DETECTIVE BONES
Mr. Harold de Vinne was a large man, who dwelt at the dead end of a
massive cigar.
He was big and broad-shouldered, and automatically jovial. Between the
hours of 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. he had earned the name of "good fellow,"
which reputation he did his best to destroy between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.
He was one of four stout fellows who controlled companies of imposing
stability--the kind of companies that have such items in their balance
sheets as "Sundry Debtors, £107,402 12_s_. 7_d_." People feel, on
reading such airy lines, that the company's assets are of such
magnitude that the sundry debtors are only included as a careless
afterthought.
Mr. de Vinne was so rich that he looked upon any money which wasn't his
as an illegal possession; and when Mr. Augustus Tibbetts, on an
occasion, stepped in and robbed him of £17,500, Mr. de Vinne's family
doctor was hastily summoned (figuratively speaking; literally, he had
no family, and swore by certain patent medicines), and straw was spread
before the temple of his mind.
A certain Captain Hamilton, late of H.M. Houssas, but now a partner in
the firm of Tibbetts & Hamilton, Ltd., after a short, sharp bout of
malaria, went off to Brighton to recuperate, and to get the whizzy
noises out of his head. To him arrived on a morning a special courier
in the shape of one Ali, an indubitable Karo boy, but reputedly pure
Arab, and a _haj_, moreover, entitled to the green scarf of the
veritable pilgrimage to Mecca.
Ali was the body-servant of Augustus Tibbetts, called by his intimates
"Bones," and he was arrayed in the costume which restaurateurs insist
is the everyday kit of a true Easterner--especially such Easterners as
serve after-dinner coffee.
Hamilton, not in the best of tempers--malaria leaves you that way--and
dazzled by this apparition in scarlet and gold, blinked.
"O man," he said testily in the Arabic of the Coast, "why do you
walk-in-the world dressed like a so-and-so?" (You can be very rude in
Arabic especially in Coast Arabic garnished with certain Swahili
phrases.)
"Sir," said Ali, "these garmentures are expressly designated by
Tibbetti. Embellishments of oriferous metal give wealthiness of
appearance to subject, but attract juvenile research and investigation."
Hamilton glared through the window on to the front, where a small but
representative gathering of the juvenile research committee waited
patiently for the reappearance of one whom in their romantic fashion
they had termed "The Rajah of Bong."
Hamilton took the letter and opened it. It was, of course, from Bones,
and was extremely urgent. Thus it went:
"DEAR OLD PART.,--Ham I've had an offer of Browns you know the big big
Boot shop several boot shop all over London London. Old Browns going
out going out of the bisiness Sindicate trying to buy so I niped in for
105,000 pounds got lock stock and barrill baril. Sindicate awfuly sore
awfuley sore. All well here except poor young typewrighter cut her
finger finger sliceing bread doctor says not dangerus."
Hamilton breathed quickly. He gathered that Bones had bought a
boot-shop--even a collection of boot-shops--and he was conscious of the
horrible fact that Bones knew nothing about boots.
He groaned. He was always groaning, he thought, and seldom with good
reason.
Bones was in a buying mood. A week before he had bought _The Weekly
Sunspot_, which was "A Satirical Weekly Review of Human Affairs." The
possibilities of that purchase had made Hamilton go hot and moisty. He
had gone home one evening, leaving Bones dictating a leading article
which was a violent attack on the Government of the day, and had come
in the following morning to discover that the paper had been resold at
a thousand pounds profit to the owners of a rival journal which
described itself as "A Weekly Symposium of Thought and Fancy."
But Boots ... and £105,000 ...!
This was serious. Yet there was no occasion for groaning or doubt or
apprehension; for, even whilst Hamilton was reading the letter, Bones
was shaking his head violently at Mr. de Vinne, of the Phit-Phine Shoe
Syndicate, who had offered him £15,000 profit on the turn-over. And at
the identical moment that Hamilton was buying his ticket for London,
Bones was solemnly shaking hands with the Secretary of the Phit-Phine
Shoe Syndicate (Mr. de Vinne having violently, even apoplectically,
refused to meet Bones) with one hand, and holding in the other a cheque
which represented a profit of £17,500. It was one of Bones's big
deals, and reduced Hamilton to a condition of blind confidence in his
partner.... Nevertheless....
A week later, Bones, reading his morning paper, reached and passed,
without receiving any very violent impression, the information that Mr.
John Siker, the well-known private detective, had died at his residence
at Clapham Park. Bones read the item without interest. He was looking
for bargains--an early morning practice of his because the buying fever
was still upon him.
Hamilton, sitting at his desk, endeavouring to balance the firm's
accounts from a paying-in book and a cheque-book, the counterfoils of
which were only occasionally filled in, heard the staccato "Swindle!
... Swindle!" and knew that Bones had reached the pages whereon were
displayed the prospectuses of new companies.
He had the firm conviction that all new companies were founded on
frauds and floated by criminals. The offer of seven per cent.
debenture stock moved him to sardonic laughter. The certificates of
eminent chartered accountants brought a meaning little smile to his
lips, followed by the perfectly libellous statement that "These people
would do anything for money, dear old thing."
Presently Bones threw down the paper.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing," he said, and walked to the door of the
outer office, knocked upon it, and disappeared into the sanctum of the
lady whom Bones never referred to except in terms of the deepest
respect as his "young typewriter!"
"Young miss," he said, pausing deferentially at the door, "may I come
in?"
She smiled up at him--a proceeding which was generally sufficient to
throw Bones into a pitiful condition of incoherence. But this morning
it had only the effect of making him close his eyes as though to shut
out a vision too radiant to be borne.
"Aren't you well, Mr. Tibbetts?" she asked quickly and anxiously.
"It's nothing, dear old miss," said Bones, passing a weary and
hypocritical hand across his brow. "Just a fit of the jolly old
staggers. The fact is, I've been keeping late hours--in fact, dear
young miss," he said huskily, "I have been engaged in a wicked old
pursuit--yes, positively naughty...."
"Oh, Mr. Tibbetts"--she was truly shocked--"I'm awfully sorry! You
really shouldn't drink--you're so young...."
"Drink!" said the hurt and astounded Bones. "Dear old slanderer!
Poetry!"
He had written sufficient poetry to make a volume--poems which abounded
in such rhymes as "Marguerite," "Dainty feet," "Sweet," "Hard to beat,"
and the like. But this she did not know.
By this time the girl was not only accustomed to these periodical
embarrassments of Bones, but had acquired the knack of switching the
conversation to the main line of business.
"There's a letter from Mr. de Vinne," she said.
Bones rubbed his nose and said, "Oh!"
Mr. de Vinne was on his mind rather than on his conscience, for Mr. de
Vinne was very angry with Bones, who, as he had said, had "niped" in
and had cost Mr. de Vinne £17,500.
"It is not a nice letter," suggested the girl.
"Let me see, dear young head-turner," said Bones firmly.
The letter called him "Sir," and went on to speak of the writer's years
of experience as a merchant of the City of London, in all of which,
said the writer, he had never heard of conduct approaching in infamy
that of Augustus Tibbetts, Esquire.
"It has been brought to my recollection" (wrote the infuriated Mr. de
Vinne) "that on the day you made your purchase of Browns, I dined at
the Kingsway Restaurant, and that you occupied a table immediately
behind me. I can only suppose that you overheard a _perfectly
confidential_" (heavily underscored) "conversation between myself and a
fellow-director, and utilised the information thus _disgracefully_
acquired."
"Never talk at meals, dear old typewriter," murmured Bones. "Awfully
bad for your jolly young tum--for your indigestion, dear young
keytapper."
The letter went on to express the writer's intention of taking
vengeance for the "dishonest squeeze" of which he had been the victim.
Bones looked at his secretary anxiously. The censure of Mr. de Vinne
affected him not at all. The possible disapproval of this lady filled
him with dire apprehension.
"It's not a nice letter," said the girl. "Do you want me to answer it?"
"Do I want you to answer it?" repeated Bones, taking courage. "Of
course I want you to answer it, my dear old paper-stainer and
decorator. Take these words."
He paced the room with a terrible frown.
"Dear old thing," he began.
"Do you want me to say 'Dear old thing'?" asked the girl.
"No, perhaps not, perhaps not," said Bones. "Start it like this: 'My
dear peevish one----"
The girl hesitated and then wrote down: "Dear Sir."
"'You are just showing your naughty temper,'" dictated Bones, and added
unnecessarily, "t-e-m-p-e-r."
It was a practice of his to spell simple words.
"You are just showing your naughty temper," he went on, "and I simply
refuse to have anything more to do with you. You're being simply
disgusting. Need I say more?" added Bones.
The girl wrote: "Dear Sir,--No useful purpose would be served either in
replying to your letter of to-day's date, or re-opening the discussion
on the circumstances of which you complain."
Bones went back to his office feeling better. Hamilton left early that
afternoon, so that when, just after the girl had said "Good night," and
Bones himself was yawning over an evening paper, and there came a rap
at the door of the outer office, he was quite alone.
"Come in!" he yelled, and a young man, dressed in deep mourning,
eventually appeared through the door sacred to the use of Miss
Marguerite Whitland.
"I'm afraid I've come rather late in the day."
"I'm afraid you have, dear old thing," said Bones. "Come and sit down,
black one. Deepest sympathy and all that sort of thing."
The young man licked his lips. His age was about twenty-four, and he
had the appearance of being a semi-invalid, as, indeed, he was.
"It's rather late to see you on this matter," he said, "but your name
was only suggested to me about an hour ago."
Bones nodded. Remember that he was always prepared for a miracle, even
at closing time.
"My name is Siker," said the visitor.
"And a jolly good name, too," said Bones, dimly conscious of the fact
that he had heard this name mentioned before.
"You probably saw the account of my father's death. It was in this
morning's newspaper, though he died last week," said Mr. Siker.
Bones screwed up his forehead.
"I remember that name," he said. "Now, let me think. Why, of
course--Siker's Detective Agency."
It was the young man's turn to nod.
"That's right, sir," he said. "John Siker was my father. I'm his only
son."
Bones waited.
"I've heard it said, Mr. Tibbetts," said the young man--"at least, it
has been represented to me--that you are on the look-out for likely
businesses that show a profit."
"That's right," agreed Bones; "that show me a big profit," he added.
"Well, Siker's Detective Agency has made two thousand a year clear for
twenty years," said the young man. "We've got one of the best lists of
clients in the kingdom, and almost every big business man in the City
is on our list. With a little more attention than my father has been
able to give to it for the last two years, there's a fortune in it."
Bones was sitting upright now, his eyes shining. The amazing
possibilities of such an acquisition were visible to his romantic eye.
"You want to sell it, my poor old Sherlock?" he demanded, then,
remembering the part he was called upon to play, shook his head. "No,
no, old thing. Deeply sorry and all that sort of thing, but it can't
be done. It's not my line of business at all--not," he added, "that I
don't know a jolly sight more about detectivising than a good many of
these clever ones. But it's really not my game. What did you want for
it?"
"Well," said the young man, hesitating, "I thought that three years'
purchase would be a bargain for the man who bought it."
"Six thousand pounds," said Bones.
"Yes," agreed the other. "Of course, I won't ask you to buy the thing
blindfolded. You can put the accounts in the hands of your lawyer or
your accountant, and you will find that what I have said is true--that
my father took two thousand a year out of his business for years. It's
possible to make it four thousand. And as to running it, there are
three men who do all the work--or, rather, one, Hilton, who's in charge
of the office and gives the other fellows their instructions."
"But why sell it, my sad old improvidence?" said Bones. "Why chuck
away two thousand a year for six thousand cash?"
"Because I'm not well enough to carry it on," said young Mr. Siker,
after a moment's hesitation. "And, besides, I can't be bothered. It
interferes, with my other profession--I'm a musician."
"And a jolly good profession, too," said Bones, shaking hands with him
across the table. "I'll sleep on this. Give me your address and the
address of your accountants, and I'll come over and see you in the
morning."
Hamilton was at his desk the next morning at ten o'clock. Bones did
not arrive until eleven, and Bones was monstrously preoccupied. When
Hamilton saluted him with a cheery "Good morning," Bones returned a
grave and non-committal nod. Hamilton went on with his work until he
became conscious that somebody was staring at him, and, looking up,
caught Bones in the act.
"What the devil are you looking at?" asked Hamilton.
"At your boots," was the surprising reply.
"My boots?" Hamilton pulled them back through the kneehole of the desk
and looked at them. "What's the matter with the boots?"
"Mud-stains, old carelessness," said Bones tersely. "You've come from
Twickenham this morning."
"Of course I've come from Twickenham. That's where I live," said
Hamilton innocently. "I thought you knew that."
"I should have known it," said Bones, with great gravity, "even if I
hadn't known it, so to speak. You may have observed, my dear Hamilton,
that the jolly old mud of London differs widely--that is to say, is
remarkably different. For instance, the mud of Twickenham is different
from the mud of Balham. There's what you might call a subtle
difference, dear junior partner, which an unimaginative old rascal like
you wouldn't notice. Now, the mud of Peckham," said Bones, waving his
forefinger, "is distinguished by a certain darkness----"
"Wait a bit," said Hamilton. "Have you bought a mud business or
something?"
"No," said Bones.
"And yet this conversation seems familiar to me," mused Hamilton.
"Proceed with your argument, good gossip."
"My argument," said Bones, "is that you have Twickenham mud on your
boots, therefore you come from Twickenham. It is evident that on your
way to the station you stopped to buy a newspaper, that something was
on your mind, something made you very thoughtful--something on your
jolly old conscience, I'll bet!"
"How do you know that?" asked Hamilton.
"There's your _Times_ on the table," said Bones triumphantly,
"unopened."
"Quite true," said Hamilton; "I bought it just before I came into the
office."
"H'm!" said Bones. "Well, I won't deceive you, dear old partner. I've
bought Siker's."
Hamilton put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
"Who's Siker's?"
"Siker's Detective Agency," began Bones, "is known from one end----"
"Oh, I see. Whew!" whistled Hamilton. "You were doing a bit of
detecting!"
Bones smirked.
"Got it at once, my dear old person," he said. "You know my
methods----"
Hamilton's accusing eye met his, and Bones coughed.
"But what on earth do you expect to do with a detective agency, Bones?"
asked Hamilton, strolling across and lighting a cigarette. "That's a
type of business there isn't any big demand for. And how is it going
to affect you personally? You don't want your name associated with
that sort of thing."
Bones explained. It was a property he could "sit on." Bones had
always been looking for such a business. The management was capable of
carrying on, and all that Bones need do was to sit tight and draw a
dividend.
As to his name, he had found a cunning solution to that difficulty.
"I take it over, by arrangement with the lawyer in the name of 'Mr.
Senob,' and I'll bet you won't guess, dear old Ham, how I got that
name!"
"It's 'Bones' spelt backwards," said Hamilton patiently. "You tried
that bit of camouflage on me years ago."
Bones sniffed disappointedly and went on.
For once he was logical, brief in his explanation, and convincing. Yet
Hamilton was not altogether convinced. He was waiting for the
inevitable "but," and presently it came.
"But of course I'm not going to leave it entirely alone, old Ham," said
Bones, shrugging his shoulders at the absurdity of such a suggestion.
"The business can be doubled if a man with a capable, up-to-date
conception of modern crime----"
Hamilton made a hooting noise, derisive and insulting.
"Meaning you?" he said, at the conclusion of his lamentable exhibition.
"Meaning me, Ham, my fat old sceptic," said Bones gently. "I don't
think, dear old officer, you quite realise just what I know about
criminal investigation."
"You silly ass," said Hamilton, "detective agencies don't criminally
investigate. That's done by the real police. Detective agencies are
merely employed by suspicious wives to follow their husbands."
"Exactly," said Bones, nodding. "And that is just where I come in.
You see, I did a little bit of work last night--rather a pretty little
bit of work." He took a slip of paper from his pocket. "You dined at
the Criterion at half-past eight with a tall, fair lady--a jolly old
dear she was too, old boy, and I congratulate you most heartily--named
Vera."
Hamilton's face went red.
"You left the restaurant at ten past nine, and entered cab No. 667432.
Am I right, sir?"
"Do you mean to tell me," exploded Hamilton, "that you were watching
me?"
Bones nodded.
"I picked you up, old thing, outside the Piccadilly Tube. I shadowed
you to the theatre. I followed you home. You got a taxi--No.
297431--and you were an awful long time before you got out when you
reached the lady's destination--an awful long time," said Bones
emphatically. "What you could find to talk about after the cab had
drawn up at the dear old ancestral home of Vera----"
"Bones," said Hamilton awfully. "I think you've gone far enough."
"I thought you'd gone a bit too far, dear old thing, I did really,"
said Bones, shaking his head reprovingly. "I watched you very
carefully."
He danced, with a little squeak of joy, into the office of his
beautiful secretary, leaving a very red and a pardonably annoyed
Hamilton breathing heavily.
Bones went to the office of Siker's Detective Agency early the next
morning. He went, it may be remarked in passing, though these details
can only be interesting to the psychologist, wearing the darkest of his
dark suits and a large black wideawake hat. There was a certain
furtiveness in his movements between the taxicab and the entrance of
the office, which might suggest to anybody who had taken the trouble to
observe him that he was an escaping bank-robber.
Siker's had spacious offices and a small staff. Only Hilton, the
manager, and a clerk were in when Bones presented his card. He was
immediately conducted by Mr. Hilton to a very plain inner office,
surrounded with narrow shelves, which in turn were occupied by
innumerable little deed boxes.
Mr. Hilton was a sober-faced man of fifty-five, sallow and unhappy.
His tone was funereal and deliberate, his eyes steady and remorseless.
"Sit down, Mr. Senob," he said hollowly. "I have a message from the
lawyers, and I presume I am welcoming to this establishment the new
proprietor who has taken the place of my revered chief, whom I have
faithfully served for twenty-nine years."
Bones closed his eyes and listened as to an address of welcome.
"Personally," said Mr. Hilton, "I think that the sale of this business
is a great mistake on the part of the Siker family. The Sikers have
been detectives for four generations," he said with a relish of an
antiquarian. "George Siker first started work as an investigator in
1814 in this identical building. For thirty-five years he conducted
Siker's Confidential Bureau, and was succeeded by his son James the
grandfather of the late John George for twenty-three years----"
"Quite so, quite so," said Bones. "Poor old George! Well, well, we
can't live for ever, dear old chief of staff. Now, the thing is, how
to improve this jolly old business."
He looked around the dingy apartment without enthusiasm.
Bones had visitors that morning, many visitors. They were not, as he
had anticipated, veiled ladies or cloaked dukes, nor did they pour into
his discreet ears the stories of misspent lives.
There was Mr. Carlo Borker, of Borker's Confidential Enquiry Bureau, a
gross man in a top hat, who complained bitterly that old man Siker had
practically and to all intents and purposes offered him an option of
the business years ago.
It was a one-sided conversation.
"I says to him: 'Siker, if you ever want to sell out' ... He says to
me: 'Borker, my boy, you've only to offer me a reasonable figure' ...
I says to him: 'Now, Siker, don't ever let anybody else get this
business....'"
Then there was ex-Inspector Stellingworth, of Stellingworth's Detective
Corps, a gloomy man, who painted in the blackest colours the
difficulties and tragedies of private investigation, yet seemed willing
enough to assume the burden of Siker's Agency, and give Bones a
thousand pounds profit on his transaction.
Mr. Augustus Tibbetts spent three deliciously happy days in
reorganising the business. He purchased from the local gunsmith a
number of handcuffs, which were festooned upon the wall behind his desk
and secured secretly--since he did not think that the melancholy Mr.
Hilton would approve--a large cardboard box filled to the brim with
adjustable beards of every conceivable hue, from bright scarlet to
mouse colour.
He found time to relate to a sceptical Hamilton something of his
achievements.
"Wonderful case to-day, dear old boy," he said enthusiastically on the
third evening. "A naughty old lady has been flirting with a very, very
naughty old officer. Husband tremendously annoyed. How that man loves
that woman!"
"Which man?" said Hamilton cynically.
"I refer to my client," said Bones not without dignity.
"Look here, Bones," said Hamilton with great seriousness, "do you think
this is a very nice business you are in? Personally, I think it's
immoral."
"What do you mean--immoral?" demanded the indignant Bones.
"Prying into other people's lives," said Hamilton.
"Lives," retorted the oracular Bones, "are meant to be pried into, dear
old thing. An examination of jolly old motives is essential to
scientific progress. I feel I am doing a public duty," he went on
virtuously, "exposing the naughty, chastising the sinful, and all that
sort of thing."
"But, honestly," said Hamilton persistently, "do you think it's the
game to chase around collecting purely private details about people's
goings on?"
"Certainly," said Bones firmly, "certainly, dear old thing. It's a
public duty. Never let it be written on the fair pages of Thiggumy
that a Tibbetts shrank back when the call of patriotism--all that sort
of thing--you know what I mean?"
"I don't," said Hamilton.
"Well, you're a jolly old dense one," said Bones. "And let me say here
and now"--he rammed his bony knuckles on the table and withdrew them
with an "Ouch!" to suck away the pain--"let me tell you that, as the
Latin poet said, '_Ad What's-his name, ad Thiggumy_.' 'Everything
human's frightfully interesting'!"
Bones turned up at his detective office the next morning, full of zeal,
and Hilton immediately joined him in his private office.
"Well, we finish one case to-day, I think," said Hilton with
satisfaction. "It has been very hard trailing him, but I got a good
man on the job, and here's the record."
He held in his hand a sheaf of papers.
"Very good," said Bones. "Excellent! I hope we shall bring the
malefactor to justice."
"He's not exactly a malefactor," demurred Hilton. "It is a job we were
doing for one of our best clients."
"Excellent, excellent!" murmured Bones. "And well we've done it, I'm
sure." He leant back in his chair and half closed his eyes. "Tell me
what you have discovered."
"This man's a bit of a fool in some ways," said Hilton.
"Which man--the client?"
"No, the fellow we've been trailing."
"Yes, yes," said Bones. "Go on."
"In fact, I wonder that Mr. de Vinne bothered about him."
"De Vinne?" said Bones sitting up. "Harold de Vinne, the moneyed one?"
"That's him. He's one of our oldest customers," said Hilton.
"Indeed," said Bones, this time without any enthusiasm at all.
"You see, a man did him in the eye," explained Mr. Hilton, "swindled
him, and all that sort of thing. Well, I think we have got enough to
make this chap look silly."
"Oh, yes," said Bones politely. "What have you got?"
"Well, it appears," said Hilton, "that this chap is madly in love with
his typist."
"Which chap?" said Bones.
"The fellow who did Mr. de Vinne in the eye," replied the patient Mr.
Hilton. "He used to be an officer on the West Coast of Africa, and was
known as Bones. His real name is Tibbetts."
"Oh yes," said Bones.
"Well, we've found out all about him," continued Hilton. "He's got a
flat in Jermyn Street, and this girl of his, this typist girl, dines
with him. She's not a bad-looking girl, mind you."
Bones rose to his feet, and there was in his face a terrible look.
"Hilton," he said, "do you mean that you have been shadowing a
perfectly innocent man and a charming, lovely old typewriter, that
couldn't say 'Goo' to a boose?"
Bones was pardonably agitated.
"Do you mean to tell me that this office descends to this low practice
of prying into the private lives of virtuous gentlemen and typewriters?
Shame upon you, Hilton!" His voice shook. "Give me that report!" He
thrust the report into the fire. "Now call up Mr. Borker, and tell him
I want to see him on business, and don't disturb me, because I am
writing a letter."
He pulled a sheet of paper from his stationery rack and wrote
furiously. He hardly stopped to think, he scarcely stopped to spell.
His letter was addressed to Mr. de Vinne, and when, on the following
day, Mr. Borker took over the business of Siker's Agency, that eminent
firm of investigators had one client the less.