Bones in London, page 11
“But one thing,” he said with sudden energy, “one thing, dear old thing, I’ll never part with. Whatever happens, dear old boy, rain or shine, sun or moon, stars or any old thing like that” – he was growing incoherent – “I will never leave my typewriter, dear old thing. I will never desert her – never, never, never, never, never!”
He turned up in the morning, looking and speaking chirpily. Hamilton, who had spent a restless night, thought he detected signs of similar restlessness in Bones.
Miss Marguerite Whitland brought him his letters, and he went over them listlessly until he came to one large envelope which bore on its flap the all-too-familiar seal of the Ministry. Bones looked at it and made a little face.
“It’s from the Ministry,” said the girl.
Bones nodded.
“Yes, my old notetaker,” he said, “my poor young derelict, cast out” –his voice shook – “through the rapacious and naughty old speculations of one who should have protected your jolly old interests, it is from the Ministry.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.
“No, dear young typewriter, I am not,” Bones said firmly. “It’s all about the beastly jute, telling me to take it away. Now, where the dickens am I going to put it, eh? Never talk to me about jute,” he said violently. “If I saw a jute tree at this moment, I’d simply hate the sight of it.”
She looked at him in astonishment.
“Why, whatever’s wrong?” she asked anxiously. “Nothing,” said Bones. “Nothing,” he added brokenly. “Oh, nothing, dear young typewriting person.”
She paused irresolutely, then picked up the envelope and cut open the flap.
Remember that she knew nothing, except that Bones had made a big purchase, and that she was perfectly confident – such was her sublime faith in Augustus Tibbetts – that he would make a lot of money as a result of that purchase.
Therefore the consternation on her face as she read its contents.
“Why,” she stammered, “you’ve never done – Whatever made you do that?”
“Do what?” said Bones hollowly. “What made me do it? Greed, dear old sister, just wicked, naughty greed.”
“But I thought,” she said, bewildered, “You were going to make so much out of this deal?”
“Ha, ha,” said Bones without mirth.
“But weren’t you?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Bones gently.
“Oh! So that was why you cancelled the contract?”
Hamilton jumped to his feet.
“Cancelled the contract?” he said incredulously.
“Cancelled the contract?” squeaked Bones. “What a naughty old story-teller you are!”
“But you have,” said the girl. “Here’s a note from the Ministry, regretting that you should have changed your mind and taken advantage of Clause Seven. The contract was cancelled at four forty-nine.”
Bones swallowed something.
“This is spiritualism,” he said solemnly. “I’ll never say a word against jolly old Brigham Young after this!”
In the meantime two ladies who had arrived in Paris, somewhat weary and bedraggled, were taking their morning coffee outside the Café de la Paix.
“Anyway, my dear,” said Clara viciously, in answer to her sister’s plaint, “we’ve given that young devil a bit of trouble. Perhaps they won’t renew the contract, and anyway, it’ll take a bit of proving that he did not sign that cancellation I handed in.”
As a matter of fact, Bones never attempted to prove it.
DETECTIVE BONES
Mr Harold De Vinne was a large man, who dwelt at the dead end of a massive cigar.
He was big and broad-shouldered, and automatically jovial. Between the hours of 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. he had earned the name of “good fellow,” which reputation he did his best to destroy between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.
He was one of four stout fellows who controlled companies of imposing stability – the kind of companies that have such items in their balance sheets as “Sundry Debtors, £107,402 12s. 7d.” People feel, on reading such airy lines, that the company’s assets are of such magnitude that the sundry debtors are only included as a careless afterthought.
Mr de Vinne was so rich that he looked upon any money which wasn’t his as an illegal possession, and when Mr Augustus Tibbetts, on an occasion, stepped in and robbed him of £17,500, Mr de Vinne’s family doctor was hastily summoned (figuratively speaking; literally, he had no family, and swore by certain patent medicines), and straw was spread before the temple of his mind.
A certain Captain Hamilton, late of HM Houssas, but now a partner in the firm of Tibbetts & Hamilton, Ltd, after a short, sharp bout of malaria, went off to Brighton to recuperate, and to get the whizzy noises out of his head. To him arrived on a morning a special courier in the shape of one Ali, an indubitable Karo boy, but reputedly pure Arab, and a haj, moreover, entitled to the green scarf of the veritable pilgrimage to Mecca.
Ali was the body-servant of Augustus Tibbetts, called by his intimates “Bones,” and he was arrayed in the costume which restaurateurs insist is the everyday kit of a true Easterner – especially such Easterners as serve after-dinner coffee.
Hamilton, not in the best of tempers – malaria leaves you that way – and dazzled by this apparition in scarlet and gold, blinked.
“O man,” he said testily in the Arabic of the Coast. “why do you walk-in-the world dressed like a so-and-so?” (You can be very rude in Arabic especially in Coast Arabic garnished with certain Swahili phrases.)
“Sir,” said Ali “these garmentures are expressly designated by Tibbetti. Embellishments of oriferous metal give wealthiness of appearance to subject, but attract juvenile research and investigation.”
Hamilton glared through the window on to the front, where a small but representative gathering of the juvenile research committee waited patiently for the reappearance of one whom in their romantic fashion they had termed “The Rajah of Bong.”
Hamilton took the letter and opened it. It was, of course, from Bones, and was extremely urgent. Thus it went:
“Dear Old Part., – Ham I’ve had an offer of Browns you know the big big Boot shop several boot shop all over London London. Old Browns going out going out of the bisiness Sindicate trying to buy so I niped in for 105,000 pounds got lock stock and barrill baril. Sindicate awfuly sore awfuley sore. All well here except poor young typewrighter cut her finger finger sliceing bread doctor says not dangerus.”
Hamilton breathed quickly. He gathered that Bones had bought a boot-shop – even a collection of boot-shops – and he was conscious of the horrible fact that Bones knew nothing about boots.
He groaned. He was always groaning, he thought, and seldom with good reason.
Bones was in a buying mood. A week before he had bought The Weekly Sunspot, which was “A Satirical Weekly Review of Human Affairs.” The possiblities of that purchase had made Hamilton go hot and moisty. He had gone home one evening, leaving Bones dictating a leading article which was a violent attack on the Government of the day, and had come in the following morning to discover that the paper had been resold at a thousand pounds profit to the owners of a rival journal which described itself as “A Weekly Symposium of Thought and Fancy.”
But Boots…and £105,000…!
This was serious. Yet there was no occasion for groaning or doubt or apprehension; for, even whilst Hamilton was reading the letter, Bones was shaking his head violently at Mr de Vinne, of the Phit-Phine Shoe Syndicate, who had offered him £15,000 profit on the turnover. And at the identical moment that Hamilton was buying his ticket for London, Bones was solemnly shaking hands with the Secretary of the Phit-Phine Shoe Syndicate (Mr de Vinne having violently, even apoplectically, refused to meet Bones) with one hand, and holding in the other a cheque which represented a profit of £17,500. It was one of Bones’ big deals, and reduced Hamilton to a condition of blind confidence in his partner.…Nevertheless…
A week later, Bones, reading his morning paper, reached and passed, without receiving any very violent impression, the information that Mr John Siker, the well-known private detective, had died at his residence at Clapham Park. Bones read the item without interest. He was looking for bargains – an early morning practice of his because the buying fever was still upon him.
Hamilton, sitting at his desk, endeavouring to balance the firm’s accounts from a paying-in book and a cheque book, the counterfoils of which were only occasionally filled in, heard the staccato “Swindle!… Swindle!” and knew that Bones had reached the pages whereon were displayed the prospectuses of new companies.
He had the firm conviction that all new companies were founded on frauds and floated by criminals. The offer of seven per cent debenture stock moved him to sardonic laughter. The certificates of eminent chartered accountants brought a meaning little smile to his lips, followed by the perfectly libellous statement that “These people would do anything for money, dear old thing.”
Presently Bones threw down the paper.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” he said, and walked to the door of the outer office, knocked upon it, and disappeared into the sanctum of the lady whom Bones never referred to except in terms of the deepest respect as his “young typewriter!”
“Young miss,” he said, pausing deferentially at the door, “may I come in?”
She smiled up at him – a proceeding which was generally sufficient to throw Bones into a pitiful condition of incoherence. But this morning it had only the effect of making him close his eyes as though to shut out a vision too radiant to be borne.
“Aren’t you well, Mr Tibbetts?” she asked quickly and anxiously.
“It’s nothing, dear old miss,” said Bones, passing a weary and hypocritical hand across his brow. “Just a fit of the jolly old staggers. The fact is, I’ve been keeping late hours – in fact, dear young miss,” he said huskily, “I have been engaged in a wicked old pursuit – yes, positively naughty…”
“Oh, Mr Tibbetts” – she was truly shocked – “I’m awfully sorry! You really shouldn’t drink – you’re so young…”
“Drink!” said the hurt and astounded Bones. “Dear old slanderer! Poetry!”
He had written sufficient poetry to make a volume – poems which abounded in such rhymes as “Marguerite,” “Dainty feet,” “Sweet,” “Hard to beat,” and the like. But this she did not know.
By this time the girl was not only accustomed to these periodical embarrassments of Bones, but had acquired the knack of switching the conversation to the main line of business.
“There’s a letter from Mr de Vinne,” she said. Bones rubbed his nose and said, “Oh!” Mr de Vinne was on his mind rather than on his conscience, for Mr de Vinne was very angry with Bones, who, as he had said, had “niped” in and had cost Mr de Vinne £17,500.
“It is not a nice letter,” suggested the girl. “Let me see, dear young head-turner,” said Bones firmly.
The letter called him “Sir,” and went on to speak of the writer’s years of experience as a merchant of the City of London, in all of which, said the writer, he had never heard of conduct approaching in infamy that of Augustus Tibbetts, Esquire.
“It has been brought to my recollection” (wrote the infuriated Mr de Vinne) “that on the day you made your purchase of Browns, I dined at the Kingsway Restaurant, and that you occupied a table immediately behind me. I can only suppose that you overheard a perfectly confidential” (heavily underscored) “conversation between myself and a fellow-director, and utilised the information thus disgracefully acquired.”
“Never talk at meals, dear old typewriter,” murmured Bones. “Awfully bad for your jolly young turn – for your indigestion, dear young key-tapper.”
The letter went on to express the writer’s intention of taking vengeance for the “dishonest squeeze” of which he had been the victim.
Bones looked at his secretary anxiously The censure of Mr de Vinne affected him not at all. The possible disapproval of this lady filled him with dire apprehension.
“It’s not a nice letter,” said the girl. “Do you want me to answer it?”
“Do I want you to answer it?” repeated Bones, taking courage. “Of course I want you to answer it, my dear old paper-stainer and decorator. Take these words.”
He paced the room with a terrible frown.
“Dear old thing,” he began.
“Do you want me to say ‘Dear old thing’?” asked the girl.
“No, perhaps not, perhaps not,” said Bones. “Start it like this: ‘My dear peevish one–’”
The girl hesitated and then wrote down: “Dear Sir.”
“‘You are just showing your naughty temper,’” dictated Bones, and added unnecessarily, “t-e-m-p-e-r.”
It was a practice of his to spell simple words.
“You are just showing your naughty temper,” he went on, “and I simply refuse to have anything more to do with you. You’re being simply disgusting. Need I say more?” added Bones.
The girl wrote: “Dear Sir, – No useful purpose would be served either in replying to your letter of today’s date, or re-opening the discussion on the circumstances of which you complain.”
Bones went back to his office feeling better. Hamilton left early that afternoon, so that when, just after the girl had said “Good night,” and Bones himself was yawning over an evening paper, and there came a rap at the door of the outer office, he was quite alone.
“Come in!” he yelled, and a young man, dressed in deep mourning, eventually appeared through the door sacred to the use of Miss Marguerite Whitland.
“I’m afraid I’ve come rather late in the day.”
“I’m afraid you have, dear old thing,” said Bones. “Come and sit down, black one. Deepest sympathy and all that sort of thing.”
The young man licked his lips. His age was about twenty-four, and he had the appearance of being a semi-invalid, as, indeed, he was.
“It’s rather late to see you on this matter,” he said, “but your name was only suggested to me about an hour ago.”
Bones nodded. Remember that he was always prepared for a miracle, even at closing time.
“My name is Siker,” said the visitor.
“And a jolly good name, too,” said Bones, dimly conscious of the fact that he had heard this name mentioned before.
“You probably saw the account of my father’s death. It was in this morning’s newspaper, though he died last week,” said Mr Siker.
Bones screwed up his forehead.
“I remember that name,” he said. “Now, let me think. Why, of course – Siker’s Detective Agency.”
It was the young man’s turn to nod.
“That’s right, sir,” he said. “John Siker was my father. I’m his only son.”
Bones waited.
“I’ve heard it said, Mr Tibbetts,” said the young man – “at least, it has been represented to me – that you are on the look-out for likely businesses that show a profit.”
“That’s right,” agreed Bones; “that show me a big profit,” he added.
“Well, Siker’s Detective Agency has made two thousand a year clear for twenty years,” said the young man. “We’ve got one of the best lists of clients in the kingdom, and almost every big businessman in the City is on our list. With a little more attention than my father has been able to give to it for the last two years, there’s a fortune in it.”
Bones was sitting upright now, his eyes shining. The amazing possibilities of such an acquisition were visible to his romantic eye.
“You want to sell it, my poor old Sherlock?” he demanded, then, remembering the part he was called upon to play, shook his head. “No, no, old thing. Deeply sorry and all that sort of thing, but it can’t be done. It’s not my line of business at all – not,” he added, “that I don’t know a jolly sight more about detectivising than a good many of these clever ones. But it’s really not my game. What did you want for it?”
“Well,” said the young man, hesitating, “I thought that three years’ purchase would be a bargain for the man who bought it.”
“Six thousand pounds,” said Bones.
“Yes,” agreed the other. “Of course, I won’t ask you to buy the thing blindfolded. You can put the accounts in the hands of your lawyer or your accountant, and you will find that what I have said is true – that my father took two thousand a year out of his business for years. It’s possible to make it four thousand. And as to running it, there are three men who do all the work – or, rather, one, Hilton, who’s in charge of the office and gives the other fellows their instructions.”
“But why sell it, my sad old improvidence?” said Bones. “Why chuck away two thousand a year for six thousand cash?”
“Because I’m not well enough to carry it on,” said young Mr Siker, after a moment’s hesitation. “And, besides, I can’t be bothered. It interferes with my other profession – I’m a musician.”
“And a jolly good profession, too,” said Bones, shaking hands with him across the table. “I’ll sleep on this. Give me your address and the address of your accountants, and I’ll come over and see you in the morning.”
Hamilton was at his desk the next morning at ten o’clock. Bones did not arrive until eleven, and Bones was monstrously preoccupied. When Hamilton saluted him with a cheery “Good morning,” Bones returned a grave and noncommittal nod. Hamilton went on with his work until he became conscious that somebody was staring at him, and, looking up, caught Bones in the act.
“What the devil are you looking at?” asked Hamilton.
“At your boots,” was the surprising reply.
“My boots?” Hamilton pulled them back through the kneehole of the desk and looked at them. “What’s the matter with the boots?”
“Mud-stains, old carelessness,” said Bones tersely. “You’ve come from Twickenham this morning.”
“Of course I’ve come from Twickenham. That’s where I live,” said Hamilton innocently. “I thought you knew that.”
