Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [42]
“There’s nothing mentioned about a deposit,” she said, “and, anyway, I doubt very much whether I could get it back, even on his signature.”
A quarter of an hour later Miss Clara Stegg took up the contract again and read the closely printed clauses very carefully. When she had finished she said:
“I just hate the idea of that fellow making money.”
“You’ve said that before,” said her sister tartly. At six o’clock that evening Bones went home. At nine o’clock he was sitting in his sitting-room in Clarges Street – a wonderful place, though small, of Eastern hangings and subdued lights – when Hamilton burst in upon him; and Bones hastily concealed the poem he was writing and thrust it under his blotting-pad. It was a good poem and going well. It began:
How very sweet
Is Marguerite!
And Bones was, not unreasonably, annoyed at this interruption to his muse.
As to Hamilton, he was looking ill.
“Bones,” said Hamilton quietly, “I’ve had a telegram from my pal in Dundee. Shall I read it?”
“Dear old thing,” said Bones, with an irritated “tut-tut,” “really, dear old creature, at this time of night – your friends in Dundee – really, my dear old boy–”
“Shall I read it?” said Hamilton, with sinister calm.
“By all means, by all means,” said Bones, waving an airy hand and sitting back with resignation written on every line of his countenance.
“Here it is,” said Hamilton. “It begins ‘Urgent.’”
“That means he’s in a devil of a hurry, old thing,” said Bones, nodding.
“And it goes on to say,” said Hamilton, ignoring the interruption, “‘Your purchase at the present price of jute is disastrous. Jute will never again touch the figure at which your friend tendered, Ministry have been trying to find a mug for years to buy their jute, half of which is spoilt by bad warehousing, as I could have told you, and I reckon you have made a loss of exactly half the amount you have paid.’”
Bones had opened his eyes and was sitting up.
“Dear old Job’s comforter,” he said huskily.
“Wait a bit,” said Hamilton, “I haven’t finished yet,” and went on: “‘Strongly advise you cancel your sale in terms of Clause 7 Ministry contract.’ That’s all,” said Hamilton.
“Oh, yes,” said Bones feebly, as he ran his finger inside his collar, “that’s all!”
“What do you think, Bones?” said Hamilton gently.
“Well, dear old cloud on the horizon,” said Bones, clasping his bony knee, “it looks remarkably like serious trouble for B Ones, Esquire. It does indeed. Of course,” he said, “you’re not in this, old Ham. This was a private speculation–”
“Rot!” said Hamilton contemptuously. “You’re never going to try a dirty trick like that on me? Of course I’m in it. If you’re in it, I’m in it.”
Bones opened his mouth to protest, but subsided feebly. He looked at the clock, sighed, and lowered his eyes again.
“I suppose it’s too late to cancel the contract now?”
Bones nodded.
“Twenty-four hours, poor old victim,” he said miserably, “expired at five p.m.”
“So that’s that,” said Hamilton.
Walking across, he tapped his partner on the shoulder.
“Well, Bones, it can’t be helped, and probably our pal in Dundee has taken an extravagant view.”
“Not he,” said Bones, “not he, dear old cheerer. Well, we shall have to cut down expenses, move into a little office, and start again, dear old Hamilton.”
“It won’t be so bad as that.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” admitted Bones.
“But one thing,” he said with sudden energy, “one thing, dear old thing, I’ll never part with. Whatever happens, dear old boy, rain or shine, sun or moon, stars or any old thing like that” – he was growing incoherent – “I will never leave my typewriter, dear old thing. I will never desert her – never, never, never, never, never!”
He turned up in the morning, looking and speaking chirpily. Hamilton, who had spent a restless night, thought he detected signs of similar restlessness in Bones.