"Wyvern, Jill," she said. "Slip on the bracelets, officer. I'll come quietly."
"Oh, don't be an ass," said Colonel Wyvern.
Something struck the door gently. It might have been a foot. Bill opened the door, revealing Jeeves. He was carrying the jewel-case, a handkerchief at its extreme edges.
"Thank you, m'lord," he said.
He advanced to the table and lowered the case on to it very carefully.
"Here is the case the pendant was in," said Mrs. Spottsworth.
"Good." Colonel Wyvern eyed Jeeves with approval. "Glad to see you were careful about handling it, my man."
"Oh, trust Jeeves for that," said Bill.
"And now," said Colonel Wyvern, "for the names."
As he spoke, the library door burst open, and Rory came dashing out, horror written on his every feature.
"I say, chaps," said Rory, "the most appalling thing has happened!"
Monica moaned.
"Not something more?"
"This is the absolute frozen limit. The Derby is just starting—"
"Rory, the Chief Constable is here."
"—andthe television set has gone on the blink. Oh, it's my fault, I suppose.
I was trying to get a perfect adjustment, and I must have twiddled the wrong thingummy."
"Rory, this is Colonel Wyvern, the Chief Constable."
"How are you, Chief C.? Do you know anything about television?"
The Colonel drew himself up.
"I do not!"
"You couldn't fix a set?" said Rory wistfully. "Not that there's time, of course. The race will be over. What about the radio?"
"In the corner, Sir Roderick," said Jeeves.
"Oh, thank Heaven!" cried Rory, galloping to it. "Come on and give me a hand, Jeeves."
The Chief Constable spoke coldly.
"Who is this gentleman?"
"Such as he is," said Monica apologetically, "my husband, Sir Roderick Carmoyle."
Colonel Wyvern advanced on Rory as majestically as his lack of inches permitted, and addressed the seat of his trousers, the only portion of him visible as he bent over the radio.
"Sir Roderick, I am conducting an investigation."
"But you'll hold it up to listen to the Derby?"
"When on duty, Sir Roderick, I allow nothing to interfere. I want a list—"
The radio, suddenly blaring forth, gave him one.
"... Taj Mahal, Sweet William, Garniture, Moke the Second, Voleur ... Quite an impressive list, isn't it?" said the radio. "There goes Gordon Richards.
Lots of people think this will be his lucky day. I don't see Bellwether ... Oh, yes, he's turning round now and walking back to the gate ...
They should be off in just a moment ... Sorry, no.
Two more have turned round. One of them is being very temperamental. It looks like Simple Simon.
No, it's the Irish outsider, Ballymore."
The Chief Constable frowned. "Really, I must ask—"
"Okay. I'll turn it down," said Rory, and immediately, being Rory, turned it up.
"They're in line now," yelled the radio, like a costermonger calling attention to his blood oranges, "all twenty-six of them ...
They're OFF ... Ballymore is left at the post."
Jill screamed shrilly. "Oh, no!"
"Vaurien," proceeded the radio, now, owing to Rory's ministrations, speaking in an almost inaudible whisper, like an invalid uttering a few last words from a sick-bed, "is in front, the Boussac pacemaker." Its voice strengthened a little. "Taj Mahal is just behind. I see Escalator. Escalator's going very strong.
I see Sweet William. I see Moke the Second. I see ..." Here the wasting sickness set in again, and the rest was lost in a sort of mouselike squeak.
The Chief Constable drew a relieved breath.
"Ha! At last! Now then, Lord Rowcester.
What servants have you here?"
Bill did not answer. Like a mechanical figure he was moving toward the radio, as if drawn by some invisible force.
"There's a cook," said Monica.
"A widow, sir," said Jeeves. "Mary Jane Piggott."
Rory looked round.
"Piggott? Who said Piggott?"
"A housemaid," said Monica, as Jill, like Bill, was drawn toward the radio as if in a trance. "Her name's Ellen. Ellen what, Jeeves?"
"French, m'lady. Ellen Tallulah French."
"The French horse," bellowed the radio, suddenly acquiring a new access of strength, "is still in front, then Moke the Second, Escalator, Taj Mahal ..."
"What about the gardener?"
"No, not Gardener," said Rory. "You mean Garniture."
"... Sweet William, Oratory ...
Vaurien's falling back, and Garniture—"
"You see?" said Rory.
"—and Moke the Second moving up."
"That's mine," said Monica, andwitha strange, set look on her face began to move toward the radio.
"Looks quite as though Gordon Richards might be going to win the Derby at last. They're down the hill and turning Tattenham Corner, Moke the Second in front, with Gordon up. Only three and a half furlongs to go ..."
"Yes, sir," said Jeeves, completely unmoved, "there is a gardener, an old man named Percy Wellbeloved."
The radio suddenly broke into a frenzy of excitement.
"Oo! ... Oo! ... There's a horse coming up on the outside. It's coming like an express train. I can't identify ..."
"Gee, this is exciting, isn't it!" said Mrs. Spottsworth.
She went to the radio. Jeeves alone remained at the Chief Constable's side.
Colonel Wyvern was writing laboriously in his note-book.
"It's Ballymore. The horse on the outside is Ballymore. He's challenging the Moke.
Hear that crowd roaring "Come on, Gordon!"."
"Moke ... The Moke ... Gordon," wrote Colonel Wyvern.
"Come on, Gordon!" shouted Monica.
The radio was now becoming incoherent.
"It's Ballymore ... No, it's the Moke ... No, Ballymore ... No, the Moke ...
No ..."
"Make up your mind," advised Rory.
For some moments Colonel Wyvern had been standing motionless, his note-book frozen in his hand.
Now a sort of shudder passed through him, and his eyes grew wide and wild. Brandishing his pencil, he leaped toward the radio.
"Come on, Gordon!" he roared. "COME ON, GORDON!!!"
"Come on, Ballymore," said Jeeves with quiet dignity.
The radio had now given up all thoughts of gentlemanly restraint. It was as though on honeydew it had fed and drunk the milk of Paradise.
"Photo finish!" it shrieked. "Photo finish! Photo finish! First time in the history of the Derby. Photo finish. Escalator in third place."
Rather sheepishly the Chief Constable turned away and came back to Jeeves.
"The gardener's name you said was what? Clarence Wilberforce, was it?"
"Percy Wellbeloved, sir."
"Odd name."
"Shropshire, I believe, sir."
"Ah? Percy Wellbeloved. Does that complete the roster of the staff?"
"Yes, sir, except for myself."
Rory came away from the radio, mopping his forehead.
"Well, that Taj Mahal let me down with a bang," he said bitterly. "Why is it one can never pick a winner in this bally race?"
""The Moke" didn't suggest a winner to you?" said Monica.
"Eh? No. Why? Why should it?" "God bless you, Roderick Carmoyle."
Colonel Wyvern was himself again now.
"I would like," he said, in a curt, official voice, "to inspect the scene of the robbery."
"I will take you there," said Mrs.
Spottsworth. "Will you come too, Monica?"
"Yes, yes, of course," said Monica.
"Listen in, some of you, will you, and see what that photo shows."
"And I'll send this down to the station," said Colonel Wyvern, picking up the jewel-case by one corner, "and find out what it shows."
They went out, and Rory moved to the door of the library.
"I'll go and see if I really have damaged that T.v. set," he said. "All I did was twiddle a thingummy." He stretched himself with a yawn. "Dam dull Derby," he said. "Even if Moke the Second wins, the old girl's only got ten bob on it at eights."