Wrapping up one thing and starting another
Characters: R. Psmith, Philip Marlowe, Dick Foley
Location: Marlowe's office
Time: After both Halloween and House hiring Marlowe
Private and Complete (finished over IM)
Summary: Psmith can't help but tease Marlowe after getting full-on felt up by him at the Halloween party; Foley renews Marlowe's acquaintance, with probably less feeling-up.
Marlowe was back at his chess game when Psmith walked in, hung up his hat and coat and cane, and sat himself in the client's chair, as was usual and customary when he bothered showing up at all. Unusually, he didn't launch into a speech as soon as he opened the door. Neither did he try to put his feet up on Marlowe's desk. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, tented his fingers in front of his chin, and gazed solemnly at the detective, who was (as usual) ignoring him and trying to figure out how to react to the last move his chess book had indicated. "Shall I ask Comrade Heteroptera to leave the room, or is he a priveleged invididual? You did, after all, threaten to kill me if I told anyone, and as utterly charming as our wee green friend is, he's not worth dying for. I thought you should be informed that Lulu will probably try to kill you next time she sees you."
"I should've threatened to kill you if you ever mentioned it again," Marlowe growled. "In fact, consider it threatened. And it was just a joke."
"Does this mean our illicit love is not to be?" asked Psmith, his eyes wide. "But I've already dedicated three entire pages of my diary to writing out Rupert Eustace Marlowe and doodling little hearts and flowers."
There wasn't really anything in that for Marlowe, so he poured a glass of whiskey, pushed it towards Psmith and kept the bottle for himself.
Then Psmith put his feet up on the desk. It never worked; he always got his feet pushed off and had to prop them up on the windowsill instead; but his was a hopeful spirit, and doubtless with persistent endeavour he would eventually succeed in leaving scuffmarks on all possible points of the desk surface. This time it actually did work; Marlowe was studiously ignoring the kid's very existence on the planet, and so Psmith was granted this small victory in the Desk Wars. He relished it.
"I find it interesting, Comrade Marlowe," he said in a didactic tone, pushing his luck but unable to resist, "that although you express a wish to have threatened me differently, you don't express a wish not to have done it." His face was carefully expressionless.
Marlowe shot daggers at him with his eyes, and followed it up by throwing the pawn he'd just captured at him. Psmith caught it and put it on the desk next to his feet, half smiling. "Is this going to be one of those things where we have a massive knock-down row and then kiss and make up when we're through?
"No, it's going to be one of those things where I have to move to another country again because I'm wanted for homicide."
"Alas," sighed Psmith, deciding to drop the subject before Marlowe dropped him with a punch to the jaw. He sank lower in the chair and lit himself a cigarette, muttering something about thinking they were partners and toying with a chap's emotions.
The door to the hallway opened a bit, and Psmith got his feet flat on the floor instantly; he no longer allowed himself to be caught lounging. A small dark-haired fellow with a well-cut suit and a pointed face poked his head in and followed it with the rest of him. He glanced at Psmith, then looked away dismissively and caught Marlowe's eye. Thoughtful uncertainty gave way to recognition. "Phil Marlowe?"
Marlowe thought the guy looked familiar, but couldn't quite place him. "Yeah," he said, rising as the other man crossed the office with quick steps, his hand out to shake.
"Dick Foley. Continental, San Francisco."
"Oh yeah, you're what's-his-name's friend, right?" Marlowe replied, remembering. Foley nodded sharply. "What brings you all the way out here? You on a job?"
"Nah, vacation. Old Man bum-rushed me." He looked annoyed.
"And you came here? Christ," said Marlowe sympathetically. He gestured at the chair Psmith was still sitting in. Psmith took the hint and stood up. Marlowe shot him a quick glare and did not offer to introduce them, which Psmith took as another hint, but which he chose to ignore for the moment. As Foley went to sit, Psmith took his hand and introduced himself with his usual "silent-p-as-in-pseudonym" routine, to which he responded only with another curt nod.
"Well," said Psmith, taking the hint he'd ignored a moment ago and donning his coat and hat, "I will leave you two gentlemen to your fond reminiscences of capers past. Good day." He bowed and left. As he walked down the hall he could just hear the next exchange:
Foley: "He yours?"
Marlowe, annoyed: "He's my secretary."
FINIS.
Location: Marlowe's office
Time: After both Halloween and House hiring Marlowe
Private and Complete (finished over IM)
Summary: Psmith can't help but tease Marlowe after getting full-on felt up by him at the Halloween party; Foley renews Marlowe's acquaintance, with probably less feeling-up.
Marlowe was back at his chess game when Psmith walked in, hung up his hat and coat and cane, and sat himself in the client's chair, as was usual and customary when he bothered showing up at all. Unusually, he didn't launch into a speech as soon as he opened the door. Neither did he try to put his feet up on Marlowe's desk. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, tented his fingers in front of his chin, and gazed solemnly at the detective, who was (as usual) ignoring him and trying to figure out how to react to the last move his chess book had indicated. "Shall I ask Comrade Heteroptera to leave the room, or is he a priveleged invididual? You did, after all, threaten to kill me if I told anyone, and as utterly charming as our wee green friend is, he's not worth dying for. I thought you should be informed that Lulu will probably try to kill you next time she sees you."
"I should've threatened to kill you if you ever mentioned it again," Marlowe growled. "In fact, consider it threatened. And it was just a joke."
"Does this mean our illicit love is not to be?" asked Psmith, his eyes wide. "But I've already dedicated three entire pages of my diary to writing out Rupert Eustace Marlowe and doodling little hearts and flowers."
There wasn't really anything in that for Marlowe, so he poured a glass of whiskey, pushed it towards Psmith and kept the bottle for himself.
Then Psmith put his feet up on the desk. It never worked; he always got his feet pushed off and had to prop them up on the windowsill instead; but his was a hopeful spirit, and doubtless with persistent endeavour he would eventually succeed in leaving scuffmarks on all possible points of the desk surface. This time it actually did work; Marlowe was studiously ignoring the kid's very existence on the planet, and so Psmith was granted this small victory in the Desk Wars. He relished it.
"I find it interesting, Comrade Marlowe," he said in a didactic tone, pushing his luck but unable to resist, "that although you express a wish to have threatened me differently, you don't express a wish not to have done it." His face was carefully expressionless.
Marlowe shot daggers at him with his eyes, and followed it up by throwing the pawn he'd just captured at him. Psmith caught it and put it on the desk next to his feet, half smiling. "Is this going to be one of those things where we have a massive knock-down row and then kiss and make up when we're through?
"No, it's going to be one of those things where I have to move to another country again because I'm wanted for homicide."
"Alas," sighed Psmith, deciding to drop the subject before Marlowe dropped him with a punch to the jaw. He sank lower in the chair and lit himself a cigarette, muttering something about thinking they were partners and toying with a chap's emotions.
The door to the hallway opened a bit, and Psmith got his feet flat on the floor instantly; he no longer allowed himself to be caught lounging. A small dark-haired fellow with a well-cut suit and a pointed face poked his head in and followed it with the rest of him. He glanced at Psmith, then looked away dismissively and caught Marlowe's eye. Thoughtful uncertainty gave way to recognition. "Phil Marlowe?"
Marlowe thought the guy looked familiar, but couldn't quite place him. "Yeah," he said, rising as the other man crossed the office with quick steps, his hand out to shake.
"Dick Foley. Continental, San Francisco."
"Oh yeah, you're what's-his-name's friend, right?" Marlowe replied, remembering. Foley nodded sharply. "What brings you all the way out here? You on a job?"
"Nah, vacation. Old Man bum-rushed me." He looked annoyed.
"And you came here? Christ," said Marlowe sympathetically. He gestured at the chair Psmith was still sitting in. Psmith took the hint and stood up. Marlowe shot him a quick glare and did not offer to introduce them, which Psmith took as another hint, but which he chose to ignore for the moment. As Foley went to sit, Psmith took his hand and introduced himself with his usual "silent-p-as-in-pseudonym" routine, to which he responded only with another curt nod.
"Well," said Psmith, taking the hint he'd ignored a moment ago and donning his coat and hat, "I will leave you two gentlemen to your fond reminiscences of capers past. Good day." He bowed and left. As he walked down the hall he could just hear the next exchange:
Foley: "He yours?"
Marlowe, annoyed: "He's my secretary."
FINIS.