Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [47]
“What the devil are you looking at?” asked Hamilton.
“At your boots,” was the surprising reply.
“My boots?” Hamilton pulled them back through the kneehole of the desk and looked at them. “What’s the matter with the boots?”
“Mud-stains, old carelessness,” said Bones tersely. “You’ve come from Twickenham this morning.”
“Of course I’ve come from Twickenham. That’s where I live,” said Hamilton innocently. “I thought you knew that.”
“I should have known it,” said Bones, with great gravity, “even if I hadn’t known it, so to speak. You may have observed, my dear Hamilton, that the jolly old mud of London differs widely – that is to say, is remarkably different. For instance, the mud of Twickenham is different from the mud of Balham. There’s what you might call a subtle difference, dear junior partner, which an unimaginative old rascal like you wouldn’t notice. Now, the mud of Peckham,” said Bones, waving his forefinger, “is distinguished by a certain darkness–”
“Wait a bit,” said Hamilton. “Have you bought a mud business or something?”
“No,” said Bones.
“And yet this conversation seems familiar to me,” mused Hamilton. “Proceed with your argument, good gossip.”
“My argument,” said Bones, “is that you have Twickenham mud on your boots, therefore you come from Twickenham. It is evident that on your way to the station you stopped to buy a newspaper, that something was on your mind, something made you very thoughtful – something on your jolly old conscience, I’ll bet!”
“How do you know that?” asked Hamilton.
“There’s your Times on the table,” said Bones triumphantly, “unopened.”
“Quite true,” said Hamilton; “I bought it just before I came into the office.”
“H’m!” said Bones. “Well, I won’t deceive you, dear old partner. I’ve bought Siker’s.”
Hamilton put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
“Who’s Siker’s?”
“Siker’s Detective Agency,” began Bones, “is known from one end–”
“Oh, I see. Whew!” whistled Hamilton. “You were doing a bit of detecting!”
Bones smirked.
“Got it at once, my dear old person,” he said. “You know my methods–”
Hamilton’s accusing eye met his, and Bones coughed.
“But what on earth do you expect to do with a detective agency, Bones?” asked Hamilton, strolling across and lighting a cigarette. “That’s a type of business there isn’t any big demand for. And how is it going to affect you personally? You don’t want your name associated with that sort of thing.”
Bones explained. It was a property he could “sit on.” Bones had always been looking for such a business. The management was capable of carrying on, and all that Bones need do was to sit tight and draw a dividend.
As to his name, he had found a cunning solution to that difficulty.
“I take it over, by arrangement with the lawyer in the name of ‘Mr Senob,’ and I’ll bet you won’t guess, dear old Ham, how I got that name!”
“It’s ‘Bones’ spelt backwards,” said Hamilton patiently. “You tried that bit of camouflage on me years ago.”
Bones sniffed disappointedly and went on.
For once he was logical, brief in his explanation, and convincing. Yet Hamilton was not altogether convinced. He was waiting for the inevitable “but,” and presently it came.
“But of course I’m not going to leave it entirely alone, old Ham,” said Bones, shrugging his shoulders at the absurdity of such a suggestion. “The business can be doubled if a man with a capable, up-to-date conception of modern crime–”
Hamilton made a hooting noise, derisive and insulting.
“Meaning you?” he said, at the conclusion of his lamentable exhibition.
“Meaning me, Ham, my fat old sceptic,” said Bones gently. “I don’t think, dear old officer, you quite realize just what I know about criminal investigation.”
“You silly ass,” said Hamilton, “detective agencies don’t criminally investigate. That’s done by the real police. Detective agencies are merely employed