Malcolm Sage, Detective

I

"John!"

"Yeh!"

"Don't say 'yeh,' say 'yes,' Dorothy dear."

"Yes, Dorothy de – "

Sir John Dene was interrupted in his apology by a napkin-ringwhizzing past his left ear.

"What's wrong?" he enquired, laying aside his paper and picking upthe napkin-ring.

"I'm trying to attract your attention," replied Lady Dene, slippingfrom her place at the breakfast-table and perching herself upon thearm of her husband's chair. She ran her fingers lightly through hishair. "Are you listening?"

"Sure!"

"Well, what are you going to do for Mr. Sage?"

In his surprise at the question, Sir John Dene jerked up his head tolook at her, and Dorothy's forefinger managed to find the corner ofhis eye.

He blinked vigorously, whilst she, crooning apologies into his ear, dabbed his eye with her handkerchief.

"Now," she said, when the damage had been repaired, "I'll go and sitdown like a proper, respectable wife of a D.S.O.," and she returnedto her seat. "Well?" she demanded, as he did not speak. "Yes, dear."

"What are you going to do for Mr. Sage, now that Department Z isbeing demobbed? You know you like him, because you didn't want toginger him up, and you mustn't forget that he saved your life," sheadded.

"Sure!"

"Don't say 'sure,' John," she cried. "You're a British baronet, andBritish baronets don't say 'sure,' 'shucks' or vamoose.' Do youunderstand?"

He nodded thoughtfully;

"I like Mr. Sage," announced Dorothy. Then a moment later she added,"He always reminds me of the superintendent of a Sunday-school, withhis conical bald head and gold spectacles. He's not a bit like adetective, is he?"

"Sure!"

"If you say it again, John, I shall scream," she cried.

For some seconds there was silence, broken at length by Dorothy.

"I like his wonderful hands, too," she continued. "I'm sure he'sproud of them, because he can never keep them still. If you say'sure,' I'll divorce you," she added hastily.

He smiled, that sudden, sunny smile she had learned to look for andlove.

"Then again I like him because he's always courteous and kind. AtDepartment Z they'd have had their appendixes out if Mr. Sage wantedthem. Now have you made up your mind?"

"Made it up to what?" he asked, lighting a cigar.

"That you're going to set him up as a private detective," she saidcoolly. "I don't want him to come here and not find everythingplanned out."

"He won't do that," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "He's nolap-dog."

"I wrote and asked him to call at ten to-day," she said coolly.

"Snakes, you did!" he cried, sitting up in his chair.

"Alligators, I did!" she mocked.

"You're sure some wife;" he looked at her admiringly.

"I sure am," she laughed lightly, "but I'm only just beginning, Johndear. By the way, I asked Sir James Walton to come too," she addedcasually.

"You – " he began, when the door opened and a little, silver-hairedlady entered. Sir John Dene jumped to his feet.

"Behold the mother of the bride," cried Dorothy gaily.

"Good morning, John," said Mrs. West as he bent and kissed her cheek.

She always breakfasted in her room; she abounded in tact.

"Now we'll get away from the eggs and bacon," cried Dorothy. "In thelanguage of the woolly West, we'll vamoose," and she led the way outof the dining-room along the corridor to Sir John Dene's den.

"Come along, mother-mine," she cried over her shoulder. "We've got alot to discuss before ten o'clock."

Sir John Dene's "den" was a room of untidiness and comfort. AsDorothy said, he was responsible for the untidiness and she thecomfort.

"Heigh-ho!" she sighed, as she sank down into a comfortable chair."I wonder what Whitehall would have done without Mr. Sage;" shesmiled reminiscently. "He was the source of half its gossip."

"He was very kind to you, Dorothy, when John was – was lost," saidMrs. West gently, referring to the time when Sir John Dene haddisappeared and a reward of 20,000 pounds had been offered for newsof him.

"Sure!" Sir John Dene acquiesced. "He's a white man, clean to thebone."

"It was very wonderful that an accountant should become such aclever detective," said Mrs. West. "It shows – " she paused.

"You see, he wasn't a success as an accountant," said Dorothy. "Hewas always finding out little wangles that he wasn't supposed to see.So when they wouldn't have him in the army, he went to the Ministryof Supply and found out a great, big wangle, and Mr. Llewellyn Johnwas very pleased. You get me, Honest John?" she demanded, turning toher husband.

Sir John Dene nodded and blew clouds of cigar smoke from his lips.He liked nothing better than to sit listening to his wife'sreminiscences of Whitehall, despite the fact that he had heard mostof them before.

"Poor Mr. Sage," continued Dorothy, "nobody liked him, and he's gotsuch lovely down on his head, just like a baby," she added, with afar-away look in her eyes.

"Perhaps no one understood him," suggested Mrs. West, withinstinctive charity for the Ishmaels of the world.

"Isn't that like her," cried Dorothy, "but this time she's right,"she smiled across at her mother. "When a few thousand tons of copperwent astray, or someone ordered millions of shells the wrong size,Mr. Sage got the wind up, and tried to find out all about it, and inWhitehall such things weren't done."

"They tried to put it up on me," grumbled Sir John Dene, twirlinghis cigar with his lips, "but I soon stopped their funny work."

"Everybody was too busy winning the war to bother about trifles,"Dorothy continued. "The poor dears who looked after such thingsfound life quite difficult enough, with only two hours for lunch andpretty secretaries to be – "

"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West reproachfully.

"Well, it's true, mother," she protested.

It was true, as Malcolm Sage had discovered. "Let us concentrate onwhat we know we have got," one of his chiefs had once gravely saidto him. "Something is sure to be swallowed up in the fog of war," hehad added. Pleased with the phrase, which he conceived to beoriginal, he had used it as some men do a titled relative, with theresult that Whitehall had clutched at it gratefully.

"The fog of war," General Conyers Bardulph had muttered when, forthe life of him, he could not find a division that was due upon theWestern Front and which it was his duty to see was sent out.

"The fog of war," murmured spiteful Anita McGowan, when the prettylittle widow, Mrs. Sleyton, was being interrogated as to thewhereabouts of her husband.

"The fog of war," laughed the girls in Department J.P.Q., when athalf-past four one afternoon neither its chief nor his dark-eyedsecretary had returned from lunch.

"But when he went to Department Z he was wonderful," said Mrs. West, still clinging tenderly to her Ishmael.

"He was," said Sir John Dene. "He was the plumb best man at his job

I ever came across."

"Yes, John dear, that's all very well," said Dorothy, her eyesdancing, "but suppose you had been the War Cabinet and you had sentfor Mr. Sage;" she paused.

"Well?" he demanded.

"And he had come in a cap and a red tie," she proceeded, "and hadresigned within five minutes, saying that you were talking of thingsyou didn't know anything about." She laughed at the recollection.

"He was right," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "I've comeacross some fools; but – "

"There, there, dear," said Dorothy, "remember there are ladiespresent. In Whitehall we all loved Mr. Sage because he snubbedMinisters, and we hadn't the pluck to do it ourselves," she added.

Sir John Dene snorted. His mind travelled back to the time when hehad been "up against the whole sunflower-patch," as he had onceexpressed it.

"But why did they keep him if they didn't like him?" enquired Mrs.

West.

"When you don't like anyone in Whitehall," Dorothy continued, "youdon't give him the push, mother dear, you just transfer him toanother department."

"Like circulating bad money," grumbled Sir John Dene.

"It sure was, John," she agreed. "Poor Mr. Sage soon became the mosttransferred man in Whitehall. They used to say, 'Uneasy lies thehead that has a Sage.'" She laughed at the recollection.

"But wasn't it rather unkind?" said Mrs. West gently.

"It was, mother-mine; but Whitehall was a funny place. One of Mr.Sage's chiefs went about for months trying to get rid of him. Heoffered to give a motor-cycle to anyone who would take him, it was aGovernment cycle," she added; "but there was nothing doing. Wecalled him Henry the Second and Mr. Sage Becket, the archbishop notthe boxer," she explained. "You know," she added, "there was oncean English king who wanted to get rid of – "

"We'll have it the sort of concern that insurance companies can lookto," Sir John Dene broke in.

"What on earth are you talking about, John?" cried Dorothy.

Whilst his wife talked Sir John Dene had been busy planning MalcolmSage's future, and he had uttered his thoughts aloud. He proceededto explain. When he had finished, Dorothy clapped her hands.

"Hurrah! for Malcolm Sage, Detective," she cried and, jumping up, she perched herself upon the arm of her husband's chair, and rumpledthe fair hair, which with her was always a sign of approval. "That'shis ring, or Sir James's," she added as the bell sounded.

"Now we'll leave you lords of creation to carry out my idea," shesaid as she followed Mrs. West to the door.

And Sir John Dene smiled.

II

"In the States they've got Pinkerton's," said Sir John Dene, twirling with astonishing rapidity an unlit cigar between his lips."If you've lost anything, from a stick-pin to a mountain, you justblow in there, tell them all about it, and go away and don't worry.Here you've got nothing."

"We have Scotland Yard," remarked Malcolm Sage quietly, withoutlooking up from the contemplation of his hands, which, with fingerswide apart, rested upon the table before him.

His bald, conical head seemed to contradict the determined set ofhis jaw and the steel-coloured eyes that gazed keenly through largegold-rimmed spectacles. Even his ears, that stood squarely out fromhis head, appeared to emphasise by their aggressiveness that theyhad nothing to do with the benevolent shape of the head above.

"Yes, and you've got Cleopatra's Needle, and the pelicans in St.James's Park," Sir John Dene retorted scornfully. He had neverforgotten the occasion when, at a critical moment in the country'shistory, the First Lord of the Admiralty had casually enquired if hehad seen the pelicans.

For the last half-hour Sir John Dene, with characteristicimpulsiveness, had been engaged in brushing aside all Malcolm Sage's"cons" with his almighty "Pro."

"We'll have a Pinkerton's in England," he resumed, as neither of hislisteners took up his challenge, "and we'll call it Sage's."

"I shall in all probability receive quite a number of orders forshop-fronts," murmured Malcolm Sage, with a slight fluttering at thecorners of his mouth, which those who knew him understood how tointerpret.

"Shop-fronts!" repeated Sir John Dene, looking from one to the other,

"I don't get you."

"There is already a well-known firm of shop-furnishers called'Sage's,'" explained Sir James, who throughout the battle had beenan amused listener.

"Well, we'll call it the Malcolm Sage Detective Bureau," replied SirJohn Dene, "and we'll have it a concern that insurance companies canlook to." He proceeded to light his cigar, with him always a signthat something of importance had been settled.

Sir John Dene liked getting his own way. That morning he hadresolutely brushed aside every objection, ethical or material, thathad been advanced. To Malcolm Sage he considered that he owed alot,1 and with all the aggressiveness of his nature, he overwhelmedand engulfed objection and protest alike. To this was added the factthat the idea was his wife's, and in his own phraseology, "thatgoes."

Passive and attentive, his long shapely hands seldom still, MalcolmSage had listened. From time to time he ventured some objection, only to have it brushed aside by Sir John Dene's overwhelmingdetermination.

For some minutes Malcolm Sage had been stroking the back of his headwith the palm of his right hand, a habit of his when thoughtful.Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked across at his would-bebenefactor.

"Why should you want to do this for me, Sir John?" he asked.

"If you're going to put up a barrage of whys," was the irascibleretort, "you'll never cut any ice."

"I fully appreciate the subtlety of the metaphor," said Malcolm Sage, the corners of his mouth twitching; "but still why?"

"Well, for one thing I owe you something," barked Sir John Dene,"and remembering's my long suit. For another, Lady Dene – "

"That is what I wanted to know," said Malcolm Sage, as he drew hisbriar from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. "Will you thank LadyDene and tell her that I am proud to be under an obligation to her – and to you, Sir John," he added.

"Say, that's fine," cried Sir John Dene, jumping to his feet andextending his hand, which Malcolm Sage took, an odd, quizzicalexpression in his eyes. "This Detective Bureau notion is a whale."

"The zoological allusion, I'm afraid, is beyond me," said MalcolmSage as he struck a match, "but no doubt you are right," and helooked across at Sir James Walton, whose eyes smiled his approval.

"It's all fixed up," cried Sir John Dene to his wife as she came outinto the hall as the visitors were departing.

"I'm so glad," she cried, giving her hand to Malcolm Sage. "You'llbe such a success, Mr. Sage," and she smiled confidently up into hiseyes.

"With such friends," he replied, "failure would be an impertinence,"and he and Sir James Walton passed out of the flat to return to whatwas left of the rapidly demobilising Department Z, which had madehistory by its Secret Service work.

In a few days the news leaked out that "M.S.," as Malcolm Sage wascalled by the staff, was to start a private-detective agency. Thewhole staff promptly offered its services, and there was muchspeculation and heart-burning as to who would be selected.

On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage'ssecretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room, her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of MalcolmSage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that"M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the mostembarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it wasequally well-known that he possessed a "blind-side" to his vision.They called it "the Nelson touch."

James Thompson, Malcolm Sage's principal assistant, and WilliamJohnson, the office junior, had also been engaged, and theirenthusiasm has been as great as that of their colleague, althoughless dramatically expressed.

A battle royal was fought over the body of Arthur Tims, MalcolmSage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and achauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's.Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was anunnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet tojustify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at thesame time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, andauthorising him to select a car, find a garage, and waitinstructions.

Tims did not do a barn-dance. He contented himself for the timebeing with ruffling William Johnson's dark, knut-like hair, a thingto which he was much addicted. Returning home on the evening of hisengagement he had bewildered Mrs. Tims by seizing her as she stoodin front of the kitchen-stove, a frying-pan full of sausages in herhand, and waltzing her round the kitchen, frying-pan and all.

Subsequently five of the six sausages had been recovered; but thesixth was not retrieved until the next morning when, in dusting, Mrs.Tims discovered it on the mantelpiece.

I

"Please, sir, Miss Norman's fainted." William Johnson, known to hiscolleagues as the innocent, stood at Malcolm Sage's door, withwidened eyes and a general air that bespoke helplessness.

Without a word Malcolm Sage rose from his table, as if accustomedall his life to the fainting of secretaries. William Johnson stoodaside, with the air of one who has rung a fire-alarm and now feelshe is at liberty to enjoy the fire itself.

Entering her room, Malcolm Sage found Gladys Norman lying in a heapbeside her typewriter. Picking her up he carried her into his ownroom, placed her in an arm-chair, fetched some brandy from a smallcupboard and, still watched by the wide-eyed William Johnson, proceeded to force a little between her teeth.

Presently her lids flickered and, a moment later, she opened hereyes. For a second there was in them a look of uncertainty, thensuddenly they opened to their fullest extent and became fixed uponthe door beyond. Malcolm Sage glanced over his shoulder and sawframed in the doorway Sir James Walton.

"Sit down, Chief," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the girlsitting limply in the large leather-covered arm-chair. "I shall befree in a moment."

It was characteristic of him to attempt no explanation. To his mindthe situation explained itself.

As Miss Norman made an effort to rise, he placed a detaining handupon her arm.

"Send Mr. Thompson."

With a motion of his hand Malcolm Sage indicated to William Johnsonthat the dramatic possibilities of the situation were exhausted, atleast as far as he was concerned. With reluctant steps the lad leftthe room and, having told Thompson he was wanted, returned to hisseat in the outer office, where it was his mission to sit inpreliminary judgment upon callers.

When Thompson entered, Malcolm Sage instructed him to move theleather-covered chair into Miss Norman's room and, when she wasrested, to take her home in the car.

Thompson's face beamed. His devotion to Gladys Norman was notorious.

The girl rose and raised to Malcolm Sage a pair of dark eyes fromwhich tears were not far distant.

"I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip tremblingominously. "I've never done such a thing before."

"I've been working you too hard," he said, as he held back the door.

"You must go home and rest."

She shook her head and passed out, whilst Malcolm Sage returned tohis seat at the table.

"Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumedhis seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," headded musingly, "but beautifully loyal."

Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of MalcolmSage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his latechief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end andproceeded to light it.

"Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined thelighted end.

"They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing SirJames Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days whenthey had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered thoseheads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as somethingbetween a punishment and a misfortune.

"Busy?"

"Very."

For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to beseated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise thefact.

"I've just motored up from Hurstchurch," began Sir James at length, having assured himself that his cigar was drawing as a good cigarshould draw. "Been staying with an old friend of mine, GeoffreyChalloner."

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"He was shot last night. That's why I'm here." He paused; butMalcolm Sage made no comment. His whole attention was absorbed in anivory paper-knife, which he was endeavouring to balance upon thehandle of the silver inkstand. More than one client had beendisconcerted by Malcolm Sage's restless hands, which theyinterpreted as a lack of interest in their affairs.

"At half-past seven this morning," continued Sir James, "Peters, thebutler, knocked at Challoner's door with his shaving-water. As therewas no reply he entered and found, not only that Challoner was notthere, but that the bed had not been slept in over night."

Malcolm lifted his hands from the paper-knife. It balanced.

"He thought Challoner had fallen asleep in the library," continuedSir James, "which he sometimes did, he is rather a night-owl. Petersthen went downstairs, but found the library door locked on theinside. As there was no response to his knocking, he went round tothe French-windows that open from the library on to the lawn at theback of the house. The curtains were drawn, however, and he couldsee nothing."

"Is it usual to draw the curtains?" enquired Malcolm Sage, regardingwith satisfaction the paper-knife as it gently swayed up and downupon the inkstand.

"Yes, except in the summer, when the windows are generally keptopen."

Malcolm Sage nodded, and Sir James resumed his story.

"Peters then went upstairs to young Dane's room; Dane is Challoner'snephew, who lives with him. While he dressed he sent Peters to tellme.

"A few minutes later we all went down to the library and tried toattract Challoner's attention; but without result. I then suggestedforcing an entry from the garden, which was done by breaking theglass of one of the French-windows.

"We found Challoner seated at his table dead, shot through the head.He had an automatic pistol in his hand." Sir James paused; his voicehad become husky with emotion. Presently he resumed.

"We telephoned for the police and a doctor, and I spent the timeuntil they came in a thorough examination of the room. TheFrench-windows had been securely bolted top and bottom from within,by means of a central handle. All the panes of glass were intact, with the exception of that we had broken. The door had been locked onthe inside, and the key was in position. It was unlocked by Peterswhen he went into the hall to telephone. It has a strong mortice-lockand the key did not protrude through to the outer side, so thatthere was no chance of manipulating the lock from without. In thefireplace there was an electric stove, and from the shower of sootthat fell when I raised the trap, it was clear that this had notbeen touched for some weeks at least.

"The doctor was the first to arrive. At my urgent request herefrained from touching the body. He said death had taken place fromseven to ten hours previously as the result of the bullet wound inthe temple. He had scarcely finished his examination when aninspector of police, who had motored over from Lewes, joined us.

"It took him very few minutes to decide that poor Challoner had shothimself. In this he was confirmed by the doctor. Still, I insistedthat the body should not be removed."

"Why did you do that, Chief?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who haddiscarded the paper-knife and was now busy drawing geometricalfigures with the thumb-nail of his right hand upon the blotting padbefore him.

"Because I was not satisfied," was the reply. "There was absolutelyno motive for suicide. Challoner was in good health and, if I knowanything about men, determined to live as long as the gods give."

Again Malcolm Sage nodded his head meditatively.

"The jumping to hasty conclusions," he remarked, "has saved many aman his neck. Whom did you leave in charge?" he queried.

"The inspector. I locked the door; here is the key," he said, producing it from his jacket pocket. "I told him to allow no oneinto the room."

"Why were you there?" Malcolm Sage suddenly looked up, flashing thatkeen, steely look through his gold-rimmed spectacles that many menhad found so disconcerting. "Ordinary visit?" he queried.

"No." Sir James paused, apparently deliberating something in hisown mind. He was well acquainted with Malcolm Sage's habit of askingapparently irrelevant questions.

"There's been a little difficulty between Challoner and his nephew,"he said slowly. "Some days back the boy announced his determinationof marrying a girl he had met in London, a typist or secretary.Challoner was greatly upset, and threatened to cut him out of hiswill if he persisted. There was a scene, several scenes in fact, andeventually I was sent for as Challoner's oldest friend."