Death at the Excelsior

Death at the Excelsior (And
Other Stories) [with accents]

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Title: Death At The Excelsior

Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8176] [This file was first posted on
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Language: English
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DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR
and Other Stories
By P. G. Wodehouse

[Transcriber's note: This selection of early Wodehouse stories was
assembled for Project Gutenberg. The original publication date of each
story is listed in square brackets in the Table of Contents.]

CONTENTS
DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR [1914]
MISUNDERSTOOD [1910]
THE BEST SAUCE [1911]
JEEVES AND THE CHUMP CYRIL [1918]
JEEVES IN THE SPRINGTIME [1921]
CONCEALED ART [1915]
THE TEST CASE [1915]

DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR
I

The room was the typical bedroom of the typical boarding-house,
furnished, insofar as it could be said to be furnished at all, with a severe
simplicity. It contained two beds, a pine chest of drawers, a strip of
faded carpet, and a wash basin. But there was that on the floor which
set this room apart from a thousand rooms of the same kind. Flat on his
back, with his hands tightly clenched and one leg twisted oddly under
him and with his teeth gleaming through his grey beard in a horrible
grin, Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyes that saw
nothing.
Until a moment before, he had had the little room all to himself. But
now two people were standing just inside the door, looking down at
him. One was a large policeman, who twisted his helmet nervously in
his hands. The other was a tall, gaunt old woman in a rusty black dress,
who gazed with pale eyes at the dead man. Her face was quite
expressionless.
The woman was Mrs. Pickett, owner of the Excelsior Boarding-House.
The policeman's name was Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to
the riotous element of the waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in the
presence of death. He drew in his breath, wiped his forehead, and
whispered: "Look at his eyes, ma'am!"
Mrs. Pickett had not spoken a word since she had brought the
policeman into the room, and she did not do so now. Constable Grogan
looked at her quickly. He was afraid of Mother Pickett, as was
everybody else along the waterfront. Her silence, her pale eyes, and the
quiet decisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old salts
who patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that
little community of sailormen.
"That's just how I found him," said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speak
loudly, but her voice made the policeman start.
He wiped his forehead again. "It might have been apoplexy," he
hazarded.
Mrs. Pickett said nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and a
young man entered, carrying a black bag.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pickett. I was told that--Good Lord!" The young
doctor dropped to his knees beside the body and raised one of the arms.
After a moment he lowered it gently to the floor, and shook his head in
grim resignation.

"He's been dead for hours," he announced. "When did you find him?"
"Twenty minutes back," replied the old woman. "I guess he died last
night. He never would be called in the morning. Said he liked to sleep
on. Well, he's got his wish."
"What did he die of, sir?" asked the policeman.
"It's impossible to say without an examination," the doctor answered.
"It looks like a stroke, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. It might be a coronary
attack, but I happen to know his blood pressure was normal, and his
heart sound. He called in to see me only