Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [46]
Bones went back to his office feeling better. Hamilton left early that afternoon, so that when, just after the girl had said “Good night,” and Bones himself was yawning over an evening paper, and there came a rap at the door of the outer office, he was quite alone.
“Come in!” he yelled, and a young man, dressed in deep mourning, eventually appeared through the door sacred to the use of Miss Marguerite Whitland.
“I’m afraid I’ve come rather late in the day.”
“I’m afraid you have, dear old thing,” said Bones. “Come and sit down, black one. Deepest sympathy and all that sort of thing.”
The young man licked his lips. His age was about twenty-four, and he had the appearance of being a semi-invalid, as, indeed, he was.
“It’s rather late to see you on this matter,” he said, “but your name was only suggested to me about an hour ago.”
Bones nodded. Remember that he was always prepared for a miracle, even at closing time.
“My name is Siker,” said the visitor.
“And a jolly good name, too,” said Bones, dimly conscious of the fact that he had heard this name mentioned before.
“You probably saw the account of my father’s death. It was in this morning’s newspaper, though he died last week,” said Mr Siker.
Bones screwed up his forehead.
“I remember that name,” he said. “Now, let me think. Why, of course – Siker’s Detective Agency.”
It was the young man’s turn to nod.
“That’s right, sir,” he said. “John Siker was my father. I’m his only son.”
Bones waited.
“I’ve heard it said, Mr Tibbetts,” said the young man – “at least, it has been represented to me – that you are on the look-out for likely businesses that show a profit.”
“That’s right,” agreed Bones; “that show me a big profit,” he added.
“Well, Siker’s Detective Agency has made two thousand a year clear for twenty years,” said the young man. “We’ve got one of the best lists of clients in the kingdom, and almost every big businessman in the City is on our list. With a little more attention than my father has been able to give to it for the last two years, there’s a fortune in it.”
Bones was sitting upright now, his eyes shining. The amazing possibilities of such an acquisition were visible to his romantic eye.
“You want to sell it, my poor old Sherlock?” he demanded, then, remembering the part he was called upon to play, shook his head. “No, no, old thing. Deeply sorry and all that sort of thing, but it can’t be done. It’s not my line of business at all – not,” he added, “that I don’t know a jolly sight more about detectivising than a good many of these clever ones. But it’s really not my game. What did you want for it?”
“Well,” said the young man, hesitating, “I thought that three years’ purchase would be a bargain for the man who bought it.”
“Six thousand pounds,” said Bones.
“Yes,” agreed the other. “Of course, I won’t ask you to buy the thing blindfolded. You can put the accounts in the hands of your lawyer or your accountant, and you will find that what I have said is true – that my father took two thousand a year out of his business for years. It’s possible to make it four thousand. And as to running it, there are three men who do all the work – or, rather, one, Hilton, who’s in charge of the office and gives the other fellows their instructions.”
“But why sell it, my sad old improvidence?” said Bones. “Why chuck away two thousand a year for six thousand cash?”
“Because I’m not well enough to carry it on,” said young Mr Siker, after a moment’s hesitation. “And, besides, I can’t be bothered. It interferes with my other profession – I’m a musician.”
“And a jolly good profession, too,” said Bones, shaking hands with him across the table. “I’ll sleep on this. Give me your address and the address of your accountants, and I’ll come over and see you in the morning.”
Hamilton was at his desk the next morning at ten o’clock. Bones did not arrive until eleven, and Bones was monstrously preoccupied.