Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [13]
“Here’s the ‘D,’” she pointed out.
Bones spent a strenuous but wholly delightful morning and afternoon. He was halfway home to his chambers in Curzon Street before he realized that he had not fixed the rather important question of salary. He looked forward to another pleasant morning making good that lapse.
It was his habit to remain late at his office at least three nights a week, for Bones was absorbed in his new career.
“Schemes Ltd.” was no meaningless title. Bones had schemes which embraced every field of industrial, philanthropic, and social activity. He had schemes for building houses, and schemes for planting rose trees along all the railway tracks. He had schemes for building motorcars, for founding labour colonies, for harnessing the rise and fall of the tides, he had a scheme for building a theatre where the audience sat on a huge turntable, and, at the close of one act, could be twisted round, with no inconvenience to themselves, to face a stage which has been set behind them. Piqued by a certain strike which had caused him a great deal of inconvenience, he was engaged one night working out a scheme for the provision of municipal taxicabs, and he was so absorbed in his wholly erroneous calculations that for some time he did not hear the angry voices raised outside the door of his private office.
Perhaps it was that that portion of his mind which had been left free to receive impressions was wholly occupied with a scheme – which appeared in no books or records – for raising the wages of his new secretary.
But presently the noise penetrated even to him, and he looked up with a touch of annoyance.
“At this hour of the night!… Goodness gracious…respectable building!”
His disjointed comments were interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, an oath, a crash against his door and a groan, and Bones sprang to the door and threw it open.
As he did so a man who was leaning against it fell in.
“Shut the door, quick!” he gasped, and Bones obeyed.
The visitor who had so rudely irrupted himself was a man of middle age, wearing a coarse pea-jacket and blue jersey of a seaman, his peaked hat covered with dust, as Bones perceived later, when the sound of scurrying footsteps had died away.
The man was gripping his left arm as if in pain, and a thin trickle of red was running down the back of his big hand.
“Sit down, my jolly old mariner,” said Bones anxiously. “What’s the matter with you? What’s the trouble, dear old sea-dog?”
The man looked up at him with a grimace.
“They nearly got it, the swine!” he growled. He rolled up his sleeve and, deftly tying a handkerchief around a red patch, chuckled: “It is only a scratch,” he said. “They’ve been after me for two days, Harry Weatherall and Jim Curtis. But right’s right all the world over. I’ve suffered enough to get what I’ve got – starved on the high seas, and starved on Lomo Island. Is it likely that I’m going to let them share?”
Bones shook his head.
“You sit down, my dear old fellow,” he said sympathetically.
The man thrust his hands laboriously into his inside pocket and pulled out a flat oilskin case. From this he extracted a folded and faded chart.
“I was coming up to see a gentleman in these buildings,” he said, “a gentleman named Tibbetts.”
Bones opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself.
“Me and Jim Curtis and young Harry, we were together in the Serpent Queen – my name’s Dibbs. That’s where we got hold of the yarn about Lomo Island, though we didn’t believe there was anything in it. But when this Dago died–”
“Which Dago?” asked Bones.
“The Dago that knew all about it,” said Mr Dibbs impatiently, “and we come to split up his kit in his mess-bag, I found this.” He shook the oilskin case in Bones’ face. “Well, the first thing I did, when I got to Sydney, was to desert, and I got a chap from Wellington to put up the money to hire a boat to take me to Lomo. We were wrecked on