Ron Paul Sees It Through, Part II






After a cab journey featuring my wearing Bingo's coat like a turban and ducking below the window, we raced upstairs to relate the state of affairs to Ron Paul. Introductions were made; Bingo tried to wedge his current woes to the top of the agenda, but I took him in a firm hand and dissuaded him from this course by suggesting that I would bludgeon him with a piece of furniture. This established, I quickly related the posish to Paul, sparing no detail because there were so few to remember.

"So what say you, good man, how on earth am I to figure out what hotel this young Vivian is in?"

"I should wonder why you would endeavor to, sir," Paul replied.

"Paul. Paul. This will do no good. The code of the Woosters dates to later years of the Conqueror's reign when a great ancestor of mine looked an impropriety in the eye and said, sternly, 'No.' Or perhaps 'non,' as I think they were still Frenchish then. It matters not; for this I say again to you now, 'No.' We Woosters do not abandon our promises to young ladies simply because it is nearly impossible to identify or locate them."

"I mean no offense, sir," he said, coughing discreetly and smoothing the cover of the book in his hands. "It is just that I do not believe that a gentleman need abide by an ungentlemanly agreement."

"Now see here, Paul, I will not have the Woosters' gentlemanly qualities questioned!" At this he looked down and discreetly went fiddling with his book again. "Oh, dash it, what is that thing that it's so infernally fascinating?"

"It's called O, Tenements! An Odyssey in Pictures. A reminder of my homeland. I apologize for its being a distraction." He placed it in a nearby drawer.

"Thank you."

"What I meant to say, sir, is that we can agree that the intoxicating effects of champagne can suspend judgment in any gentleman and cause him to engage in ungentlemanly behavior. Consider your Boat Race Night, where young men attack policemen — who are defenseless without firearms in the face of the rising urban horde — and steal their helmets. It is understood that that night is one of Bacchanalian revelry, and as such, the names of gentlemen incarcerated during it are winkingly recorded in the police ledger as Mr. Smith Smith-Smythe, Kingsley Monarcho and Mr. Lyndon Bloodworth-Thomason. It is understood that, while in these high spirits, these gentlemen are not required to abide by any code, even the criminal one."

"Yes, yes, but is not a gentleman's word more binding with a woman of virtue?" I asked. Paul shrugged.

"How do we know she is a woman of virtue? She imbibed spiritous liquors with unknown gentlemen until late hours. She accepted a proposal hours after meeting you: since you are not destitute, one might argue her motives are mercenary."

"But I don't understand how I can not do right by the girl."

"I say, sir, that it is more important you do no wrong. You entered into an implied oral contract with no binding when you were clearly not in a capacity to rationally contract for any future behavior. The law is firmly on your side. Moreover," he added, when I raised a finger to object, "gentlemanly conduct is on your side as well. Any woman who would take advantage of a man's foggy head is not deserving of a gentleman, and any woman who would trust in promises made in an alcoholic state is not wise enough for one."

"I see," I nodded. "So you recommend I do nothing?"

"Ordinarily, yes, sir, I'd advocate a policy of non-intervention in the whole matter. But, considering that this young lady may not be a woman of virtue and may instead be an opportunist or blackmailer, I recommend you leave the city immediately and do your best to avoid all foreign entanglements."

"Ah-ha!" yelled Bingo, springing to his feet. "I have just the place for him to go!"

"I agree," said Paul, after Bingo had related the Carolyn Van der Meere impersonation scheme. "A remote location should provide ample cover for Mr. Wooster."

"Just a moment," I said. "I am not about to run down to his country house and lie to Lord Bittlesham. If he finds out I'm giving him some phony business, he's apt to bury a pewter walking stick in my forehead before having me locked up by a local magistrate."

"It is exceedingly unlikely, sir," Ron Paul offered. "You are acting in the guise of a purveyor of information. It is up to Lord Bittlesham and household to verify the authenticity of this information. If they do not opt to look for an authentic Carolyn van der Meere label on the person claiming to be Carolyn van der Meere, they have only themselves to blame. Besides, you cannot commit fraud unless you profit by it. All you are asking them to do is give Mr. Little money, not give you money."

"So you mean to say there's no chance I wind up wearing an iron collar and wasting away on crusts and thin gruel in between hitting small rocks with big rocks to make smaller rocks?"

"Yes, sir," Paul nodded.

"Very well," I shot my cuffs. "We should waste not another moment in this city. Paul, pack our things immediately, take the car, run to the bank to draw money for our trip, and come back to pick me up. I will be hiding in a cupboard in the pantry."

"Excellent!" said Bingo, springing to his feet. "I'm going to wire Madeline and tell her to take a room at the inn in Lower Rutherfordeby. It's just down the road from Rutherfordeby Hall. I want you to meet her and tell me what you think of her!

____________________

One hour later saw Ron Paul and I motoring down quaint Kentish backroads on our way to the Hall and in a state of high agitation.

"I understand, sir," Paul was saying, "but consider the benefits it accords you."

"Like the benefit of a local grocer saying, 'What the devil is this'?"

"But, sir, it has rarity, durability, easy divisibility, and the general ease of identification through its unique color, weight, ductility and acoustic properties."

"Look here, Paul. When I send you off to the bank I expect you to return with a crisp stack of pounds. They don't have to weigh pounds; simply having the word printed on them will do. Preferably with the words 'Bank' and 'England' somewhere thereupon as well."

"I merely attempted to secure for you the greatest value, sir. Bank of England notes are not of a fixed value: they are paper someone tells us is valuable. What you have will always be valuable, irrespective of whatever the House of Lords' finance committee says about it."

"This," I said, holding up to him the clear glass tube of gold flakes with a cork stopper, "is going to make me look like a lunatic. 'That'll be five bob, sir,' they'll say, and I'll say, 'Oh, how many is that in flakes, my good man? I just happen to have here something that looks like breakfast cereal made from chippings off the edge of picture frames from the National Gallery."

"Sir, I think you exaggerate."

"'Oh, what's that? You don't have change for a golden breakfast flake? Perhaps you could give me some other aspect of breakfast in return. I think I should prefer an egg. I can stick it in my coat pocket next to the mushy glob of oats I keep there.'"

"But, sir!" he said, taking his right hand off the wheel and turning toward me to grasp the tube. "This is gold. Purestrain gold."

"It looks like a pixie sneezed in a laboratory. What on earth made you think—good God! Look out!"

In our eagerness to debate all things pecuniary and metallurgical, we both failed to pay sufficient attention to the road. Thus, after coming out of a stretch that was like tracing the architecture of a nest of coiled serpents and into a section of road fairly straight and to the point, our minds were able to drift to whether the test tube I was holding contained matters purestrain or pixie, and neither of us saw the man lying in the road. Paul jerked the wheel and applied the brakes hardily, but neither could prevent the car's letting out a horrible scudding noise and then a sickening thud as the back right tire rolled over the man lying there, before coming to a rest. Paul shut off the engine and sat back.

For a few moments, both of us remained frozen. Like the woodland stream in winter, atop we showed utter placidity, our immobile mugs drained of all color. Beneath, great currents raged. The ticking of the cooling engine rang out, counting down to the moment all broke free of the surface.

"Oh, my Lord," Paul said. "Look what he did." His words instantly roused me to action, and I hopped out of the car.

"What he did? You ran him over!" I knelt by the man and turned him over on his back and for my trouble received a spray of blood across my shirt, tie and waistcoat.

"It's unfortunate he made the decision to engage in this behavior in a roadway," Paul said, stepping from the car.

"I say, look here, Paul. I'm covered in this man's blood."

"Yes, sir," he nodded. "I'm afraid that will have to be laundered."

"But I, dash it. I mean, well — I mean to say, we can't. We've, er, this man's been killed!"

"Luckily," said Paul, pointing at the man's head, "we have the murderer right here."

"That's bally nonsense. The man can't murder himself!"

"It is at times like these that the bible is often of small consolation, sir, but I think you may prefer another source of parables. Consider the dipsomaniac who drinks to death: do we arrest his barman or the owner of the corner off-license? When a man lies down in front of a train, is the train put in the dock with threat of hanging by the engine until dead? When a man leaps off a bridge, are civil engineers put to the sword for having built it? No."

"This, Paul, is piffle. You could have turned or stopped, but you were not looking at the road."

"And he was. Exclusively. From a facedown position. In fact, he could not have been in the road, if he so chose. He was at liberty to do so. It was he who elected to literally embrace a motorway. Who are we as citizens of a free land to question the strange hobbies of this man?"

"Now, just a moment—"

"I ask you, sir," Paul said, extending a hand in a gesture that reminded me of an old schoolmaster whose toupee moved when he yelled at you, "is it justice to deprive you of liberty or me of liberty because this man was able to exercise his?"

"No," I said, rising and dusting off my knees. "I suppose it is not."

"Excellent thinking, sir."

"Do you think we should move the body now?"

"And deprive another man of an honest day's labor? I should think not, sir."

"I feel bally awful just leaving him here, though."

"As do I, sir. But consider that this man being on this road will mean a roast beef being on another man's table."

"Good God, you don't mean they're going to eat him!"

"No, sir, not at all. Merely that the daily wage of taking him from this place will enable another man to pay to bring a roast to his family. Another parable, if you will. But now I recommend we speed away. Local policemen may not appreciate the fine understanding of liberty that you and I have."

Over ninety minutes later, the ancient stonework of Rutherfordeby Hall hove into view over the horizon, and Ron Paul pulled the car into the drive. We'd barely managed to leg it out of the coupe before the current residents were out to see the excitement of visitors arriving. Unfortunately for us, Bingo lagged behind Lord Bittlesham, giving him an uninterrupted view of the scarlet improvisations to my attire.

"Mister Wooster! Great scott, man! What is that?—blood?"

"That, my good man, is liberty!"

"What?"

"Can't quite figure it out myself, but I understand it's got something to do with each man's ability to do a rum whatsit."

"But, what on earth happened?"

"The last biological threshold was crossed. And now," I said, walking toward the door, "I'd like to cross this one. As you might have imagined, I need to change before dinner."

Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V