Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [16]
He knew that blue stood for water, and, twisting his neck, he read “Thames.” He therefore gathered that this was the plan of a property adjacent to the London river.
“You’re a busy man; and I’m a busy man,” said the stentorian man breathlessly. “I’ve just bought this property, and if it doesn’t interest you I’ll eat my hat! My motto is small profits and quick returns. Keep your money at work, and you won’t have to. Do you see what I mean?”
“Dear old hurricane,” said Bones feebly, “this is awfully interesting, and all that sort of thing, but would you be so kind as to explain why and where – why you came in in this perfectly informal manner? Against all the rules of my office, dear old thing, if you don’t mind me snubbing you a bit. You are sure you aren’t hurt?” he asked.
“Not a bit, not a bit!” bellowed the intruder. “Honest John, I am – John Staines. You have heard of me?”
“I have,” said Bones, and the visitor was so surprised that he showed it.
“You have?” he said, not without a hint of incredulity.
“Yes,” said Bones calmly. “Yes, I have just heard you say it, Honest John Staines. Any relation to John o’ Gaunt?”
This made the visitor look up sharply.
“Ha, ha!” he said, his laugh lacking sincerity.
“You’re a bit of a joker, Mr Tibbetts. Now, what do you say to this? This is Stivvins’ Wharf and Warehouse. Came into the market on Saturday, and I bought it on Saturday. The only river frontage which is vacant between Greenwich and Gravesend. Stivvins, precious metal refiner, went broke in the War, as you may have heard. Now, I am a man of few words and admittedly a speculator. I bought this property for fifteen thousand pounds. Show me a profit of five thousand pounds and it’s yours.”
Before Bones could speak, he stopped him with a gesture.
“Let me tell you this: if you like to sit on that property for a month, you’ll make a sheer profit of twenty thousand pounds. You can afford to do it – I can’t. I tell you there isn’t a vacant wharfage between Greenwich and Gravesend, and here you have a warehouse with thirty thousand feet of floor-space, derricks – derrick, named after the hangman of that name: I’ll bet you didn’t know that? – cranes, everything in – Well, it’s not in apple-pie order,” he admitted, “but it won’t take much to make it so. What do you say?”
Bones stared violently.
“Excuse me, old speaker, I was thinking of something else. Do you mind saying that all over again?”
Honest John Staines swallowed something and repeated his proposition.
Bones shook his head violently.
“Nothing doing!” he said. “Wharves and ships – no!”
But Honest John was not the kind that accepts refusal without protest.
“What I’ll do,” said he confidentially. “is this: I’ll leave the matter for twenty-four hours in your hands.”
“No, go, my reliable old wharf-seller,” said Bones. “I never go up the river under any possible circumstances – By Jove, I’ve got an idea!”
He brought his knuckly fist down upon the unoffending desk, and Honest John watched hopefully.
“Now, if – yes, it’s an idea!”
Bones seized paper, and his long-feathered quill squeaked violently.
“That’s it – a thousand members at ten pounds a year, four hundred bedrooms at, say, ten shillings a night – How many is four hundred times ten shillings multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five? Well, let’s say twenty thousand pounds. That’s it! A club!”
“A club?” said Honest John blankly. “A river club. You said Greenhithe – that’s somewhere near Henley, isn’t it?”
Honest John sighed.
“No, sir,” he said gently, “it’s in the other direction – toward the sea.”
Bones dropped his pen and pinched his lip in an effort of memory.
“Is it? Now, where was I thinking about? I know – Maidenhead! Is it near Maidenhead?”
“It’s in the opposite direction from London,” said the perspiring Mr Staines.
“Oh!”
Bones’ interest evaporated.
“No good to me, my old speculator. Wharves! Bah!”
He shook his head violently, and Mr Staines aroused himself.
“I’ll tell