Читать книгу Malcolm Sage, Detective - Jenkins Herbert George - Страница 7

"Disguise," Malcolm Sage had once re-marked, "is the chiefcharacteristic of the detective of fiction. In actual practise itis rarely possible. I am a case in point. No one but a builder,or an engineer, could disguise the shape of a head like mine;" ashe spoke he had stroked the top of his head, which rose above hisstrongly-marked brows like a down-covered cone.

He maintained that a disguise can always be identified, although notnecessarily penetrated. This in itself would be sufficient to defeatthe end of the disguised man by rendering him an object of suspicion.Few men can disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how cleverthey might be with false beards, grease-paint and wigs.

In this Malcolm Sage was a bitter disappointment to William Johnson, the office junior. His conception of the sleuth-hound had beentinctured by the vivid fiction with which he beguiled his spare time.

In the heart of William Johnson there were three great emotions: hishero-worship of Malcolm Sage, his romantic devotion to Gladys Norman, and his wholesome fear of the robustious humour of Tims.

In his more imaginative moments he would create a world in which hewas the recognised colleague of Malcolm Sage, the avowed admirer ofMiss Norman, and the austere employer of Tims – chauffeurs never tookliberties with the hair of their employers, no matter how knut-likeit might be worn.

It was with the object of making sure of the first turret of hiscastle in Spain, that William Johnson devoted himself to the earneststudy of what he conceived to be his future profession.

He read voraciously all the detective stories and police-reports hecame across. Every moment he could snatch from his official dutieshe devoted to some scrap of paper, booklet, or magazine. He stroveto cultivate his reasoning powers. Never did a prospective cliententer the Malcolm Sage Bureau without automatically setting intooperation William Johnson's mental induction-coil. With eyes thatwere covertly keen, he would examine the visitor as he sat waitingfor the two sharp buzzes on the private telephone which indicatedthat Malcolm Sage was at liberty.

It mattered little to William Johnson that error seemed to dog hisfootsteps; that he had "deduced" a famous pussyfoot admiral as acomedian addicted to drink; a lord, with a ten century lineage, as aman selling something or other; a Cabinet Minister as a companypromoter in the worst sense of the term; nothing could damp his zeal.

Malcolm Sage's "cases" he studied as intimately as he could from hisposition as junior; but they disappointed him. They seemed lackingin that element of drama he found so enthralling in the literaturehe read and the films he saw.

Malcolm Sage would enter the office as Malcolm Sage, and leave it as

Malcolm Sage, as obvious and as easily recognisable as St. Paul's

Cathedral. He seemed indifferent to the dramatic possibilities of disguise.

William Johnson longed for some decrepit and dirty old man or womanto enter the Bureau, selling boot-laces or bananas and, on beingperemptorily ordered out, to see the figure suddenly straightenitself, and hear his Chief's well-known voice remark, "So you don'trecognise me, Johnson – good." There was romance.

He yearned for a "property-room," where executive members of thestaff would disguise themselves beyond recognition. In his moreimaginative moments he saw come out from that mysterious room afull-blooded Kaffir, whereas he knew that only Thompson had entered.

He would have liked to see Miss Norman shed her pretty brunettenessand reappear as an old apple-woman, who besought him to buy of herwares. He even saw himself being transformed into a hooligan, or asmart R.A.F. officer, complete with a toothbrush moustache and"swish."

In his own mind he was convinced that, given the opportunity, hecould achieve greatness as a master of disguise, rivalling thehighly-coloured stories of Charles Peace. He had even put histheories to the test.

One evening as Miss Norman, who had been working late, was on herway to Charing Cross Underground Station, she was accosted by ayouth with upturned collar, wearing a shabby cap and a queer CharlieChaplain moustache that was not on straight. In a husky voice heenquired his way to the Strand.

"Good gracious, Johnnie!" she cried involuntarily. "What on earth'sthe matter?"

A moment later, as she regarded the vanishing form of William

Johnson, she wanted to kill herself for her lack of tact.

"Poor little Innocent!" she had murmured as she continued downVilliers Street, and there was in her eyes a reflection of the tearsshe had seen spring to those of William Johnson, whose first attemptat disguise had proved so tragic a failure.

Neither ever referred to the incident subsequently – although fordays William Johnson experienced all the unenviable sensations ofDamocles.

From that moment his devotion to Gladys Norman had become almostworship.

But William Johnson was not deterred, either by his own initialfailure or his chief's opinion. He resolutely stuck to his ownideas, and continued to expend his pocket-money upon tinted glasses, false-moustaches and grease paint; for hidden away in the innerrecesses of his mind was the conviction that it was not quiteplaying the game, as the game should be played, to solve a mysteryor bring a criminal to justice without having recourse to disguise.

It was to him as if Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar in a softhat and a burberry, or Wellington had met Blücher in flannels andsilk socks.

Somewhere in the future he saw himself the head of a "William

Johnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.

William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of characters that would rival a Dickens novel, with another legend reading, "Mr.

William Johnson as he appears."

With these day-dreams, the junior at the Malcolm Sage Bureau wouldoccupy the time when not actually engaged either in the performanceof his by no means arduous duties, or in reading the highly-coloureddetective stories from which he drew his inspiration.

From behind the glass-panelled door would come the tick-tack of Miss

Norman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony of

London, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying away again as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.

From these reveries William Johnson would be aroused either byperemptory blasts upon the buzzer of the private-telephone, or bythe entry of a client.

One morning, as he was hesitating between assuming the disguise of anaval commander and a street-hawker, a florid little man with purplejowl and a white, bristling moustache hurtled through the swing-door, followed by a tall, spare man, whose clothing indicated his clericalcalling.

"Mr. Sage in?" demanded the little man fiercely.

"Mr. Sage is engaged, sir," said the junior, his eyes upon theclergyman, in whose appearance there was something that causedWilliam Johnson to like him on the spot.

"Take my card in to him," said the little, bristly man. "Tell himthat General Sir John Hackblock wishes to see him immediately." Thetone was suggestive of the parade-ground rather than a London office.

At that moment Gladys Norman appeared through the glass-panelleddoor. The clergyman immediately removed his hat, the general merelyturned as if changing front to receive a new foe.

"Mr. Sage will be engaged for about a quarter of an hour. I am hissecretary," she explained. She, also, looked at the general'scompanion, wondering what sort of teeth were behind that gentle, yetfirm mouth. "Perhaps you will take a seat," she added.

This time the clergyman smiled, and Gladys Norman knew that she tooliked him. Sir John looked about him aggressively, blew out hischeeks several times, then flopped into a chair. His companion alsoseated himself, and appeared to become lost in a fit of abstraction.

William Johnson returned to his table and became engrossed, ostensibly in the exploits of an indestructible trailer of men; butreally in a surreptitious examination of the two callers.

He had just succeeded in deducing from their manner that theywere father and son, and from the boots of the younger that hewas low church and a bad walker, when two sharp blasts on thetelephone-buzzer brought him to his feet and half-way across theoffice in what was practically one movement. With Malcolm Sage therewere two things to be avoided, delay in answering a summons, andunnecessary words.

"This way, sir," he said, and led them through the glass-panelleddoor to Malcolm Sage's private room.

With a short, jerky movement of his head Malcolm Sage motioned hisvisitors to be seated. In that one movement his steel-coloured eyeshad registered a mental photograph of the two men. That glanceembraced all the details; the dark hair of the younger, greying atthe temples, the dreamy grey eyes, the gentle curves of a mouth thatwas, nevertheless, capable of great sternness, and the spare, almostlean frame; then the self-important, overbearing manner of the olderman. "High Anglican, ascetic, out-of-doors," was Malcolm Sage'smental classification of the one, thus unconsciously reversing theWilliam Johnson's verdict. The other he dismissed as a pompous ass.

"You Mr. Sage?" Sir John regarded the bald conical head andgold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been unpolished buttons onparade.

Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly, and proceeded to gaze downat his fingers spread out on the table before him. After the firstappraising glance he rarely looked at a client.

"I am Sir John Hackblock; this is my friend, the Rev. Geoffrey

Callice."

Again a slight inclination of the head indicated that Malcolm Sagehad heard.

Mr. Llewellyn John would have recognised in Sir John Hackblock thelast man in the world who should have been brought into contact withMalcolm Sage. The Prime Minister's own policy had been to keepMalcolm Sage from contact with other Ministers, and thus reduce thenumber of his embarrassing resignations.

"I want to consult you about a most damnable outrage," exploded thegeneral. "It's inconceivable that in this – "

"Will you kindly be as brief as possible?" said Malcolm Sage, fondling the lobe of his left ear. "I can spare only a few minutes."

Sir John gasped, glared across at him angrily; then, seeming to takehimself in hand, continued:

"You've heard of the Surrey cattle-maiming outrages?" he enquired.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"Well, this morning a brood-mare of mine was found hacked about inan unspeakable manner. Oh, the damn scoundrels!" he burst out as hejumped from his chair and began pacing up and down the room.

"I think it will be better if Mr. Callice tells me the details,"said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "You seem a little over-wrought."

"Over-wrought!" cried Sir John. "Over-wrought! Dammit, so would yoube if you had lost over a dozen beasts." In the army he was known as"Dammit Hackblock."

Mr. Callice looked across to the general, who, nodding acquiescence, proceeded to blow his nose violently, as if to bid Malcolm Sagedefiance.

"This morning a favourite mare belonging to Sir John was foundmutilated in a terrible manner – " Mr. Callice paused; there wassomething in his voice that caused Malcolm Sage to look up. Thegentle look had gone from his face, his eyes flashed, and his mouthwas set in a stern, severe line.

"Good preacher," Malcolm Sage decided as he dropped his eyes oncemore, and upon his blotting pad proceeded to develop the PonsAsinorum into a church.

In a voice that vibrated with feeling and suggested greatself-restraint, Mr. Callice proceeded to tell the story of thelatest outrage. How when found that morning the mare was still alive,of the terrible nature of her injuries, and that the perpetrator haddisappeared, leaving no trace.

"Her look, sir! Dammit!" the general broke in. "Her eyes havehaunted me ever since. They – " His voice broke, and he proceededonce more to blow his nose violently.

Mr. Callice went on to explain that after having seen the mare putout of her misery, Sir John had motored over to his lodgings andinsisted that they should go together to Scotland Yard and demandthat something be done.

"Callice is Chairman of the Watchers' Committee," broke in Sir John.

"I should explain," proceeded Mr. Callice, "that some time ago weformed ourselves into a committee to patrol the neighbourhood atnight in the hope of tracing the criminal. On the way up Sir Johnremembered hearing of you in connection with Department Z and, as hewas not satisfied with his call at Scotland Yard, he decided to comeon here and place the matter in your hands."

"This is the twenty-ninth maiming?" Malcolm Sage remarked, as heproceeded to add a graveyard to the church.

"Yes, the first occurred some two years ago." Then, as if suddenlyrealising what Malcolm Sage's question implied, he added: "You haveinterested yourself in the affair?"

"Yes," was the reply. "Tell me what has been done."

"The police seem utterly at fault," continued Mr. Callice. "Locallywe have organised watch-parties. My boys and I have been out nightafter night; but without result. I am a scout-master," he explained.

"The poor beasts' sufferings are terrible," he continued after aslight pause. "It is a return to barbarism;" again there was thethrob of indignation in his voice.

"You have discovered nothing?"

"Nothing," was the response, uttered in a tone of deep despondency.

"We have even tried bloodhounds; but without result."

"And now I want you to take up the matter, and don't spare expense,"burst out Sir John, unable to contain himself longer.

"I will consider the proposal and let you know," said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "As it is, my time is fully occupied at present; butlater – " He never lost an opportunity of resenting aggression byemphasising the democratic tendency of the times. Mr. Llewellyn Johnhad called it "incipient Bolshevism."

"Later!" cried Sir John in consternation. "Why, dammit, sir! therewon't be an animal left in the county. This thing has been going onfor two years now, and those damn fools at Scotland Yard – "

"If it were not for Scotland Yard," said Malcolm Sage quietly, as heproceeded to shingle the roof of the church, the graveyard havingproved a failure, "we should probably have to sleep at night withpistols under our pillows."

"Eh!" Sir John looked across at him with a startled expression.

"Scotland Yard is the head-quarters of the most efficient andhighly-organised police force in the world," was the quiet reply.

"But, dammit! if they're so clever why don't they put a stop to thistorturing of poor dumb beasts?" cried the general indignantly. "I'veshown them the man. It's Hinds; I know it. I've just been to seethat fellow Wensdale. Why, dammit! he ought to be cashiered, and Itold him so."

"Who is Hinds?" Malcolm Sage addressed the question to Mr. Callice.

"He used to be Sir John's head gamekeeper – "

"And I discharged him," exploded the general. "I'll shoot a poacheror his dog; but, dammit! I won't set traps for them," and he puffedout his cheeks aggressively.

"Hinds used to set traps to save himself the trouble of patrollingthe preserves," explained Mr. Callice, "and one day Sir Johndiscovered him actually watching the agonies of a dog caught acrossthe hind-quarters in a man-trap." Again there was the wave offeeling in the voice, and a stern set about the mouth.

"It's Hinds right enough," cried the general with conviction. "Theman's a brute. Now will you – ?"

"I will let you know as soon as possible whether or no I can take upthe enquiry," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I fear that is the best Ican promise."

"But – " began Sir John; then he stopped and stared at Malcolm Sageas he moved towards the door.

"Dammit! I don't care what it costs," he spluttered explosively."It'll be worth five hundred pounds to the man who catches thescoundrel. Poor Betty," he added in a softer tone.

"I will write to you shortly," said Malcolm Sage. There wasdismissal in his tone.

With darkened jowl and bristling moustache Sir John strutted towardsthe door. Mr. Callice paused to shake hands with Malcolm Sage, andthen followed the general, who, with a final glare at WilliamJohnson, as he held open the swing-door, passed out into the street, convinced that now the country was no longer subject to conscriptionit would go rapidly to the devil.

For the next half-hour Malcolm Sage pored over a volume ofpress-cuttings containing accounts of previous cattle-maimings.

Following his usual custom in such matters, he had caused thenewspaper accounts of the various mutilations to be collected andpasted in a press-cutting book. Sooner or later he had determined todevote time to the affair.

Without looking up from the book he pressed three times in rapidsuccession a button of the private-telephone. Instantly GladysNorman appeared, note-book in hand. She had been heard to remarkthat if she were dead "three on the buzzer" would bring her to lifeagain.

"Whitaker and Inspector Wensdale," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes stillon the book before him.

When deep in a problem Malcolm Sage's economy in words made itdifficult for anyone but his own staff to understand hisrequirements.

Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, WilliamJohnson placed Whitaker's Almanack on the table, then he in turndisappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.

Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied thepages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closedthe book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, thesignal that he was through to the number required. Drawing thepedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.

"That Inspector Wensdale? – Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about thecattle-maiming business. – I've just heard of it. – I've not decidedyet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spotof each outrage indicated, and the date. – To-morrow will do. – Yes, come round. Give me half an hour with the map first."

Malcolm Sage replaced the receiver as the buzzer sounded, announcing another client.