Bones in London

He held in his hand a sheaf of papers.

"Very good," said Bones. "Excellent! I hope we shall bring themalefactor to justice."

"He's not exactly a malefactor," demurred Hilton. "It is a job we weredoing for one of our best clients."

"Excellent, excellent!" murmured Bones. "And well we've done it, I'msure." He leant back in his chair and half closed his eyes. "Tell mewhat you have discovered."

"This man's a bit of a fool in some ways," said Hilton.

"Which man – the client?"

"No, the fellow we've been trailing."

"Yes, yes," said Bones. "Go on."

"In fact, I wonder that Mr. de Vinne bothered about him."

"De Vinne?" said Bones sitting up. "Harold de Vinne, the moneyed one?"

"That's him. He's one of our oldest customers," said Hilton.

"Indeed," said Bones, this time without any enthusiasm at all.

"You see, a man did him in the eye," explained Mr. Hilton, "swindledhim, and all that sort of thing. Well, I think we have got enough tomake this chap look silly."

"Oh, yes," said Bones politely. "What have you got?"

"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

Hamilton, "you ought to see the jolly old bathroom!"

"What do you want a bath for?" asked Hamilton innocently. "You've onlygot the place for three years."

"Now, dear old thing, don't be humorous," said Bones severely. "Don'tbe cheap, dear old comic one."

"The question is," said Hamilton, "why the dickens do you want a newflat? Your old flat was quite a palatial establishment. Are youthinking of setting up housekeeping?"

Bones turned very red. In his embarrassment he stood first upon oneleg and then the other, lifting his eyebrows almost to the roof of hishead to let in his monocle, and lifted them as violently to let it outagain.

"Don't pry, don't pry, dear old Ham," he said testily. "Great Heavensand Moses! Can't a fellow take a desirable flat, with all modernconveniences, in the most fashionable part of the West End, and allthat sort of thing, without exciting the voice of scandal, dear oldthing? I'm surprised at you, really I am, Ham. I am, Ham," herepeated. "That sounds good," he said, brightening up. "Am Ham!"

"But what is the scheme?" persisted Hamilton.

"A bargain, a bargain, dear old officer," said Bones, hurriedly, andproceeded to the next business.

That next business included the rejection of several very promisingoffers which had arrived from different directors of companies, andpeople. Bones was known as a financier. People who wanted otherpeople to put money into things invariably left Bones to the last, because they liked trying the hard things first. The inventor andpatentee of the reaping machine that could be worked by the farmer inhis study, by means of push keys, was sure, sooner or later, to meet aman who scratched his chin and said:

"Hard luck, but why don't you try that man Tibbetts? He's got anoffice somewhere around. You'll find it in the telephone book. He'sgot more money than he knows what to do with, and your invention is thevery thing he'd finance."

As a rule, it was the very thing that Bones did not finance.

Companies that required ten thousand pounds for the extension of theirpremises, and the fulfilment of the orders which were certain to comenext year, drafted through their secretaries the most wonderfulletters, offering Bones a seat on their board, or even two seats, inexchange for his autograph on the south-east corner of a cheque. Theseletters usually began somehow like this:

"At a moment when the eyes of the world are turned upon Great Britain, and when her commercial supremacy is threatened, it behoves us all toincrease production…" And usually there was some reference to "thepatriotic duty of capital."

There was a time when these appeals to his better nature would havemoved Bones to amazing extravagance, but happily that time was beforehe had any money to speak about.

For Bones was growing in wisdom and in wiliness as the days passed.Going through the pile of correspondence, he came upon a letter whichhe read thoughtfully, and then read again before he reached to thetelephone and called a number. In the City of London there was abusiness-like agency which supplied him with a great deal of usefulinformation, and it was to these gentlemen that he addressed his query: "Who are Messrs. Seepidge & Soomes?"

He waited for some time with the receiver at his ear, a far-away lookin his eyes, and then the reply came:

"A little firm of printers run by a rascal named Seepidge, who has beentwice bankrupt and is now insolvent. His firm has been visited by thepolice for illegal printing several times, and the firm is in such alow condition that it has a job to pay its wages bill."

"Thank you," said Bones. "Thank you, dear old commercial guardian.

What is the business worth?"

"It's worth your while to keep away from it," said the humorous reply, and Bones hung up the receiver.

"Ham, old dear," he said, and Hamilton looked up. "Suppose," saidBones, stretching out his legs and fixing his monocle, "suppose, myjolly old accountant and partner, you were offered a business which wasworth" – he paused – "which was worth your while keeping away fromit – that's a pretty good line, don't you think, old literary critic?"

"A very good line," said Hamilton calmly; "but you have rather aloud-speaking telephone, and I think I have heard the phrase before."

"Oh, have you?" said Bones by no means abashed. "Still, it's a verygood line. And suppose you were offered this printing business forfifteen thousand pounds, what would you say?"

"It depends on who was present," said Ham, "and where I was. Forexample, if I were in the gorgeous drawing-room of your wonderful flat,in the splendid presence of your lovely lady wife to be – "

Bones rose and wagged his finger.

"Is nothing sacred to you, dear old Ham?" he choked. "Are the mosttender emotions, dear old thing, which have ever been experienced byany human being – "

"Oh, shut up," said Hamilton, "and let's hear about this financialproblem of yours."

Bones was ruffled, and blinked, and it was some time before he couldbring himself back to sordid matters of business.

"Well, suppose this jolly old brigand offered you his perfectly beastlybusiness for fifteen thousand pounds, what would you do?"

"Send for the police," said Hamilton.

"Would you now?" said Bones, as if the idea struck him for the firsttime. "I never have sent for the police you know, and I've had simplyterrible offers put up to me."

"Or put it in the waste-paper basket," said Hamilton, and then insurprise: "Why the dickens are you asking all these questions?"

"Why am I asking all these questions?" repeated Bones. "Because, oldthing, I have a hump."

Hamilton raised incredulous eyebrows.

"I have what the Americans call a hump."

"A hump?" said Hamilton, puzzled. "Oh, you mean a 'hunch.'"

"Hump or hunch, it's all the same," said Bones airily. "But I've gotit."

"What exactly is your hunch?"

"There's something behind this," said Bones, tapping a finger solemnlyon the desk. "There's a scheme behind this – there's a swindle – there'sa ramp. Nobody imagines for one moment that a man of my reputationcould be taken in by a barefaced swindle of this character. I think Ihave established in the City of London something of a tradition," hesaid.

"You have," agreed Hamilton. "You're supposed to be the luckiest devilthat ever walked up Broad Street."

"I never walk up Broad Street, anyway," said Bones, annoyed. "It is adetestable street, a naughty old street, and I should ride up it – or,at least, I shall in a day or two."

"Buying a car?" asked Hamilton, interested.

"I'll tell you about that later," said Bones evasively, and went on:

"Now, putting two and two together, you know the conclusion I'vereached?"

"Four?" suggested Hamilton.

Bones, with a shrug ended the conversation then and there, and carriedhis correspondence to the outer office, knocking, as was his wont, until his stenographer gave him permission to enter. He shut thedoor – always a ceremony – behind him and tiptoed toward her.

Marguerite Whitland took her mind from the letter she was writing, andgave her full attention to her employer.

"May I sit down, dear young typewriter?" said Bones humbly.

"Of course you can sit down, or stand up, or do anything you like inthe office. Really," she said, with a laugh, "really, Mr. Tibbetts, Idon't know whether you're serious sometimes."

"I'm serious all the time, dear old flicker of keyboards," said Bones, seating himself deferentially, and at a respectful distance.

She waited for him to begin, but he was strangely embarrassed even forhim.

"Miss Marguerite," he began at last a little huskily, "the jolly oldpoet is born and not – "

"Oh, have you brought them?" she asked eagerly, and held out her hand.

"Do show me, please!"

Bones shook his head.

"No, I have not brought them," he said. "In fact, I can't bring themyet."

She was disappointed, and showed it.

"You've promised me for a week I should see them."

"Awful stuff, awful stuff!" murmured Bones disparagingly. "Simplyterrible tripe!"

"Tripe?" she said, puzzled.

"I mean naughty rubbish and all that sort of thing."

"Oh, but I'm sure it's good," she said. "You wouldn't talk about yourpoems if they weren't good."

"Well," admitted Bones, "I'm not so sure, dear old arbitratorelegantus, to use a Roman expression, I'm not so sure you're not right.One of these days those poems will be given to this wicked old world, and – then you'll see."

"But what are they all about?" she asked for about the twentieth time.

"What are they about?" said Bones slowly and thoughtfully. "They'reabout one thing and another, but mostly about my – er – friends. Ofcourse a jolly old poet like me, or like any other old fellow, likeShakespeare, if you like – to go from the sublime to the ridiculous – hasfits of poetising that mean absolutely nothing. It doesn't follow thatif a poet like Browning or me writes fearfully enthusiastically and allthat sort of thing about a person… No disrespect, you understand, dear old miss."

"Quite," she said, and wondered.

"I take a subject for a verse," said Bones airily, waving his handtoward Throgmorton Street. "A 'bus, a fuss, a tram, a lamb, a hat, acat, a sunset, a little flower growing on the river's brim, and allthat sort of thing – any old subject, dear old miss, that strikes me inthe eye – you understand?"

"Of course I understand," she said readily. "A poet's field isuniversal, and I quite understand that if he writes nice things abouthis friends he doesn't mean it."

"Oh, but doesn't he?" said Bones truculently. "Oh, doesn't he, indeed?

That just shows what a fat lot you know about it, jolly old Miss

Marguerite. When I write a poem about a girl – "

"Oh, I see, they're about girls," said she a little coldly.

"About a girl," said Bones, this time so pointedly that his confusionwas transferred immediately to her.

"Anyway, they don't mean anything," she said bravely.

"My dear young miss" – Bones rose, and his voice trembled as he laid hishand on the typewriter where hers had been a second before – "my dearold miss," he said, jingling with the letters "a" and "e" as though hehad originally put out his hand to touch the keyboard, and was in noway surprised and distressed that the little hand which had coveredthem had been so hastily withdrawn, "I can only tell you – "

"There is your telephone bell," she said hurriedly. "Shall I answerit?" And before Bones could reply she had disappeared.

He went back to his flat that night with his mind made up. He wouldshow her those beautiful verses. He had come to this conclusion manytimes before, but his heart had failed him. But he was growingreckless now. She should see them – priceless verses, written in a mostexpensive book, with the monogram "W.M." stamped in gold upon thecover. And as he footed it briskly up Devonshire Street, he recited:

"O Marguerite, thou lovely flower,I think of thee most every hour,With eyes of grey and eyes of blue,That change with every passing hue,Thy lovely fingers beautifully typing,How sweet and fragrant is thy writing!

He thought he was reciting to himself, but that was not the case.

People turned and watched him, and when he passed the green doorway of

Dr. Harkley Bawkley, the eminent brain specialist, they were visibly disappointed.

He did not unlock the rosewood door of his flat, but rang the silverbell.

He preferred this course. Ali, his Coast servant, in his new livery ofblue and silver, made the opening of the door something only lesspicturesque than the opening of Parliament. This intention may nothave been unconnected with the fact that there were two or three youngladies, and very young at that, on the landing, waiting for the door ofthe opposite flat to open.

Ali opened the door. The lower half of him was blue and silver, theupper half was Oxford shirt and braces, for he had been engaged incleaning the silver.

"What the deuce do you mean by it?" demanded Bones wrathfully."Haven't I given you a good uniform, you blithering jackass? What thedeuce do you mean by opening the door, in front of people, too, dressedlike a – a – dashed naughty boy?"

"Silverous forks require lubrication for evening repast," said Alireproachfully.

Bones stalked on to his study.

It was a lovely study, with a carpet of beautiful blue. It was a studyof which a man might be proud. The hangings were of silk, and thesuite was also of silk, and also of blue silk. He sat down at hisLouis XVI. table, took a virgin pad, and began to write. Theinspiration was upon him, and he worked at top speed.

"I saw a litle bird – a litle bird – a litle bird, floating in the sky,"he wrote. "Ever so high! Its pretty song came down, down to me, andit sounded like your voice the other afternoon at tea, at tea. And inits flite I remembered the night when you came home to me."

He paused at the last, because Marguerite Whitland had never come hometo him, certainly not at night. The proprieties had to be observed, and he changed the last few lines to: "I remember the day when you cameaway to Margate on the sea, on the sea."

He had not seen his book of poems for a week, but there was a blankpage at the end into which the last, and possibly the greatest, mightgo. He pulled the drawer open. It was empty. There was no mistakingthe fact that that had been the drawer in which the poems had reposed, because Bones had a very excellent memory.

He rang the bell and Ali came, his Oxford shirt and braces imperfectlyhidden under a jersey which had seen better days.

"Ali" – and this time Bones spoke rapidly and in Coast Arabic – "in thisdrawer was a beautiful book in which I had written many things."

Ali nodded.

"Master, that I know, for you are a great poet, and I speak yourpraises whenever I go into the café, for Hafiz did not write morebeautifully than you."

"What the dooce," spluttered Bones in English, "do you mean by tellingpeople about me – eh, you scoundrel? What the dooce do you mean by it, you naughty old ebony?"