Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [49]
Mr Augustus Tibbetts spent three deliciously happy days in reorganizing the business. He purchased from the local gunsmith a number of handcuffs, which were festooned upon the wall behind his desk and secured secretly – since he did not think that the melancholy Mr Hilton would approve – a large cardboard box filled to the brim with adjustable beards of every conceivable hue, from bright scarlet to mouse colour.
He found time to relate to a sceptical Hamilton something of his achievements.
“Wonderful case today, dear old boy,” he said enthusiastically on the third evening. “A naughty old lady has been flirting with a very, very naughty old officer. Husband tremendously annoyed. How that man loves that woman!”
“Which man?” said Hamilton cynically.
“I refer to my client,” said Bones not without dignity.
“Look here, Bones,” said Hamilton with great seriousness, “do you think this is a very nice business you are in? Personally, I think it’s immoral.”
“What do you mean – immoral?” demanded the indignant Bones.
“Prying into other people’s lives,” said Hamilton.
“Lives,” retorted the oracular Bones, “are meant to be pried into, dear old thing. An examination of jolly old motives is essential to scientific progress. I feel I am doing a public duty,” he went on virtuously, “exposing the naughty, chastising the sinful, and all that sort of thing.”
“But, honestly,” said Hamilton persistently, “do you think it’s the game to chase around collecting purely private details about people’s goings on?”
“Certainly,” said Bones firmly, “certainly, dear old thing. It’s a public duty. Never let it be written on the fair pages of Thiggumy that a Tibbetts shrank back when the call of patriotism – all that sort of thing – you know what I mean?”
“I don’t,” said Hamilton.
“Well, you’re a jolly old dense one,” said Bones. “And let me say here and now” – he rammed his bony knucles on the table and withdrew them with an “Ouch!” to suck away the pain – “let me tell you that, as the Latin poet said, ‘Ad What’s-his name, ad Thiggumy.’ ‘Everything human’s frightfully interesting’!”
Bones turned up at his detective office the next morning, full of zeal, and Hilton immediately joined him in his private office.
“Well, we finish one case today, I think,” said Hilton with satisfaction. “It has been very hard trailing him, but I got a good man on the job, and here’s the record.”
He held in his hand a sheaf of papers.
“Very good,” said Bones. “Excellent! I hope we shall bring the malefactor to justice.”
“He’s not exactly a malefactor,” demurred Hilton. “It is a job we were doing for one of our best clients.”
“Excellent, excellent!” murmured Bones. “And well we’ve done it, I’m sure.” He leant back in his chair and half closed his eyes. “Tell me what you have discovered.”
“This man’s a bit of a fool in some ways,” said Hilton.
“Which man – the client?”
“No, the fellow we’ve been trailing.”
“Yes, yes,” said Bones. “Go on.”
“In fact, I wonder that Mr de Vinne bothered about him.”
“De Vinne?” said Bones sitting up. “Harold de Vinne, the moneyed one?”
“That’s him. He’s one of our oldest customers,” said Hilton.
“Indeed,” said Bones, this time without any enthusiasm at all.
“You see, a man did him in the eye,” explained Mr Hilton, “swindled him, and all that sort of thing. Well, I think we have got enough to make this chap look silly.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bones politely. “What have you got?”
“Well, it appears,” said Hilton, “that this chap is madly in love with his typist.”
“Which chap?” said Bones.
“The fellow who did Mr de Vinne in the eye,” replied the patient Mr Hilton. “He used to be an officer on the West Coast of Africa, and was known as Bones. His real name is Tibbetts.”
“Oh yes,” said Bones.
“Well, we’ve found out all about him,” continued Hilton. “He’s got a flat in Jermyn Street, and this girl of his, this typist girl, dines with him. She’s not a bad-looking girl, mind you.”
Bones