The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров

“Oh, no, thanks, rather not.”

“Well, tea will be ready soon. I see you’ve met Daddy.”

“And Mr. Spode.”

“And Mr. Spode. I don’t know where Augustus is, but he’s sure to be in to tea.”

Old Bassett had been listening to these courtesies with a dazed expression on the face. To him, Bertram was a creature of the underworld who stole bags and umbrellas and, what made it worse, didn’t even steal them well.

“You don’t mean you know this man?” he said. Madeline Bassett laughed the tinkling, silvery laugh.

“Why, Daddy, you’re too absurd. Of course I know him. Bertie Wooster is an old, old, a very dear old friend of mine. I told you he was coming here today.”

“This isn’t your friend Mr. Wooster?”

“Of course.”

“But he snatches bags.”

“Umbrellas,” prompted Spode.

“And umbrellas,” assented old Bassett. “And makes daylight raids on antique shops.”

“Daddy!” said Madeline

“He does, I tell you. I’ve caught him at it,” Old Bassett said

“I’ve caught him at it,” said Spode.

“We’ve both caught him at it,” said old Bassett. “All over London. Wherever you go in London, there you will find this fellow stealing bags and umbrellas. And now in the heart of Gloucestershire[58 - Gloucestershire – Глостершир].”

“Nonsense!” said Madeline. I saw that it was time to put an end to all this rot.

“Of course it’s nonsense,” I thundered. “The whole thing is one of those laughable misunderstandings.”

I must say I was expecting that my explanation would have gone better than it did. But old Bassett, like so many of these police court magistrates, was a difficult man to convince. He kept interrupting and asking questions, and looking at me as he asked them. You know what I mean—questions beginning with “Just one moment—” and “You say—” and “Then you are asking us to believe—” Offensive, very.

However, I managed to get him straight on the umbrella, and he conceded that he might have judged me unjustly about that.

“But how about the bags?”

“There weren’t any bags. ”

“I certainly sentenced you for something at Bosher Street[59 - Bosher Street – Бошер-стрит]. I remember it vividly”

“I pinched a policeman’s helmet.”

“That’s just as bad as snatching bags.”

Roderick Spode intervened unexpectedly. He had been standing by, thoughtfully listening to my statements.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think you can go so far as that. When I was at Oxford, I once stole a policeman’s helmet myself.”

I was astounded. It just showed, as I often say, that there is good in the worst of us. But old Bassett said,

“Well, how about that affair at the antique shop? Hey? Didn’t we catch him in the act of running off with my cow-creamer? What has he got to say to that?”

Spode nodded.

“The bloke at the shop had given it to me to look at,” I said shortly. “He advised me to take it outside, where the light was better.”

“You were rushing out.”

“I trod on the cat.”

“What cat?”

“It lives there, I suppose.”

“Hm! I saw no cat. Did you see a cat, Roderick?”

“No, no cat.”

“Ha! But what were you doing with that cow-creamer? You say you were looking at it. You are asking us to believe that you were merely looking at it. Why? What was your motive? What possible interest could it have for a man like you?”

“Exactly,” said Spode. “The very question I was going to ask myself.”

“You say the proprietor of the shop handed it to you. But I say that you snatched it up and were running away. And now Mr. Spode catches you here, with the thing in your hands. How do you explain that? What’s your answer to that? Hey?”

“Why, Daddy!” said Madeline. “Naturally your silver would be the first thing Bertie would want to look at. Of course, he is interested in it. Bertie is Mr. Travers’s nephew.”

“What!”

“Didn’t you know that? Your uncle has a wonderful collection, hasn’t he, Bertie? I suppose he has often spoken to you of Daddy’s.”

There was a pause. Old Bassett was breathing heavily. I didn’t like the look of him at all. He glanced from me to the cow-creamer, and from the cow-creamer to me, then back from me to the cow-creamer again.

“Oh!” he said. Just that. Nothing more. But it was enough.

“I say,” I said, “could I send a telegram?”

“You can telephone it from the library,” said Madeline. “I’ll take you there.”

She conducted me to the instrument and left me, saying that she would be waiting in the hall when I had finished. I established connection with the post office, and after a brief conversation with what appeared to be the village idiot, telephoned as follows:

Mrs Travers, 47, Charles Street[60 - Charles Street – Чарлз-стрит], Berkeley Square, London.

I paused for a moment, then proceeded thus: