Jeeves in the Offing

Juvenal.’
‘Of a who?’
‘Nobody you know. Before your time. I seemed inspired. Normally, I suppose, a book like that would get me a line and a half in the Other Recent Publications column, but I gave it six hundred words of impassioned prose. How extraordinarily fortunate you are to be in a position to watch his face as he reads them.’
‘How do you know he’ll read them?’
‘He’s a subscriber. There was a letter from him on the correspondence page a week or two ago, in which he specifically stated that he had been one for years.’
‘Did you sign the thing?’
‘No. Ye Ed is not keen on underlings advertising their names.’
‘And it was really hot stuff?’
‘Red hot. So eye him closely at the breakfast table. Mark his reaction. I confidently expect the blush of shame and remorse to mantle his cheek.’
‘The only catch is that 1 don’t come down to breakfast when I’m at Brinkley. Still, I suppose I could make a special effort.’
‘Do so. You will find it well worth while,’ said Kipper and shortly afterwards popped off to resume the earning of the weekly envelope.
He had been gone about twenty minutes when Jeeves came in, bowler hat in hand, to say goodbye. A solemn moment, taxing our self-control to the utmost. However, we both kept the upper lip stiff, and after we had kidded back and forth for a while he started to withdraw. He had reached the door when it suddenly occurred to me that he might have inside information about this Wilbert Cream of whom Aunt Dahlia had spoken. I have generally found that he knows everything about everyone.
‘Oh, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Half a jiffy.’
‘Sir?’
‘Something I want to ask you. It seems that among my fellow-guests at Brinkley will be a Mrs Homer Cream, wife of an American big butter and egg man, and her son Wilbert, commonly known as Willie, and the name Willie Cream seemed somehow to touch a chord. Rightly or wrongly I associate it with trips we have taken to New York, but in what connection I haven’t the vaguest. Does it ring a bell with you?’
‘Why yes, sir. References to the gentleman are frequent in the tabloid newspapers of New York, notably in the column conducted by Mr Walter Winchell. He is generally alluded to under the sobriquet of Broadway Willie.’
‘Of course! It all comes back to me. He’s what they call a playboy.’
‘Precisely, sir. Notorious for his escapades.’
‘Yes, I’ve got him placed now. He’s the fellow who likes to let off stink bombs in night clubs, which rather falls under the head of carrying coals to Newcastle and seldom cashes a cheque at his bank without producing a gat and saying, “This is a stick-up.”’
‘And… No, sir, I regret that it has for the moment escaped my memory.’
‘What has?’
‘Some other little something, sir, that I was told regarding Mr Cream. Should I recall it, I will communicate with you.’
‘Yes, do. One wants the complete picture. Oh, gosh!’
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing, Jeeves. Just a thought has floated into my mind. All right, push off, or you’ll miss your train. Good luck to your shrimping net.’
I’ll tell you what the thought was that had floated. I have already indicated my qualms at the prospect of being cooped up in the same house with Bobbie Wickham and Aubrey Upjohn, for who could tell what the harvest might be? If in addition to these two heavies I was also to be cheek by jowl with a New York playboy apparently afflicted with bats in the belfry, it began to look as if this visit would prove too much for Bertram’s frail strength, and for an instant I toyed with the idea of sending a telegram of regret and oiling out.
Then I remembered Anatole’s cooking and was strong again. Nobody who has once tasted them would wantonly deprive himself of that wizard’s smoked offerings. Whatever spiritual agonies I might be about to undergo at Brinkley Court, Market Snodsbury, near Droitwich, residence there would at least put me several Supremes de fois gras au champagne and Mignonettes de Poulet Petit Duc ahead of the game. Nevertheless, it would be paltering with the truth to say that I was at my ease as I thought of what lay before me in darkest Worcestershire, and the hand that lit the after-breakfast gasper shook quite a bit.
At this moment of nervous tension the telephone suddenly gave tongue again, causing me to skip like the high hills, as if the Last Trump had sounded. I went to the instrument all of a twitter.
Some species of butler appeared to be at