Psmith Journalist

Psmith Journalist

P. G. Wodehouse

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The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on London town. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts-clerks, on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference. It was one of those happy mornings. At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out.

Psmith Journalist Preface

THE conditions of life in New York are so different from those of London that a story of this kind calls for a little explanation. There are several million inhabitants of New York. Not all of them eke out a precarious livelihood by murdering one another, but there is a definite section of the population which murders--not casually, on the spur of the moment, but on definitely commercial lines at so many dollars per murder. The "gangs" of New York exist in fact. I have not invented them. Most of the incidents in this story are based on actual happenings.

The Rosenthal case, where four men, headed by a genial individual calling himself "Gyp the Blood" shot a fellow-citizen in cold blood in a spot as public and fashionable as Piccadilly Circus and escaped in a motor-car, made such a stir a few years ago that the noise of it was heard all over the world and not, as is generally the case with the doings of the gangs, in New York only. Rosenthal cases on a smaller and less sensational scale are frequent occurrences on Manhattan Island. It was the prominence of the victim rather than the unusual nature of the occurrence that excited the New York press. Most gang victims get a quarter of a column in small type.

P. G. WODEHOUSE New York, 1915

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I was at my own engagement party at the Sterling estate when the world started tilting. Victoria Sterling, my future mother-in-law, smiled coldly as she watched me struggle with a cup of tea that had been drugged to ruin me. Before I could find my fiancé, Ryan, a waiter dragged me into the forbidden West Wing and locked me in a room with Julian Sterling, the family’s "fallen titan" who had been confined to a wheelchair for years. The door burst open to a frenzy of camera flashes and theatrical screams. Victoria framed me as a seductress caught in the act, and Ryan didn't even try to listen to my pleas, calling me "cheap leftovers" before walking away with his pregnant mistress. When I turned to my own family for help, my father signed a document severing our relationship for a five-million-dollar payout from Julian. They traded me like a commodity without a second thought. I didn't understand why my own parents were so eager to sell me, or how Ryan could look at me with such disgust after promising me forever. I was a sacrifice, a pawn used to protect the family's offshore accounts, and I couldn't fathom how every person I loved had a price tag for my destruction. With nowhere left to go, I married Julian in a bleak ceremony at City Hall. He slid a heavy diamond onto my finger and whispered, "We have a war to start." That night, inside his secret penthouse, I watched the paralyzed man stand up from his wheelchair and activate a screen filled with the Sterling family's darkest secrets. The execution had officially begun.

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“The sunshine of a fair Spring morning fell graciously on London town. Out in Piccadilly its heartening warmth seemed to infuse into traffic and pedestrians alike a novel jauntiness, so that bus drivers jested and even the lips of chauffeurs uncurled into not unkindly smiles. Policemen whistled at their posts-clerks, on their way to work; beggars approached the task of trying to persuade perfect strangers to bear the burden of their maintenance with that optimistic vim which makes all the difference. It was one of those happy mornings. At nine o'clock precisely the door of Number Seven Arundell Street, Leicester Square, opened and a young man stepped out.”
1

Preface

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Chapter 1 Cosy Moments

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Chapter 2 Billy Windsor

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Chapter 3 At The Gardenia

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Chapter 4 Bat Jarvis

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Chapter 5 Planning Improvements

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Chapter 6 The Tenements

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Chapter 7 Visitors At The Office

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Chapter 8 The Honeyed Word

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Chapter 9 Full Steam Ahead

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Chapter 10 Going Some

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Chapter 11 The Man At The Astor

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Chapter 12 A Red Taximeter

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Chapter 13 Reviewing The Situation

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Chapter 14 The Highfield

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Chapter 15 An Addition To The Staff

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Chapter 16 The First Battle

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Chapter 17 Guerilla Warfare

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Chapter 18 An Episode By The Way

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Chapter 19 In Pleasant Street

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Chapter 20 Cornered

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Chapter 21 The Battle Of Pleasant Street

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Chapter 22 Concerning Mr. Waring

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Chapter 23 Reductions In The Staff

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Chapter 24 A Gathering Of Cat-Specialists

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Chapter 25 Trapped

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Chapter 26 A Friend In Need

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Chapter 27 Psmith Concludes His Ride

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Chapter 28 Standing Room Only

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Chapter 29 The Knock-Out For Mr. Waring

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