22 The Man With Two Left Feet Read online

  22 The Man With Two Left Feet

  Unknown

  The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man With Two Left Feet, by P. G. Wodehouse #26 in our series by P. G. Wodehouse

  Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

  This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission.

  Please read the “legal small print,” and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.

  **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

  **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

  *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****

  Title: The Man With Two Left Feet And Other Stories

  Author: P. G. Wodehouse

  Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7471] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on May 6, 2003]

  Edition: 10

  Language: English

  Character set encoding: ASCII

  *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET ***

  Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

  THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET

  and Other Stories

  by P. G. WODEHOUSE

  1917

  CONTENTS

  BILL THE BLOODHOUND

  EXTRICATING YOUNG GUSSIE

  WILTON’S HOLIDAY

  THE MIXER—I

  THE MIXER—II

  CROWNED HEADS

  AT GEISENHEIMER’S

  THE MAKING OF MAC’S

  ONE TOUCH OF NATURE

  BLACK FOR LUCK

  THE ROMANCE OF AN UGLY POLICEMAN

  A SEA OF TROUBLES

  THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET

  BILL THE BLOODHOUND

  There’s a divinity that shapes out ends. Consider the case of Henry Pifield Rice, detective.

  I must explain Henry early, to avoid disappointment. If I simply said he was a detective, and let it go at that, I should be obtaining the reader’s interest under false pretences. He was really only a sort of detective, a species of sleuth. At Stafford’s International Investigation Bureau, in the Strand, where he was employed, they did not require him to solve mysteries which had baffled the police. He had never measured a footprint in his life, and what he did not know about bloodstains would have filled a library. The sort of job they gave Henry was to stand outside a restaurant in the rain, and note what time someone inside left it. In short, it is not ‘Pifield Rice, Investigator. No. 1.—The Adventure of the Maharajah’s Ruby’ that I submit to your notice, but the unsensational doings of a quite commonplace young man, variously known to his comrades at the Bureau as ‘Fathead’, ‘That blighter what’s-his-name’, and ‘Here, you!’

  Henry lived in a boarding-house in Guildford Street. One day a new girl came to the boarding-house, and sat next to Henry at meals. Her name was Alice Weston. She was small and quiet, and rather pretty. They got on splendidly. Their conversation, at first confined to the weather and the moving-pictures, rapidly became more intimate. Henry was surprised to find that she was on the stage, in the chorus. Previous chorus-girls at the boarding-house had been of a more pronounced type—good girls, but noisy, and apt to wear beauty-spots. Alice Weston was different.

  ‘I’m rehearsing at present,’ she said. ‘I’m going out on tour next month in “The Girl From Brighton”. What do you do, Mr Rice?’

  Henry paused for a moment before replying. He knew how sensational he was going to be.

  ‘I’m a detective.’

  Usually, when he told girls his profession, squeaks of amazed admiration greeted him. Now he was chagrined to perceive in the brown eyes that met his distinct disapproval.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, a little anxiously, for even at this early stage in their acquaintance he was conscious of a strong desire to win her approval. ‘Don’t you like detectives?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somehow I shouldn’t have thought you were one.’

  This restored Henry’s equanimity somewhat. Naturally a detective does not want to look like a detective and give the whole thing away right at the start.

  ‘I think—you won’t be offended?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve always looked on it as rather a sneaky job.’

  ‘Sneaky!’ moaned Henry.

  ‘Well, creeping about, spying on people.’

  Henry was appalled. She had defined his own trade to a nicety. There might be detectives whose work was above this reproach, but he was a confirmed creeper, and he knew it. It wasn’t his fault. The boss told him to creep, and he crept. If he declined to creep, he would be sacked instanter. It was hard, and yet he felt the sting of her words, and in his bosom the first seeds of dissatisfaction with his occupation took root.

  You might have thought that this frankness on the girl’s part would have kept Henry from falling in love with her. Certainly the dignified thing would have been to change his seat at table, and take his meals next to someone who appreciated the romance of detective work a little more. But no, he remained where he was, and presently Cupid, who never shoots with a surer aim than through the steam of boarding-house hash, sniped him where he sat.

  He proposed to Alice Weston. She refused him.

  ‘It’s not because I’m not fond of you. I think you’re the nicest man I ever met.’ A good deal of assiduous attention had enabled Henry to win this place in her affections. He had worked patiently and well before actually putting his fortune to the test. ‘I’d marry you tomorrow if things were different. But I’m on the stage, and I mean to stick there. Most of the girls want to get off it, but not me. And one thing I’ll never do is marry someone who isn’t in the profession. My sister Genevieve did, and look what happened to her. She married a commercial traveller, and take it from me he travelled. She never saw him for more than five minutes in the year, except when he was selling gent’s hosiery in the same town where she was doing her refined speciality, and then he’d just wave his hand and whiz by, and start travelling again. My husband has got to be close by, where I can see him. I’m sorry, Henry, but I know I’m right.’

  It seemed final, but Henry did not wholly despair. He was a resolute young man. You have to be to wait outside restaurants in the rain for any length of time.

  He had an inspiration. He sought out a dramatic agent.

  ‘I want to go on the stage, in musical comedy.’

  ‘Let’s see you dance.’

  ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘Sing,’ said the agent. ‘Stop singing,’ added the agent, hastily.

  ‘You go away and have a nice cup of hot tea,’ said the agent, soothingly, ‘and you’ll be as right as anything in the morning.’

  Henry went away.

  A few days later, at the Bureau, his fellow-detective Simmonds hailed him.

  ‘Here, you! The boss wants you. Buck up!’

  Mr Stafford was talking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver as Henry entered.

  ‘Oh, Rice, here’s a woman wants her husband shadowed while he’s on the road. He’s an actor. I’m sending you. Go to this address, and get photographs and all particulars. You’ll have to catch the eleven o’clock train on Friday.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’


  ‘He’s in “The Girl From Brighton” company. They open at Bristol.’

  It sometimes seemed to Henry as if Fate did it on purpose. If the commission had had to do with any other company, it would have been well enough, for, professionally speaking, it was the most important with which he had ever been entrusted. If he had never met Alice Weston, and heard her views upon detective work, he would have been pleased and flattered. Things being as they were, it was Henry’s considered opinion that Fate had slipped one over on him.

  In the first place, what torture to be always near her, unable to reveal himself; to watch her while she disported herself in the company of other men. He would be disguised, and she would not recognize him; but he would recognize her, and his sufferings would be dreadful.

  In the second place, to have to do his creeping about and spying practically in her presence—

  Still, business was business.

  At five minutes to eleven on the morning named he was at the station, a false beard and spectacles shielding his identity from the public eye. If you had asked him he would have said that he was a Scotch business man. As a matter of fact, he looked far more like a motor-car coming through a haystack.

  The platform was crowded. Friends of the company had come to see the company off. Henry looked on discreetly from behind a stout porter, whose bulk formed a capital screen. In spite of himself, he was impressed. The stage at close quarters always thrilled him. He recognized celebrities. The fat man in the brown suit was Walter Jelliffe, the comedian and star of the company. He stared keenly at him through the spectacles. Others of the famous were scattered about. He saw Alice. She was talking to a man with a face like a hatchet, and smiling, too, as if she enjoyed it. Behind the matted foliage which he had inflicted on his face, Henry’s teeth came together with a snap.

  In the weeks that followed, as he dogged ‘The Girl From Brighton’ company from town to town, it would be difficult to say whether Henry was happy or unhappy. On the one hand, to realize that Alice was so near and yet so inaccessible was a constant source of misery; yet, on the other, he could not but admit that he was having the very dickens of a time, loafing round the country like this.

  He was made for this sort of life, he considered. Fate had placed him in a London office, but what he really enjoyed was this unfettered travel. Some gipsy strain in him rendered even the obvious discomforts of theatrical touring agreeable. He liked catching trains; he liked invading strange hotels; above all, he revelled in the artistic pleasure of watching unsuspecting fellow-men as if they were so many ants.

  That was really the best part of the whole thing. It was all very well for Alice to talk about creeping and spying, but, if you considered it without bias, there was nothing degrading about it at all. It was an art. It took brains and a genius for disguise to make a man a successful creeper and spyer. You couldn’t simply say to yourself, ‘I will creep.’ If you attempted to do it in your own person, you would be detected instantly. You had to be an adept at masking your personality. You had to be one man at Bristol and another quite different man at Hull—especially if, like Henry, you were of a gregarious disposition, and liked the society of actors.

  The stage had always fascinated Henry. To meet even minor members of the profession off the boards gave him a thrill. There was a resting juvenile, of fit-up calibre, at his boarding-house who could always get a shilling out of him simply by talking about how he had jumped in and saved the show at the hamlets which he had visited in the course of his wanderings. And on this ‘Girl From Brighton’ tour he was in constant touch with men who really amounted to something. Walter Jelliffe had been a celebrity when Henry was going to school; and Sidney Crane, the baritone, and others of the lengthy cast, were all players not unknown in London. Henry courted them assiduously.

  It had not been hard to scrape acquaintance with them. The principals of the company always put up at the best hotel, and—his expenses being paid by his employer—so did Henry. It was the easiest thing possible to bridge with a well-timed whisky-and-soda the gulf between non-acquaintance and warm friendship. Walter Jelliffe, in particular, was peculiarly accessible. Every time Henry accosted him—as a different individual, of course—and renewed in a fresh disguise the friendship which he had enjoyed at the last town, Walter Jelliffe met him more than half-way.

  It was in the sixth week of the tour that the comedian, promoting him from mere casual acquaintanceship, invited him to come up to his room and smoke a cigar.

  Henry was pleased and flattered. Jelliffe was a personage, always surrounded by admirers, and the compliment was consequently of a high order.

  He lit his cigar. Among his friends at the Green-Room Club it was unanimously held that Walter Jelliffe’s cigars brought him within the scope of the law forbidding the carrying of concealed weapons; but Henry would have smoked the gift of such a man if it had been a cabbage-leaf. He puffed away contentedly. He was made up as an old Indian colonel that week, and he complimented his host on the aroma with a fine old-world courtesy.

  Walter Jelliffe seemed gratified.

  ‘Quite comfortable?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite, I thank you,’ said Henry, fondling his silver moustache.

  ‘That’s right. And now tell me, old man, which of us is it you’re trailing?’

  Henry nearly swallowed his cigar.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, come,’ protested Jelliffe; ‘there’s no need to keep it up with me. I know you’re a detective. The question is, Who’s the man you’re after? That’s what we’ve all been wondering all this time.’

  All! They had all been wondering! It was worse than Henry could have imagined. Till now he had pictured his position with regard to ‘The Girl From Brighton’ company rather as that of some scientist who, seeing but unseen, keeps a watchful eye on the denizens of a drop of water under his microscope. And they had all detected him—every one of them.

  It was a stunning blow. If there was one thing on which Henry prided himself it was the impenetrability of his disguises. He might be slow; he might be on the stupid side; but he could disguise himself. He had a variety of disguises, each designed to befog the public more hopelessly than the last.

  Going down the street, you would meet a typical commercial traveller, dapper and alert. Anon, you encountered a heavily bearded Australian. Later, maybe, it was a courteous old retired colonel who stopped you and inquired the way to Trafalgar Square. Still later, a rather flashy individual of the sporting type asked you for a match for his cigar. Would you have suspected for one instant that each of these widely differing personalities was in reality one man?

  Certainly you would.

  Henry did not know it, but he had achieved in the eyes of the small servant who answered the front-door bell at his boarding-house a well-established reputation as a humorist of the more practical kind. It was his habit to try his disguises on her. He would ring the bell, inquire for the landlady, and when Bella had gone, leap up the stairs to his room. Here he would remove the disguise, resume his normal appearance, and come downstairs again, humming a careless air. Bella, meanwhile, in the kitchen, would be confiding to her ally the cook that ‘Mr Rice had jest come in, lookin’ sort o’ funny again’.

  He sat and gaped at Walter Jelliffe. The comedian regarded him curiously.

  ‘You look at least a hundred years old,’ he said. ‘What are you made up as? A piece of Gorgonzola?’

  Henry glanced hastily at the mirror. Yes, he did look rather old. He must have overdone some of the lines on his forehead. He looked something between a youngish centenarian and a nonagenarian who had seen a good deal of trouble.

  ‘If you knew how you were demoralizing the company,’ Jelliffe went on, ‘you would drop it. As steady and quiet a lot of boys as ever you met till you came along. Now they do nothing but bet on what disguise you’re going to choose for the next town. I don’t see why you need to change so often. You were all right as the Scotchman at Bristol. We wer
e all saying how nice you looked. You should have stuck to that. But what do you do at Hull but roll in in a scrubby moustache and a tweed suit, looking rotten. However, all that is beside the point. It’s a free country. If you like to spoil your beauty, I suppose there’s no law against it. What I want to know is, who’s the man? Whose track are you sniffing on, Bill? You’ll pardon my calling you Bill. You’re known as Bill the Bloodhound in the company. Who’s the man?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Henry.

  He was aware, as he made it, that it was not a very able retort, but he was feeling too limp for satisfactory repartee. Criticisms in the Bureau, dealing with his alleged solidity of skull, he did not resent. He attributed them to man’s natural desire to chaff his fellow-man. But to be unmasked by the general public in this way was another matter. It struck at the root of all things.

  ‘But I do mind,’ objected Jelliffe. ‘It’s most important. A lot of money hangs on it. We’ve got a sweepstake on in the company, the holder of the winning name to take the entire receipts. Come on. Who is he?’

  Henry rose and made for the door. His feelings were too deep for words. Even a minor detective has his professional pride; and the knowledge that his espionage is being made the basis of sweepstakes by his quarry cuts this to the quick.

  ‘Here, don’t go! Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to London,’ said Henry, bitterly. ‘It’s a lot of good my staying here now, isn’t it?’

  ‘I should say it was—to me. Don’t be in a hurry. You’re thinking that, now we know all about you, your utility as a sleuth has waned to some extent. Is that it?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, why worry? What does it matter to you? You don’t get paid by results, do you? Your boss said “Trail along.” Well, do it, then. I should hate to lose you. I don’t suppose you know it, but you’ve been the best mascot this tour that I’ve ever come across. Right from the start we’ve been playing to enormous business. I’d rather kill a black cat than lose you. Drop the disguises, and stay with us. Come behind all you want, and be sociable.’