Death at the Excelsior And Other Stories

by P.G. Wodehouse

The offices of Mr. Paul Snyder's Detective Agency in New Oxford Street had grown in the course of a dozen years from a single room to an impressive suite bright with polished wood, clicking typewriters, and other evidences of success.

He lugged them out of the drawer as if he were a vegetarian fishing a caterpillar out of the salad.

"How's the weather, Jeeves?" "Exceptionally clement, sir." "Anything in the papers?" "Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing." "I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put my shirt on Privateer for the two o'clock race this afternoon. How about it?" "I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."

And half a minute later I was up in the drawing-room, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in my life. The motto of the Little family was evidently "variety." Young Bingo is long and thin and hasn't had a superfluous ounce on him since we first met; but the uncle restored the average and a bit over. The hand which grasped mine wrapped it round and enfolded it till I began to wonder if I'd ever get it out without excavating machinery.

He tells me it's his masterpiece, and that he will never do anything like it again. I should like to have that in writing.