Malcolm Sage, Detective

"Secret ink!"

It was Robert Freynes who spoke. Accustomed as he was to dramaticmoments, he was conscious of a strange dryness at the back of histhroat, and a consequent huskiness of voice.

His remark seemed to break the spell. Instinctively everyone turnedto him. The significance of the bluish-coloured characters wasslowly dawning upon the inspector; but the others still seemedpuzzled to account for their presence.

Immediately he had lifted the plate from the letter, Malcolm Sagehad drawn a sheet of plain sermon paper from the rack before him.This he subjected to the same treatment as the letter. When a fewseconds later he exposed it, there in the centre appeared the samewords: —

Malcolm Sage,

August 12th, 1919.

but on this sheet the number was 203.

Then the true significance of the two sheets of paper seemed to dawnupon the onlookers.

Suddenly there was a scream, and Muriel Crayne fell forward on tothe floor.

"Oh! father, father, forgive me!" she cried, and the next moment shewas beating the floor with her hands in violent hysterics.

III

"From the first I suspected the truth," remarked Malcolm Sage, as he,Robert Freynes and Inspector Murdy sat smoking in the car that Timswas taking back to London at its best pace. "Eighty-five years ago asomewhat similar case occurred in France, that of Marie de Morel, when an innocent man was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment, andactually served eight before the truth was discovered."

The inspector whistled under his breath.

"This suspicion was strengthened by the lengthy account of theaffair written by Miss Crayne, which Murdy obtained from her. Thepunctuation, the phrasing, the inaccurate use of auxiliary verbs, were identical with that of the anonymous letters.

"Another point was that the similarity of the handwriting of theanonymous letters to Blade's became more pronounced as the lettersthemselves multiplied. The writer was becoming more expert as animitator."

Freynes nodded his head several times.

"The difficulty, however, was to prove it," continued Malcolm Sage."There was only one way; to substitute secretly marked paper forthat in use at the vicarage.

"I accordingly went down to Gylston, and the vicar found me keenlyinterested in monumental brasses, his pet subject, and Normanarchitecture. He invited me to the vicarage. In his absence from hisstudy I substituted a supply of marked Olympic Script in place ofthat in his letter-rack, and also in the drawer of his writing-table.As a further precaution, I arranged for my fountain-pen to run outof ink. He kindly supplied me with a bottle, obviously belonging tohis daughter. I replenished my pen, which was full of a chemicalthat would enable me, if necessary, to identify any letter in thewriting of which it had been used. When I placed my pen, which is aself-filler, in the ink, I forced this liquid into the bottle."

The inspector merely stared. Words had forsaken him for the moment.

"It was then necessary to wait until the ink in Miss Crayne's penhad become exhausted, and she had to replenish her supply of paperfrom her father's study. After that discovery was inevitable."

"But suppose she had denied it?" questioned the inspector.

"There was the ink which she alone used, and which I couldidentify," was the reply.

"Why did you ask Gray to be present?" enquired Freynes.

"As his name had been associated with the scandal it seemed onlyfair," remarked Malcolm Sage, then turning to Inspector Murdy hesaid, "I shall leave it to you, Murdy, to see that a properconfession is obtained. The case has had such publicity that Mr.Blade's innocence must be made equally public."

"You may trust me, Mr. Sage," said the inspector. "But why did thecurate refuse to say anything?"

"Because he is a high-minded and chivalrous gentleman," was thequiet reply.

"He knew?" cried Freynes.

"Obviously," said Malcolm Sage. "It is the only explanation of hissilence. I taxed him with it after the girl had been taken away, andhe acknowledged that his suspicions amounted almost to certainty."

"Yet he stayed behind," murmured the inspector with the air of a manwho does not understand. "I wonder why?"

"To minister to the afflicted, Murdy," said Malcolm Sage. "That isthe mission of the Church."

"I suppose you meant that French case when you referred to the'master-key,'" remarked the inspector, as if to change the subject.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"But how do you account for Miss Crayne writing such letters aboutherself?" enquired the inspector, with a puzzled expression in hiseyes. "Pretty funny letters some of them for a parson's daughter."

"I'm not a pathologist, Murdy," remarked Malcolm Sage drily, "butwhen you try to suppress hysteria in a young girl by sternness, it'sabout as effectual as putting ointment on a plague-spot."

"Sex-repression?" queried Freynes.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders; then after a pause, duringwhich he lighted the pipe he had just re-filled, he added:

"When you are next in Great Russell Street, drop in at the BritishMuseum and look at the bust of Faustina. You will see that her chinis similar in modelling to that of Miss Crayne. The girl wasapparently very much attracted to Blade, and proceeded to weave whatwas no doubt to her a romance, later it became an obsession. It allgoes to show the necessity for pathological consideration of certaincrimes."

"But who was Faustina?" enquired the inspector, unable to follow thedrift of the conversation.

"Faustina," remarked Malcolm Sage, "was the domestic fly in thephilosophical ointment of an emperor," and Inspector Murdy laughed; for, knowing nothing of the marriage or the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, it seemed to him the only thing to do.

CHAPTER XV THE MISSING HEAVYWEIGHT

I

"Mr. Doulton, sir. Very important." Rogers had carefully assimilatedhis master's theory of the economy of words, sometimes even to thepoint of obscuring his meaning.

Taking the last piece of toast from the rack, Malcolm Sage withgreat deliberation proceeded to butter it. Then, with a nod to thewaiting Rogers, he poured out the last cup of coffee the potcontained.

A moment later the door opened to admit a clean-shaven little man ofabout fifty, prosperous in build and appearance; but obviouslylabouring under some great excitement. His breath came in short, spasmodic gasps. His thin sandy hair had clearly not been brushedsince the day before, whilst his chin and upper lip bore obvioustraces of a night's growth of beard. He seemed on the point ofcollapse.

"He's gone – disappeared!" he burst out, as Rogers closed the doorbehind him. Malcolm Sage rose, motioned his caller to a chair at thetable, and resumed his own seat.

"Had breakfast?" he enquired quietly, resuming his occupation ofgetting the toast carefully and artistically buttered.

"Good God, man!" exploded Mr. Doulton, almost hysterically. "Don'tyou understand? Burns has disappeared!"

"I gathered as much," said Malcolm Sage calmly, as he reached forthe marmalade.

"Pond telephoned from Stainton," continued Mr. Doulton. "I was inFed. I got dressed, and came round here at once. I – " he stoppedsuddenly, as Rogers entered with a fresh relay of coffee. Without aword he proceeded to pour out a cup for Mr. Doulton, who, after amoment's hesitation, drank it greedily.

Rogers glanced interrogatingly from the dish that had contained eggsand bacon to Malcolm Sage, who nodded.

When he had withdrawn, Mr. Doulton opened his mouth to speak, thenclosed it again and gazed at Malcolm Sage, who, having superimposedupon the butter a delicate amber film of marmalade, proceeded to cutup the toast into a series of triangles. Apparently it was the onlything in life that interested him.

For weeks past the British and American sporting world had thoughtand talked of nothing but the forthcoming fight between CharleyBurns and Bob Jefferson for the heavyweight championship of theworld. The event was due to take place two days hence at the Olympiafor a purse of 40,000 pounds offered by Mr. Montague Doulton, theprince of impresarios.

Never had a contest been looked forward to with greater eagernessthan the Burns v. Jefferson match. A great change had come overpublic opinion in regard to prize-fighting, thanks to the elevatinginfluence of Mr. Doulton. It was no longer referred to as"brutalising" and "debasing." Refined and nice-minded people foundthemselves mildly interested and patriotically hopeful that CharleyBurns, the British champion, would win. In two years Mr. Doulton hadachieved what the National Sporting Club had failed to do in aquarter of a century.

Long and patiently he had laboured to bring about this match, whichmany thought would prove the keystone to the arch of Burns's fame, incidentally to that of the impresario himself.

"And now he's disappeared – clean gone." Mr. Doulton almost sobbed.

"Tell me."

Malcolm Sage looked up from his plate, the last triangle of toastpoised between finger and thumb.

In short staccatoed sentences, like bursts from a machine-gun, Mr.

Doulton proceeded to tell his story.

That morning at six o'clock, when Alf Pond, Burns's trainer, hadentered his room to warn him that it was time to get up, he found itunoccupied. At first he thought that Burns had gone down before him; but immediately his eye fell on the bed, and he saw that it had notbeen slept in, he became alarmed.

Going to the bedroom door, he had shouted to the sparring-partners, and soon the champion's room was filled with men in various stagesof déshabille.

Only for a moment, however, had they remained inactive. At AlfPond's word of command they had spread helter-skelter over the houseand grounds, causing the early morning air to echo with their shoutsfor "Charley."

When at length he became assured that Burns had disappeared, Alf

Pond telephoned first to Mr. Doulton and then to Mr. Papwith,

Burns's backer.

"I told Pond to do nothing and tell no one," said Mr. Doulton, inconclusion, "and when I left my rooms my man was trying to getthrough to Papwith to ask him to keep the story to himself."

Malcolm Sage nodded approval.

"Now, what's to be done?" He looked at Malcolm Sage with the air ofa man who has just told a doctor of his alarming symptoms, andalmost breathlessly awaits the verdict.

"Breakfast, a shave, then we'll motor down to Stainton," and MalcolmSage proceeded to fill his briar, his whole attention absorbed inthe operation.

A moment later Rogers entered with a fresh supply of eggs and bacon.Mr. Doulton shook his head. Instinctively his hand had gone up tohis unshaven chin. It was probably the first time in his life thathe had sat at table without shaving. He prided himself upon hispersonal appearance. In his younger days he had been known as "DandyDoulton."

"The car in half an hour, Rogers," said Malcolm Sage, as he rosefrom the table. "When you've finished," he said, turning to Mr.Doulton, "Rogers will give you hot water, a razor and anything elseyou want. By the time you have shaved I shall be ready."

"But don't you see – Think what it – " began Mr. Doulton.

"An empty stomach neither sees nor thinks," was Malcolm Sage'soracular retort, and he went over to the window and seated himselfat his writing-table.

For the next half-hour he was engaged with his correspondence, andin telephoning instructions to his office.

By the time Mr. Doulton had breakfasted and shaved, the car was atthe door.

During the run to Stainton both men were silent. Mr. Doulton wasspeculating as to what would happen at the Olympia on the followingnight if Burns failed to appear, whilst Malcolm Sage was occupiedwith thoughts, the object of which was to prevent such a catastrophe.

"They're sure to say it's a yellow streak," Mr. Doulton burst out onone occasion; but, as Malcolm Sage took no notice of the remark, hesubsided into silence, and the car hummed its way along thePortsmouth Road.

Burns's training-quarters were situated at Stainton, nearGuildford. Here, under the vigilant eye of Alf Pond, and with thehelp of a large retinue of sparring-partners, he was getting himselfinto what had come to be called "Burns's condition," which meantthat he would enter the ring trained to the minute. Never didathlete work more conscientiously than Charley Burns.

As the car turned into a side road, flanked on either hand by elms,

Mr. Doulton tapped on the wind-screen, and Tims pulled up. Malcolm

Sage had requested that the car be stopped a hundred yards before it reached "The Grove," where the training quarters were situated.

"Wait for me here," he said, as he got out.

"It's the first gate on the right," said Mr. Doulton.

Walking slowly away from the car, Malcolm Sage examined with greatcare the road itself. Presently he stopped and, taking from hispocket a steel spring-measure, he proceeded to measure a portion ofthe surface of the dusty roadway. Having made several entries in anote-book, he then turned back to the car, his eyes still on theroad.

Instructing Tims to remain where he was, Malcolm Sage motioned to Mr.

Doulton to get out.

"This way," said Malcolm Sage, leading him to the extreme left-handside of the road. Turning into the gates of "The Grove," they walkedup the drive towards the house. In front stood a group of men invarious and nondescript costumes.

As Malcolm Sage and Mr. Doulton approached, a man in a soiled whitesweater and voluminous grey flannel trousers, generously turned upat the extremities, detached himself from the group and came towardsthem. He was puffy of face, with pouched eyes and a moist skin; yetin his day Alf Pond had been an unbeatable middle-weight, and thegreatest master of ring-craft of his time; but that was nearly ageneration ago.

In agonised silence he looked from Mr. Doulton to Malcolm Sage, thenback again to Mr. Doulton. There was in his eyes the misery ofdespair.

The preliminary greetings over, Alf Pond led the way round to alarge coach-house in the rear, which had been fitted up as agymnasium. Here were to be seen all the appliances necessary to thetraining of a boxer for a great contest, including a roped ring atone end.

"He was here only yesterday." There was a world of tragedy andpathos in Alf Pond's tone. Something like a groan burst from thesparring-partners.

With a quick, comprehensive glance, Malcolm Sage seemed to take inevery detail.

"It's a bad business, Pond," said Mr. Doulton, who found the mutedespair of these hard-living, hard-hitting men rather embarrassing.

"What'd I better do?" queried Alf Pond.

"I've put the whole matter in Mr. Sage's hands," said Mr. Doulton.

"He'll find him, if anyone can."

A score of eyes were turned speculatively upon Malcolm Sage. In nonewas there the least ray of hope. All had now made up their mindsthat Jefferson would win the fight by default.

Slowly and methodically Malcolm Sage drew the story of Burns'sdisappearance from Alf Pond, the sparring-partners occasionallyacting as a chorus.

When all had been told, Malcolm Sage gazed for some moments at thefinger-nails of his left hand.

"You were confident he would win?" he asked at length.

"Confident!" There was incredulity and wonder in Alf Pond's voice.Then, with a sudden inspiration, "Look at Kid!" he cried – "look athim!" and he indicated with a nod a fair-haired giant standing onhis right.

Malcolm Sage looked.

The man's face showed the stress and strain of battle. His nose hadtaken on something of the quality of cubism, his right eye was outof commission, and there was an ugly purple patch on his left cheek, and his right ear looked as if a wasp had stung it.

"He did that in one round, and him the third. Kid asked for it, andhe got it, same as Jeff would," explained Alf Pond proudly, amomentary note of elation in his voice. There was also something ofpride in the grin with which Kid stood the scrutiny of the others.

"Do you know of any reason why Burns should have left his room?"

Malcolm Sage looked from one to the other interrogatingly.

"There wasn't any," was Alf Pond's response, and the others noddedtheir concurrence.

"He knew no one in the neighbourhood?"

"No one to speak of. A few local gents would drop in occasional tosee how he was getting on, and then a lot o' newspaper chaps camedown from London." There was that in Alf Pond's tone which seemed tosuggest that in his opinion such questions were foolish.

"Did he receive any letters or telegrams yesterday?" was the nextquestion.

"Letters!" Alf Pond laughed sardonically. "Shoals of 'em. He'd turn'em all over to Sandy Lane," indicating a red-headed man on theright.

"He wasn't much at writing letters," said Sandy Lane, by way ofexplanation.

"His hands were made for better things," cried Alf Pond scornfully, and the sparring-partners nodded their agreement.

"Did he turn over to you the whole of his correspondence?" asked

Malcolm Sage, turning to Sandy Lane.

"Sometimes he'd keep a letter," broke in Alf Pond, "but not often.

Sort of personal," he added, as if to explain the circumstance.

"From a woman, perhaps?" suggested Malcolm Sage, taking off his hatand stroking the back of his head.

"Woman!" cried Alf Pond scornfully; "Charley hadn't no use for women,or he wouldn't have been the boxer he was."

"He was quite himself, quite natural, yesterday?" asked Malcolm Sage.

"Quite himself," repeated Alf Pond deliberately; then, once moreindicating Kid, he added, "Look at Kid; that's what he done in oneround." There was in his tone all the contempt of knowledge forignorance.

Malcolm Sage resumed his hat and, taking his pipe from his pocket, proceeded to stuff it with tobacco, as if that were the only problemin the world. On everything he did he seemed to concentrate hisentire attention to the exclusion of all else.

"No smokin' here, if you please," said Alf Pond sharply.

Malcolm Sage returned his pipe to his pocket without comment.

"Now, what are you going to do?" There was challenge in Alf Pond'svoice as he eyed Malcolm Sage with disfavour. In his world men withbald, conical heads and gold-rimmed spectacles did not count formuch.

"How many people know of the disappearance?" enquired Malcolm Sage, ignoring the question.

"Outside of us here, only Mr. Papwith," was the response.

For fully a minute Malcolm Sage did not reply. At length he turnedto Mr. Doulton.

"Can you arrange to remain here to meet Mr. Papwith?" he enquired.

"I propose doing so," was the reply.

"You want to find Burns, I suppose?" Malcolm Sage asked of Alf Pond,in low, level tones.

Alf Pond and his colleagues eyed him as if he had asked a mostastonishing question.

"You barmy?" demanded the trainer, putting into words the looks ofthe others.

"You will continue with the day's work as if nothing had happened,"continued Malcolm Sage. "No one outside must know that – "

"But how the hell are we going to do that with Charley gone?" brokein Alf Pond, taking a step forward with clenched fists.

"Your friend here," indicating Kid, "can pose as Burns," was MalcolmSage's quiet reply, as he looked into the trainer's eye without theflicker of an eyelash.

"You, Mr. Doulton, I will ask to remain here with Mr. Papwith untilI communicate with you. On no account leave the training-quarters, even if you have to wait here until to-morrow evening."

"But – " began Alf Pond; then he stopped and gazed at thesparring-partners, blinking his eyes in stupid bewilderment.

"Have I your promise?" enquired Malcolm Sage of Mr. Doulton.

"As far as I am concerned, yes," was the response, "and I think Ican answer for Papwith. It's very inconvenient, though."

"Not so inconvenient as having to explain things at the Olympiato-morrow night," remarked Malcolm Sage drily. "Now," he continued, turning once more to Alf Pond, "I suppose you've all got somethingon this fight."

"Something on it!" cried Alf Pond; then, turning to thesparring-partners, he cried, "He asks if we've got somethink on it.My Gawd!" he groaned, "we got our shirts on it. That's what we goton it, our shirts," and his voice broke in something like a sob.

"You had better post someone at the gate to tell all enquirers thatBurns is doing well and is confident of winning," said Malcolm Sageto Mr. Doulton, "and keep an eye on the telephone. Tell anyone whorings up the same; in fact" – and he turned to the others – "as far asyou are concerned, Burns is still with you. Do you understand?"

They looked at one another in a way that was little suggestive ofunderstanding.

"Did Burns wear the same clothes throughout the day?" asked Malcolm

Sage of the trainer.

"Course he didn't!" Alf Pond made no effort to disguise the contempthe felt. "In the daytime he used to wear flannel trousers an' asweater, same as me, except when he was sparrin', then he put ondrawers. Always would have everythink same as it was goin' to be, would Charley – seconds, referee, timekeeper. Said it made him feelat home when the time came. Quaint he was in some of his ideas."

"Then from the time he got up until bedtime he wore the sameclothes?" queried Malcolm Sage, without looking up from theinevitable contemplation of his finger-nails.

"No he didn't." Alf Pond spat his boredom at these useless questionsinto a far corner. "He was always a bit of a nib, was Charley. Afterhe'd finished the day's work he'd put on a suit o' dark duds, awhite collar, a watch on his wrist, an' all that bunko. Then we'dplay poker or billiards till half-past eight, when we'd all turnin." The look with which Alf Pond concluded this itinerary plainlydemanded if there were any more damn silly questions coming.

"Now I should like to see Burns's room."

Malcolm Sage and Mr. Doulton followed Alf Pond upstairs to a largeroom on the first floor, as destitute of the attributes of comfortas a guardroom. A bed, a wash-hand stand, and a chest of drawerscomprised the furniture. A few articles of clothing were strewnabout, and in one corner lay a pair of dumb-bells.

The windows were open top and bottom. Malcolm Sage passed from oneto the other and looked out. He examined carefully each of thewindow-ledges.

"Are these the clothes he wore when he got up?" he enquired, indicating a sweater and a pair of flannel trousers that lay on achair.

Alf Pond nodded.

Swiftly Malcolm Sage felt in the pockets. There was nothing there. Aminute later he left the room, followed by the others. Descendingthe stairs, he passed along the hall and out on to the short drive, accompanied by Mr. Doulton and Alf Pond.

Half-way towards the gate Malcolm Sage stopped.

"You will hear from me some time to-day or to-morrow," he said. "Doexactly as I have said and, if I don't telephone before to-morrowevening, go to the Olympia as if Burns were to be there. You mighthave sent out to my car a pair of drawers and boots in case I findhim."

"You're going to find him then?" Alf Pond suddenly gripped Malcolm

Sage's arm with what was almost ferocity.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders.

"If you do as I tell you, it will help. By the way," he added, "ifyou have time, you might put twenty-five pounds on Burns for me. Mr.Doulton will be responsible for the amount. Now I want to look aboutme," and with that Malcolm Sage walked a few steps down the drive, leaving two men staring after him as if he had either solved orpropounded the riddle of the universe.

For some minutes he stood in the centre of the drive, looking abouthim. Stepping to the right, he glanced back at the house, and thentowards the road. Finally he made for a large clump of rhododendronsthat lay between the road and the house.

Motioning the others to remain where they were on the gravelleddrive, he walked to a clear space of short grass between therhododendrons and the hedge bordering the road.

Going down upon his knees, he proceeded to examine the ground withgreat care and attention. For nearly half an hour he crawled fromplace to place, absorbed in grass, shrub, and flower-bed. Finally hepenetrated half into the privet-hedge that bordered the road.

The sparring-partners had now joined the other two on the drive, andthe group stood watching the strange movements of the man who, intheir opinion, had already shown obvious symptoms of insanity.