Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [67]
“Dear old right honourable,” said Bones, “may I just have a few words in re Chinese coal?”
The right honourable gentleman listened, or appeared to listen. Then Mr Parkinson Chenney smiled a recognition to another great man, and moved off, leaving Bones talking.
Bones that night was the guest of a Mr Harold Pyeburt, a City acquaintance – almost, it seemed, a disinterested City acquaintance. When Bones joined his host, Mr Pyeburt patted him on the back.
“My dear Tibbetts,” he said in admiration, “you’ve made a hit with Chenney. What the dickens did you talk about?”
“Oh, coal,” said Bones vaguely.
He wasn’t quite certain what he had talked about, only he knew that in his mind at dinner there had dawned a great idea. Was Mr Pyeburt a thought-reader? Possibly he was. Or possibly some chance word of his had planted the seed which was now germinating so favourably.
“Chenney is a man to know,” he said. “He’s one of the most powerful fellows in the Cabinet. Get right with him, and you can have a knighthood for the asking.”
Bones blushed.
“A knighthood, dear old broker’s man?” he said, with an elaborate shrug. “No use to me, my rare old athlete. Lord Bones – Lord Tibbetts I mean – may sound beastly good, but what good is it, eh? Answer me that.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr Pyeburt. “It may be nothing to you, but your wife–”
“Haven’t a wife, haven’t a wife,” said Bones rapidly, “haven’t a wife!”
“Oh, well, then,” said Mr Pyeburt, “it isn’t an attractive proposition to you, and, after all, you needn’t take a knighthood – which, by the way, doesn’t carry the title of lordship – unless you want to.
“I’ve often thought,” he said, screwing up his forehead, as though in the process of profound cogitation, “that one of these days some lucky fellow will take the Lynhaven Railway off Chenney’s hands and earn his everlasting gratitude.”
“Lynhaven? Where’s that?” asked Bones. “Is there a railway?”
Mr Pyeburt nodded.
“Come out on to the balcony, and I’ll tell you about it,” said Pyeburt; and Bones, who always wanted telling about things, and could no more resist information than a dipsomaniac could refuse drink, followed obediently.
It appeared that Mr Parkinson Chenney’s father was a rich but eccentric man, who had a grudge against a certain popular seaside resort for some obscure reason, and had initiated a movement to found a rival town. So he had started Lynhaven, and had built houses and villas and beautiful assembly rooms; and then, to complete the independence of Lynhaven, he had connected that town with the main traffic line by railway, which he built across eight miles of marshland. By all the rules of the game, no man can create successfully in a spirit of vengeance, and Lynhaven should have been a failure. It was, indeed, a great success, and repaid Mr Chenney, Senior, handsomely.
But the railway, it seemed, was a failure, because the rival town had certain foreshore rights, and had employed those to lay a tramway from their hustling centre; and as the rival town was on the main line, the majority of visitors preferred going by the foreshore route in preference to the roundabout branch line route, which was somewhat handicapped by the fact that this, too, connected with the branch line at Tolness, a little town which had done great work in the War, but which did not attract the tourist in days of peace.
These were the facts about the Lynhaven line, not as they were set forth by Mr Pyeburt – who took a much more optimistic view of the possibilities of the railway than did its detractors – but as they really were.
“It’s a fine line, beautifully laid and ballasted,” said Mr Pyeburt, shaking his head with melancholy admiration. “All that it wants behind it is a mind. At present it’s neglected; the freights and passenger fares are too high, the rolling-stock wants replacing, but the locomotive stock is in most excellent condition.”
“Does he want to sell it?” asked the interested Bones, and Mr Pyeburt pursed his lips.
“It is extremely doubtful,” he said carefully, “but I think he might be approached.