Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [17]
Bones still shook his head.
“No go, nothin’ doin’. Finish this palaver, dear old Honesty!”
“Anyway, no harm is done,” urged Mr Staines. “I ask you, is there any harm done? You have the option for twenty-four hours. I’ll roll the plans up so that they won’t be in the way. Good morning!”
He was out of the office door before Bones could as much as deliver the preamble to the stern refusal he was preparing.
At three o’clock that afternoon came two visitors. They sent in a card bearing the name of a very important Woking firm of land agents, and they themselves were not without dignity of bearing.
There was a stout gentleman and a thin gentleman, and they tiptoed into the presence of Bones with a hint of reverence which was not displeasing.
“We have come on a rather important matter,” said the thin gentleman. “We understand you have this day purchased Stivvins’ Wharf–”
“Staines had no right to sell it!” burst in the stout man explosively. “A dirty mean trick, after all that he promised us! It is just his way of getting revenge, selling the property to a stranger!”
“Mr Sole” – the thin gentleman’s voice and attitude were eloquent of reproof – “please restrain yourself! My partner is annoyed,” he explained “and not without reason. We offered fifty thousand pounds for Stivvins’, and Staines, in sheer malice, has sold the property – which is virtually necessary to our client – literally behind our backs. Now, Mr Tibbetts, are you prepared to make a little profit and transfer the property to us?”
“But–” began Bones.
“We will give you sixty thousand,” said the explosive man. “Take it or leave it – sixty thousand.”
“But, my dear old Boniface,” protested Bones, “I haven’t bought the property – really and truly I haven’t. Jolly old Staines wanted me to buy it, but I assure you I didn’t.”
The stout man looked at him with glazed eyes, pulled himself together, and suggested huskily: “Perhaps you will buy it – at his price – and transfer it to us?”
“But why? Nothing to do with me, my old estate agent and auctioneer. Buy it yourself. Good afternoon. Good afternoon!”
He ushered them out in a cloud of genial commonplaces.
In the street they looked at one another, and then beckoned Mr Staines, who was waiting on the other side of the road.
“This fellow is either as wide as Broad Street or he’s a babe in arms,” said the explosive man huskily.
“Didn’t he fall?” asked the anxious Staines. “Not noticeably,” said the thin man. “This is your scheme, Jack, and if I’ve dropped four thousand over that wharf, there’s going to be trouble.”
Mr Staines looked very serious.
“Give him the day,” he begged. “I’ll try him tomorrow – I haven’t lost faith in that lad.”
As for Bones, he made an entry in his secret ledger.
“A person called Stains and two perrsons called Sole Bros. Brothers tryed me with the old Fiddle Trick. You take a Fiddel in a Pawn Brokers leave it with him along comes another Felow and pretends its a Stadivarious Stradivarious a valuable Fiddel. 2nd Felow offers to pay fablous sum pawnbroker says I’ll see. When 1st felow comes for his fiddel pawnbroker buys it at fablous sum to sell it to the 2nd felow. But 2nd felow doesn’t turn up.
“Note. – 1st Felow called himself Honest John!! I dout if I dought it.”
Bones finished his entries, locked away his ledger, and crossed the floor to the door of the outer office.
He knocked respectfully, and a voice bade him come in.
It is not usual for the principal of a business to knock respectfully or otherwise on the door of the outer office, but then it is not usual for an outer office to house a secretary of such transcendental qualities, virtue, and beauty as were contained in the person of Miss Marguerite Whitland.
The girl half turned to the door and flashed a smile which was of welcome and reproof.
“Please, Mr Tibbetts,” she pleaded, “do not knock at my door. Don’t you realize that it isn’t done?”
“Dear old