I
"Please, sir, Miss Norman's fainted." William Johnson, known to his
colleagues as the innocent, stood at Malcolm Sage's door, with
widened eyes and a general air that bespoke helplessness.
Without a word Malcolm Sage rose from his table, as if accustomed
all his life to the fainting of secretaries. William Johnson stood
aside, with the air of one who has rung a fire-alarm and now feels
he is at liberty to enjoy the fire itself.
Entering her room, Malcolm Sage found Gladys Norman lying in a heap
beside her typewriter. Picking her up he carried her into his own
room, placed her in an arm-chair, fetched some brandy from a small
cupboard 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 her
eyes. For a second there was in them a look of uncertainty, then
suddenly they opened to their fullest extent and became fixed upon
the door beyond. Malcolm Sage glanced over his shoulder and saw
framed in the doorway Sir James Walton.
"Sit down, Chief," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the girl
sitting limply in the large leather-covered arm-chair. "I shall be
free in a moment."
It was characteristic of him to attempt no explanation. To his mind
the situation explained itself.
As Miss Norman made an effort to rise, he placed a detaining hand
upon her arm.
"Send Mr. Thompson."
With a motion of his hand Malcolm Sage indicated to William Johnson
that the dramatic possibilities of the situation were exhausted, at
least as far as he was concerned. With reluctant steps the lad left
the room and, having told Thompson he was wanted, returned to his
seat in the outer office, where it was his mission to sit in
preliminary judgment upon callers.
When Thompson entered, Malcolm Sage instructed him to move the
leather-covered chair into Miss Norman's room and, when she was
rested, 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 from
which tears were not far distant.
"I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip trembling
ominously. "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 to
his seat at the table.
"Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumed
his seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," he
added musingly, "but beautifully loyal."
Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of Malcolm
Sage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his late
chief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end and
proceeded to light it.
"Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined the
lighted end.
"They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply.
Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing Sir
James Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days when
they had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered those
heads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as something
between a punishment and a misfortune.
"Busy?"
"Very."
For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to be
seated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise the
fact.
"I've just motored up from Hurstchurch," began Sir James at length,
having assured himself that his cigar was drawing as a good cigar
should draw. "Been staying with an old friend of mine, Geoffrey
Challoner."
Malcolm Sage nodded.
"He was shot last night. That's why I'm here." He paused; but
Malcolm Sage made no comment. His whole attention was absorbed in an
ivory paper-knife, which he was endeavouring to balance upon the
handle of the silver inkstand. More than one client had been
disconcerted by Malcolm Sage's restless hands, which they
interpreted as a lack of interest in their affairs.
"At half-past seven this morning," continued Sir James, "Peters, the
butler, knocked at Challoner's door with his shaving-water. As there
was no reply he entered and found, not only that Challoner was not
there, 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," continued
Sir James, "which he sometimes did, he is rather a night-owl. Peters
then went downstairs, but found the library door locked on the
inside. As there was no response to his knocking, he went round to
the French-windows that open from the library on to the lawn at the
back of the house. The curtains were drawn, however, and he could
see nothing."
"Is it usual to draw the curtains?" enquired Malcolm Sage, regarding
with satisfaction the paper-knife as it gently swayed up and down
upon the inkstand.
"Yes, except in the summer, when the windows are generally kept
open."
Malcolm Sage nodded, and Sir James resumed his story.
"Peters then went upstairs to young Dane's room; Dane is Challoner's
nephew, who lives with him. While he dressed he sent Peters to tell
me.
"A few minutes later we all went down to the library and tried to
attract Challoner's attention; but without result. I then suggested
forcing an entry from the garden, which was done by breaking the
glass 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 voice
had become husky with emotion. Presently he resumed.
"We telephoned for the police and a doctor, and I spent the time
until they came in a thorough examination of the room. The
French-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 _on
the inside_, and the key was in position. It was unlocked by Peters
when he went into the hall to telephone. It has a strong mortice-lock
and the key did not protrude through to the outer side, so that
there was no chance of manipulating the lock from without. In the
fireplace there was an electric stove, and from the shower of soot
that fell when I raised the trap, it was clear that this had not
been touched for some weeks at least.
"The doctor was the first to arrive. At my urgent request he
refrained from touching the body. He said death had taken place from
seven to ten hours previously as the result of the bullet wound in
the temple. He had scarcely finished his examination when an
inspector of police, who had motored over from Lewes, joined us.
"It took him very few minutes to decide that poor Challoner had shot
himself. In this he was confirmed by the doctor. Still, I insisted
that the body should not be removed."
"Why did you do that, Chief?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who had
discarded the paper-knife and was now busy drawing geometrical
figures with the thumb-nail of his right hand upon the blotting pad
before him.
"Because I was not satisfied," was the reply. "There was absolutely
no motive for suicide. Challoner was in good health and, if I know
anything 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 a
man 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 one
into the room."
"Why were you there?" Malcolm Sage suddenly looked up, flashing that
keen, steely look through his gold-rimmed spectacles that many men
had found so disconcerting. "Ordinary visit?" he queried.
"No." Sir James paused, apparently deliberating something in his
own mind. He was well acquainted with Malcolm Sage's habit of asking
apparently irrelevant questions.
"There's been a little difficulty between Challoner and his nephew,"
he said slowly. "Some days back the boy announced his determination
of marrying a girl he had met in London, a typist or secretary.
Challoner was greatly upset, and threatened to cut him out of his
will if he persisted. There was a scene, several scenes in fact, and
eventually I was sent for as Challoner's oldest friend."
"To bring the nephew to reason," suggested Malcolm Sage.
"To give advice ostensibly; but in reality to talk things over," was
the reply.
"You advised?" When keenly interested, Malcolm Sage's questions were
like pistol-shots.
"That Challoner should wait and see the girl."
"Did he?"
Malcolm Sage was intent upon outlining his hand with the point of
the paper-knife upon the blotting pad.
Again Sir James hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, however.
"Yes; but unfortunately with the object of endeavouring to buy her
off. Yesterday afternoon Dane brought her over. Challoner saw her
alone. She didn't stay more than a quarter of an hour. Then she and
Dane left the house together, he to see her to the station. An hour
later he returned. I was in the hall at the time. He was in a very
excited state. He pushed past me, burst into the library, banging
the door behind him.
"That evening at dinner Challoner told me there had been a very
unpleasant scene. He had warned the boy that unless he apologised
to-day he would telephone to London for his lawyer, and make a fresh
will entirely disinheriting him. Soon after the interview Dane went
out of the house, and apparently did not return until late--as a
matter of fact, after I had gone to bed. I was feeling tired and
said 'good night' to Challoner about half-past ten in the library."
For some time Malcolm Sage gazed upon the outline he had completed,
as if in it lay the solution of the mystery.
"It's a pity you let the butler unlock the door," he remarked
regretfully.
Sir James looked across at his late chief-of-staff keenly. He
detected something of reproach in his tone.
"Did you happen to notice if the electric light was on when you
entered the library?"
"No," said Sir James, after a slight pause; "it was not."
Malcolm Sage reached across to the private telephone and gave the
"three on the buzzer" that always galvanised Miss Gladys Norman into
instant vitality.
"Miss Norman," said Sage as she entered, "can you lend me the small
mirror I have seen you use occasionally?"
"Yes, Mr. Sage," and she disappeared, returning a moment later with
the mirror from her handbag. She was accustomed to Malcolm Sage's
strange requests.
"Feeling better?" he enquired as she turned to go.
"I'm all right now," she smiled, "and please don't send me home, Mr.
Sage," she added, and she went out before he had time to reply.
A quarter of an hour later the two men entered Sir James's car,
whilst Thompson and Dawkins, the official photographer to the Bureau,
followed in that driven by Tims. Malcolm Sage would cheerfully have
sacrificed anybody and anything to serve his late chief.
"And how am I to keep the shine off my nose without a looking-glass,
Johnny?" asked Miss Norman of William Johnson, as she turned to
resume her work.
"He won't mind if it shines," said the youth seriously; and Miss
Norman gave him a look, which only his years prevented him from
interpreting.
II
As the car drew up, the hall-door of "The Cedars" was thrown open by
the butler, a fair-haired clean-shaven man of about forty-five, with
grave, impassive face, and eyes that gave the impression of allowing
little to escape them.
As he descended the flight of stone-steps to open the door of the
car, a young man appeared behind him. A moment later Sir James was
introducing him to Malcolm Sage as "Mr. Richard Dane."
Dark, with smoothly-brushed hair and a toothbrush moustache, he
might easily have been passed over in a crowd without a second
glance. He was obviously and acutely nervous. His fingers moved
jerkily, and there were twitchings at the corners of his mouth that
he seemed unable to control. It was not a good-tempered mouth. He
appeared unconscious of the presence of Malcolm Sage. His eyes were
fixed upon the second car, which had just drawn up, and from which
Thompson and Dawkins were removing the photographic paraphernalia.
Peters conducted Sir James and Malcolm Sage to the dining-room,
where luncheon was laid.
"Shall I serve luncheon, Sir James?" he enquired, ignoring Dane, who
was clearly unequal to the strain of the duties of host.
Sir James looked across at Malcolm Sage, who shook his head.
"I'll see the library first," he said. "Sir James will show me.
Fetch Dawkins," he said to Thompson, and he followed Sir James
through the house out on to the lawn.
As they entered the library by the French-windows, a tall, sandy man
rose from the armchair in which he was seated. He was Inspector
Gorton of the Sussex County Constabulary. Malcolm Sage nodded a
little absently. His eyes were keenly taking in every detail of the
figure sprawling across the writing-table. The head rested on the
left cheek, and there was an ugly wound in the right temple from
which blood had dripped and congealed upon the table. In the right
hand was clutched a small, automatic pistol. The arm was slightly
curved, the weapon pointing to the left.
Having concluded his examination of the wound, Malcolm Sage drew a
silk-handkerchief from his pocket, shook out its folds and spread it
carefully over the blood-stained head of Mr. Challoner.
Sir James looked across at him, appreciation in his eyes. It was one
of those little human touches, of which he had discovered so many in
Malcolm Sage, and the heads of government departments in Whitehall
so few.
Malcolm Sage next proceeded to regard the body from every angle,
even going down on his knees to see the position of the legs beneath
the table. He then walked round the room and examined everything
with minute attention, particularly the key of the door, which Sir
James had replaced in its position on the inside. The keyhole on
both sides of the door came in for careful scrutiny.
He tried the door of a small safe at the far-end of the room; it was
locked. He then examined the fastenings of the French-windows.
Finally he returned to the table, where, dropping on one knee on the
left-hand side of the body, he drew a penknife from his pocket, and
proceeded with great care and deliberation to slit up the outer seam
of the trousers so that the pocket lay exposed.
This in turn he cut open, taking care not to disturb the bunch of
keys, which, attached to a chain, lay on the thigh, a little to the
left.
The others watched him with wide-eyed interest, the inspector
breathing heavily.
Having assured himself that the keys would not slide off, Malcolm
Sage rose and turned to Dawkins:
"I want a plate from the right, the left, the front, and from behind
and above. Also an exposure showing the position of the legs, and
another of the keys."
Dawkins inclined his head. He was a grey, bald-headed little man who
had only one thought in life, his profession. He seldom spoke, and
when he did his lips seemed scarcely to part, the words slipping out
as best they could.
Happy in the knowledge that his beloved camera was once more to be
one of the principal witnesses in the detection of a crime, Dawkins
set himself to his task.
"When Dawkins has finished," said Malcolm Sage, turning to the
inspector, who had been watching the proceedings with ill-disguised
impatience, "you can remove the body; but leave the pistol. Give Mr.
Challoner's keys to Sir James. And now I think we might lunch," he
said, turning to Sir James.
Malcolm Sage's attitude towards the official police was generally
determined by their attitude towards him. In the Department Z days,
he had been known at Scotland Yard as "Sage & Onions." What the
phrase lacked in wit was compensated for by the feeling with which
it was frequently uttered. The police officers made no effort to
dissemble the contempt they felt for a department in which they saw
a direct rebuke to themselves. Later, however, their attitude
changed, and Malcolm Sage was brought into close personal touch with
many of the best-known officers of the Criminal Investigation
Department.
He had never been known to speak disparagingly, or patronisingly, of
Scotland Yard. On the other hand, he lost no opportunity of
emphasising the fact that it was the head-quarters of the most
efficient police force in the world. He did not always agree with
its methods, which in many ways he regarded as out-of-date.
As Malcolm Sage left the room, the inspector shrugged his shoulders.
The whole thing was so obvious that, but for the presence of Sir
James Walton, he would have refused to delay the removal of the body.
The doctor had pronounced the wound self-inflicted, and even if he
had not done so, the circumstantial evidence was conclusive.
Luncheon was eaten in silence, a constrained and uncomfortable meal.
Malcolm Sage ate as he always ate when his mind was occupied, with
entire indifference as to what was on the plate, from which his eyes
never lifted.
Sir James made several ineffectual efforts to draw Dane into
conversation; but at each remark the young man started violently, as
if suddenly recalled to his surroundings. Finally Sir James desisted,
and the meal concluded in abysmal silence.
Malcolm Sage then announced that he would examine the various
members of the household, and Dane and Peters left the room.
One by one the servants entered, were interrogated, and departed.
Even the gardener and his wife, who lived at the lodge by the
main-gates, were cross-questioned.
Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, was incoherent in her voluble
anxiety to give information. The maids were almost too frightened to
speak, and from none was anything tangible extracted.
No one had any reason for being near the library late at night.
When Peters' turn came, he told his story with a clearness and
economy of words that caused Malcolm Sage mentally to register him
as a good witness. He was a superior kind of man, who had been in
his present position only some six months; but during that time he
had given every satisfaction, so much so that Mr. Challoner had
remarked to Sir James that he believed he had found a treasure.
According to Peters' account, at a quarter-past eleven on the
previous evening he had gone to the library, as was his custom, to
see if there were anything else that Mr. Challoner required before
he locked up for the night. On being told there was nothing, he had
accordingly seen to the fastenings of doors and windows and gone to
bed.
"What was Mr. Challoner doing when you entered the room?" enquired
Malcolm Sage, intent upon a design he was drawing upon the surface
of the salt.
"He was sitting at the table where I found him this morning."
"What was he actually doing?"
"I think he was checking his bankbook, sir."
"Did you notice anything strange about his manner?"
"No, sir."
"When you found that his bed had not been slept in were you
surprised?"
"Not greatly, sir," was the response. "Once before a similar thing
happened, and I heard from the other servants that on several
occasions Mr. Challoner had spent the night in the library, having
fallen asleep there."
"When you told Mr. Dane that his uncle had not slept in his room,
and that the library door was locked on the inside, what did he
say?"
"He said, 'Good Lord! Peters, something must have happened.'"
"Mr. Dane knew that on previous occasions his uncle had spent the
night in his study?" enquired Malcolm Sage, smoothing out the design
upon which he had been engaged and beginning another.
"I think so, sir," was the response.
"The pistol was the one he used at target-practice?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did he keep it?"
"In the third right-hand drawer of his table, sir."
"He was a good shot, I think you said?" Malcolm Sage turned to Sir
James.
"Magnificent," he said warmly. "I have often shot with him."
"Do you know of any reason why Mr. Challoner should commit suicide?"
Malcolm Sage enquired of Peters.
"None whatever, sir; he always seemed very happy."
"He had no domestic worries?"
Peters hesitated for a moment.
"He never mentioned any to me, sir."
"You have in mind certain events that occurred during the last few
days, I take it?" said Malcolm Sage.
"That was in my mind, sir," was the response.
"You know of no way by which anyone could have got into the library
and then out again, other than through the door or the window?"
Malcolm Sage had relinquished the salt-spoon and was now
meditatively twirling a wineglass by its stem between his thumb and
first finger.
"There is no other way, sir."
"Who has access to the library in the ordinary way? Tell me the
names of everybody who is likely to go in at any time."
"Outside Mr. Challoner and Mr. Dane, there is myself, Mrs. Trennett,
the housekeeper, and Meston, the housemaid."
"No one else?"
"No one, sir, except, of course, the guests who might be staying in
the house."
"I shall want the finger-prints of all those you have named,
including yours, Sir James." Malcolm Sage looked across at Sir James
Walton. "I can then identify those of any stranger that I may find."
Sir James nodded.
"It would be quite easy for Mr. Challoner to let anyone in through
the French-windows?" enquired Malcolm Sage, turning once more to
Peters.
"Quite, sir."
"What time did Mr. Dane return last evening?"
"I think about a quarter to eleven, sir. He went straight to his
room."
"That will be all now. Tell Mr. Dane I should like to see him."
Peters noiselessly withdrew.
A few minutes later Dane entered the room. Malcolm Sage gave him a
keen, appraising look, then dropped his eyes. Dane was still acutely
nervous. His fingers moved jerkily and the corners of his mouth
twitched.
"Will you tell me what took place yesterday between you and your
uncle?" said Malcolm Sage.
Dane looked about him nervously, as an animal might who has been
trapped and seeks some means of escape.
"We had a row," he began, then paused; "a terrible row," he added,
as if to emphasise the nature of the quarrel.
"So I understand," said Malcolm Sage. "I know what it was about.
Just tell me what actually took place. In as few words as possible,
please."
"A week ago I told my uncle of my engagement, and he was very angry
when he knew that my fiancée was--was----
"A secretary," suggested Malcolm Sage, without looking up.
"Yes. He ordered me to break off the engagement at once, no matter
what it might cost."
"He referred to his pocket rather than to your feelings, I take it?"
said Malcolm Sage.
"Yes." There was a world of bitterness in the tone in which the word
was uttered. "I refused. Four days ago Sir James came and, I think,
talked things over with my uncle, who said he would see Enid, that
is, my fiancée. She came yesterday afternoon. My uncle insisted on
seeing her alone. She stayed only a few minutes."
His voice broke. He swallowed rapidly several times in succession,
struggling to regain control of himself.
"You walked back to the station with her," remarked Malcolm Sage,
"and she told you what had taken place. Your uncle had offered to
buy her off. You were furious. You said many wild and extravagant
things. Then you came back and went immediately into the library.
What took place there?"
"I don't remember what I said. I think for the time I was insane. He
had actually offered her money, notes. He had drawn them out of the
bank on purpose." Again he stopped, as if the memory of the insult
were too much for him.
"And you said?" suggested Malcolm Sage, twirling the wineglass
slowly between his thumb and finger.
"I probably said what any other man would have said under similar
circumstances." There was a quiet dignity about the way in which he
uttered these words, although his fingers still continued to twitch.
"Did he threaten you, or you him?"
"I don't remember what I said; but my uncle told me that, unless I
wrote to Enid to-day giving her up and apologised to him, he would
telephone for his lawyer and make a fresh will, cutting me out of it
entirely. I was to have until the next morning to decide, that is,
to-day."
Malcolm Sage still kept his eyes averted. He contended that to look
fixedly into the eyes of anyone undergoing interrogation was
calculated to confuse him and render the replies less helpful.
"And what would your decision have been?" he asked.
"I told him that if he gave me ten years it would be the same."
"That you would not do as he wished?"
"Certainly not."
"Until this episode you were on good terms with each other?" Malcolm
Sage had got a dessert spoon and fork to balance on the blade of a
knife.
"Yes."
"You know of no reason why your uncle should take his life?"
"None whatever."
"This episode in itself would not be sufficient to cause him to
commit suicide?"
"Certainly not. Sir James will tell you that he was a man of strong
character."
"Do you believe he shot himself?" Malcolm Sage seemed absorbed in
the rise and fall of the balancing silver.
"But for the locked door I should have said 'no.'"
"What were you proposing to do in the light of your refusal to break
the engagement?"
"I had everything packed up ready. I meant to go away this morning."
"By the way, where did your uncle bank?" enquired Malcolm Sage
casually.
"At the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank, Lewes," was the reply.
"Thank you. That will do, I think, for the present. You had better
run round to your doctor and get him to give you something to steady
your nerves," said Malcolm Sage, with eyes that had lost their
professional glint. "They are all on edge."
Dane glanced at him in surprise; but there was only a cone of
baldness visible.
"Thank you," he said. "I think I will," and he turned and left the
room. He still seemed dazed and incapable of realising what was
taking place.
Malcolm Sage rose and, walking over to the door, removed the key,
examined the wards intently, then replaced it and, opening the door,
walked across to the library.