‘You may well say “Good GodI “. You know what Anatole means to Tom.’ She did not need to labour the point. Uncle Tom combines a passionate love of food with a singular difficulty in digesting it, and Anatole is the only chef yet discovered who can fill him up to the Plimsoll mark without causing the worst sort of upheaval in his gastric juices.
‘But would Anatole go to Runkle?’
‘He’d go to anyone if the price was right.’
‘None of that faithful old retainer stuff?’
‘None. His outlook is entirely practical. That’s the French in him.’
‘I wonder you’ve been able to keep him so long. He must have had other offers.’
‘I’ve always topped them. If it was simply another case of outbidding the opposition, I wouldn’t be worrying.’
‘But when Uncle Tom comes back and finds Anatole conspicuous by his absence, won’t the home be a bit in the melting pot?’
‘I don’t like to think of it.’
But she did think of it. So did I. And we were both thinking of it, when our musings were interrupted by the return of L. P. Runkle, who waddled in and fixed us with a bulging eye.
I suppose if he had been slenderer, one might have described him as a figure of doom, but even though so badly in need of a reducing diet he was near enough to being one to make my interior organs do a quick shuffle-off-to-Buffalo as if some muscular hand had stirred them up with an egg-whisk. And when he began to speak, he was certainly impressive. These fellows who have built up large commercial empires are always what I have heard Jeeves call orotund. They get that way from dominating meetings of shareholders. Having started off with ‘Oh, there you are, Mrs. Travers’, he went into his speech, and it was about as orotund as anything that has ever come my way. It ran, as nearly as I can remember, as follows:
‘I was hoping to see you, Mrs. Travers. In a previous conversation, you will recall that I stated uncompromisingly that your nephew Mr. Wooster had purloined the silver porringer which I brought here to sell to your husband, whose absence I greatly deplore. That this was no mere suspicion has now been fully substantiated. I have a witness who is prepared to testify on oath in court that he found it in the top drawer of the chest of drawers in Mr. Wooster’s bedroom, unskilfully concealed behind socks and handkerchiefs.’
Here if it had been a shareholders meeting, he would probably have been reminded of an amusing story which may be new to some of you present this afternoon, but I suppose in a private conversation he saw no need for it. He continued, still orotund.
‘The moment I report this to the police and acquaint them with the evidence at my disposal, Wooster’s arrest will follow automatically, and a sharp sentence will be the inevitable result.’
It was an unpleasant way of putting it, but I was compelled to admit that it covered the facts like a bed- spread. Dust off that cell, Wormwood Scrubs, I was saying to myself, I shall soon be with you.
‘Such is the position. But I am not a vindictive man, I have no wish, if it can be avoided, to give pain to a hostess who has been to such trouble to make my visit enjoyable.’
He paused for a moment to lick his lips, and I knew he was tasting again those master-dishes of Anatole’s. And it was on Anatole that he now touched.
‘While staying here as your guest, I have been greatly impressed by the skill and artistry of your chef. I will agree not to press charges against Mr. Wooster provided you consent to let this gifted man leave your employment and enter mine.’
A snort rang through the room, one of the ancestor’s finest. You might almost have called it orotund. Following it with the word ‘Ha! ‘, she turned to me with a spacious wave of the hand.
‘Didn’t I tell you, Bertie? Wasn’t I right? Didn’t I say the child of unmarried parents would blackmail me? ‘