Bones in London

"Well, it appears," said Hilton, "that this chap is madly in love withhis typist."

"Which chap?" said Bones.

"The fellow who did Mr. de Vinne in the eye," replied the patient Mr.Hilton. "He used to be an officer on the West Coast of Africa, and wasknown as Bones. His real name is Tibbetts."

"Oh yes," said Bones.

"Well, we've found out all about him," continued Hilton. "He's got aflat in Jermyn Street, and this girl of his, this typist girl, dineswith him. She's not a bad-looking girl, mind you."

Bones rose to his feet, and there was in his face a terrible look.

"Hilton," he said, "do you mean that you have been shadowing aperfectly innocent man and a charming, lovely old typewriter, thatcouldn't say 'Goo' to a boose?"

Bones was pardonably agitated.

"Do you mean to tell me that this office descends to this low practiceof prying into the private lives of virtuous gentlemen and typewriters?Shame upon you, Hilton!" His voice shook. "Give me that report!" Hethrust the report into the fire. "Now call up Mr. Borker, and tell himI want to see him on business, and don't disturb me, because I amwriting a letter."

He pulled a sheet of paper from his stationery rack and wrotefuriously. He hardly stopped to think, he scarcely stopped to spell.His letter was addressed to Mr. de Vinne, and when, on the followingday, Mr. Borker took over the business of Siker's Agency, that eminentfirm of investigators had one client the less.

CHAPTER VIII

A COMPETENT JUDGE OF POETRY

There were times when Mr. Cresta Morris was called by that name; therewere other moments when he was "Mr. Staleyborn." His wife, a placidand trusting woman, responded to either name, having implicit faith inthe many explanations which her husband offered to her, the favouriteamongst them being that business men were seldom known by the namesthey were born with.

Thus the eminent firm of drapers Messrs. Lavender & Rosemary were – orwas – in private life one Isadore Ruhl, and everybody knew that themaker of Morgan's Superfatted Soap – "the soap with foam" – was a certainmember of the House of Lords whose name was not Morgan.

Mrs. Staleyborn, or Morris, had a daughter who ran away from home andbecame the secretary to Augustus Tibbetts, Managing Director of SchemesLimited, and there were odd moments of the day when Mrs. Staleybornfelt vaguely uneasy about her child's future. She had often, indeed, shed tears between five o'clock in the afternoon and seven o'clock inthe evening, which as everybody knows, is the most depressing time ofthe day.

She was, however, one of those persons who are immensely comforted bythe repetition of ancient saws which become almost original every timethey are applied, and one of these sayings was "Everything is for thebest." She believed in miracles, and had reason, for she received herweekly allowance from her erratic husband with monotonous regularityevery Saturday morning.

This is a mere digression to point the fact that Mr. Morris was knownby many names. He was called "Cress," and "Ike," and "Tubby," and"Staley," according to the company in which he found himself.

One evening in June he found himself in the society of friends whocalled him by names which, if they were not strictly original, werecertainly picturesque. One of these companions was a Mr. Webber, whohad worked more swindles with Morris than had any other partner, andthe third, and most talkative, was a gentleman named Seepidge, ofSeepidge & Soomes, printers to the trade.

Mr. Seepidge was a man of forty-five, with a well-used face. It wasone of those faces which look different from any other angle than thatfrom which it is originally seen. It may be said, too, that hiscolouring was various. As he addressed Mr. Morris, it varied betweenpurple and blue. Mrs. Morris was in the habit of addressing herhusband by endearing titles. Mr. Seepidge was not addressing Mr.Morris in a way which, by any stretch of imagination, could bedescribed as endearing.

"Wait a bit, Lew," pleaded Mr. Morris. "Don't let's quarrel.

Accidents will occur in the best of regulated families."

"Which you're not," said the explosive Mr. Seepidge, violently. "Igave you two hundred to back Morning Glory in the three o'clock race.You go down to Newbury with my money, and you come back and tell me, after the horse has won, that you couldn't get a bookmaker to take thebet!"

"And I give you the money back," replied Mr. Morris.

"You did," reported Mr. Seepidge meaningly, "and I was surprised tofind there wasn't a dud note in the parcel. No, Ike, youdouble-crossed me. You backed the horse and took the winnings, andcome back to me with a cock-and-bull story about not being able to finda bookmaker."

Mr. Morris turned a pained face to his companion.

"Jim," he said, addressing Mr. Webber, "did you ever in all your borndays hear a pal put it across another pal like that? After the workwe've done all these years together, me and Lew – why, you're like aserpent in the bush, you are really!"

It was a long time, and there was much passing of glasses across alead-covered bar, before Mr. Seepidge could be pacified – the meetingtook place in the private bar of "The Bread and Cheese," CamdenTown – but presently he turned from the reproachful into the melancholystage, explained the bad condition of business, what with the paperbills and wages bills he had to pay, and hinted ominously at bankruptcy.

In truth, the firm of Seepidge was in a bad way. The police hadrecently raided the premises and nipped in the bud a very promisingorder for five hundred thousand sweepstake tickets, which were beingprinted surreptitiously, for Mr. Seepidge dealt in what is colloquiallyknown as "snide printing."

Whether Mr. Cresta Morris had indeed swindled his partner of manycrimes, and had backed Morning Glory at a remunerative price for hisown profit, is a painful question which need not be too closelyexamined. It is certain that Seepidge was in a bad way, and as Mr.Morris told himself with admirable philosophy, even if he had won apacket of money, a thousand or so would not have been sufficient to getMr. Seepidge out of the cart.

"Something has got to be done," said Mr. Cresta Morris briskly.

"Somebody," corrected the taciturn Webber. "The question is, who?"

"I tell you, boys, I'm in a pretty bad way," said Seepidge earnestly."I don't think, even if I'd backed that winner, I could have got out oftrouble. The business is practically in pawn; I'm getting a policeinspection once a week. I've got a job now which may save my bacon, ifI can dodge the 'splits' – an order for a million leaflets for a Hamburglottery house. And I want the money – bad! I owe about three thousandpounds."

"I know where there's money for asking," said Webber, and they lookedat him.

His interesting disclosure was not to follow immediately, for they hadreached closing-time, and were respectfully ushered into the street.

"Come over to my club," said Mr. Seepidge.

His club was off the Tottenham Court Road, and its membership wasartistic. It had changed its name after every raid that had been madeupon it, and the fact that the people arrested had described themselvesas artists and actresses consolidated the New Napoli Club as one of theartistic institutions of London.

"Now, where's this money?" asked Seepidge, when they were seated rounda little table.

"There's a fellow called Bones – " began Mr. Webber.

"Oh, him!" interrupted Mr. Morris, in disgust. "Good Heavens! You'renot going to try him again!"

"We'd have got him before if you hadn't been so clever," said Webber.

"I tell you, he's rolling in money. He's just moved into a new flat in

Devonshire Street that can't cost him less than six hundred a year."

"How do you know this?" asked the interested Morris.

"Well," confessed Webber, without embarrassment, "I've been workingsolo on him, and I thought I'd be able to pull the job off myself."

"That's a bit selfish," reproached Morris, shaking his head. "I didn'texpect this from you, Webbie."

"Never mind what you expected," said Webber, unperturbed. "I tell youI tried it. I've been nosing round his place, getting information fromhis servants, and I've learned a lot about him. Mind you," said Mr.Webber, "I'm not quite certain how to use what I know to make money.If I'd known that, I shouldn't have told you two chaps anything aboutit. But I've got an idea that this chap Bones is a bit sensitive on acertain matter, and Cully Tring, who's forgotten more about human menthan I ever knew, told me that, if you can get a mug on his sensitivespot, you can bleed him to death. Now, three heads are better thanone, and I think, if we get together, we'll lift enough stuff from Mr.Blinking Bones to keep us at Monte Carlo for six months."

"Then," said Mr. Seepidge impressively, "let us put our 'eads together."

In emotional moments that enterprising printer was apt to overlook thebox where the little "h's" were kept.

Bones had indeed moved into the intellectual atmosphere of DevonshireStreet. He had hired a flat of great beauty and magnificence, withlofty rooms and distempered walls and marble chimney-pieces, for allthe world like those rooms in the catalogues of furniture dealers whichso admirably show off the fifty-pound drawing-room suite offered on theeasiest terms.

"My dear old thing," he said, describing his new splendours to