SCREAM FOR JEEVES: A Parody by P. H. Cannon

Author:P. H. Cannon [Cannon, P. H.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Horror
ISBN: 9781553102120
Publisher: Christopher Roden/Ash-Tree Press
Published: 2012-02-19T00:00:00+00:00

The next development in the rummy affair of young Charlie seemed to augur the light before the dawn. The blighter disappeared, leaving behind no forwarding address. I was all set to throw in the towel and call it a day, when Aunt Agatha herself blew in for a surprise inspection. The old flesh and blood promised that she would have up ‘ye Legions from Underneath’ and sic them on B. Wooster, unless he hopped to and resumed the chase: ‘All civilization, all natural law, perhaps even the fate of the solar system and the universe depend on your following through, you miserable worm.’ Never one to mince words, Aunt Agatha, even if she did rather overstate the case.

So there was nothing for it but to give Jeeves his head and see if he could run our elusive scholar to ground. And by Jove, within the week he had sniffed out the lad’s new lair, at a rooming-house in the Rue d’Auseil.

‘Yoicks, Jeeves!’ I ejaculated when the man announced that the quarry was at bay. ‘I mean to say, excellent!’

‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir.’

‘So, Jeeves, our boy’s holed up in the Rue d’Auseil. Is that by chance anywhere near the Auteuil race course?’

‘No, sir. If you must know, sir, I experienced no small difficulty discovering Mr Ward’s present whereabouts.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘The Rue d’Auseil is not down in any map, sir.’

‘Oh, no?’

‘No, sir. As Melville says, sir, true places never are.’

‘Like that lost city in Africa Art Jermyn was always gassing about, I suppose. But I say, Jeeves, let’s stick to the res. What other data did you dig up?

‘Mr Ward has ceased to affiliate with the private collector whose name he refused to divulge, sir. On the other hand, sir, it appears that his removal to the Rue d’Auseil was prompted by the desire to associate with yet another unusual individual.’

‘Were you able to scare up a name for this chap?’

‘Yes, sir. The gentleman in question signs his name as Erich Zann. He is an old German viol-player, sir, a strange dumb man who plays evenings in a cheap theatre orchestra.’

‘Really, Jeeves, is this Zann’s playing so vile that he has to settle for music halls featuring the likes of Art Jermyn’s mother?’

Nothing against Mrs Jermyn personally, of course, despite all those frightful rumours St John used to spread about the Drones, but you know the kind of chorus girl I mean.

‘You misapprehend me, sir. A viol is a bowed instrument with deep body, flat back, sloping shoulders, six strings, fretted fingerboard, low-arched bridge—’

‘Please, Jeeves,’ I said, lifting a warning hand. ‘Your musical knowledge may be nonpareil, but we’re once again wandering far afield. What in the dickens do you suppose Ward sees in this clammed-up codger?’

‘I could not say, sir, as I have not spoken with the young gentleman. My informant, however, is not sanguine about Herr Zann’s influence.’

‘Your informant?’

‘Yes, sir. A third tenant of the house in the Rue d’Auseil, an elderly American and vigilant observer of the domestic scene, has been kind enough to supply the essential background information.

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