BONES AND THE WHARFINGERS
I
The kite wheeling invisible in the blue heavens, the vulture appearing
mysteriously from nowhere in the track of the staggering buck, possess
qualities which are shared by certain favoured human beings. No
newspaper announced the fact that there had arrived in the City of
London a young man tremendously wealthy and as tremendously
inexperienced.
There were no meetings of organized robber gangs, where masked men laid
nefarious plans and plots, but the instinct which called the kite to
his quarry and the carrion to the kill brought many strangers--who were
equally strange to Bones and to one another--to the beautiful office
which he had fitted for himself for the better furtherance of his
business.
One day a respectable man brought to Mr. Tibbetts a plan of a
warehouse. He came like a gale of wind, almost before Bones had
digested the name on the card which announced his existence and
identity.
His visitor was red-faced and big, and had need to use a handkerchief
to mop his brow and neck at intervals of every few minutes. His
geniality was overpowering.
Before the startled Bones could ask his business, he had put his hat
upon one chair, hooked his umbrella on another, and was unrolling, with
that professional tremblement of hand peculiar to all who unroll large
stiff sheets of paper, a large coloured plan, a greater portion of
which was taken up by the River Thames, as Bones saw at a glance.
He knew that blue stood for water, and, twisting his neck, he read
"Thames." He therefore gathered that this was the plan of a property
adjacent to the London river.
"You're a busy man; and I'm a busy man," said the stentorian man
breathlessly. "I've just bought this property, and if it doesn't
interest you I'll eat my hat! My motto is small profits and quick
returns. Keep your money at work, and you won't have to. Do you see
what I mean?"
"Dear old hurricane," said Bones feebly, "this is awfully interesting,
and all that sort of thing, but would you be so kind as to explain why
and where--why you came in in this perfectly informal manner? Against
all the rules of my office, dear old thing, if you don't mind me
snubbing you a bit. You are sure you aren't hurt?" he asked.
"Not a bit, not a bit!" bellowed the intruder. "Honest John, I
am--John Staines. You have heard of me?"
"I have," said Bones, and the visitor was so surprised that he showed
it.
"You have?" he said, not without a hint of incredulity.
"Yes," said Bones calmly. "Yes, I have just heard you say it, Honest
John Staines. Any relation to John o' Gaunt?"
This made the visitor look up sharply.
"Ha, ha!" he said, his laugh lacking sincerity. "You're a bit of a
joker, Mr. Tibbetts. Now, what do you say to this? This is Stivvins'
Wharf and Warehouse. Came into the market on Saturday, and I bought it
on Saturday. The only river frontage which is vacant between Greenwich
and Gravesend. Stivvins, precious metal refiner, went broke in the
War, as you may have heard. Now, I am a man of few words and
admittedly a speculator. I bought this property for fifteen thousand
pounds. Show me a profit of five thousand pounds and it's yours."
Before Bones could speak, he stopped him with a gesture.
"Let me tell you this: if you like to sit on that property for a month,
you'll make a sheer profit of twenty thousand pounds. You can afford
to do it--I can't. I tell you there isn't a vacant wharfage between
Greenwich and Gravesend, and here you have a warehouse with thirty
thousand feet of floor-space, derricks--derrick, named after the
hangman of that name: I'll bet you didn't know that?--cranes,
everything in---- Well, it's not in apple-pie order," he admitted,
"but it won't take much to make it so. What do you say?"
Bones started violently.
"Excuse me, old speaker, I was thinking of something else. Do you mind
saying that all over again?"
Honest John Staines swallowed something and repeated his proposition.
Bones shook his head violently.
"Nothing doing!" he said. "Wharves and ships--_no!_"
But Honest John was not the kind that accepts refusal without protest.
"What I'll do," said he confidentially, "is this: I'll leave the matter
for twenty-four hours in your hands."
"No, go, my reliable old wharf-seller," said Bones. "I never go up the
river under any possible circumstances---- By Jove, I've got an idea!"
He brought his knuckly fist down upon the unoffending desk, and Honest
John watched hopefully.
"Now, if--yes, it's an idea!"
Bones seized paper, and his long-feathered quill squeaked violently.
"That's it--a thousand members at ten pounds a year, four hundred
bedrooms at, say, ten shillings a night---- How many is four hundred
times ten shillings multiplied by three hundred and sixty-five? Well,
let's say twenty thousand pounds. That's it! A club!"
"A club?" said Honest John blankly.
"A river club. You said Greenhithe--that's somewhere near Henley,
isn't it?"
Honest John sighed.
"No, sir," he said gently, "it's in the other direction--toward the
sea."
Bones dropped his pen and pinched his lip in an effort of memory.
"Is it? Now, where was I thinking about? I know--Maidenhead! Is it
near Maidenhead?"
"It's in the opposite direction from London," said the perspiring Mr.
Staines.
"Oh!"
Bones's interest evaporated.
"No good to me, my old speculator. Wharves! Bah!"
He shook his head violently, and Mr. Staines aroused himself.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Tibbetts," he said simply; "I'll leave
the plans with you. I'm going down into the country for a night.
Think it over. I'll call to-morrow afternoon."
Bones still shook his head.
"No go, nothin' doin'. Finish this palaver, dear old Honesty!"
"Anyway, no harm is done," urged Mr. Staines. "I ask you, is there any
harm done? You have the option for twenty-four hours. I'll roll the
plans up so that they won't be in the way. Good morning!"
He was out of the office door before Bones could as much as deliver the
preamble to the stern refusal he was preparing.
At three o'clock that afternoon came two visitors. They sent in a card
bearing the name of a very important Woking firm of land agents, and
they themselves were not without dignity of bearing.
There was a stout gentleman and a thin gentleman, and they tiptoed into
the presence of Bones with a hint of reverence which was not
displeasing.
"We have come on a rather important matter," said the thin gentleman.
"We understand you have this day purchased Stivvins' Wharf----"
"Staines had no right to sell it?" burst in the stout man explosively.
"A dirty mean trick, after all that he promised us! It is just his way
of getting revenge, selling the property to a stranger!"
"Mr. Sole"--the thin gentleman's voice and attitude were eloquent of
reproof--"_please_ restrain yourself! My partner is annoyed," he
explained "and not without reason. We offered fifty thousand pounds
for Stivvins', and Staines, in sheer malice, has sold the
property--which is virtually necessary to our client--literally behind
our backs. Now, Mr. Tibbetts, are you prepared to make a little profit
and transfer the property to us?"
"But----" began Bones.
"We will give you sixty thousand," said the explosive man. "Take it or
leave it--sixty thousand."
"But, my dear old Boniface," protested Bones, "I haven't bought the
property--really and truly I haven't. Jolly old Staines wanted me to
buy it, but I assure you I didn't."
The stout man looked at him with glazed eyes, pulled himself together,
and suggested huskily:
"Perhaps you will buy it--at his price--and transfer it to us?"
"But why? Nothing to do with me, my old estate agent and auctioneer.
Buy it yourself. Good afternoon. _Good_ afternoon!"
He ushered them out in a cloud of genial commonplaces.
In the street they looked at one another, and then beckoned Mr.
Staines, who was waiting on the other side of the road.
"This fellow is either as wide as Broad Street or he's a babe in arms,"
said the explosive man huskily.
"Didn't he fall?" asked the anxious Staines.
"Not noticeably," said the thin man. "This is your scheme, Jack, and
if I've dropped four thousand over that wharf, there's going to be
trouble."
Mr. Staines looked very serious.
"Give him the day," he begged. "I'll try him to-morrow--I haven't lost
faith in that lad."
As for Bones, he made an entry in his secret ledger.
"A person called Stains and two perrsons called Sole Bros. Brothers
tryed me with the old Fiddle Trick. You take a Fiddel in a Pawn
Brokers leave it with him along comes another Felow and pretends its a
Stadivarious Stradivarious a valuable Fiddel. 2nd Felow offers to pay
fablous sum pawnbroker says I'll see. When 1st felow comes for his
fiddel pawnbroker buys it at fablous sum to sell it to the 2nd felow.
But 2nd felow doesn't turn up.
"_Note_.--1st Felow called himself Honest John!! I dout if I dought
it."
Bones finished his entries, locked away his ledger, and crossed the
floor to the door of the outer office.
He knocked respectfully, and a voice bade him come in.
It is not usual for the principal of a business to knock respectfully
or otherwise on the door of the outer office, but then it is not usual
for an outer office to house a secretary of such transcendental
qualities, virtue, and beauty as were contained in the person of Miss
Marguerite Whitland.
The girl half turned to the door and flashed a smile which was of
welcome and reproof.
"Please, Mr. Tibbetts," she pleaded, "do not knock at my door. Don't
you realize that it isn't done?"
"Dear old Marguerite," said Bones solemnly, "a new era has dawned in
the City. As jolly old Confusicus says: 'The moving finger writes, and
that's all about it.' Will you deign to honour me with your presence
in my sanctorum, and may I again beg of you"--he leant his bony
knuckles on the ornate desk which he had provided for her, and looked
down upon her soberly--"may I again ask you, dear old miss, to let me
change offices? It's a little thing, dear old miss. I'm never, never
goin' to ask you to dinner again, but this is another matter. I am out
of my element in such a place as----" He waved his hand disparagingly
towards his sanctum. "I'm a rough old adventurer, used to sleeping in
the snow--hardships--I can sleep anywhere."
"Anyway, you're not supposed to sleep in the office," smiled the girl,
rising.
Bones pushed open the door for her, bowed as she passed, and followed
her. He drew a chair up to the desk, and she sat down without further
protest, because she had come to know that his attentions, his
extravagant politeness and violent courtesies, signified no more than
was apparent--namely, that he was a great cavalier at heart.
"I think you ought to know," he said gravely, "that an attempt was made
this morning to rob me of umpteen pounds."
"To rob you?" said the startled girl.
"To rob me," said Bones, with relish. "A dastardly plot, happily
frustrated by the ingenuity of the intended victim. I don't want to
boast, dear old miss. Nothing is farther from my thoughts or wishes,
but what's more natural when a fellow is offered a----"
He stopped and frowned.
"Yes?"
"A precious metal refiner's---- That's rum," said Bones.
"Rum?" repeated the girl hazily. "What is rum?"
"Of all the rummy old coincidences," said Bones, with restrained and
hollow enthusiasm--"why, only this morning I was reading in _Twiddly
Bits_, a ripping little paper, dear old miss---- There's a column
called 'Things You Ought to Know,' which is honestly worth the
twopence."
"I know it," said the girl curiously. "But what did you read?"
"It was an article called 'Fortunes Made in Old Iron,'" said Bones.
"Now, suppose this naughty old refiner---- By Jove, it's an idea!"
He paced the room energetically, changing the aspect of his face with
great rapidity, as wandering thoughts crowded in upon him and vast
possibilities shook their alluring banners upon the pleasant scene he
conjured. Suddenly he pulled himself together, shot out his cuffs,
opened and closed all the drawers of his desk as though seeking
something--he found it where he had left it, hanging on a peg behind
the door, and put it on--and said with great determination and
briskness:
"Stivvins' Wharf, Greenhithe. You will accompany me. Bring your
note-book. It is not necessary to bring a typewriter. I will arrange
for a taxicab. We can do the journey in two hours."
"But where are you going?" asked the startled girl.
"To Stivvins'. I am going to look at this place. There is a
possibility that certain things have been overlooked. Never lose an
opportunity, dear old miss. We magnates make our fortune by never
ignoring the little things."
But still she demurred, being a very sane, intelligent girl, with an
imagination which produced no more alluring mental picture than a cold
and draughty drive, a colder and draughtier and even more depressing
inspection of a ruined factory, and such small matters as a lost lunch.
But Bones was out of the room, in the street, had flung himself upon a
hesitant taxi-driver, had bullied and cajoled him to take a monstrous
and undreamt-of journey for a man who, by his own admission, had only
sufficient petrol to get his taxi home, and when the girl came down she
found Bones, with his arm entwined through the open window of the door,
giving explicit instructions as to the point on the river where
Stivvins' Wharf was to be found.
II
Bones returned to his office alone. The hour was six-thirty, and he
was a very quiet and thoughtful young man. He almost tiptoed into his
office, closed and locked the door behind him, and sat at his desk with
his head in his hands for the greater part of half an hour.
Then he unrolled the plan of the wharf, hoping that his memory had not
played him false. Happily it had not. On the bottom right-hand corner
Mr. Staines had written his address! "Stamford Hotel, Blackfriars."
Bones pulled a telegraph form from his stationery rack and indited an
urgent wire.
Mr. Staines, at the moment of receiving that telegram, was sitting at a
small round table in the bar of The Stamford, listening in silence to
certain opinions which were being expressed by his two companions in
arms and partners in misfortune, the same opinions relating in a most
disparaging manner to the genius, the foresight, and the constructive
ability of one who in his exuberant moments described himself as Honest
John.
The explosive gentleman had just concluded a fanciful picture of what
would happen to Honest John if he came into competition with the
average Bermondsey child of tender years.
Honest John took the telegram and opened it. He read it and gasped.
He stood up and walked to the light, and read it again, then returned,
his eyes shining, his face slightly flushed.
"You're clever, ain't you?" he asked. "You're wise--I don't think!
Look at this!"
He handed the telegram to the nearest of his companions, who was the
tall, thin, and non-explosive partner, and he in turn passed it without
a word to his more choleric companion.
"You don't mean to say he's going to buy it?"
"That's what it says, doesn't it?" said the triumphant Mr. Staines.
"It's a catch," said the explosive man suspiciously.
"Not on your life," replied the scornful Staines. "Where does the
catch come in? We've done nothing he could catch us for?"
"Let's have a look at that telegram again," said the thin man, and,
having read it in a dazed way, remarked: "He'll wait for you at the
office until nine. Well, Jack, nip up and fix that deal. Take the
transfers with you. Close it and take his cheque. Take anything he'll
give you, and get a special clearance in the morning, and, anyway, the
business is straight."
Honest John breathed heavily through his nose and staggered from the
bar, and the suspicious glances of the barman were, for once,
unjustified, for Mr. Staines was labouring under acute emotions.
He found Bones sitting at his desk, a very silent, taciturn Bones, who
greeted him with a nod.
"Sit down," said Bones. "I'll take that property. Here's my cheque."
With trembling fingers Mr. Staines prepared the transfers. It was he
who scoured the office corridors to discover two agitated char-ladies
who were prepared to witness his signature for a consideration.
He folded the cheque for twenty thousand pounds reverently and put it
into his pocket, and was back again at the Stamford Hotel so quickly
that his companions could not believe their eyes.
"Well, this is the rummiest go I have ever known," said the explosive
man profoundly. "You don't think he expects us to call in the morning
and buy it back, do you?"
Staines shook his head.
"I know he doesn't," he said grimly. "In fact, he as good as told me
that that business of buying a property back was a fake."
The thin man whistled.
"The devil he did! Then what made him buy it?"
"He's been there. He mentioned he had seen the property," said
Staines. And then, as an idea occurred to them all simultaneously,
they looked at one another.
The stout Mr. Sole pulled a big watch from his pocket.
"There's a caretaker at Stivvins', isn't there?" he said. "Let's go
down and see what has happened."
Stivvins' Wharf was difficult of approach by night. It lay off the
main Woolwich Road, at the back of another block of factories, and to
reach its dilapidated entrance gates involved an adventurous march
through a number of miniature shell craters. Night, however, was
merciful in that it hid the desolation which is called Stivvins' from
the fastidious eye of man. Mr. Sole, who was not aesthetic and by no
means poetical, admitted that Stivvins' gave him the hump.
It was ten o'clock by the time they had reached the wharf, and
half-past ten before their hammering on the gate aroused the attention
of the night-watchman--who was also the day-watchman--who occupied what
had been in former days the weigh-house, which he had converted into a
weatherproof lodging.
"Hullo!" he said huskily. "I was asleep."
He recognized Mr. Sole, and led the way to his little bunk-house.
"Look here, Tester," said Sole, who had appointed the man, "did a young
swell come down here to-day?"
"He did," said Mr. Tester, "and a young lady. They gave Mr. Staines's
name, and asked to be showed round, and," he added, "I showed 'em
round."
"Well, what happened?" asked Staines.
"Well," said the man, "I took 'em in the factory, in the big building,
and then this young fellow asked to see the place where the metal was
kept."
"What metal?" asked three voices at one and the same time.
"That's what I asked," said Mr. Tester, with satisfaction. "I told 'em
Stivvins dealt with all kinds of metal, so the gent says: 'What about
gold?'"
"What about gold?" repeated Mr. Staines thoughtfully. "And what did
you say?"
"Well, as a matter of fact," explained Tester, "I happen to know this
place, living in the neighbourhood, and I used to work here about eight
years ago, so I took 'em down to the vault."
"To the vault?" said Mr. Staines. "I didn't know there was a vault."
"It's under the main office. You must have seen the place," said
Tester. "There's a big steel door with a key in it--at least, there
was a key in it, but this young fellow took it away with him."
Staines gripped his nearest companion in sin, and demanded huskily:
"Did they find anything in--in the vault?"
"Blessed if I know!" said the cheerful Tester, never dreaming that he
was falling very short of the faith which at that moment, and only at
that moment, had been reposed in him. "They just went in. I've never
been inside the place myself."
"And you stood outside, like a--a----"
"Blinking image!" said the explosive companion.
"You stood outside like a blinking image, and didn't attempt to go in,
and see what they were looking at?" said Mr. Staines heatedly. "How
long were they there?"
"About ten minutes."
"And then they came out?"
Tester nodded.
"Did they bring anything out with them?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Tester emphatically.
"Did this fellow--what's his name?--look surprised or upset?" persisted
the cross-examining Honest John.
"He was a bit upset, now you come to mention it, agitated like, yes,"
said Tester, reviewing the circumstances in a new light. "His 'and
was, so to speak, shaking."
"Merciful Moses!" This pious ejaculation was from Mr. Staines. "He
took away the key, you say. And what are you supposed to be here for?"
asked Mr. Staines violently. "You allow this fellow to come and take
our property away. Where is the place?"
Tester led the way across the littered yard, explaining en route that
he was fed up, and why he was fed up, and what they could do to fill
the vacancy which would undoubtedly occur the next day, and where they
could go to, so far as he was concerned, and so, unlocking one rusty
lock after another, passed through dark and desolate offices, full of
squeaks and scampers, down a short flight of stone steps to a most
uncompromising steel door at which they could only gaze.
III
Bones was at his office early the following rooming, but he was not
earlier than Mr. Staines, who literally followed him into his office
and slammed down a slip of paper under his astonished and gloomy eye.
"Hey, hey, what's this?" said Bones irritably. "What the dooce is
this, my wicked old fiddle fellow?"
"Your cheque," said Mr. Staines firmly. "And I'll trouble you for the
key of our strong-room."
"The key of your strong-room?" repeated Bones. "Didn't I buy this
property?"
"You did and you didn't. To cut a long story short, Mr. Tibbetts, I
have decided not to sell--in fact, I find that I have done an illegal
thing in selling at all."
Bones shrugged his shoulders. Remember that he had slept, or
half-slept, for some nine hours, and possibly his views had undergone a
change. What he would have done is problematical, because at that
moment the radiant Miss Whitland passed into her office, and Bones's
acute ear heard the snap of her door.
"One moment," he said gruffly, "one moment, old Honesty."
He strode through the door which separated the private from the public
portion of his suite, and Mr. Staines listened. He listened at varying
distances from the door, and in his last position it would have
required the most delicate of scientific instruments to measure the
distance between his ear and the keyhole. He heard nothing save the
wail of a Bones distraught, and the firm "No's" of a self-possessed
female.
Then, after a heart-breaking silence Bones strode out, and Mr. Staines
did a rapid sprint, so that he might be found standing in an attitude
of indifference and thought near the desk. The lips of Bones were
tight and compressed. He opened the drawer, pulled out the transfers,
tossed them across to Mr. Staines.
"Key," said Bones, chucking it down after the document.
He picked up his cheque and tore it into twenty pieces.
"That's all," said Bones, and Mr. Staines beat a tremulous retreat.
When the man had gone, Bones returned to the girl who was sitting at
her table before her typewriter. It was observable that her lips were
compressed too.
"Young Miss Whitland," said Bones, and his voice was hoarser than ever,
"never, never in my life will I ever forgive myself!"
"Oh, please, Mr. Tibbetts," said the girl a little wearily, "haven't I
told you that I have forgiven you? And I am sure you had no horrid
thought in your mind, and that you just acted impulsively."
Bones bowed his head, at once a sign of agreement and a crushed spirit.
"The fact remains, dear old miss," he said brokenly, "that I did kiss
you in that beastly old private vault. I don't know what made me do
it," he gulped, "but I did it. Believe me, young miss, that spot was
sacred. I wanted to buy the building to preserve it for all time, so
that no naughty old foot should tread upon that hallowed ground. You
think that's nonsense!"
"Mr. Tibbetts."
"Nonsense, I say, romantic and all that sort of rot." Bones threw out
his arms. "I must agree with you. But, believe me, Stivvins' Wharf is
hallowed ground, and I deeply regret that you would not let me buy it
and turn it over to the jolly old Public Trustee or one of those
johnnies.... You do forgive me?"
She laughed up in his face, and then Bones laughed, and they laughed
together.