Bones in London
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Here his eloquence ran dry. She knew him now well enough to be neitherconfused nor annoyed nor alarmed when Bones broke forth into anexposition of his private feelings. Very calmly she returned theconversation to the rails.
"It is a matter which concerns a very dear friend of yours," she saidsuggestively, and Bones nodded and beamed.
"Of course you guessed that," he said admiringly. "You're the jolliestold typewriter that ever lived! I don't suppose any other young womanin London would have – "
"Oh, yes, they would," she said. "You'd already told me. I supposethat you've forgotten it."
"Well, to cut a long story short, dear old Miss Marguerite," saidBones, leaning confidentially on the table and talking down into herupturned lace, "I must find the whereabouts of a certain rascal orrascals, trading or masquerading, knowingly or unknowingly, to the bestof my knowledge and belief, as the – " He stopped and frowned. "Now, what the dickens was the name of that bird?" he said. "Pheasant, partridge, ostrich, bat, flying fish, sparrow – it's something to dowith eggs. What are the eggs you eat?"
"I seldom eat eggs," said the girl quietly, "but when I do they are theeggs of the common domestic fowl."
"It ain't him," said Bones, shaking his head. "No, it's – I've gotit – Plover – the Plover Light Car Company."
The girl made a note on her pad.
"I want you to get the best men in London to search out this Company.If necessary, get two private detectives, or even three. Set them towork at once, and spare no expense. I want to know who's running thecompany – I'd investigate the matter myself, but I'm so fearfullybusy – and where their offices are. Tell the detectives," said Bones, warming to the subject, "to hang around the motor-car shops in the WestEnd. They're bound to hear a word dropped here and there, and – "
"I quite understand," said the girl.
Bones put out his lean paw and solemnly shook the girl's hand.
"If," he said, with a tremble in his voice, "if there's a typewriter inLondon that knows more than you, my jolly old Marguerite, I'll eat myhead."
On which lines he made his exit.
Five minutes later the girl came into the office with a slip of paper.
"The Plover Motor Car Company is registered at 604, GracechurchStreet," she said. "It has a capital of eighty thousand pounds, ofwhich forty thousand pounds is paid up. It has works at Kenwood, inthe north-west of London, and the managing director is Mr. Charles O.Soames."
Bones could only look at her open-mouthed.
"Where on earth did you discover all this surprising information, dearmiss?" he asked, and the girl laughed quietly.
"I can even tell you their telephone number," she said, "because ithappens to be in the Telephone Book. The rest I found in the StockExchange Year Book."
Bones shook his head in silent admiration.
"If there's a typewriter in London – " he began, but she had fled.
An hour later Bones had evolved his magnificent idea. It was an ideaworthy of his big, generous heart and his amazing optimism.
Mr. Charles O. Soames, who sat at a littered table in hisshirt-sleeves, was a man with a big shock of hair and large and heavilydrooping moustache, and a black chin. He smoked a big, heavy pipe, and, at the moment Bones was announced, his busy pencil was callinginto life a new company offering the most amazing prospects to theyoung and wealthy.
He took the card from the hands of his very plain typist, andsuppressed the howl of joy which rose to his throat. For the name ofBones was known in the City of London, and it was the dream of such menas Charles O. Soames that one day they would walk from the office ofMr. Augustus Tibbetts with large parcels of his paper currency undereach arm.
He jumped up from his chair and slipped on a coat, pushed theprospectus he was writing under a heap of documents – one at least ofwhich bore a striking family likeness to a county court writ – andwelcomed his visitor decorously and even profoundly.
"In re Plover Car," said Bones briskly. He prided himself uponcoming to the point with the least possible delay.
The face of Mr. Soames fell.
"Oh, you want to buy a car?" he said. He might have truly said "thecar," but under the circumstances he thought that this would betactless.
"No, dear old company promoter," said Bones, "I do not want to buy yourcar. In fact, you have no cars to sell."
"We've had a lot of labour trouble," said Mr. Soames hurriedly.
"You've no idea of the difficulties in production – what with the
Government holding up supplies – but in a few months – "
"I know all about that," said Bones. "Now, I'm a man of affairs and aman of business."
He said this so definitely that it sounded like a threat.
"I'm putting it to you, as one City of London business person toanother City of London business person, is it possible to make cars atyour factory?"
Mr. Soames rose to the occasion.
"I assure you, Mr. Tibbetts," he said earnestly, "it is possible. Itwants a little more capital than we've been able to raise."
This was the trouble with all Mr. Soames's companies, a long list ofwhich appeared on a brass plate by the side of his door. None of themwere sufficiently capitalised to do anything except to supply him withhis fees as managing director.
Bones produced a dinky little pocket-book from his waistcoat and readhis notes, or, rather, attempted to read his notes. Presently he gaveit up and trusted to his memory.
"You've got forty thousand pounds subscribed to your Company," he said."Now, I'll tell you what I'm willing to do – I will take over yourshares at a price."
Mr. Soames swallowed hard. Here was one of the dreams of his lifecoming true.
"There are four million shares issued," Bones went on, consulting hisnotebook.
"Eh?" said Mr. Soames in a shocked voice.
Bones looked at his book closer.
"Is it four hundred thousand?"
"Forty thousand," said Mr. Soames gently.
"It is a matter of indifference," said Bones. "The point is, will yousell?"
The managing director of the Plover Light Car Company pursed his lips.
"Of course," he said, "the shares are at a premium – not," he addedquickly, "that they are being dealt with on 'Change. We have nottroubled to apply for quotations. But I assure you, my dear sir, theshares are at a premium."
Bones said nothing.
"At a small premium," said Mr. Soames hopefully.
Bones made no reply.
"At a half a crown premium," said Mr. Soames pleadingly.
"At par," said Bones, in his firmest and most business-like tones.
The matter was not settled there and then, because matters are notsettled with such haste in the City of London. Bones went home to hisoffice with a new set of notes, and wired to Hamilton, asking him tocome on the following day.
It was a great scheme that Bones worked out that night, with the aid ofthe sceptical Miss Whitland. His desk was piled high with technicalpublications dealing with the motor-car industry. The fact that he wasbuying the Company in order to rescue a friend's investment passedentirely from his mind in the splendid dream he conjured from hisdubious calculations.
The Plover car should cover the face of the earth. He read an articleon mass production, showing how a celebrated American produced athousand or a hundred thousand cars a day – he wasn't certain which – andhow the car, in various parts, passed along an endless table, betweenlines of expectant workmen, each of whom fixed a nut or unfixed a nut,so that, when the machine finally reached its journey's end, it leftthe table under its own power.
Bones designed a circular table, so that, if any of the workmen forgotto fix a bar or a nut or a wheel, the error could be rectified when thecar came round again. The Plover car should be a household word. Itsfactories should spread over North London, and every year there shouldbe a dinner with Bones in the chair, and a beautiful secretary on hisright, and Bones should make speeches announcing the amount of theprofits which were to be distributed to his thousands of hands in theshape of bonuses.
Hamilton came promptly at ten o'clock, and he came violently. He flewinto the office and banged a paper down on Bones's desk with theenthusiasm of one who had become the sudden possessor of money which hehad not earned.
"Dear old thing, dear old thing," said Bones testily, "remember dearold Dicky Orum – preserve the decencies, dear old Ham. You're not inthe Wild West now, my cheery boy."
"Bones," shouted Hamilton, "you're my mascot! Do you know what hashappened?"
"Lower your voice, lower your voice, dear old friend," protested Bones.
"My typewriter mustn't think I am quarrelling."
"He came last night," said Hamilton, "just as I was going to bed, andknocked me up." He was almost incoherent in his joy. "He offered methree thousand five hundred pounds for my shares, and I took it like ashot."
Bones gaped at him.
"Offered you three thousand five hundred?" he gasped. "Good heavens!
You don't mean to say – "
Consider the tragedy of that moment. Here was Bones, full of greatschemes for establishing a car upon the world's markets, who had in hishead planned extensive works, who saw in his mind's eye vistas of long, white-covered festive boards, and heard the roar of cheering whichgreeted him when he rose to propose continued prosperity to the firm.Consider also that his cheque was on the table before him, already madeout and signed. He was at that moment awaiting the arrival of Mr.Soames.
And then to this picture, tangible or fanciful, add Mr. Charles O.Soames himself, ushered through the door of the outer office andstanding as though stricken to stone at the sight of Bones and Hamiltonin consultation.
"Good morning," said Bones.
Mr. Soames uttered a strangled cry and strode to the centre of theroom, his face working.
"So it was a ramp, was it?" he said. "A swindle, eh? You put this upto get your pal out of the cart?"
"My dear old – " began Bones in a shocked voice.
"I see how it was done. Well, you've had me for three thousand fivehundred, and your pal's lucky. That's all I've got to say. It is thefirst time I've ever been caught; and to be caught by a mug likeyou – "
"Dear old thing, moderate your language," murmured Bones.
Mr. Soames breathed heavily through his nose, thrust his hat on theback of his head, and, without another word, strode from the office, and they heard the door slam behind him. Bones and Hamilton exchangedglances; then Bones picked up the cheque from the desk and slowly toreit up. He seemed to spend his life tearing up expensive cheques.
"What is it, Bones? What the dickens did you do?" asked the puzzled
Hamilton.
"Dear old Ham," said Bones solemnly, "it was a little scheme – just alittle scheme. Sit down, dear old officer," he said, after a solemnpause. "And let this be a warning to you. Don't put your money inindustries, dear old Captain Hamilton. What with the state of thelabour market, and the deuced ingratitude of the working classes, it'spositively heartbreaking – it is, indeed, dear old Ham."
And then and there he changed the whole plan and went out ofindustrials for good.
CHAPTER V
A CINEMA PICTURE
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, called "Bones," made money by sheer luck – hemade more by sheer artistic judgment. That is a fact which an oldfriend sensed a very short time after he had renewed his acquaintancewith his sometime subordinate.
Yet Bones had the curious habit of making money in quite a differentway from that which he planned – as, for example, in the matter of thegreat oil amalgamation. In these days of aeroplane travel, when it isnext to impossible to watch the comings and goings of importantindividuals, or even to get wind of directors' meetings, the City isapt to be a little jumpy, and to respond to wild rumours in a fashionextremely trying to the nerves of conservative brokers.
There were rumours of a fusion of interests between the Franco-PersianOil Company and the Petroleum Consolidated – rumours which set theshares of both concerns jumping up and down like two badly trainedjazzers. The directorate of both companies expressed their surprisethat a credulous public could accept such stories, and both M. Jorris, the emperor of the Franco-Persian block, and George Y. Walters, theprince regent of the "Petco," denied indignantly that any amalgamationwas even dreamt of.
Before these denials came along Bones had plunged into the oil market, making one of the few flutters which stand as interrogation marksagainst his wisdom and foresight.
He did not lose; rather, he was the winner by his adventure. Theextent of his immediate gains he inscribed in his private ledger; hisultimate and bigger balance he entered under a head which had nothingto do with the oil gamble – which was just like Bones, as Hamiltonsubsequently remarked.
Hamilton was staying with Sanders – late Commissioner of a certain groupof Territories – and Bones was the subject of conversation one morningat breakfast.
The third at the table was an exceedingly pretty girl, whom the maid called "Madame," and who opened several letters addressed to "Mrs.
Sanders," but who in days not long past had been known as Patricia
Hamilton.
"Bones is wonderful," said Sanders, "truly wonderful! A man I know inthe City tells me that most of the things he touches turn up trumps.And it isn't luck or chance. Bones is developing a queer businesssense."
Hamilton nodded.
"It is his romantic soul which gets him there," he said. "Bones willnot look at a proposition which hasn't something fantastical behind it.He doesn't know much about business, but he's a regular whale onadventure. I've been studying him for the past month, and I'mbeginning to sense his method. If he sees a logical and happy end tothe romantic side of any new business, he takes it on. He simplycarries the business through on the back of a dream."
The girl looked up from the coffee-pot she was handling.
"Have you made up your mind, dear?"
"About going in with Bones?" Hamilton smiled. "No, not yet. Bones isfrantically insistent, has had a beautiful new Sheraton desk placed inhis office, and says that I'm the influence he wants, but – "
He shook his head.
"I think I understand," said Sanders. "You feel that he is doing itall out of sheer generosity and kindness. That would be like Bones.But isn't there a chance that what he says is true – that he does want acorrective influence?"
"Maybe that is so," said Captain Hamilton doubtfully. "And thenthere's the money. I don't mind investing my little lot, but it wouldworry me to see Bones pretending that all the losses of the firm cameout of his share, and a big slice of the profits going into mine."
"I shouldn't let that worry you," said his sister quietly. "Bones istoo nice-minded to do anything so crude. Of course, your money isnothing compared with Bones's fortune, but why don't you join him onthe understanding that the capital of the Company should be – Howmuch would you put in?
"Four thousand."
"Well, make the capital eight thousand. Bones could always lend the
Company money. Debentures – isn't that the word?"
Sanders smiled in her face.
"You're a remarkable lady," he said. "From where on earth did you getyour ideas on finance?"
She went red.
"I lunched with Bones yesterday," she said. "And here is the post."
"Silence, babbler," said Hamilton. "Before we go any farther, whatabout this matter of partnership you were discussing with Patricia?"
The maid distributed the letters. One was addressed:
"Captin Captian Hamilton, D.S.O."
"From Bones," said Hamilton unnecessarily, and Bones's letter claimedfirst attention. It was a frantic and an ecstatic epistle, heavilyunderlined and exclaimed.
"Dear old old Ham," it ran, "you simply must join me in magnifficantnew sceme sheme plan! Wonderfull prophits profets! The mostextraordiny chance for a fortune…"
"For Heaven's sake, what's this?" asked Hamilton, handing the letteracross to his sister and indicating an illegible line. "It looks like'a bad girl's leg' to me."
"My dear!" said the shocked Mrs. Sanders, and studied the vilecaligraphy. "It certainly does look like that," she admitted, "and – I see! 'Legacy' is the word."
"A bad girl's legacy is the titel of the play story picture" (Bonesnever crossed anything out). "There's a studyo at Tunbridge and twocameras and a fellow awfully nice fellow who understands it. A pot ofmoney the story can be improve improved imensely. Come in it dear oldman —magnifficant chance. See me at office eariliest earilestealiest possible time.
"Thine in art for art sake,
"BONES."
"From which I gather that Bones is taking a header into the cinemabusiness," said Sanders. "What do you say, Hamilton?"
Hamilton thought a while.
"I'll see Bones," he said.
He arrived in Town soon after ten, but Bones had been at his office twohours earlier, for the fever of the new enterprise was upon him, andhis desk was piled high with notes, memoranda, price lists and tradepublications. (Bones, in his fine rage of construction, flew to thetechnical journals as young authors fly to the Thesaurus.)
As Hamilton entered the office, Bones glared up.
"A chair," said the young man peremptorily. "No time to be lost, dearold artist. Time is on the wing, the light is fadin', an' if we wantto put this jolly old country – God bless it! – in the forefront – "
Bones put down his pen and leant back in his chair.
"Ham," he said, "I had a bit of a pow-pow with your sacred and saintedsister, bless her jolly old heart. That's where the idea arose. Areyou on?"
"I'm on," said Hamilton, and there was a moving scene. Bones shook hishands and spoke broken English.
"There's your perfectly twee little desk, dear old officer," he said, pointing to a massive piece of furniture facing his own. "And there'sonly one matter to be settled."
He was obviously uncomfortable, and Hamilton would have reached for hischeque-book, only he knew his Bones much better than to suppose thatsuch a sordid matter as finance could cause his agitation.
"Ham," said Bones, clearing his throat and speaking with an effort,"old comrade of a hundred gallant encounters, and dear old friend – "
"What's the game?" asked Hamilton suspiciously.
"There's no game," said the depressed Bones. "This is a very seriouspiece of business, my jolly old comrade. As my highly respectedpartner, you're entitled to use the office as you like – come in whenyou like, go home when you like. If you have a pain in the tum-tum, dear old friend, just go to bed and trust old Bones to carry on. Useany paper that's going, help yourself to nibs – you'll find there's somebeautiful nibs in that cupboard – in fact, do as you jolly well like; but – "
"But?" repeated Hamilton.
"On one point alone, dear old thing," said Bones miserably, yetheroically, "we do not share."
"What's that?" asked Hamilton, not without curiosity.
"My typewriter is my typewriter," said Bones firmly, and Hamiltonlaughed.
"You silly ass!" he said. "I'm not going to play with your typewriter."
"That's just what I mean," said Bones. "You couldn't have put itbetter, dear old friend. Thank you."
He strode across the room, gripped Hamilton's hand and wrung it.
"Dear old thing, she's too young," he said brokenly. "Hard life …terrible experience… Play with her young affections, dear old thing?No…"
"Who the dickens are you talking about? You said typewriter."
"I said typewriter," agreed Bones gravely. "I am speaking about my – "
A light dawned upon Hamilton.
"You mean your secretary?"
"I mean my secretary," said Bones.
"Good Heavens, Bones!" scoffed Hamilton. "Of course I shan't botherher. She's your private secretary, and naturally I wouldn't think ofgiving her work."
"Or orders," said Bones gently. "That's a point, dear old thing. Isimply couldn't sit here and listen to you giving her orders. I shouldscream. I'm perfectly certain I can trust you, Ham. I know what youare with the girls, but there are times – "
"You know what I am with the girls?" said the wrathful Hamilton. "Whatthe dickens do you know about me, you libellous young devil?"
Bones raised his hand.
"We will not refer to the past," he said meaningly and was soimpressive that Hamilton began to search his mind for some forgottenpeccadillo.
"All that being arranged to our mutual satisfaction, dear old partner,"said Bones brightly, "permit me to introduce you."
He walked to the glass-panelled door leading to the outer office, andknocked discreetly, Hamilton watching him in wonder. He saw himdisappear, closing the door after him. Presently he came out again, following the girl.
"Dear young miss," said Bones in his squeakiest voice, a sure sign ofhis perturbation, "permit me to introduce partner, ancient commander, gallant and painstaking, jolly old Captain Hamilton, D.S.O. – whichstands, young typewriter, for Deuced Satisfactory Officer."
The girl, smiling, shook hands, and Hamilton for the first time lookedher in the face. He had been amazed before by her classic beauty, butnow he saw a greater intelligence than he had expected to find in sopretty a face, and, most pleasing of all, a sense of humour.
"Bones and I are very old friends," he explained.
"Hem!" said Bones severely.
"Bones?" said the girl, puzzled.
"Naturally!" murmured Bones. "Dear old Ham, be decent. You can'texpect an innocent young typewriter to think of her employer as'Bones.'"
"I'm awfully sorry," Hamilton hastened to apologise, "but you see,
Bones and I – "
"Dicky Orum," murmured Bones. "Remember yourself, Ham, old indiscreetone – Mr. Tibbetts. And here's the naughty old picture-taker," he saidin another tone, and rushed to offer an effusive welcome to a smartyoung man with long, black, wavy hair and a face reminiscent, to allstudents who have studied his many pictures, of Louis XV. Strangelyenough, his name was Louis. He was even called Lew.
"Sit down, my dear Mr. Becksteine," said Bones. "Let me introduce youto my partner. Captain Hamilton, D.S.O. – a jolly old comrade-in-armsand all that sort of thing. My lady typewriter you know, and anyway, there's no necessity for your knowing her – I mean," he saidhastily, "she doesn't want to know you, dear old thing. Now, don't bepeevish. Ham, you sit there. Becksteine will sit there. You, youngmiss, will sit near me, ready to take down my notes as they fall frommy ingenious old brain."
In the bustle and confusion the embarrassing moment of Hamilton'sintroduction was forgotten. Bones had a manuscript locked away in thebottom drawer of his desk, and when he had found the key for this, andhad placed the document upon the table, and when he had found certainother papers, and when the girl was seated in a much more comfortablechair – Bones fussed about like an old hen – the proceedings began.
Bones explained.
He had seen the derelict cinema company advertised in a technicaljournal, had been impressed with the amount of the impedimenta whichaccompanied the proprietorship of the syndicate, had been seized with abrilliant idea, bought the property, lock, stock, and barrel, for twothousand pounds, for which sum, as an act of grace, the lateproprietors allowed him to take over the contract of Mr. LewBecksteine, that amiable and gifted producer.
It may be remarked, in passing, that this arrangement was immenselysatisfactory to the syndicate, which was so tied and bound to Mr.Becksteine for the next twelve months that to have cancelled hiscontract would have cost them the greater part of the purchase pricewhich Bones paid.
"This is the story," said Bones impressively. "And, partner Ham, believe me, I've read many, many stories in my life, but never, neverhas one touched me as this has. It's a jolly old tear-bringer, Ham.Even a hardened, wicked old dev – old bird like you would positivelydissolve. You would really, dear old Ham, so don't deny it. You knowyou've got one of the tenderest hearts in the world, you rascal!"
He got up and shook hands with Hamilton, though there was no necessityfor him to move.
"Now, clever old Becksteine thinks that this is going to be a scorcher."
"A winner, a winner," murmured Mr. Becksteine, closing his eyes andshaking his head. He spoke on this occasion very softly, but he couldraise his voice to thrilling heights. "A sure winner, my dear sir. Ihave been in the profession for twenty-seven years, and never in mylife have I read a drama which contains so much heart appeal – "