Malcolm Sage, Detective

It was remembered and discussed with relish that John Gray, theschoolmaster, had for some time past shown a marked admiration forthe vicar's daughter. She, however, had made it clear that thecadaverous, saturnine pedagogue possessed for her no attractions.

During the half-hour that Malcolm Sage spent at The Tired Traveller, eating a hurried meal, he heard all there was to be heard aboutlocal opinion.

The landlord, a rubicund old fellow whose baldness extended to hiseyelids, was bursting with information. By nature capable of makinga mystery out of a sunbeam, he revelled in the scandal that hummedaround him.

After a quarter of an hour's conversation, the landlord'sconversation, Malcolm Sage found himself possessed of a bewilderingamount of new material.

"A young gal don't have them highsterics for nothin'," my hostremarked darkly. "Has fits of 'em every now and then ever since shewas a flapper, sobbin' and cryin' fit to break 'er heart, and thevicar that cross with her."

"That is considered the best way to treat hysterical people,"remarked Malcolm Sage.

"Maybe," was the reply, "but she's only a gal, and a pretty onetoo," he added inconsequently.

"Then there's the schoolmaster," he continued, "'ates the curatelike poison, he does. Shouldn't be surprised if it was him that doneit. 'E's always been a bit sweet in that quarter himself, has Mr.Gray. Got talked about a good deal one time, 'angin' about arterMiss Muriel," added the loquacious publican.

By the time Malcolm Sage had finished his meal, the landlord waswell in his stride of scandalous reminiscence. It was with obviousreluctance that he allowed so admirable a listener to depart, and itwas with manifest regret that he watched Malcolm Sage's cardisappear round the curve in the road.

A little way beyond the vicarage, an admonitory triangle caused Timsto slow up. Just by the bend Malcolm Sage observed a youth and agirl standing in the recess of a gate giving access to a meadow.Although they were in the shadow cast by the hedge, Malcolm Sage'squick eyes recognised in the girl the vicar's daughter. The youthlooked as if he might be one of the lads of the village.

In the short space of two or three seconds Malcolm Sage noticed thechange in the girl. Although he could not see her face very clearly, the vivacity of her bearing and the ready laugh were suggestive of agaiety contrasting strangely with the tragic figure he had seen inthe afternoon.

Muriel Crayne was obviously of a very mercurial temperament, hedecided, as the car swung round the bend.

The next morning, in response to a telephone message, Inspector

Murdy called on Malcolm Sage.

"Well, Mr. Sage," he cried, as he shook hands, "going to haveanother try to teach us our job," and his blue eyes twinkledgood-humouredly.

The inspector had already made up his mind. He was a man withmany successes to his record, achieved as a result of undoubtedastuteness in connection with the grosser crimes, such astrain-murders, post-office hold-ups and burglaries. He was incapable, however, of realising that there existed a subtler form oflaw-breaking, arising from something more intimately associated withthe psychic than the material plane.

"Did you see Mr. Blade?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Saw the whole blessed lot," was the cheery reply. "It's all asclear as milk," and he laughed.

"What did Mr. Blade say?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking keenlyacross at the inspector.

"Just that he had nothing to say."

"His exact words. Can you remember them?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"Oh, yes!" replied the inspector. "He said, 'Inspector Murdy, I havenothing to say,' and then he shut up like a real Whitstable."

"He was away yesterday," remarked Malcolm Sage, who then told theinspector of his visit. "How about John Gray, the schoolmaster?" hequeried.

"He practically told me to go to the devil," was the genial reply.Inspector Murdy was accustomed to rudeness; his profession invitedit, and to his rough-and-ready form of reasoning, rudeness meantinnocence; politeness guilt.

He handed to Malcolm Sage a copy of a list of people who purchased"Olympic Script" from Mr. Grainger, the local Whiteley, volunteeringthe information that the curate was the biggest consumer, as if thatsettled the question of his guilt.

"And yet the vicar would not hear of the arrest of Blade," murmuredMalcolm Sage, turning the copper ash-tray round with his restlessfingers.

The inspector shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Sheer good nature and kindliness, Mr. Sage," he said. "He's asgentle as a woman."

"I once knew a man," remarked Malcolm Sage, "who said that in theannals of crime lay the master-key to the world's mysteries, past, present and to come."

"A dreamer, Mr. Sage," smiled the inspector. "We haven't time fordreaming at the Yard," he added good-temperedly, as he rose andshook himself like a Newfoundland dog.

"I suppose it never struck you to look elsewhere than at thecurate's lodgings for the writer of the letters?" enquired MalcolmSage quietly.

"It never strikes me to look about for someone when I'm sitting onhis chest," laughed Inspector Murdy.

"True," said Malcolm Sage. "By the way," he continued, withoutlooking up, "in future can you let me see every letter as it isreceived? You might also keep careful record of how they aredelivered."

"Certainly, Mr. Sage. Anything that will make you happy."

"Later I may get you to ask the vicar to seal up any subsequentanonymous letters that reach him without allowing anyone to see thecontents. Do you think he would do that?"

"Without doubt if I ask him," said the inspector, surprise in hiseyes as he looked down upon the cone of baldness beneath him, realising what a handicap it is to talk to a man who keeps his eyesaverted.

"He must then put the letters in a place where no one can possiblyobtain access to them. One thing more," continued Malcolm Sage,"will you ask Miss Crayne to write out the full story of the lettersas far as she personally is acquainted with it?"

"Very well, Mr. Sage," said the inspector, with the air of onehumouring a child. "Now I'll be going." He walked towards the door, then suddenly stopped and turned.

"I suppose you think I'm wrong about the curate?"

"I'll tell you later," was the reply.

"When you find the master-key?" laughed the inspector, as he openedthe door.

"Yes, when I find the master-key," said Malcolm Sage quietly and, asthe door closed behind Inspector Murdy, he continued to finger thecopper ashtray as if that were the master-key.

CHAPTER XIV MALCOLM SAGE PLAYS PATIENCE

I

Malcolm Sage was seated at a small green-covered table playingsolitaire. A velvet smoking-jacket and a pair of wine-colouredmorocco slippers suggested that the day's work was done.

Patience, chess, and the cinema were his unfailing sources ofinspiration when engaged upon a more than usually difficult case. Hehad once told Sir James Walton that they clarified his brain andcoordinated his thoughts, the cinema in particular. The fact that inthe surrounding darkness were hundreds of other brains, vital andactive, appeared to stimulate his own imagination.

Puffing steadily at a gigantic meerschaum, he moved the cards with adeliberation which suggested that his attention rather than histhoughts was absorbed in the game.

Nearly a month had elapsed since he had agreed to take up theenquiry into the authorship of the series of anonymous letters withwhich Gylston and the neighbourhood had been flooded; yet still thematter remained a mystery.

A celebrated writer of detective stories had interested himself inthe affair, with the result that the Press throughout the countryhad "stunted" Gylston as if it had been a heavy-weight championship,or a train murder.

For a fortnight Malcolm Sage had been on the Continent in connectionwith the theft of the Adair Diamonds. Two days previously, afterhaving restored the famous jewels to Lady Adair, he had returned toLondon, to find that the Gylston affair had developed a new anddramatic phase. The curate had been arrested for an attemptedassault upon Miss Crayne and, pleading "not guilty," had beencommitted for trial.

The incident that led up to this had taken place on the day thatMalcolm Sage left London. Late that afternoon Miss Crayne hadarrived at the vicarage in a state bordering on collapse. Onbecoming more collected, she stated that on returning from paying acall, and when half-way through a copse, known locally as "GipsiesWood," Blade had sprung out upon her and violently protested hispassion. He had gripped hold of her wrists, the mark of his fingerswas to be seen on the delicate skin, and threatened to kill her andhimself. She had been terrified, thinking he meant to kill her. Theapproach of a farm labourer had saved her, and the curate haddisappeared through the copse.

This story was borne out by Joseph Higgins, the farm labourer inquestion. He had arrived to find Miss Crayne in a state of greatalarm and agitation, and he had walked with her as far as thevicarage gate. He did not, however, actually see the curate.

On the strength of this statement the police had applied for awarrant, and had subsequently arrested the curate. Later he appearedbefore the magistrates, had been remanded, and finally committed fortrial, bail being allowed.

Blade protested his innocence alike of the assault and the writingof the letters; but two hand-writing experts had testified to thesimilarity of the handwriting of the anonymous letters with that ofthe curate. Furthermore, they were all written upon "OlympicScript," the paper that Blade used for his sermons.

Malcolm Sage had just started a new deal when the door opened, andRogers showed in Robert Freynes. With a nod, Malcolm Sage indicatedthe chair opposite. His visitor dropped into it and, taking a pipefrom his pocket, proceeded to fill and light it.

Placing his meerschaum on the mantelpiece, Malcolm Sage produced awell-worn briar from his pocket, which, having got into commission,he proceeded once more with the game.

"It's looking pretty ugly for Blade," remarked Freynes, recognisingby the substitution of the briar for the meerschaum that MalcolmSage was ready for conversation.

"Tell me."

"It's those damned handwriting experts," growled Freynes. "They'rethe greatest anomaly of our legal system. The judge always warns thejury of the danger of accepting their evidence; yet each sidecontinues to produce them. It's an insult to intelligence andjustice."

"To hang a man because his 's' resembles that of an implicatingdocument," remarked Malcolm Sage, as he placed a red queen on ablack knave, "is about as sensible as to imprison him because he hasthe same accent as a foot-pad."

"Then there's Blade's astonishing apathy," continued Freynes. "Heseems quite indifferent to the gravity of his position. Refuses tosay a word. Anyone might think he knew the real culprit and wastrying to shield him," and he sucked moodily at his pipe.

"The handwriting expert," continued Malcolm Sage imperturbably, "istoo concerned with the crossing of a 't,' the dotting of an 'i,' orthe tail of a 'g,' to give time and thought to the way in which thewriter uses, for instance, the compound tenses of verbs. Blade wasno more capable of writing those letters than our friend Murdy is oftransliterating the Rosetta Stone."

"Yes; but can we prove it?" asked Freynes gloomily, as with theblade of a penknife he loosened the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe."Can we prove it?" he repeated and, snapping the knife to, hereplaced it in his pocket.

"Blade's sermons," Malcolm Sage continued, "and such letters of hisas you have been able to collect, show that he adopted a verydefinite and precise system of punctuation. He frequently uses thecolon and the semicolon, and always in the right place. In aparenthetical clause preceded by the conjunction 'and,' he uses acomma after the 'and,' not before it as most people do. Beforesuch words as 'yet' and 'but,' he without exception uses a semicolon.The word 'only,' he always puts in its correct place. In short, heis so academic as to savour somewhat of the pomposity of theeighteenth century."

"Go on," said Freynes, as Malcolm Sage paused, as if to give theother a chance of questioning his reasoning.

"Turning to the anonymous letters," continued Malcolm Sage, "it mustbe admitted that the handwriting is very similar; but there alllikeness to Blade's sermons and correspondence ends. Murdy has shownme nearly all the anonymous letters, and in the whole series thereis not one instance of the colon or the semicolon being used. Thepunctuation is of the vaguest, consisting largely of the dash, whichafter all is a literary evasion.

"In these letters the word 'but' frequently appears without anypunctuation mark before it. At other times it has a comma, a dash,or a full stop."

He paused and for the next two minutes devoted himself to the gamebefore him. Then he continued:

"Such phrases as 'If only you knew,' 'I should have loved to havebeen,' 'different than,' which appear in these letters, would havebeen absolutely impossible to a man of Blade's meticulous literarytemperament."

As Malcolm Sage spoke, Robert Freynes's brain had been workingrapidly. Presently he brought his hand down with a smack upon hisknee.

"By heavens, Sage!" he cried, "this is a new pill for thehandwriting expert. I'll put you in the box. We've got a fightingchance after all."

"The most curious factor in the whole case," continued Malcolm Sage,"is the way in which the letters were delivered. One was thrown intoa fly on to Miss Crayne's lap, she tells us, when she and her fatherwere driving home after dining at the Hall. Another was discoveredin the vicarage garden. A third was thrown through Miss Crayne'sbedroom window. A few of the earlier group were posted in theneighbouring town of Whitchurch, some on days that Blade wascertainly not there."

"That was going to be one of my strongest points," remarked Freynes.

"The letters always imply that there is some obstacle existingbetween the writer and the girl he desires. What possible objectcould Blade have in writing letters to various people suggesting anintrigue between his vicar's daughter and himself; yet these letterswere clearly written by the same hand that addressed those to thegirl, her father and her mother."

Freynes nodded his head comprehendingly.

"If Blade were in love with the girl," continued Malcolm Sage, "whatwas there to prevent him from pressing his suit along legitimate andaccepted lines. Murdy frankly acknowledges that there has beennothing in Blade's outward demeanour to suggest that Miss Crayne wasto him anything more than the daughter of his vicar."

"What do you make of the story of the assault?"

"As evidence it is worthless," replied Malcolm Sage, "being withoutcorroboration. The farmhand did not actually see Blade."

Freynes nodded his agreement.

"Having convinced myself that Blade had nothing to do with thewriting of the letters, I next tried to discover if there wereanything throwing suspicion on others in the neighbourhood, who wereknown to use 'Olympic Script' as note-paper.

"The schoolmaster, John Gray, was one. He is an admirer of MissCrayne, according to local gossip; but it was obvious from the firstthat he had nothing to do with the affair. One by one I eliminatedall the others, until I came back once more to Blade.

"It was clear that the letters were written with a fountain-pen, andBlade always uses one. That, however, is not evidence, as millionsof people use fountain-pens. By the way, what is your line ofdefence?" he enquired.

"Smashing the handwriting experts," was the reply. "I was callingfour myself, on the principle that God is on the side of the bigbattalions; but now I shall depend entirely on your evidence."

"The assault?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"There I'm done," said Freynes, "for although Miss Crayne's evidenceis not proof, it will be sufficient for a jury. Besides, she's avery pretty and charming girl. I suppose," he added, "Blade musthave made some sort of declaration, which she, in the light of theanonymous letters, entirely misunderstood."

"What does he say?"

"Denies it absolutely, although he admits being in the neighbourhoodof the 'Gipsies Wood,' and actually catching sight of Miss Crayne inthe distance; but he says he did not speak to her."

"Is he going into the witness-box?"

"Certainly"; then after a pause he added, "Kelton is prosecuting, and he's as moral as a swan. He'll appeal to the jury as fathers ofdaughters, and brothers of sisters."

Malcolm Sage made no comment; but continued smoking mechanically, his attention apparently absorbed in the cards before him.

"If you can smash the handwriting experts," continued the K.C., "Imay be able to manage the girl's testimony."

"It will not be necessary," said Malcolm Sage, carefully placing anine of clubs upon an eight of diamonds.

"Not necessary?"

"I have asked Murdy to come round," continued Malcolm Sage, stillintent upon his game. "I think that was his ring."

A minute later the door opened to admit the burly inspector, moreblue-eyed and genial than ever, and obviously in the best of spirits.

"Good evening, Mr. Sage," he cried cheerfully. "Congratulations onthe Adair business. Good evening, sir," he added, as he shook handswith Freynes.

He dropped heavily into a seat, and taking a cigar from the box onthe table, which Malcolm Sage had indicated with a nod, he proceededto light it. No man enjoyed a good cigar more than Inspector Murdy.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he enquired, looking from MalcolmSage to Freynes. "It's a clear case now, I think." He slightlystressed the word "now."

"You mean it's Blade?" enquired Malcolm Sage, as he proceeded togather up the cards.

"Who else?" enquired the inspector, through a cloud of smoke.

"That is the question which involves your being here now, Murdy,"said Malcolm Sage dryly.

"We've got three handwriting experts behind us," said the inspectorcomplacently.

"That is precisely where they should be," retorted Malcolm Sagequietly. "In the biblical sense," he added.

Freynes laughed, whilst Inspector Murdy looked from one to the other.

He did not quite catch the allusion.

"You have done as I suggested?" enquired Malcolm Sage, when he hadplaced the cards in their box and removed the card-table.

"Here are all the letters received up to a fortnight ago," said theinspector, holding out a bulky packet. "Those received since haveeach been sealed up separately by the vicar, who is keeping half ofthem, whilst I have the other half; but really, Mr. Sage, I don'tunderstand – "

"Thank you, Murdy," said Malcolm Sage, as he took the packet. "It isalways a pleasure to work with Scotland Yard, It is so thorough."

The inspector beamed; for he knew the compliment was sincere.

Without a word Malcolm Sage left the room, taking the packet withhim.

"A bit quaint at times, ain't he, sir?" remarked Inspector Murdy to

Freynes; "but one of the best. I'd trust him with anything."

Freynes nodded encouragingly.

"There are some of them down at the Yard that don't like him," hecontinued. "They call him 'Sage and Onions'; but most of us who haveworked with him swear by Mr. Sage. He's never out for the limelighthimself, and he's always willing to give another fellow a leg-up.After all, it's our living," he added, a little inconsequently.

Freynes appreciated the inspector's delicacy in refraining from anymention of the Gylston case during Malcolm Sage's absence. After all, they represented respectively the prosecution and the defence. Fornearly half an hour the two talked together upon unprofessionalsubjects. When Malcolm Sage returned, he found them discussing theprospects of Dempsey against Carpentier.

Handing back the packet of letters to Inspector Murdy, Malcolm Sageresumed his seat, and proceeded to re-light his pipe.

"Spotted the culprit, Mr. Sage?" enquired the inspector, withsomething that was very much like a wink in the direction of Freynes.

"I think so," was the quiet reply. "You might meet me at Gylston

Vicarage to-morrow at three. I'll telegraph to Blade to be there too.

You had better bring the schoolmaster also."

"You mean – " began the inspector, rising.

"Exactly," said Malcolm Sage. "It's past eleven, and we all require sleep."

II

The next afternoon the study of the vicar of Gylston presented astrange appearance.

Seated at Mr. Crayne's writing-table was Malcolm Sage, a smallattaché-case at his side, whilst before him were several piles ofsealed packets. Grouped about the room were Inspector Murdy, RobertFreynes, Mr. Gray, and the vicar.

All had their eyes fixed upon Malcolm Sage; but with varyingexpressions. Those of the schoolmaster were frankly cynical. Theinspector and Freynes looked as if they expected to see producedfrom the attaché-case a guinea-pig or a white rabbit, pink-eyed andkicking; whilst the vicar had obviously not yet recovered from hissurprise at discovering that the stranger, who had shown such aremarkable knowledge of monumental brasses and Norman architecture, was none other than the famous investigator about whom he had readso much in the newspapers.

With quiet deliberation Malcolm Sage opened the attaché-case andproduced a spirit lamp, which he lighted. He then placed a metalplate upon a rest above the flame. On this he imposed a thickerplate of a similar metal that looked like steel; but it had a handleacross the middle, rather resembling that of a tool used byplasterers.

He then glanced up, apparently unconscious of the almost feverishinterest with which his every movement was being watched.

"I should like Miss Crayne to be present," he said.

As he spoke the door opened and the curate entered, his dark, handsome face lined and careworn. It was obvious that he hadsuffered. He bowed, and then looked about him, without anysuggestion of embarrassment.

Malcolm Sage rose and held out his hand; Freynes followed suit.

"Ask Miss Muriel to come here," said the vicar to the maid as shewas closing the door.

The curate took the seat that Malcolm Sage indicated beside him.

Silently the six men waited.

A few minutes later Miss Crayne entered, pale but self-possessed.She closed the door behind her. Suddenly she caught sight of thecurate. Her eyes widened, and her paleness seemed to becomeaccentuated. A moment later it was followed by a crimson flush. Shehesitated, her hands clenched at her side, then with a manifesteffort she appeared to control herself and, with a slight smile andinclination of her head, took the chair the schoolmaster movedtowards her. Instinctively she turned her eyes toward Malcolm Sage.

"Inspector Murdy," he said, without raising his eyes, "will youplease open two of those packets?" He indicated the pile upon hisleft. "I should explain," he continued, "that each of these containsone of the most recent of the series of letters with which we areconcerned. Each was sealed up by Mr. Crayne immediately it reachedhim, in accordance with Inspector Murdy's request. Therefore, onlythe writer, the recipient and the vicar have had access to theseletters."

Malcolm Sage turned his eyes interrogatingly upon Mr. Crayne, whobowed.

Meanwhile the inspector had cut open the two top envelopes, unfoldedthe sheets of paper they contained, and handed them to Malcolm Sage.

All eyes were fixed upon his long, shapely fingers as he smoothedout one of the sheets of paper upon the vicar's blotting-pad. Then, lifting the steel plate by the handle, he placed it upon theupturned sheet of paper.

The tension was almost unendurable. The heavy breathing of InspectorMurdy seemed like the blowing of a grampus. Mr. Gray glanced acrossat him irritably. The vicar coughed slightly, then looked startledthat he had made so much noise.

Everyone bent forward, eagerly expecting something; yet withoutquite knowing what. Malcolm Sage lifted the metal plate from theletter. There in the centre of the page, in bluish-coloured letters, which had not been there when the paper was smoothed out upon theblotting-pad, appeared the words: —

Malcolm Sage,

August 12th, 1919.

No. 138.

For some moments they all gazed at the paper as if the mysteriousblue letters exercised upon them some hypnotic influence.