Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [18]
“Anyway, you’re not supposed to sleep in the office,” smiled the girl, rising.
Bones pushed open the door for her, bowed as she passed, and followed her. He drew a chair up to the desk, and she sat down without further protest, because she had come to know that his attentions, his extravagant politeness and violent courtesies, signified no more than was apparent – namely, that he was a great cavalier at heart.
“I think you ought to know,” he said gravely, “that an attempt was made this morning to rob me of umpteen pounds.”
“To rob you?” said the startled girl.
“To rob me,” said Bones, with relish. “A dastardly plot, happily frustrated by the ingenuity of the intended victim. I don’t want to boast, dear old miss. Nothing is farther from my thoughts or wishes, but what’s more natural when a fellow is offered a–”
He stopped and frowned.
“Yes?”
“A precious metal refiner’s – That’s rum,” said Bones.
“Rum?” repeated the girl hazily. “What is rum?”
“Of all the rummy old coincidences,” said Bones, with restrained and hollow enthusiasm – “why, only this morning I was reading in Twiddly Bits, a ripping little paper, dear old miss – There’s a column called ‘Things You Ought to Know,’ which is honestly worth the twopence.”
“I know it,” said the girl curiously. “But what did you read?”
“It was an article called ‘Fortunes Made in Old Iron,’” said Bones. “Now, suppose this naughty old refiner – By Jove, it’s an idea!”
He paced the room energetically, changing the aspect of his face with great rapidity, as wandering thoughts crowded in upon him and vast possibilities shook their alluring banners upon the pleasant scene he conjured. Suddenly he pulled himself together, shot out his cuffs, opened and closed all the drawers of his desk as though seeking something – he found it where he had left it, hanging on a peg behind the door, and put it on – and said with great determination and briskness:
“Stivvins’ Wharf, Greenhithe. You will accompany me. Bring your notebook. It is not necessary to bring a typewriter. I will arrange for a taxicab. We can do the journey in two hours.”
“But where are you going?” asked the startled girl.
“To Stivvins’. I am going to look at this place. There is a possibility that certain things have been overlooked. Never lose an opportunity, dear old miss. We magnates make our fortune by never ignoring the little things.”
But still she demurred, being a very sane, intelligent girl, with an imagination which produced no more alluring mental picture than a cold and draughty drive, a colder and draughtier and even more depressing inspection of a ruined factory, and such small matters as a lost lunch.
But Bones was out of the room, in the street, had flung himself upon a hesitant taxi-driver, had bullied and cajoled him to take a monstrous and undreamt-of journey for a man who, by his own admission, had only sufficient petrol to get his taxi home, and when the girl came down she found Bones, with his arm entwined through the open window of the door, giving explicit instructions as to the point on the river where Stivvins’ Wharf was to be found.
2
Bones returned to his office alone. The hour was six-thirty, and he was a very quiet and thoughtful young man. He almost tiptoed into his office, closed and locked the door behind him, and sat at his desk with his head in his hands for the