Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [51]
Mr Morris turned a pained face to his companion. “Jim,” he said, addressing Mr Webber, “did you ever in all your born days hear a pal put it across another pal like that? After the work we’ve done all these years together, me and Lew – why, you’re like a serpent in the bush, you are really!”
It was a long time, and there was much passing of glasses across a lead-covered bar, before Mr Seepidge could be pacified – the meeting took place in the private bar of “The Bread and Cheese,” Camden Town – but presently he turned from the reproachful into the melancholy stage, explained the bad condition of business, what with the paper bills and wages bills he had to pay, and hinted ominously at bankruptcy.
In truth, the firm of Seepidge was in a bad way. The police had recently raided the premises and nipped in the bud a very promising order for five hundred thousand sweepstake tickets, which were being printed surreptitiously, for Mr Seepidge dealt in what is colloquially known as “snide printing.”
Whether Mr Cresta Morris had indeed swindled his partner of many crimes, and had backed Morning Glory at a remunerative price for his own profit, is a painful question which need not be too closely examined. It is certain that Seepidge was in a bad way, and as Mr Morris told himself with admirable philosophy, even if he had won a packet of money, a thousand or so would not have been sufficient to get Mr Seepidge out of the cart.
“Something has got to be done,” said Mr Cresta Morris briskly.
“Somebody,” corrected the taciturn Webber. “The question is, who?”
“I tell you, boys, I’m in a pretty bad way,” said Seepidge earnestly. “I don’t think, even if I’d backed that winner, I could have got out of trouble. The business is practically in pawn; I’m getting a police inspection once a week. I’ve got a job now which may save my bacon, if I can dodge the ‘splits’ –an order for a million leaflets for a Hamburg lottery house. And I want the money – bad! I owe about three thousand pounds.”
“I know where there’s money for asking,” said Webber, and they looked at him.
His interesting disclosure was not to follow immediately, for they had reached closing-time, and were respectfully ushered into the street.
“Come over to my club,” said Mr Seepidge.
His club was off the Tottenham Court Road, and its membership was artistic. It had changed its name after every raid that had been made upon it, and the fact that the people arrested had described themselves as artists and actresses consolidated the New Napoli Club as one of the artistic institutions of London.
“Now, where’s this money?” asked Seepidge, when they were seated round a little table. “There’s a fellow called Bones–” began Mr Webber.
“Oh, him!” interrupted Mr Morris, in disgust. “Good Heavens! You’re not going to try him again!”
“We’d have got him before if you hadn’t been so clever,” said Webber. “I tell you, he’s rolling in money. He’s just moved into a new flat in Devonshire Street that can’t cost him less than six hundred a year.”
“How do you know this?” asked the interested Morris.
“Well,” confessed Webber, without embarrassment, “I’ve been working solo on him, and I thought I’d be able to pull the job off myself.”
“That’s a bit selfish,” reproached Morris, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect this from you, Webbie.”
“Never mind what you expected,” said Webber, unperturbed. “I tell you I tried it. I’ve been nosing round his place, getting information from his servants, and I’ve learned a lot about him. Mind you,” said Mr Webber, “I’m not quite certain how to use what I know to make money. If I’d known that, I shouldn’t have told you two chaps anything about it. But I’ve got an idea that this chap Bones is a bit sensitive on a certain matter, and Cully Tring, who’s forgotten more about human men than I ever knew, told me that, if you can get a mug on his sensitive spot, you can bleed him to death. Now, three heads are better than one, and I think, if we get together we