Malcolm Sage, Detective. Jenkins Herbert George

It was a canvas-needle, to the eyeof which the cord was attached.

      "This was absolutely safe," he remarked. "Another thing I discoveredwas that one lock, and only one lock in the house, had recently beenoiled – that of the library-door."

      Sir James nodded his head several times. There was something ofself-reproach in the motion.

      "Now," continued Malcolm Sage, "we come back to why a man should besitting at a table absorbed in gazing at nothing, and at a time whenmost of the household are either in bed or preparing for bed."

      "Peters said that he was checking his pass-book," suggested Sir

      James.

      "That is undoubtedly what he was doing," continued Malcolm Sage,"and Peters removed the passbook, put it in a drawer, firstdestroying the cancelled cheques. He made a blunder in not replacingthe pass-book with something else. That was the last link in thechain," he added.

      "I don't quite see – " began Sir James.

      "Perhaps you did not read of a case that was reported from New Yorksome eighteen months ago. It was very similar to that of Mr.Challoner. A man was found shot through the head, the door beinglocked on the inside, and a verdict of suicide was returned; butthere was absolutely no reason why he should have taken his life.

      "What actually happened was that Mr. Challoner went to his bank todraw five hundred pounds with which he hoped to bribe his nephew'sfiancée. He trusted to the temptation of the actual money ratherthan a cheque. When he was at the bank the manager once more askedhim to return his pass-book, which had not been balanced for severalmonths. He was very dilatory in such matters."

      "That is true," said Dane, speaking for the first time.

      "That evening he proceeded to compare it with his cheque-book. Isuspect that Peters had been forging cheques and he saw here whatwould lead to discovery. Furthermore, there was a considerable sumof money in the safe, and the quarrel between uncle and nephewto divert suspicion. This, however, was mere conjecture – thattrouser-pocket photo, Dawkins," said Malcolm Sage, turning to thephotographer, who handed it across to him.

      "Now notice the position of those keys. They are put in headforemost, and do not reach the bottom of the pocket. They hadobviously been taken away and replaced in the pocket as Challonersat there. Had he gone to the safe himself and walked back to hischair, the position of the keys would have been quite different."

      Instinctively each man felt in his trousers pocket, and found in hisown bunch of keys a verification of the statement.

      "The whole scheme was too calculated and deliberate for an amateur,"said Malcolm Sage, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on to a brassashtray. "That is what prompted me to get the fingerprints of Peters,so that I might send them to Scotland Yard to see if anything wasknown of him there. The result you have seen."

      "We've been on the look-out for him for more than a year," saidInspector Wensdale. "The New York police are rather interested inhim about a forgery stunt that took place there some time ago."

      "I am confident that when Challoner's affairs are gone into therewill be certain cheques which it will be difficult to explain.

      "Then, again, there was the electric light," proceeded Malcolm Sage."A man about to blow out his brains would certainly not walk acrossthe room, switch off the light, and then find his way back to thetable."

      "That's true enough," said Inspector Wensdale.

      "On the other hand, a murderer, who has to stand at a door for atleast some seconds, would not risk leaving on the light, which wouldattract the attention of anyone who might by chance be in the hall,or on the stairs."

      Inspector Wensdale caught Thompson's left eye, which deliberatelyclosed and then re-opened. There was a world of meaning in themovement.

      "Well, I'm glad I didn't get you down on a fool's errand, Sage,"said Sir James, rising. "I wonder what the local inspector willthink."

      "He won't," remarked Malcolm Sage; "that is why he assumed it wassuicide."

      "Did you suspect Peters was armed?" enquired Sir James.

      "I saw the pistol under his left armpit," said Malcolm Sage. "It'swell known with American gunmen as a most convenient place for quickdrawing."

      "If it hadn't been for you, Mr. Sage, he'd have got me," said

      Inspector Wensdale.

      "There'll be a heavy car-full for Tims," remarked Malcolm Sage, ashe walked towards the door.

      CHAPTER IV THE SURREY CATTLE-MAIMING MYSTERY

      I

      "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