Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [27]
“You’ve got forty thousand pounds subscribed to your Company,” he said. “Now, I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do – I will take over your shares at a price.”
Mr Soames swallowed hard. Here was one of the dreams of his life coming true.
“There are four million shares issued,” Bones went on, consulting his notebook.
“Eh?” said Mr Soames in a shocked voice. Bones looked at his book closer.
“Is it four hundred thousand?”
“Forty thousand,” said Mr Soames gently.
“It is a matter of indifference,” said Bones.
“The point is, will you sell?”
The managing director of the Plover Light Car Company pursed his lips.
“Of course,” he said, “the shares are at a premium – not,” he added quickly, “that they are being dealt with on ’Change. We have not troubled to apply for quotations. But I assure you, my dear sir, the shares are at a premium.”
Bones said nothing.
“At a small premium,” said Mr Soames hopefully.
Bones made no reply.
“At a half a crown premium,” said Mr Soames pleadingly.
“At par,” said Bones, in his firmest and most business-like tones.
The matter was not settled there and then, because matters are not settled with such haste in the City of London. Bones went home to his office with a new set of notes, and wired to Hamilton, asking him to come on the following day.
It was a great scheme that Bones worked out that night, with the aid of the sceptical Miss Whitland. His desk was piled high with technical publications dealing with the motorcar industry. The fact that he was buying the Company in order to rescue a friend’s investment passed entirely from his mind in the splendid dream he conjured from his dubious calculations.
The Plover car should cover the face of the earth. He read an article on mass production, showing how a celebrated American produced a thousand or a hundred thousand cars a day – he wasn’t certain which – and how the car, in various parts, passed along an endless table, between lines of expectant workmen, each of whom fixed a nut or unfixed a nut, so that, when the machine finally reached its journey’s end, it left the table under its own power.
Bones designed a circular table, so that, if any of the workmen forgot to fix a bar or a nut or a wheel, the error could be rectified when the car came round again. The Plover car should be a house- hold word. Its factories should spread over North London, and every year there should be a dinner with Bones in the chair, and a beautiful secretary on his right, and Bones should make speeches announcing the amount of the profits which were to be distributed to his thousands of hands in the shape of bonuses.
Hamilton came promptly at ten o’clock, and he came violently. He flew into the office and banged a paper down on Bones’ desk with the enthusiasm of one who had become the sudden possessor of money which he had not earned.
“Dear old thing, dear old thing,” said Bones testily, “remember dear old Dicky Orum – preserve the decencies, dear old Ham. You’re not in the Wild West now, my cheery boy.”
“Bones,” shouted Hamilton, “you’re my mascot! Do you know what has happened?”
“Lower your voice, lower your voice, dear old friend,” protested Bones. “My typewriter mustn’t think I am quarrelling.”
“He came last night,” said Hamilton, “just as I was going to bed, and knocked me up.” He was almost incoherent in his joy. “He offered me three thousand five hundred pounds for my shares, and I took it like a shot.”
Bones gaped at him.
“Offered you three thousand five hundred?” he gasped. “Good heavens! You don’t mean to say–”
Consider the tragedy of that moment. Here was Bones, full of great schemes for establishing a car upon the world’s markets, who had in his head planned extensive works, who saw in his mind’s eye vistas of long, white-covered festive boards, and heard the roar of cheering which greeted him when he rose to propose continued prosperity to the firm. Consider also that his cheque was on the table before him, already made out and signed. He was at that moment awaiting the arrival of Mr Soames.
And then to this