Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [53]
“Thank you,” said Bones. “Thank you, dear old commercial guardian. What is the business worth?”
“It’s worth your while to keep away from it,” said the humorous reply, and Bones hung up the receiver.
“Ham, old dear,” he said, and Hamilton looked up. “Suppose,” said Bones, stretching out his legs and fixing his monocle, “suppose, my jolly old accountant and partner, you were offered a business which was worth” – he paused – “which was worth your while keeping away from it – that’s a pretty good line, don’t you think, old literary critic?”
“A very good line,” said Hamilton calmly; “but you have rather a loud-speaking telephone, and I think I have heard the phrase before.”
“Oh, have you?” said Bones by no means abashed. “Still, it’s a very good line. And suppose you were offered this printing business for fifteen thousand pounds, what would you say?”
“It depends on who was present,” said Ham, “and where I was. For example, if I were in the gorgeous drawing-room of your wonderful flat, in the splendid presence of your lovely lady wife to be–”
Bones rose and wagged his finger.
“Is nothing sacred to you, dear old Ham?” he choked. “Are the most tender emotions, dear old thing, which have ever been experienced by any human being–”
“Oh, shut up,” said Hamilton, “and let’s hear about this financial problem of yours.”
Bones was ruffled, and blinked, and it was some time before he could bring himself back to sordid matters of business.
“Well, suppose this jolly old brigand offered you his perfectly beastly business for fifteen thousand pounds, what would you do?”
“Send for the police,” said Hamilton.
“Would you now?” said Bones, as if the idea struck him for the first time. “I never have sent for the police you know, and I’ve had simply terrible offers put to me.”
“Or put it in the waste-paper basket,” said Hamilton, and then in surprise: “Why the dickens are you asking all these questions?”
“Why am I asking all these questions?” repeated Bones. “Because, old thing, I have a hump.”
Hamilton raised incredulous eyebrows.
“I have what the Americans call a hump.”
“A hump?” said Hamilton, puzzled. “Oh, you mean a ‘hunch.’”
“Hump or hunch, it’s all the same,” said Bones airily. “But I’ve got it.”
“What exactly is your hunch?”
“There’s something behind this,” said Bones, tapping a finger solemnly on the desk. “There’s a scheme behind this – there’s a swindle – there’s a ramp. Nobody imagines for one moment that a man of my reputation could be taken in by a barefaced swindle of this character. I think I have established in the City of London something of a tradition,” he said.
“You have,” agreed Hamilton. “You’re supposed to be the luckiest devil that ever walked up Broad Street.”
“I never walk up Broad Street, anyway,” said Bones, annoyed. “It is a detestable street, a naughty old street, and I should ride up it – or, at least, I shall in a day or two.”
“Buying a car?” asked Hamilton, interested.
“I’ll tell you about that later,” said Bones evasively, and went on: “Now, putting two and two together, you know the conclusion I’ve reached?”
“Four?” suggested Hamilton.
Bones, with a shrug ended the conversation then and there, and carried his correspondence to the outer office, knocking, as was his wont, until his stenographer gave him permission to enter. He shut the door – always a ceremony – behind him and tiptoed toward her.
Marguerite Whitland took her mind from the letter she was writing, and gave her full attention to her employer.
“May I sit down, dear young typewriter?” said Bones humbly.
“Of course you can sit down, or stand up, or do anything you like in the office. Really,” she said, with a laugh, “really, Mr Tibbetts, I don’t know whether you’re serious sometimes.”
“I’m serious all the time, dear old flicker of keyboards,” said Bones, seating himself deferentially, and at a respectful distance.