Jeeves and the Marxist Cat Burglar

A contemporary Jeeves & Wooster fanfic

by Pjazz

2007

For my money there is nothing quite like the open road. I think Mr.Toad put it best in Kenneth Grahame's book 'The Wind in the Willows' - Parp! Parp! said Mr. Toad. And the amphibious fellow got it spot on. Parp! Parp! indeed.

Jeeves and I were in the Bentley, motoring south from the Channel ports enroute to Monte Carlo. We had overnighted at a hostelry near Lyons, and suitably rested and refreshed were approaching the French Riviera. With the Bentley's top down we could practically smell the Med through our nostrils.

Paaarrrp!!

Glancing in the rear view mirror I saw the source of this sudden noise was a small red sportscar piloted by an attractive young girl whose blonde hair slip-streamed behind her like a Knight's banner in the days of yore.

Paaarrrp!!

"I say, Jeeves, that girl is giving me the horn. Er- rather she's tooting her horn at me."

"Yes, sir. I believe she wishes to overtake."

I waved a carefree hand indicating she could do so. Noblesse oblige, and all that.

Though the Bentley was doing a brisk 70 the red sportscar easily drew up alongside. I glanced across and smiled. The Woosters are nothing if not convivial. The girl responded with a hand gesture that can only be described as uncalled for. Her red sportscar then accelerated away leaving Bertram shaken if not stirred.

"Rude, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"If that is an example of Modern Woman, then you can jolly well keep it."

"Quite, sir."

EEE-OOO-EEE-OOO-EEE!!

"What the dickens--"

Suddenly twp police cars had appeared in line astern, sirens screaming. My heart sank. To pick up a speeding ticket now would put a dent into such a pleasant day.

But the rozzers were not interested in Bertram it seemed. The two police cars flashed by with nary a sideways glance. Evidently they were in hot pursuit of the red sportscar, now a receding red dot in the distance.

"So that explains her need for speed, eh, Jeeves? One doesn't wish to hang about with a couple of coppers on your tail."

"Indeed, sir."

"I wonder what's she done to upset the gendarmes?"

"I cannot conjecture, sir."

And so the matter rested. We made untroubled progress and within a couple of hours I was steering the Bentley into the carpark of the Hotel Excelsior, situated on the Monaco seafront. We had reservations for 5 days.

And suddenly there before us was the familiar little red sportscar, parking rakishly across two parking bays.

"It seems as if our young lady aquaintance has escaped the clutches of the law, eh, Jeeves?"

"It would appear so, sir."

"Good for her, is what I say."

Little did I know that those words would come back to bite me on the shins in just a few short hours.

Jeeves handled the luggage and checking in formalities, while went I straight up to the room. I'd booked a suite on the 9th floor with a balcony overlooking the harbour. I flung open the balcony doors and stood at the railing filling my lungs with invigorating draughts of fresh sea air. I did this several times until a girlish voice piped up.

"I say, if you're going to stand there and make a noise like an asthmatic donkey, then kindly do it elsewhere."

There on the adjacent balcony was the blonde girl from the little red sporstcar. She was lying on a lounger in a pink bikini and staring at me much in the way a scientist regards a mollusc.

"I am not accustomed to wheezing like an asthmatic donkey," I replied with hauteur.

"Then for a beginner you do it dashed well."

I opened my mouth to utter a stinging retort only to find my brain had neglected to supply one. I stood gawping for a moment then decided that until the old brainbox decided to play ball it was best if I took myself out of the firing line, as it were, and stepped back in the room. Jeeves had arrived and was busy unpacking the luggage. I brought him up to date with events.

"Indeed, sir. I do hope the young lady has not neglected sun protection. The UV rays are most harmful to the skin."

"Never mind her skin,Jeeves," I chided. "What about my feelings? An asthmatic donkey, forsooth. I'll have her know my lungs are well regarded in medical circles."

"I'm sure Miss Maxwell didn't mean to offend you, sir."

"Eh? Is that her name, Jeeves? How did you know that?"

"I made enquiries at the concierge's desk, sir. The young lady's is Simone Maxwell. Age 26. Educated in England - Bedales then Cambridge. Miss Maxwell is an expert driver, swimmer, skier, skater and climber. Fluent in 6 languages. She is considered a marksman with both smallbore and largebore weapons."

"Golly. Fair takes your puff away just thinking of all that activity. Any idea why she was being pursued by the police?"

"No, sir. However, I did discover Miss Maxwell is a keen admirer of Marx."

"Really? Excellent. Which one - Groucho, Chico or Harpo?"

"Karl Marx, sir."

"Karl Marx? Which Marx brother was he - the one with thr frizzy hair?"

"Karl Marx wasn't a Marx brother, sir."

"Are you sure, Jeeves? I thought he played the ukelele?"

"Quite sure, sir. Karl Marx, born 1818 died 1883, was a German philosopher, economist amd proto-revolutionary. He is best known for writing 'Das Kapital'."

""'Das Kapital'? I think I've read that one. Is that the one where in the end it turns out the butler did it?"

"No, sir."

"Oh. Well, never mind. So why is Miss Maxwell so enamoured of a German chappie who puffed his last puff over a 100 years ago?"

"Miss Maxwell is a fervent Marxist, sir. She believes in the redistribution of wealth. From the rich to the poor."

"Are you certain it isn't the other way round, Jeeves? From the poor to the rich. Because that's how it usually works."

"Quite certain, sir."

"Dashed silly thing to believe, if you ask me. Mind you, I once knew a girl who believed fairies lived at the bottom of her garden, when any damn fool could see they were woodlice."

"Indeed, sir. Will there be anything further? There is a museum nearby whose exhibits I am keen to peruse."

"That'll be all, Jeeves. Peruse away."

"Thank you, sir."

As evening fell I dressed in my best bib and tucker and biffed off to the Casino. I was anxious to try out the Wooster Patent Roulette System, which I had invented myself. It involved standing at the roulette table, closing my eyes and prodding my finger down randomly. The number I prodded I bet several hundred Euros on. For some peculiar reason the system failed me and I ended up many thousands out of pocket. Oh well. All money is as grass, as the poet said - or is it flesh? Jeeves would know. I consoled myself with some stiff cocktails then rolled back to the Hotel Excelsior. Within moments of my head hitting the pillow I fell into a sound and dreamless sleep.

Crash! Shouts! Alarams!

Woke me at 4 in the morning. The commotion was coming from the corridor outside the room. I was about to get up and investigate when the door opened and a shadowy figure entered, crossed the room and climbed into my bed. I gave vent to my considerable consternation.

"Hey!"

"Shusssh! They'll hear you," came a girlish voice.

"Who the blue blazes are you?"

"Simone Maxwell. Who are you?"

"Bertie Wooster. What are you doing in my bed?"

"Is it your bed?"

"Yes, it's my bally bed!"

"Not my bed?"

"No, it's mine."

"Then I, uh, must have sleepwalked."

"Sleepwalked?"

"Yes. And don't wake me. It's dangerous to wake someone sleepwalking."

"But you're already awake," I pointed out.

"I might be dreaming I'm awake."

I pursed my lips dubiously.

"That makes no sense at all."

"Are you an expert? Are - here, what's this under the sheets? It feels long and hard."

"Madam, what are you implying?"

"With a shaft and a knob on the end!"

I cringed. Things were about to get embarrassing.

"It's my putter."

"Your putter?"

"Yes, my putter."

"That's not a euphemism, is it?"

"No."

"I see. D'you normally sleep with golf clubs?"

"I hastened to explain.

"My short game's been a bit off lately. I thought if I showed my putter some TLC it might start holing some putts again."

"Hmm. Odd, but not certifibly so."

"D'you play golf?"

"Lord, no. Karl Marx never played golf."

"Bit of as duffer, was he? Too fond of second helpings at the dinner trough?"

"Certainly not. Golf is an elitist sport played by the decadent bourgeoise. Come the Revolution all golfers will be lined up against a wall and shot."

"No, surely not. All golfers? Even scratch ones?"

"All golfers. No exceptions. And the tennis players. They're just as bad. They'll be shot at dawn and the prolitariat will rise up and bathe in the spilled blood of their oppressors."

Sounded dashed unhygenic to me, but there was more.

"It will be glorious punishment for all capitalist running dogs."

"Dogs too, eh? Just as well I'm a cat person."

Her eyes shone with a glassy zeal and I was afraid she might decide to start the bloodletting early, beginning with Bertram.

"Well, don't let me detain you..."

"What? oh. Right. I'll be going then."

Wiping the flecks of foam from her lips Simone rose from my bed. I had expected her to wearing pajamas or a night robe, but instead she had on black cords, black polo top and a black beanie hat.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like a burglar."

"No, no. This is, uh, what I wear in bed. I feel the cold."

"It's 20 degrees out."

"Yes, well, goodbye."

She headed for the balcony.

The door's the other way, " I pointed out.

"My balcony's next to yours. I'll just hop across."

"But we're 9 stories up!"

"Then it's just as well I'm not afraid of heights."

I listened for the inevitable scream and distant thud of a body falling and hitting the ground below, but it never came. Presently the light came on in the room next door and I surmised that all was well. It had been a rum night. Very rum.

The next morning I made short work of room service breakfast while Jeeves brewed the tea. We had brought our own supply of tea from home. As a race the French do many things well - cheese, wine, surrendering - but tea is not one of them.

"Jeeves", I said, spearing an errant croissant, "Strange rumblings were afoot in the night."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Did you not see the Pepto-Bismol I left out?"

"Not those rumblings, Jeeves."

Briefly I related my nocturnal visitation.

"Most intriquing, sir. I can inform you the commotion which woke you was a hotel robbery. A guest had several items of expensive jewelry stolen."

"Golly. Who was the poor chump who drew the short straw?"

"A Miss Mapleton, sir."

I goggled at the man.

"Not Miss Mapleton, headmistress of St Monica's School for Girls?"

"The one and same, sir."

This Mapleton bird was a pal of my Aunt Agatha, and every bit a fellow dragon in human form. Our paths had crossed several times before usually to my detrement. Had I known we were sharing the premises I would have holidayed elsewhere - like Timbuktu.

"What's Miss Mapleton doing in Monte Carlo, Jeeves? Shouldn't she be teaching her foul inmates their times tables?"

"It's the Easter holidays, sir."

"A mere technicality."

A horrible thought occured.

"I say, she doesn't know I'm here, does she?"

"No, sir. Do you wish me to inform her?"

"Under no circumstances, Jeeves. She'd expect me to stand her lunch or escort her round art galleries. Given a choice of hob-nobbing with Miss Mapleton or Vlad the Impaler, Vlad would get the nod everytime."

"Very good, sir."

"Kudos to the thief, though. I wouldn't have th nerve to steal form Miss Mapleton, not even after several stiff brandies. Do the police have any suspects?"

"I believe not, sir. However..."

I looked at Jeeves with a wild surmise.

"Jeeves! D'you know who the thief was?"

"I think so, sir. If I'm not very much mistaken it was Miss Maxwell. She is a cat burgler."

I furrowed the brow.

"She steals cats, you mean?"

"No, sir. A jewel thief. Yesterday there was a major jewel heist not far from where we first encountered Miss Maxwell fleeing from the police. To confirm my suspicions, there is the small matter of her appearance in your bedroom with dubious bona fides during a similar robbery here."

"But surely if she was the criminal she would have fled the scene of the crime? And I happen to know she's presently sunbathing on her balcony."

"Perhaps Miss Maxwell is so confident of her alibi that see feels secure in loitering at the scene of the crime, sir"

"Golly, she certainly takes that redistribution of wealth guff pretty dashed seriously, eh, what?"

"Indeed, sir. Indeed."

I lingered in the suite until noon then ventured out to grab lunch in the hotel restaurant, treading warily along the corridors to avoid any stray Mapletons. I was just tucking into my grilled sea bass, when I was joined at the table by a familiar face - the Marxist cat burglar herself, Simone Maxwell.

"We meet again, Bertie."

Well, one has to be civil, even to criminals.

"What ho."

"I'll have what he's having. And bring us a bottle of your most expensive champagne," , she instructed a passing maitre' d.

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"Something to celebrate?" I asked, with a conspiratorial wink.

"Actually, yes. It's my, uh, birthday."

"Many happy returns," I said with another knowing wink.

"Thanks. Something wrong with your eye?"

"No. Nothing."

Simone's all black garb of the previous evening had given way to something altogether more colourful - and clingy. Crook or no, there was no denying she was what Shakespeare would have described as an absolute smasheroonie. It took all my self control to stifle a strong urge to paw at the ground and howl at the full moon. Presently the waiter arrived with Simone's order.

"Is this the most expensive champagne you have?"

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"Super. Put it on Mr Wooster's bill."

"Hey!"

I was about to remonstrate further but was distracted by the sight of Simone wedging the champagne bottle between her thighs and coaxing her long fingers up its neck.

Pop!

The cork flew up, ricochetted off the ceiling, and hit a fat bloke sitting on the far side of the room on his bald head. Simone laughed like a train.

"Ha! Bullseye! Serve the overfed capitalist pig right. Soon he will swing from a lampost."

"Not shot up against a wall?"

"We Marxist's also appreciate a good lynching. Old school."

Charming.

"And what of you, Bertie? How do you make your money - by exploiting the poor?"

"Certainly not. We Woosters have never done a thing for our money."

"So you are a member of the idle rich, eh?"

"Exactly. I am idle as the day is long."

"Then you too shall swing from a lampost."

What can you say? I mean, what can you possibly say?

Simone poured the champers.

"A toast. To absent comrades. And the coming Revolution. May it be brutal and bloody."

"Mud in your eye."

Clink!

The rest of the meal passed in silence, and I was just contemplating a spot of dessert - the mango sorbet had caught my eye - when a shadow crossed the table. I looked up and beheld a huge gorilla of a man dressed in a beige trench coat glowering down at us. "Ho!" he said, and I deduced we were in the presence of a policeman.

Simone didn't seem too fazed. She leant back and regarded this intruder with a disdainful stare.

"Well well, if it isnt't old Nosey Parker of Scotland Yard," she sneered.

"Less of the Nosey, if you don't mind, Simone. It's Inspector Parker to you."

"Long way from home, Nosey. Did you take a wrong turn at Piccadilly Circus?"

"Very droll. I'm on secondment with Interpol, Simone. We're been on your trail for months."

"I thought I detected a bad smell."

"Ho! And who's this joker?" said Inspector Parker, indicating yours truly with a flick of his leather glove.

"This," replied Simone, suddenly reaching over to hug me, "is my fiancee, Bertie Wooster."

"Another fly caught in your web of deceit, eh?"

"Bertie's no fly, are you darling?" And she leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.

Now you're propbably wondering why at this juncture I didn't draw myself up to my full height and repudiate her weasel words,- something along the lines of 'woman, unhand me' - and I would have done but for the unfortunate swallowing of some champagne the wrong way at the sheer shock of hearing her pronouncement. And when I'd finally coughed up my lungs the subject had moved on.

"D'you know what this is, Simone?" said the Inspector, placing a sheet of paper on the table.

"A note from your superior stating you're officially the fattest copper in the whole of London?"

Inspector Parker flushed a deep maroon.

"It's a warrant authorising me to search your hotel room. Last night's jewel heist had your name written all over it."

"Just be sure to keep your mitts out of my undie drawer, Nosey. I don't want you taking any souvenirs."

With a final "Ho!" Inspector Parker spun on his heel and exited stage left.And I finally recovered the power of speech.

"Hey! What's all this 'fiancee' malarky?"

"Oh that. Just a girlish whim."

"Girlish whim?"

"Yes. Old Nosey's such a stick in the mud. I enjoy giving him a good stir every now and then."

"You're not worried what he'll find in your room?"

"The jewels? No, he won't find them there."

"Then you didn't steal them?"

"Oh I pinched them alright. Only I hid them in your room. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go powder my nose."

Now I won't deny she didn't leave me all of a-twitter, because I was twittering like the billy-ho. I mean to say, it didn't take a genius to figure out that when Inspector Parker finished searching Simone's room and found nothing his next port of call would be her erstwhile fiancee, who just happened to have the room next door. I had to find and dispose of the stolen jewels before he did.

I hurried out of the restaurant and boarded the nearest lift, in my haste not checking who the other occupant was. It was none other than Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard, and he didn't seeem too thrilled to see Bertram.

"Ho! you again!"

Awkard, but one has to be polite.

"Ah. Hullo, Inspector Nosey. Er - Inspector Parker. Nice weather."

"Coo! Weather, he says. So you're Simone's latest fiancee, eh? At least her last one had some meat on him. You look like you'd keel over in a light breeze."

I bridled somewhat.

"The Woosters are built for brains not brawn."

"Not too brainy to hook up with a Black Widow like Simone Maxwell. She sweet-talked her last fiancee into driving her getaway car. Crashed into a tree. She escaped but we nabbed him. He's doing 5-10 in Pentonville. Aiding and abetting.

I ran a nervous finger round a suddenly too tight collar. I didn't like the sound of that 'aiding and abetting'.

"Now in some respects Simone's quite a catch. Those big baby blue eyes. The lustrous blonde hair. The long lissom legs. Lips like two shiny satin pillows. Those firm, ripe--"

"I say, steady on!"

The Inspector snapped out of his reverie.

"The point is, never mind the pretty package, inside she's pure poison."

"Quite."

The lift doors opened and the Inspector charged out, like a caged lion impatient to get at his daily wildebeast. He opened the door to Simone's room and vanished inside.

Once safely inside my own room I began the search for the stolen jewelry. Under the bed? Nothing. Top of the wardrobe? Nada. Thoroughly perplexed I was scratching the noggin deep in thought when Jeeves hove to.

"Good afternoon, sir. I trust lunch was satisfactory?"

"No, Jeeves, it was not. The food turned to ashes in my mouth."

"I'm surprised to hear that, sir. The chef here has 3 stars in the Michelin guide."

I brought the man up to speed with recent events.

"And if I don't find the jewels pretty sharpish," I concluded, "Bertram will be Gulag bound."

"Miss Maxwell has left you in a most ergregious position, sir. However, if you'll permit me a moment to gather my thoughts..."

Jeeves became as still as a statue. Looking at him you would think he had suddenly been turned into a pillar of salt, ala Lot's Wife. But I knew beneath the surface of that bulging skull neurons and synapses were firing on all cylinders. I felt not unlike Moses, hopping from foot to foot in feverish anticipation, preparing to take delivery of the 10 Commandments.

"I think I know where the jewels are, sir," Jeeves announced, coming out of his self-induced coma with a blink of his eyes.

"Egad, Jeeves, where?"

Jeeves didn't answer immmediately, instead walked over to an ornamental bowl of red apples set on a nearby table and began removing the fruits one by one.

"This is no time to make a fruit salad, Jeeves!" I chided. "Time is of the essence."

"If you'll bear with me one moment, sir. Ah yes, I thought so."

Jeeves lifted out the last red apple and there in the bottom of the bowl was a small leather pouch. He emptied out the contents. There glittering in his palm was a fortune in doubloons - or rather assorted ladies jewelry.

"The loot, Jeeves!"

"Yes, sir. Hidden in plain sight. Miss Maxwell knows her Conan-Doyle."

"Give them to me, Jeeves. I'll go and hand them over to the Inspector."

"I think that would be unwise, sir. Your part in the matter may be open to some misinterpretation."

"You're not suggesting I keep them, surely?"

"Oh no, sir. Merely that the jewels be returned to Miss Mapleton's possession without involving the law."

I quailed.

"You want me to go up to old Ma Mapleton and return them personally?" I said aghast at the prospect.

"No, sir. It would be better to surreptitiously return the jewels without Miss Mapleton's knowledge. Once they are returned to her Miss Mapleton is unlikely to press charges. 'Fuit Illium', as it were."

"'Fuit Illium'?"

"Yes, sir. It is Latin for 'Troy has fallen'. From Virgil. Meaning the reason for a dispute has ended. If you wish I will return the jewels myself."

"Do so,my good fellow. 'Fuit, as you say, Illium'."."

With Jeeves away on his mission of mercy, I retired to the balcony to smoke a gasper and calm my nerves. Next door I could hear Inspector Parker converting what sounded like a largish wardrobe into tinderwood. The man was thorough if nothing else.

"Okay, buster. Hand them over."

I turned to find Simone Maxwell, cat burglar extrodonaire, again amongst those present. But there was something different about her. At first I couldn't put my finger on what. Then I realised. She had a gun. A gun pointed directly at my heart.

"I want my jewels. What have you done with them?"

"Your jewels?"

"Spare me the semantics. Just hand them over."

"I don't have them," I said truthfully.

"You're lying."

"I'm bally well not."

"Take your clothes off."

"Madam!"

"Take your clothes off or I pop you and search the corpse."

Since she put it so sweetly I had no choice but to comply. Dashed embarrassing, of course. But better a naked Bertram than a dead one.

Fortunately, I had only shed my jacket and tie when Simone thought she heard something.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"I thought I heard a noise in the bedroom."

"I didn't hear anything."

"Stay here. I'm going to investigate."

She disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door. I tip-toed over and listened at the door jamb. Nothing. Then a dull thud. Followed by a louder thud. Then the door opened and there stood Jeeves, holding a golf club in his hands.

"I'm afraid, sir, I have taken the liberty of rendering Miss Maxwell unconcious."

"Jeeves! But how the dickens--"

"With your putter, sir. I used a crosshand grip, not too tight, easy backswing, smooth follow through and endeavoured to keep my head still and my eyes firmly on the target."

I gaped at the man. Jeeves' sangfroid was astonishing. He looked for all the world as if he'd just strolled off the 18th green at St Andrews.

"Is she dead?" I asked, indicating the sprawling carcass.

"Oh no, sir. Merely stunned."

A thought occurred.

"Jeeves, did you manange to return the stolen jewels?"

"Alas not, sir. Miss Mapleton was taking a late lunch in her room. It was impossible to gain access without arousing her suspicions."

There's a poem I learnt at school. By Shelley or Keats, or some such. A couple of lines came to me now. 'My name is Oxymandias, King of Kings/ Look on my work, ye mighty, and despair'.

And I couldn't help but think it pretty much hit the nail on the head. For Bertram looked upon his works, and he despaired. I mean, consider the facts. The stolen jewelry was still in my possession. And not any old stolen jewels but that belonging to old Ma Mapleton, a close compadre of my Aunt Agatha. Also I now had on my hands an unconcious cat burglar, who had already displayed homicicdal tendencies towards self. Add in a loaded gun and a copper next door who, when his demolition duties ceased, was likely to come a-calling, I couldn't help but feel Alcatraz beckoning. I conveyed my feelings to Jeeves.

"Perhaps not, sir," he replied, and I felt the slightest stirring of Hope in the Wooster bosom.

"You have a plan, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir. If you would kindly help by grasping Miss Maxwell by the ankles..."

Together we hoisted the unconcious Simone onto a highbacked chair. Jeeves fetched some of my silk neckties and tied her hands and feet to the frame. Then he placed the stolen jewels on her lap and the gun at her feet. It made for a curious tableau.

"What next, Jeeves?"

"I suggest we vacate the hotel, sir. As you observed, Inspector Parker is expected anon."

"You mean go on the lam? But Surely Inspector Parker will simply put out an APB for my arrest."

"I doubt it very much, sir. Inspector Parker has been pursuing Miss Maxwell for many months without success. She has led him a merry goose chase, much to Scotland Yard's chagrin.I suspect his joy at catching her red-handed so to speak will over-ride all other considerations."

"You mean by landing a big fish he'll let a tiddler - viz. Bertram - swim free?"

"Yes, sir. An extremely apt analogy."

"Very well, Jeeves. But to be on the safe side I'd like to put as many miles as poss between self and the Hotel Excelsior. How far away is Outer Mongolia?"

"Several thousand miles, sir."

"That'll do for starters."

I don't know if you're planning a visit to Outer Mongolia in the near future? If so, here's a tip: take a book. Plenty of books. There's not much else to do.

Jeeves and I fetched up at the only hotel in the region with hot water - albeit every other Tuesday, between the hours of 8-9.00am. The rooms were comfy enough if you didn't mind mattresses stuffed with Yak hair. The hotel provided 3 square meals aday, mostly comprising Yak, leavened with the occasional warthog. Some brave pioneer had carved a golf course out of the barren tundra, and I managed to get in my daily 18 holes. The greens were not grass but made of compressed Yak dung, which were the very devil to putt on.

As spring turned to summer I broached the mattter of the Hotel Excelsior with Jeeves.

"D'you think the furor has blown over by now, Jeeves? I confess I chafe at this constant Yak

diet and miss Old Blighty sorely."

"I believe so, sir. Inspector Parker is safely behind bars."

"Eh? Don't you mean Miss Maxwell is safely behind bars?"

"No, sir. Miss Maxwell was never arrested."

"What? But we left her in flagrante, so to speak."

"From what I have gleaned from the few periodicals that reach here, sir, it appears Miss Maxwell persuaded Inspector Parker to become her fiancee. Together they went on the run from the law."

"What? But they loathed each other."

"In Inspector Parker's case I suspect his obsession with Miss Maxwell concealed a deep-seated passion for his quarry.It is often the way. In the circumstances Miss Maxwell may well have thought it opportune to reciprocate. You may recall, sir, she was a most resourceful young lady."

I nodded the bean. I had been engaged to the hellion for all of 10 minutes and even I had felt the tug of conflicting emotions. Part of my mind had yelled 'run, Bertram run', while a more primitive, attavistic part had whispered 'bring it on'. And what little time I had spent in Inspector Parker's company had suggested a man on the cusp of writing a sonnet - Or at the very least a mucky limerick.

"So they both lived happily ever after, eh?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. Inspector Parker was arrested in Rome trying to steal the coins from the Trevi Fountain and is currently serving 5-10 years in Parkhurst Prison. Miss Maxwell eluded custody and is presently thought to be at large in the USA."

"The USA? A big country, Jeeves. With a great deal of jewelry."

"Yes, sir. Miss Maxwell is likely to find much scope for her singular talents."

"Then we embark for Merrie England on the 'Morrow, Jeeves!", I announced, raising my teacup to toast the news. "I must say, I shall rather miss this Mongolian tea. It's really rather tasty. I wonder if we could find a supplier in London?"

"It is not Mongolian tea you're drinking, sir."

"No? then what the devil is it?"

"Yakoob, sir. A popular local brew made from fermented yak's urine."

"Jeeves," I croaked, "kindly stick your fingers down my throat. I have a sudden desire to be violently sick."

"As you wish, sir. Please open wide."

THE END

AUTHORS NOTE

This is the fifth of my contemporary Jeeves & Wooster stories. The others can be found here on the fanfiction site.

Any reviews or feedback are much appreciated.

Cheers then

PJ