Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [76]
Look for the jolly old sillver linen
For nothings as bad as it seams to be.
It was not good poetry, but the sentiments were sound.
In answer to her second letter (her blessed name was Anita Gonsalez) which came by return of post, Bones was not so fatherly. He was not even brotherly. He was, in fact, skittish. The correspondence proceeded on those lines until there came a black morning in June, and the letter which Bones so eagerly expected did not come. Instead, there arrived a stiff and typewritten document, signed Alfonso Roderique y Trevisa y Gonsalez.
And it demanded the name of Mr Tibbetts’ lawyer, and threatened divorce proceedings and social ruin. There were several enclosures and a PS.
“Already the watching of my wife, interception of letters, etc., etc., by first-class detectives has cost me five hundred pounds (English). Am I to let this matter slide and sacrifice expense I have been put to?”
Bones did not reply. Once he was on the point of confiding in Hamilton, but the fear of ridicule (Mr Gonsalez had sent copies of all his letters) made such a confession impossible.
He left a second and a third letter unanswered, and each was more horrific than the last. So that when, that evening, he brought triumphantly a reasonably accurate copy of the clothing account to his chief, and Hamilton, giving it a grudging approval, said: “You’re leaving at daybreak, Bones – don’t keep the Commissioner waiting as you did the last time,” Bones had that sense of overshadowed joy which is experienced by a man respited from a death sentence.
He took Hamilton aside before he went to his hut, and made a request, and the indignant Captain of Houssas all but kicked him.
“Open your letters? Of course I shan’t open your letters, you silly ass!”
Bones wriggled in his embarassment and confusion. “The fact of it is, dear old officer…a letter from a lady, dear old sir.”
But Hamilton was really annoyed.
A day or two after Sanders and Bones had left, there arrived an intermediate mail-boat which brought little correspondence but a source of considerable trouble.
Hamilton had gone down to the beach to take the mail-bag from one of the ship’s officers, when, to his surprise, the life-ship’s cutter drove its nose into the soft sand and an elegantly dressed gentleman stepped delicately ashore. One glance told Hamilton both the nationality and the character of the visitor.
“Mr Sanders, I presume?” said Senhor Pinto Fernandez, with an expansive smile on his somewhat unprepossessing face.
He had never worked this part of the coast, and it was his faith that he was unknown in the territory.
“You presume too much, my friend,” said Hamilton, eyeing the visitor unfavourably.
“Then you must be Captain Hamilton,” said the unabashed Pinto.
He was dressed in the height of European fashion, wearing a tail coat, striped trousers, white spats, and a grey top hat, which in itself was an offence.
“I am Dom Gonsalez from Funchal.”
“Then you’d better hurry, for your boat’s pulling away,” said Hamilton, but, with a graceful wave of his hand, and a smile which was even more genial, Mr Pinto Fernandez conveyed his intention of remaining.
Though Sanders regarded unauthorised visitors as little less than criminals, there was really nothing to prevent any free citizen of almost any nation from landing on the residency beach. And nobody knew this better than Pinto Fernandez.
“The Commissioner is not here, and I am alone on the station,” said Hamilton. “If there is any information I can give you, I shall be most happy, but I strongly advise you to keep the boat waiting.”
“I am staying,” said Pinto Fernandez decisively. “I am here on a very delicate mission, and one which concerns the honour, if I may use the term–”
“You may,” said Hamilton, as the other paused.
“ – the honour of one who is, perhaps, a dear friend of yours – Lieutenant Tibbetts.”
“The devil it does!” said Hamilton in surprise. “Well, you won’t be able to see Mr Tibbetts either, because he’s in the bush and is unlikely to return for a week.”
“Then I will