Bones in London

Miss Marguerite Whitland brought him his letters, and he went over themlistlessly until he came to one large envelope which bore on its flapthe all-too-familiar seal of the Ministry. Bones looked at it and madea little face.

"It's from the Ministry," said the girl.

Bones nodded.

"Yes, my old notetaker," he said, "my poor young derelict, castout" – his voice shook – "through the rapacious and naughty oldspeculations 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 allabout the beastly jute, telling me to take it away. Now, where thedickens am I going to put it, eh? Never talk to me about jute," hesaid violently. "If I saw a jute tree at this moment, I'd simply hatethe 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 theflap.

Remember that she knew nothing, except that Bones had made a bigpurchase, and that she was perfectly confident – such was her sublimefaith in Augustus Tibbetts – that he would make a lot of money as aresult of that purchase.

Therefore the consternation on her face as she read its contents.

"Why," she stammered, "you've never done – Whatever made you dothat?"

"Do what?" said Bones hollowly. "What made me do it? Greed, dear oldsister, just wicked, naughty greed."

"But I thought," she said, bewildered, "You were going to make so muchout 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 oldstory-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 advantageof Clause Seven. The contract was cancelled at four forty-nine."

Bones swallowed something.

"This is spiritualism," he said solemnly. "I'll never say a wordagainst jolly old Brigham Young after this!"

In the meantime two ladies who had arrived in Paris, somewhat weary andbedraggled, were taking their morning coffee outside the Café de laPaix.

"Anyway, my dear," said Clara viciously, in answer to her sister'splaint, "we've given that young devil a bit of trouble. Perhaps theywon't renew the contract, and anyway, it'll take a bit of proving thathe did not sign that cancellation I handed in."

As a matter of fact, Bones never attempted to prove it.

CHAPTER VII

DETECTIVE BONES

Mr. Harold de Vinne was a large man, who dwelt at the dead end of amassive cigar.

He was big and broad-shouldered, and automatically jovial. Between thehours 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 imposingstability – the kind of companies that have such items in their balancesheets as "Sundry Debtors, £107,402 12_s_. 7_d_." People feel, onreading such airy lines, that the company's assets are of suchmagnitude that the sundry debtors are only included as a carelessafterthought.

Mr. de Vinne was so rich that he looked upon any money which wasn't hisas an illegal possession; and when Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, on anoccasion, stepped in and robbed him of £17,500, Mr. de Vinne's familydoctor was hastily summoned (figuratively speaking; literally, he hadno family, and swore by certain patent medicines), and straw was spreadbefore the temple of his mind.

A certain Captain Hamilton, late of H.M. Houssas, but now a partner inthe firm of Tibbetts & Hamilton, Ltd., after a short, sharp bout ofmalaria, went off to Brighton to recuperate, and to get the whizzynoises out of his head. To him arrived on a morning a special courierin the shape of one Ali, an indubitable Karo boy, but reputedly pureArab, and a haj, moreover, entitled to the green scarf of theveritable 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 insistis the everyday kit of a true Easterner – especially such Easterners asserve after-dinner coffee.

Hamilton, not in the best of tempers – malaria leaves you that way – anddazzled by this apparition in scarlet and gold, blinked.

"O man," he said testily in the Arabic of the Coast, "why do youwalk-in-the world dressed like a so-and-so?" (You can be very rude inArabic especially in Coast Arabic garnished with certain Swahiliphrases.)

"Sir," said Ali, "these garmentures are expressly designated byTibbetti. Embellishments of oriferous metal give wealthiness ofappearance to subject, but attract juvenile research and investigation."

Hamilton glared through the window on to the front, where a small butrepresentative gathering of the juvenile research committee waitedpatiently for the reappearance of one whom in their romantic fashionthey 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 bigBoot shop several boot shop all over London London. Old Browns goingout going out of the bisiness Sindicate trying to buy so I niped in for105,000 pounds got lock stock and barrill baril. Sindicate awfuly soreawfuley sore. All well here except poor young typewrighter cut herfinger finger sliceing bread doctor says not dangerus."

Hamilton breathed quickly. He gathered that Bones had bought aboot-shop – even a collection of boot-shops – and he was conscious of thehorrible fact that Bones knew nothing about boots.

He groaned. He was always groaning, he thought, and seldom with goodreason.

Bones was in a buying mood. A week before he had bought The WeeklySunspot, which was "A Satirical Weekly Review of Human Affairs." Thepossibilities of that purchase had made Hamilton go hot and moisty. Hehad gone home one evening, leaving Bones dictating a leading articlewhich was a violent attack on the Government of the day, and had comein the following morning to discover that the paper had been resold ata thousand pounds profit to the owners of a rival journal whichdescribed 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 orapprehension; for, even whilst Hamilton was reading the letter, Boneswas shaking his head violently at Mr. de Vinne, of the Phit-Phine ShoeSyndicate, who had offered him £15,000 profit on the turn-over. And atthe identical moment that Hamilton was buying his ticket for London,Bones was solemnly shaking hands with the Secretary of the Phit-PhineShoe Syndicate (Mr. de Vinne having violently, even apoplectically, refused to meet Bones) with one hand, and holding in the other a chequewhich represented a profit of £17,500. It was one of Bones's bigdeals, and reduced Hamilton to a condition of blind confidence in hispartner… 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 residenceat Clapham Park. Bones read the item without interest. He was lookingfor bargains – an early morning practice of his because the buying feverwas still upon him.

Hamilton, sitting at his desk, endeavouring to balance the firm'saccounts from a paying-in book and a cheque-book, the counterfoils ofwhich were only occasionally filled in, heard the staccato "Swindle!.. Swindle!" and knew that Bones had reached the pages whereon weredisplayed the prospectuses of new companies.

He had the firm conviction that all new companies were founded onfrauds and floated by criminals. The offer of seven per cent.debenture stock moved him to sardonic laughter. The certificates ofeminent chartered accountants brought a meaning little smile to hislips, followed by the perfectly libellous statement that "These peoplewould do anything for money, dear old thing."