Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [40]
“With all the pleasure in life,” said Bones.
He picked up his long plumed pen and splashed his characteristic signature in the space indicated.
And then Miss Marguerite Whitland did a serious thing, an amazingly audacious thing, a thing which filled Bones’ heart with horror and dismay.
Before Bones could lift the blotting pad, her forefinger had dropped upon the signature and had been drawn across, leaving nothing more than an indecipherable smudge.
“My dear old typewriter!” gasped Bones. “My dear old miss! Confound it all! Hang it all, I say! Dear old thing!”
“You can leave this picture, madam–”
“Miss,” murmured Bones from force of habit. Even in his agitation he could not resist the temptation to interrupt.
“You can leave this picture, Miss Stegg,” said the girl coolly. “Mr Tibbetts wants to add it to his collection.”
Miss Stegg said nothing.
She had risen to her feet, her eyes fixed on the girl’s face, and, with no word of protest or explanation, she turned and walked swiftly from the office. Hamilton opened the door, noting the temporary suspension of the undulatory motion.
When she had gone, they looked at one another, or, rather, they looked at the girl, who, for her part, was examining the photograph. She took a little knife from the desk before Bones and inserted it into the thick cardboard mount, and ripped off one of the layers of cardboard. And so Bones’ photograph was exposed, shorn of all mounting. But, what was more important, beneath his photograph was a cheque on the Third National Bank, which was a blank cheque and bearing Bones’ undeniable signature in the bottom right-hand corner – the signature was decipherable through the smudge.
Bones stared.
“Most curious thing I’ve ever seen in my life, dear old typewriter,” he said. “Why, that’s the very banking establishment I patronise.”
“I thought it might be,” said the girl.
And then it dawned upon Bones, and he gasped. “Great Moses!” he howled – there is no prettier word for it. “That naughty, naughty, Miss Thinga-me-jig was making me sign a blank cheque! My autograph! My sacred aunt! Autograph on a cheque…”
Bones babbled on as the real villainy of the attempt upon his finances gradually unfolded before his excited vision.
Explanations were to follow. The girl had seen a paragraph warning people against giving their autographs, and the police had even circulated a rough description of two “well-dressed women” who, on one pretext or another, were securing from the wealthy, but the unwise, specimens of their signatures.
“My young and artful typewriter,” said Bones, speaking with emotion, “you have probably saved me from utter ruin, dear old thing. Goodness only knows what might have happened, or where I might have been sleeping tonight, my jolly old salvationist, if your beady little eye hadn’t penetrated like a corkscrew through the back of that naughty old lady’s neck and read her evil intentions.”
“I don’t think it was a matter of my beady eye,” said the girl, without any great enthusiasm for the description “as my memory.”
“I can’t understand it,” said Bones, puzzled. “She came in a beautiful car–”
“Hired for two hours for twenty-five shillings,” said the girl.
“But she was so beautifully dressed. She had a chinchilla coat–”
“Imitation beaver,” said Miss Marguerite Whitland, who had few illusions. “You can get them for fifteen pounds at any of the West End shops.”
It was a very angry Miss Bertha Stegg who made her way in some haste to Pimlico. She shared a first-floor suite with a sister, and she burst unceremoniously into her relative’s presence, and the elder Miss Stegg looked round with some evidence of alarm.
“What’s wrong,” she asked.
She was a tall, bony woman, with a hard, tired face, and lacked most of her sister’s facial charm.
“Turned down,” said Bertha briefly. “I had the thing signed, and then a–” (one omits the description she gave of Miss Marguerite Whitland, which was uncharitable) “smudged the thing with her fingers.”
“She tumbled to it, eh?” said Clara. “Has she put the splits on you?”