank you, Jimmy."

A pause.

"You're looking very well."

"I'm feeling very well. How are you?"

"Quite well, thanks. Very well, indeed"

Another pause.

And then their eyes met, and at the same moment they burst out
laughing.

"Your manners are _beautiful_, Jimmy. And I'm so glad you're so well!
What an extraordinary thing us meeting like this. I thought you were
in New York."

"I thought you were. You haven't altered a bit, Molly."

"Nor have you. How queer this is! I can't understand it."

"Nor can I. I don't want to. I'm satisfied without. Do you know before
I met you I was just thinking I hadn't a single friend in this
country. I'm on my way to stay with a man I've only known a few days,
and his people, whom I don't know at all, and a bunch of other guests,
whom I've never heard of, and his uncle, who's a sort of human icicle,
and his aunt, who makes you feel like thirty cents directly she starts
to talk to you, and the family watchdog, who will probably bite me.
But now! You must live near here or you wouldn't be chasing horses
about this road."

"I live at a place called Corven Abbey."

"What Corven Abbey? Why, that's where I'm going."

"Jimmy! Oh, I see. You're Spennie's friend. But where is Spennie?"

"At the abbey by now. He went in the auto with his uncle and aunt."

"How did you meet Spennie?"

"Oh, I did a very trifling Good Samaritan act, for which he was unduly
grateful, and he adopted me from that moment."

"How long have you been living in England, then? I never dreamed of
you being here."

"I've been on this side about a week. If you want my history in a
nutshell, it's this. Rich uncle. Poor nephew. Deceased uncle. Rich
nephew. I'm a man with money now. Lots of money."

"How nice for you, Jimmy. Father came into money, too. That's how I
come to be over here. I wish you and father had got on better
together."

"Your father, my dear Molly, has a manner with people he is not fond
of which purists might call slightly abrupt. Perhaps things will be
different, now."

The horse gave a sudden whinny.

"I wish you wouldn't do that sort of thing without warning," said
Jimmy to it plaintively.

"He knows he's near home, and he knows it's his dinner time. There,
now you can see the abbey. How do you like it?"

They had reached a point in the road where the fields to the right
sloped sharply downward. A few hundred yards away, backed by woods,
stood the beautiful home which ex-Policeman McEachern had caused to be
builded for him. The setting sun lit up the waters of the lake. No
figures were to be seen moving in the grounds. The place resembled a
palace of sleep.

"Well?" said Molly.

"By Jove!"

"Isn't it?" said Molly. "I'm so glad you like it. I always feel as if
I had invented everything round here. It hurts me if people don't
appreciate it. Once I took Sir Thomas Blunt up here. It was as much as
I could do to induce him to come at all. He simply won't walk. When we
got to where we are standing now, I pointed and said: 'There!'"

"And what did he do? Moan with joy?"

"He grunted, and said it struck him as rather rustic."

"Beast! I met Sir Thomas when we got off the train. Spennie Blunt
introduced me to him. He seemed to bear it pluckily, but with some
difficulty. I think we had better be going, or they will be sending
out search parties."

"By the way, Jimmy," said Molly, as they went down the hill. "Can you
act?"

"Can I what?"

"Act. In theatricals, you know."

"I've never tried. But I've played poker, which I should think is much
the same."

"We are going to do a play, and we want another man. The man who was
going to play one of the parts has had to go back to London."

"Poor devil! Fancy having to leave a place like this and go back to
that dingy, overrated town."

* * * * *

The big drawing-room of the abbey was full when they arrived. Tea was
going on in a desultory manner. In a chair at the far end of the room,
Sir Thomas Blunt surveyed the scene gloomily through the smoke of a
cigarette. The sound of Lady Blunt's voice had struck their ears as
they opened the door. The Maxim gun was in action with no apparent
prospect of jamming. The target of the moment was a fair,
tired-looking lady, with a remarkable resemblance to Spennie. Jimmy
took her to be his hostess. There was a resigned expression on her
face, which he thoroughly understood. He sympathized with her.

The other occupants of the room stared for a moment at Jimmy in the
austere manner peculiar to the Briton who sees a stranger, and then
resumed their respective conversations. One of their number, a slight,
pale, young man, as scientifically clothed as Sir Thomas, left his
group, and addressed himself to Molly.

"Ah, here you are, Miss McEachern," he said. "At last. We were all
getting so anxious."

"Really?" said Molly. "That's very kind of you, Mr. Wesson."

"I assure you, yes. Positively. A gray gloom had settled upon us. We
pictured you in all sorts of horrid situations. I was just going to
call for volunteers to scour the country, or whatever it is that one
does in such circumstances. I used to read about it in books, but I
have forgotten the technical term. I am relieved to find that you are
not even dusty, though it would have been more romantic if you could
have managed a little dust here and there. But don't consider my
feelings, Miss McEachern, please."

Molly introduced Jimmy to the newcomer. They shook hands, Jimmy with
something of the wariness of a boxer in the ring. He felt an
instinctive distrust of this man. Why, he could not have said. Perhaps
it was a certain subtle familiarity in his manner of speaking to Molly
that annoyed him. Jimmy objected strongly to any one addressing her as
if there existed between them some secret understanding. Already the
mood of the old New York days was strong upon him. His instinct then
had been to hate all her male acquaintances with an unreasoning
hatred. He found himself in much the same frame of mind, now.

"So you're Spennie's friend," said Mr. Wesson, "the man who's going to
show us all how to act, what?"

"I believe there is some idea of my being a 'confused noise without',
or something."

"Haven't they asked you to play _Lord Algernon_?" inquired
Wesson, with more animation than he usually allowed himself to
exhibit.

"Who is _Lord Algernon_?"

"Only a character in the piece we are acting."

"What does he do?"

"He talks to me most of the time," said Molly.

"Then," said Jimmy decidedly, "I seem to see myself making a big hit."

"It's a long part if you aren't used to that sort of thing," said
Wesson.

He had hoped that the part with its wealth of opportunity would have
fallen to himself.

"I am used to it," said Jimmy. "Thanks."

"If that little beast's after Molly," thought Jimmy, "there will be
trouble."

"Come along," said Molly, "and be introduced, and get some tea."

"Well, Molly, dear," said Lady Jane, with a grateful smile at the
interruption, "we didn't know what had become of you. Did Dandy give
you trouble?"

"Dandy's a darling, and wouldn't do anything of the sort if you asked
him to. He's a kind little 'oss, as Thomas says. He only walked away
when I got off to pick some roses, and I couldn't catch him. And then
I met Jimmy."

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.