Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [30]
“There’s your perfectly twee little desk, dear old officer,” he said, pointing to a massive piece of furniture facing his own. “And there’s only one matter to be settled.”
He was obviously uncomfortable, and Hamilton would have reached for his cheque book, only he knew his Bones much better than to suppose that such a sordid matter as finance could cause his agitation.
“Ham,” said Bones, clearing his throat and speaking with an effort, “old comrade of a hundred gallant encounters, and dear old friend–”
“What’s the game?” asked Hamilton suspiciously.
“There’s no game,” said the depressed Bones. “This is a very serious piece of business, my jolly old comrade. As my highly respected partner, you’re entitled to use the office as you like – come in when you like, go home when you like. If you have a pain in the tum-tum, dear old friend, just go to bed and trust old Bones to carry on. Use any paper that’s going, help yourself to nibs – you’ll find there’s some beautiful nibs in that cupboard – in fact, do as you jolly well like; but–”
“But?” repeated Hamilton.
“On one point alone, dear old thing,” said Bones miserably, yet heroically, “we do not share.”
“What’s that?” asked Hamilton, not without curiosity.
“My typewriter is my typewriter,” said Bones firmly, and Hamilton laughed.
“You silly ass!” he said. “I’m not going to play with your typewriter.”
“That’s just what I mean,” said Bones. “You couldn’t have put it better, dear old friend. Thank you.”
He strode across the room, gripped Hamilton’s hand and wrung it.
“Dear old thing, she’s too young,” he said brokenly. “Hard life…terrible experience… Play with her young affections, dear old thing? No…”
“Who the dickens are you talking about? You said typewriter.”
“I said typewriter,” agreed Bones gravely. “I am speaking about my–”
A light dawned upon Hamilton.
“You mean your secretary?”
“I mean my secretary,” said Bones.
“Good Heavens, Bones!” scoffed Hamilton. “Of course I shan’t bother her. She’s your private secretary, and naturally I wouldn’t think of giving her work.”
“Or orders,” said Bones gently. “That’s a point, dear old thing. I simply couldn’t sit here and listen to you giving her orders. I should scream. I’m perfectly certain I can trust you, Ham. I know what you are with the girls, but there are times–”
“You know what I am with the girls?” said the wrathful Hamilton. “What the dickens do you know about me, you libellous young devil?”
Bones raised his hand.
“We will not refer to the past,” he said meaningly and was so impressive that Hamilton began to search his mind for some forgotten peccadillo.
“All that being arranged to our mutual satisfaction, dear old partner,” said Bones brightly, “permit me to introduce you.”
He walked to the glass-panelled door leading to the outer office, and knocked discreetly, Hamilton watching him in wonder. He saw him disappear, closing the door after him. Presently he came out again, following the girl.
“Dear young miss,” said Bones in his squeakiest voice, a sure sign of his perturbation, “permit me to introduce partner, ancient commander, gallant and painstaking, jolly old Captain Hamilton, DSO – which stands, young typewriter, for Deuced Satisfactory Officer.”
The girl, smiling, shook hands, and Hamilton for the first time looked her in the face. He had been amazed before by her classic beauty, but now he saw a greater intelligence than he had expected to find in so pretty a face, and, most pleasing of all, a sense of humour.
“Bones and I are very old friends,” he explained.
“Hem!” said Bones severely.
“Bones?” said the girl, puzzled.
“Naturally!” murmured Bones. “Dear old Ham, be decent. You can’t expect an innocent young typewriter to think of her employer as ‘Bones.’”
“I’m awfully sorry,” Hamilton hastened to apologise, “but you see, Bones and I–”
“Dicky Orum,” murmured Bones. “Remember yourself, Ham, old indiscreet one – Mr Tibbetts. And here’s the naughty old picture-taker,” he said in another tone, and rushed to offer an effusive welcome to a smart young man