Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [55]
Ali opened the door. The lower half of him was blue and silver, the upper half was Oxford shirt and braces, for he had been engaged in cleaning the silver.
“What the deuce do you mean by it?” demanded Bones wrathfully. “Haven’t I given you a good uniform, you blithering jackass? What the deuce do you mean by opening the door, in front of people, too, dressed like a – a – dashed naughty boy?”
“Silverous forks require lubrication for evening repast,” said Ali reproachfully.
Bones stalked on to his study.
It was a lovely study, with a carpet of beautiful blue. It was a study of which a man might be proud. The hangings were of silk, and the suite was also of silk, and also of blue silk. He sat down at his Louis XVI table, took a virgin pad, and began to write. The inspiration was upon him, and he worked at top speed.
“I saw a litle bird – a litle bird – a litle bird, floating in the sky,” he wrote. “Ever so high! Its pretty song came down, down to me, and it sounded like your voice the other afternoon at tea, at tea. And in its flute I remembered the night when you came home to me.”
He paused at the last, because Marguerite Whitland had never come home to him, certainly not at night. The proprieties had to be observed, and he changed the last few lines to: “I remember the day when you came away to Margate on the sea, on the sea.”
He had not seen his book of poems for a week, but there was a blank page at the end into which the last, and possibly the greatest, might go. He pulled the drawer open. It was empty. There was no mistaking the fact that that had been the drawer in which the poems had reposed, because Bones had a very excellent memory.
He rang the bell and Ali came, his Oxford shirt and braces imperfectly hidden under a jersey which had seen better days.
“Ali” – and this time Bones spoke rapidly and in Coast Arabic – “in this drawer was a beautiful book in which I had written many things.”
Ali nodded.
“Master, that I know, for you are a great poet, and I speak your praises whenever I go into the café, for Hafliz did not write more beautifully than you.”
“What the dooce,” spluttered Bones in English, “do you mean by telling people about me – eh, you scoundrel? What the dooce do you mean by it, you naughty old ebony?”
“Master,” said Ali “eulogistic speechification creates admiration in common minds.”
He was so unruffled, so complacent, that Bones, could only look at him in wonder. There was, too, about Ali Mahomet a queer look of guilty satisfaction, as of one who had been surprised in a good act.
“Master,” he said, “it is true that, contrary to modest desires of humble poets, I have offered praises of your literature to unauthorized persons, sojourning in high-class café ‘King’s Arms,’ for my evening refreshment. Also desiring to create pleasant pleasure and surprise, your servant from his own emoluments authorized preparation of said poems in real print work.”
Bones gasped.
“You were going to get my things printed? Oh, you…oh, you…”
Ali was by no means distressed.
“Tomorrow there shall come to you a beautiful book for the master’s surprise and joyousness. I myself will settle account satisfactorily from emoluments accrued.”
Bones could only sit down and helplessly wag his head. Presently he grew calmer. It was a kindly thought, after all. Sooner or later those poems of his must be offered to the appreciation of a larger audience. He saw blind Fate working through his servitor’s act. The matter had been taken out of his hands now.
“What made you do it, you silly old josser?” he asked.
“Master, one gentleman friend suggested or proffered advice, himself being engaged in printery, possessing machines–”
A horrible thought came into Bones’ head.
“What was his name?” he asked.
Ali fumbled in the capacious depths of his trousers pocket and produced a soiled card, which he handed to Bones. Bones read with a groan:
MESSRS