E-text prepared by Alan Winterrowd
MALCOLM SAGE, DETECTIVE
by
HERBERT GEORGE JENKINS
CONTENTS
I Sir John Dene Receives His Orders
II The Strange Case of Mr. Challoner
III Malcolm Sage's Mysterious Movements
IV The Surrey Cattle-Maiming Mystery
V Inspector Wensdale Is Surprised
VI The Stolen Admiralty Memorandum
VII The Outrage at the Garage
VIII Gladys Norman Dines with Thompson
IX The Holding Up of Lady Glanedale
X A Lesson in Deduction
XI The McMurray Mystery
XII The Marmalade Clue
XIII The Gylston Slander
XIV Malcolm Sage Plays Patience
XV The Missing Heavyweight
XVI The Great Fight at the Olympia
XVII Lady Dene Calls on Malcolm Sage
CHAPTER I SIR JOHN DENE RECEIVES HIS ORDERS
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-ring
whizzing past his left ear.
"What's wrong?" he enquired, laying aside his paper and picking up
the napkin-ring.
"I'm trying to attract your attention," replied Lady Dene, slipping
from her place at the breakfast-table and perching herself upon the
arm of her husband's chair. She ran her fingers lightly through his
hair. "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 to
look at her, and Dorothy's forefinger managed to find the corner of
his 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 sit
down like a proper, respectable wife of a D.S.O.," and she returned
to 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 is
being demobbed? You know you like him, because you didn't want to
ginger him up, and you mustn't forget that he saved your life," she
added.
"Sure!"
"Don't say 'sure,' John," she cried. "You're a British baronet, and
British baronets don't say 'sure,' 'shucks' or vamoose.' Do you
understand?"
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, with
his conical bald head and gold spectacles. He's not a bit like a
detective, 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's
proud 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 and
love.
"Then again I like him because he's always courteous and kind. At
Department Z they'd have had their appendixes out if Mr. Sage wanted
them. 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 said
coolly. "I don't want him to come here and not find everything
planned out."
"He won't do that," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "He's no
lap-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, John
dear. By the way, I asked Sir James Walton to come too," she added
casually.
"You----" he began, when the door opened and a little, silver-haired
lady 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 the
language of the woolly West, we'll vamoose," and she led the way out
of the dining-room along the corridor to Sir John Dene's den.
"Come along, mother-mine," she cried over her shoulder. "We've got a
lot to discuss before ten o'clock."
Sir John Dene's "den" was a room of untidiness and comfort. As
Dorothy said, he was responsible for the untidiness and she the
comfort.
"Heigh-ho!" she sighed, as she sank down into a comfortable chair.
"I wonder what Whitehall would have done without Mr. Sage;" she
smiled reminiscently. "He was the source of half its gossip."
"He was very kind to you, Dorothy, when John was--was lost," said
Mrs. West gently, referring to the time when Sir John Dene had
disappeared and a reward of 20,000 pounds had been offered for news
of him.
"Sure!" Sir John Dene acquiesced. "He's a white man, clean to the
bone."
"It was very wonderful that an accountant should become such a
clever detective," said Mrs. West. "It shows----" she paused.
"You see, he wasn't a success as an accountant," said Dorothy. "He
was 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 Ministry
of Supply and found out a great, big wangle, and Mr. Llewellyn John
was very pleased. You get me, Honest John?" she demanded, turning to
her 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's
reminiscences of Whitehall, despite the fact that he had heard most
of them before.
"Poor Mr. Sage," continued Dorothy, "nobody liked him, and he's got
such lovely down on his head, just like a baby," she added, with a
far-away look in her eyes.
"Perhaps no one understood him," suggested Mrs. West, with
instinctive 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 copper
went 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 in
Whitehall such things weren't done."
"They tried to put it up on me," grumbled Sir John Dene, twirling
his 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 things
found life quite difficult enough, with only two hours for lunch and
pretty 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 on
what we know we _have_ got," one of his chiefs had once gravely said
to him. "Something is sure to be swallowed up in the fog of war," he
had added. Pleased with the phrase, which he conceived to be
original, he had used it as some men do a titled relative, with the
result that Whitehall had clutched at it gratefully.
"The fog of war," General Conyers Bardulph had muttered when, for
the life of him, he could not find a division that was due upon the
Western Front and which it was his duty to see was sent out.
"The fog of war," murmured spiteful Anita McGowan, when the pretty
little widow, Mrs. Sleyton, was being interrogated as to the
whereabouts of her husband.
"The fog of war," laughed the girls in Department J.P.Q., when at
half-past four one afternoon neither its chief nor his dark-eyed
secretary 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 eyes
dancing, "but suppose you had been the War Cabinet and you had sent
for Mr. Sage;" she paused.
"Well?" he demanded.
"And he had come in a cap and a red tie," she proceeded, "and had
resigned within five minutes, saying that you were talking of things
you didn't know anything about." She laughed at the recollection.
"He was right," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "I've come
across some fools; but----"
"There, there, dear," said Dorothy, "remember there are ladies
present. In Whitehall we all loved Mr. Sage because he snubbed
Ministers, and we hadn't the pluck to do it ourselves," she added.
Sir John Dene snorted. His mind travelled back to the time when he
had been "up against the whole sunflower-patch," as he had once
expressed 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, "you
don't give him the push, mother dear, you just transfer him to
another department."
"Like circulating bad money," grumbled Sir John Dene.
"It sure was, John," she agreed. "Poor Mr. Sage soon became the most
transferred man in Whitehall. They used to say, 'Uneasy lies the
head 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. He
offered to give a motor-cycle to anyone who would take him, it was a
Government cycle," she added; "but there was nothing doing. We
called him Henry the Second and Mr. Sage Becket, the archbishop not
the boxer," she explained. "You know," she added, "there was once
an English king who wanted to get rid of----"
"We'll have it the sort of concern that insurance companies can look
to," 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 Malcolm
Sage's future, and he had uttered his thoughts aloud. He proceeded
to 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 rumpled
the fair hair, which with her was always a sign of approval. "That's
his ring, or Sir James's," she added as the bell sounded.
"Now we'll leave you lords of creation to carry out my idea," she
said 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 just
blow 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, without
looking up from the contemplation of his hands, which, with fingers
wide apart, rested upon the table before him.
His bald, conical head seemed to contradict the determined set of
his jaw and the steel-coloured eyes that gazed keenly through large
gold-rimmed spectacles. Even his ears, that stood squarely out from
his head, appeared to emphasise by their aggressiveness that they
had 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 never
forgotten the occasion when, at a critical moment in the country's
history, the First Lord of the Admiralty had casually enquired if he
had seen the pelicans.
For the last half-hour Sir John Dene, with characteristic
impulsiveness, 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 his
listeners took up his challenge, "and we'll call it Sage's."
"I shall in all probability receive quite a number of orders for
shop-fronts," murmured Malcolm Sage, with a slight fluttering at the
corners of his mouth, which those who knew him understood how to
interpret.
"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 been
an amused listener.
"Well, we'll call it the Malcolm Sage Detective Bureau," replied Sir
John Dene, "and we'll have it a concern that insurance companies can
look to." He proceeded to light his cigar, with him always a sign
that something of importance had been settled.
Sir John Dene liked getting his own way. That morning he had
resolutely brushed aside every objection, ethical or material, that
had been advanced. To Malcolm Sage he considered that he owed a
lot,* and with all the aggressiveness of his nature, he overwhelmed
and engulfed objection and protest alike. To this was added the fact
that the idea was his wife's, and in his own phraseology, "that
goes."
[* See John Dene of Toronto for the story of how Malcolm Sage
frustrated the enemies of Sir John Dene.]
Passive and attentive, his long shapely hands seldom still, Malcolm
Sage had listened. From time to time he ventured some objection,
only to have it brushed aside by Sir John Dene's overwhelming
determination.
For some minutes Malcolm Sage had been stroking the back of his head
with the palm of his right hand, a habit of his when thoughtful.
Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked across at his would-be
benefactor.
"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 irascible
retort, "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 his
briar from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. "Will you thank Lady
Dene 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 and
extending his hand, which Malcolm Sage took, an odd, quizzical
expression in his eyes. "This Detective Bureau notion is a whale."
"The zoological allusion, I'm afraid, is beyond me," said Malcolm
Sage as he struck a match, "but no doubt you are right," and he
looked 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 out
into the hall as the visitors were departing.
"I'm so glad," she cried, giving her hand to Malcolm Sage. "You'll
be such a success, Mr. Sage," and she smiled confidently up into his
eyes.
"With such friends," he replied, "failure would be an impertinence,"
and he and Sir James Walton passed out of the flat to return to what
was left of the rapidly demobilising Department Z, which had made
history by its Secret Service work.
In a few days the news leaked out that "M.S.," as Malcolm Sage was
called by the staff, was to start a private-detective agency. The
whole staff promptly offered its services, and there was much
speculation and heart-burning as to who would be selected.
On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage's
secretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room,
her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of Malcolm
Sage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that
"M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the most
embarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it was
equally 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 William
Johnson, the office junior, had also been engaged, and their
enthusiasm has been as great as that of their colleague, although
less dramatically expressed.
A battle royal was fought over the body of Arthur Tims, Malcolm
Sage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and a
chauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's.
Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was an
unnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet to
justify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at the
same time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, and
authorising him to select a car, find a garage, and wait
instructions.
Tims did not do a barn-dance. He contented himself for the time
being with ruffling William Johnson's dark, knut-like hair, a thing
to which he was much addicted. Returning home on the evening of his
engagement he had bewildered Mrs. Tims by seizing her as she stood
in front of the kitchen-stove, a frying-pan full of sausages in her
hand, and waltzing her round the kitchen, frying-pan and all.
Subsequently five of the six sausages had been recovered; but the
sixth was not retrieved until the next morning when, in dusting, Mrs.
Tims discovered it on the mantelpiece.