Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [65]
On the outskirts of Guildford, Bones was pulled up by a policeman, who took his name because the lights were too bright. On the other side of Guildford he was pulled up by another policeman because he had no light at all. Passing through Kingston, the lamp began to flicker, sending forth brilliant dots and dashes, which continued until they were on Putney Common, where the lamp’s message was answered from a camp of Boy Scouts, one signalman of the troop being dragged from his bed for the purpose, the innocent child standing in his shirt at the call of duty.
“A delightful day,” said Hamilton at parting that night. (It was nearly twelve o’clock.) “I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble with that lamp, Bones. What did you call it?”
“I say, old fellow,” said Bones, ignoring the question, “I hope, when you saw me picking a spider off dear old Miss Marguerite’s shoulder, you didn’t – er – think anything?”
“The only thing I thought was,” said Hamilton, “that I didn’t see the spider.”
“Don’t stickle, dear old partner,” said Bones testily. “It may have been an earwig. Now, as a man of the world, dear old blasé one, do you think I’d compromise an innocent typewriter? Do you think I ought to–” He paused, but his voice was eager.
“That,” said Hamilton, “is purely a question for the lady. Now, what are you going to do with this lamp. Are you going to float it?”
Bones scowled at the glaring headlight. “That depends whether the naughty old things float, Ham,” he said venomously. “If you think they will, my old eye-witness, how about tyin’ a couple of bricks round ’em before I chuck ’em in. What?”
THE BRANCH LINE
Not all the investments of Bones paid dividends. Some cost him money. Some cost him time. Some – and they were few – cost him both.
Somewhere in a marine store in London lie the battered wrecks of what were once electro-plated motor-lamps of a peculiar and, to Bones, sinister design. They were all that was left of a great commercial scheme, based upon the flotation of a lamp that never went out.
On a day of crisis in Bones’ life they had gone out, which was bad. They had come on at an inconvenient moment, which was worse, since they had revealed him and his secretary in tender attitudes. And Bones had gone gaily to right the wrong, and had been received with cold politeness by the lady concerned.
There was a week of gloom, when Bones adopted towards his invaluable assistant the air and manner of one who was in the last stages of a wasting disease. Miss Marguerite Whitland never came into Bones’ office without finding him sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, except once, when she came in without knocking and Bones hadn’t the time to strike that picturesque attitude.
Indeed, throughout that week she never saw him but he was swaying, or standing with his hand before his eyes, or clutching on to the edge of a chair, or walking with feeble footsteps; and she never spoke to him but he replied with a tired, wan smile, until she became seriously alarmed, thinking his brain was affected, and consulted Captain Hamilton, his partner.
“Look here, Bones, you miserable devil,” said Hamilton, “you’re scaring that poor girl. What the dickens do you mean by it?”
“Scaring who?” said Bones, obviously pleased. “Am I really? Is she fearfully cut up, dear old thing?”
“She is,” said Hamilton truthfully. “She thinks you’re going dotty.”
“Vulgarity, vulgarity, dear old officer,” said Bones, much annoyed.
“I told her you were often like that,” Hamilton went on wilfully. “I said that you were a little worse, if anything, after your last love affair–”
“Heavens!” nearly screamed Bones. “You didn’t tell her anything about your lovely old sister Patricia?”
“I did not,” said Hamilton. “I merely pointed out to her the fact that when you were in love you were not to be distinguished from one whom is in the grip of measles.”
“Then you’re a naughty old fellow,” said Bones. “You’re a wicked old rascal. I’m