Malcolm Sage, Detective

Presently Malcolm Sage emerged from the hedge, in his hand a longcigar, round the centre of which was a red-and-gold band. For fullya minute he stood examining this with great care. Then, taking aletter-case from his pocket, he carefully placed the cigar in thehinge, returned the case to his pocket, and rejoined the group ofwide-eyed spectators.

"Found anythink?" enquired Alf Pond eagerly.

"Several things," replied Malcolm Sage.

"What?" The men grouped themselves round him, breathless withinterest.

"By the way," said Malcolm Sage, turning to Alf Pond, "does Burnshappen to smoke long Havana cigars with a red – "

"Smoke!" yelled Alf Pond in horror. "Him smoke! You blinkin' wellbarmy?" he demanded, looking Malcolm Sage up and down as ifmeditating an attack upon him. "I'd like to see the man who'd somuch as dare to strike a match here," and he glared about himangrily, whilst the sparring-partners shuffled their feet andmurmured among themselves. There was just the suspicion of afluttering at the corners of Malcolm Sage's mouth.

"I'm afraid Pond is rather excited just at present," said Mr.

Doulton tactfully. By now he had entirely regained his own composure.

"Burns is a great lover of tobacco, and Pond takes no risks. You were saying that you had discovered several things?"

Again the group of men drew closer to Malcolm Sage, their headsthrust forward as if fearful of missing a word.

"For one thing, Burns left his room last night to meet a womanby – "

"It's a lie!" cried Alf Pond heatedly. "It's a damned lie! I don'tbelieve it."

"A rather dainty creature, small and well dressed. She wasaccompanied by several men, one of them rather stout, very carefulof his clothes, and an inveterate smoker. The others were bigger, rougher men. They all came in a car, which arrived after the motorbicycle, which in turn arrived later than the small car."

The sparring-partners exchanged glances, whilst Alf Pond stared.

"Subsequently they drove off in a very great hurry. Incidentallythey took Burns with them; but against his will. On the way down thegirl was in the tonneau; but on the return journey she sat besidethe driver. As Burns was in the tonneau, it was no doubt aprecaution."

"I don't believe a word," interrupted Alf Pond. "He's makin' it allup."

Without appearing to notice the remark, Malcolm Sage turned andwalked towards the gate, Mr. Doulton following a step in the rear.

"Liar!" growled Alf Pond, as he turned towards the house. "Ruddyliar!" he added, as if finding consolation in the term. "He'llnever find old Charley."

"Tell me, Sage, were you serious?" asked Mr. Doulton, as theyreached the gate.

"Entirely."

"I'm afraid poor Pond thought you were making game of us," he addedapologetically. "Do you mind explaining how you arrived at yourconclusions?"

"Behind that clump of rhododendrons," began Malcolm Sage, "there iswritten a whole history. The marks of boots, or shoes, with veryhigh heels suggests a woman, the size and daintiness of the footweartell the rest. As Burns appeared, she stepped towards him. Her veryshort steps indicate both fashionable clothes and smallness ofstature."

"And the man who was careful about his clothes?"

"He stood behind a holly-bush with an umbrella – "

"But how did you know?"

"He had been leaning upon it, and there was the mark where it hadsunk into the soft turf up to the point where the silk joins thestick. A man who carries an umbrella on a kidnapping adventure mustbe habitually in fear of rain – none but a well-dressed man wouldfear rain.

"Then, as he had a cigar in his hand with the end bitten off, itshows the habitual smoker. He was only waiting for the end of thedrama before lighting up. His height I get from his stride, and hissize by the fact that, like Humpty-Dumpty, he had a great fall. I'lltell you the rest later. I'm afraid it's an ugly business."

"But the girl riding beside the driver?" burst out Mr. Doulton, bewildered by the facts that Malcolm Sage had deduced from so little.

"At the edge of a side-road there is invariably a deposit of dust, and the marks where they all got out and in are clearly visible. Thehurry of departure is shown by the fact that the car started beforeone of the men had taken his place, and his footsteps running besideit before jumping on to the running-board are quite clear. I'll ringyou up later. I cannot stay now." And with that he hurried away.

"Back along your own tracks, Tims," said he on reaching the car. Hethen walked on to the main road.

With head over right shoulder, Tims carefully backed the car,

Malcolm Sage signalling that he was to turn to the right.

Instructing Tims to drive slowly, Malcolm Sage took his seat besidehim, keeping his eyes fixed upon the off-side of the road. Hestopped the car at each cross-road, and walked down it some twentyor thirty yards, his eyes bent downwards as if in search ofsomething. At the end of half an hour he instructed Tims to driveback to London at his best speed.

II

That afternoon in his office Malcolm Sage worked without cessation.

Both telephones, incoming and outgoing, were continually in use.

Telegraph girls and messenger boys came and went.

Gladys Norman had ceased to worry about the shininess of her nose, and William Johnson was in process of readjusting his ideas as tolack of the dramatic element at the Malcolm Sage Bureau as comparedwith detective fiction and the films.

About three o'clock a tall, clean-shaven man was shown into MalcolmSage's room. He had a hard mouth, keen, alert eyes, and an airsuggestive of the fact that he knew the worst there was to be knownabout men and acted accordingly.

With a nod Malcolm Sage motioned him to a seat. Six months before hehad saved Dick Lindler from the dock by discovering the realcriminal in whose stead Lindler was about to be charged with aseries of frauds. Since then Malcolm Sage had always been sure ofsuch "inside" information in the bookmaking world as he required.

"How's the betting now?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Nine to two on Jefferson offered; and no takers," was the reply."There's something up, Mr. Sage; I'll take my dying oath on it," hesaid, leaning across the table and dropping his voice.

"Any big amounts?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"No, that's what troubles me. The money's being spread about so. Thefunny thing is that a lot of it is being put on by letter. I've hada dozen myself to-day."

Malcolm Sage nodded slowly as he filled his pipe, which with greatdeliberation he proceeded to light until the whole surface of thetobacco glowed. Then, as if suddenly realising that Lindler was notsmoking, he pulled open a drawer, drew out a cigar-box, and pushedit across, watching him closely from beneath his eyebrows as he didso.

Lindler opened the box, then looked interrogatingly at Malcolm Sage.

"Didn't know you smoked the same poison-sticks as the 'Downy One,'"he said, picking up a long cigar with a red and gold band, andexamining it.

"Who's he?"

"Old Nathan Goldschmidt, the stinking Jew."

"I'm sorry," said Malcolm Sage; "that should not have been there.

Try one of the others."

Lindler looked across at him curiously.

"Personally, myself," he said, "I believe he's at the bottom of allthis heavy backing of Jefferson."

Malcolm Sage continued to smoke as if the matter did not interesthim, whilst Lindler bit off the end of the cigar he had selected andproceeded to light it.

"Several of his crowd have been around this morning trying to loadme up," he continued presently, when the cigar was drawing to hissatisfaction. "Must have stayed up all night to be in time," headded scathingly.

"Have you seen Goldschmidt himself?"

"Not since yesterday afternoon."

"Does he usually carry an umbrella?"

Lindler laughed.

"The boys call him 'Gampy Goldschmidt,'" he said.

"You really think that the Goldschmidt gang is Backing Jefferson?"

"They've been at it for the last week," was the response. "Theyknow something, Mr. Sage. Somebody's going to do the dirty, otherwise they wouldn't be so blasted clever about it?"

"Clever?"

"Putting on all they can on the Q.T.," was the response.

"Find out all you can about Goldschmidt and his friends. Keep intouch with me here if you learn anything. Incidentally, keep on thewater-wagon until after the fight."

"Right-o!" said Lindler, rising; "but I wish you'd tell me – "

"I have told you," said Malcolm Sage, and with that he took theproffered hand and, a moment later, Dick Lindler passed through theouter door. As he did so, he almost collided with Thompson, whohad just jumped out of Malcolm Sage's car and was dashing towardsthe door. Thompson rushed across the outer-office, through theglass-panelled door, and passed swiftly into Malcolm Sage's room.

"It's the car right enough, Chief," he said, making an effort tocontrol his excitement. "I picked it up outside Jimmy Dilk's. Therewere three men in it."

Malcolm Sage nodded, then, opening a drawer, produced a sealedpacket.

"If I'm not back here by half-past four," he said, "ring upInspector Wensdale, and ask him to come round at once with a coupleof men and wait in the outer office. Give him this packet. There's aletter inside. If he's not there, get anyone else you know."

Thompson stared. In spite of long association with Malcolm Sage, there were still times when he failed to follow his chief's line ofreasoning.

"If I telephone or write cancelling these instructions, ignoreanything I say. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Chief," said Thompson.

Malcolm Sage picked up his hat and stick and left the room.

Tims, who had been waiting at the outer door, sprang to his seat and, almost before the door of the car had closed, it jerked forward andwas soon threading its sinuous way towards Coventry Street.

Five minutes later Malcolm Sage pressed a bell-push on the fifthfloor of a large block of flats known as Coventry Mansions. The doorwas opened by a heavily-built, ill-favoured man. In response toMalcolm Sage's request to see Mr. Goldschmidt, he was told that hecouldn't.

"Tell him," said Malcolm Sage, fixing his steel-grey eyes upon theman in a steady gaze, "that Mr. Malcolm Sage wishes to see him aboutsomething that happened last night, and about something more that isto happen to-morrow night. He'll understand."

A sudden look of apprehension in the man's eyes seemed to suggestthat he at least understood. He hesitated for a moment, then, with agruff "Wait there," shut the door in Malcolm Sage's face. Threeminutes later he opened it again and, inviting him to enter, led theway along a passage, at the end of which was a door, which the manthrew open.

Malcolm Sage found himself in a darkened room, from which the lightwas excluded by heavy curtains. For a moment he looked about him, unable to distinguish any object. When his eyes became accustomed tothe gloom, he saw seated in an armchair a man with a handkerchiefheld to his face.

"Mr. Goldschmidt?" he interrogated, as he seated himself in thecentre of the room.

"Well, what is it?" was the thickly spoken retort.

"I came to ask your views on the fight to-morrow night, and toenquire if you think the odds of nine to two on Jefferson arejustified."

There was an exclamation from the arm-chair.

"If you've got anything to say," said the thick voice angrily, "getit off your chest and go – to hell," he added, as an afterthought."What do you want?" the voice demanded, as Malcolm Sage remainedsilent.

"I want you to take a little run with me in my car," said Malcolm

Sage evenly. "Fresh air will do your nose good."

"What the – " the man broke off, apparently choked with passion, then, recovering himself, added, "Here, cough it up, or else I'llhave you thrown out into the street! What is it?"

"I want either you, or one of your friends, to come with me to where

Charley Burns has been taken."

There was a stifled exclamation from the chair, then a howl of agonyas the hand holding the handkerchief dropped. At the same momentthree men burst into the room. Malcolm Sage's back was to the door.He did not even turn to look at them.

Somebody switched on the light, and Malcolm Sage saw before him thepuffy face of a man of about sixty, in the centre of which was ahideous purple splotch that had once been a nose. A moment later thehandkerchief obscured the unsavoury sight.

"What the hell's all this about?" shouted one of the men, advancinginto the room, the others remaining by the door.

Slowly Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the three men, whoseappearance proclaimed their pugilistic calling.

"I was just asking Mr. Goldschmidt to be so good as to accompany meto where Charley Burns is – "

He was interrupted by exclamations from all three men.

"What the hell do you mean?" demanded he who had spoken, a dark, ill-favoured fellow with a brow like a rainy sky.

"I will tell you," said Malcolm Sage. "Last night Mr. Goldschmidt, accompanied by certain friends, went to Burns's training-quarters tokeep an appointment made in the name of a girl friend of Burns. Hecame out quite unsuspectingly, was overpowered, and subsequentlytaken in Mr. Goldschmidt's car to a place with which I amunacquainted, so that he shall not appear at the Olympia to-morrownight."

He drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. His airwas that of a chess player who knows that he can mate his opponentin two moves.

"It's a damned lie!" roared one of the men, whilst Goldschmidtshrieked something that was unintelligible.

"You drove out by way of Putney Hill, Esher, and Clandon Cross Roads.

You backed the car to within two hundred yards of 'The Grove,' where you all got out with the exception of the driver. You then entered

'The Grove,' taking cover behind a large clump of rhododendrons."

"It's a damned lie," choked Goldschmidt.

"By the way," continued Malcolm Sage, "your fair friend drove out inthe tonneau; but returned seated beside the driver, and one of youwas nearly left behind and entered the car after it had started."

The men looked at one another in bewilderment.

"You, Goldschmidt, carried an umbrella," continued Malcolm Sage,"and took cover behind the holly bush; but you came out a little toosoon, hence that nose. Burns was playing possum. You were ratheranxious for a smoke too. I am a smoker myself."

A stream of profanity burst from Goldschmidt's lips.

"You see I am in a position to prove my points," said Malcolm Sagecalmly.

"Oh! you are, are you?" sneered the spokesman, as he moved a littlecloser to Malcolm Sage, "and I am in the position to prove thatwe're four to one."

"Three to one," corrected Malcolm Sage quietly. "Your friend,"indicating Goldschmidt, with a nod, "is scarcely – "

He was interrupted by a stifled oath from the armchair.

"Good old Nigger!" murmured one of the men by the door.

"Well, and what about it?" demanded Nigger.

"If Burns is delivered over to me within two hours, unharmed and infighting trim, and a cheque for 1,000 pounds is paid to St.Timothy's Hospital by noon to-morrow, there will be no prosecution, and I will not divulge your names. If not, during the nexttwenty-four hours, London will probably have its first experience oflynch-law."

With that Malcolm Sage struck a match and proceeded to light hispipe.

"That all?" sneered the man. "Ain't there nothink else you'd like?"

"I cannot recall anything else at the moment," said Malcolm Sageimperturbably, as he looked across at the fellow over the top of theburning match.

"You dirty nark," burst out the man by the door, who had hithertoremained silent. "A pretty sort of stool-pigeon you are."

"Spyin' on us, wasn't you?" demanded Nigger, edging nearer to

Malcolm Sage.

"It's ten minutes past four," remarked Malcolm Sage coolly, as heglanced at his wrist-watch.

"Oh, it is, is it?" was the retort, "and in another hour it'll beten minutes past five."

"I have to be back at my office by half-past four." Malcolm Sagelooked about for some receptacle in which to throw the spent match.

"You don't say so." Again Nigger edged a little nearer; but Malcolm

Sage appeared not to notice it.

"Well, I may as well tell you that you don't leave here until eleveno'clock to-morrow night, see?"

There were murmurs of approval from the others.

"Then, perhaps, you will send out and buy me a tooth-brush," was

Malcolm Sage's quiet rejoinder.

CHAPTER XVI THE GREAT FIGHT AT THE OLYMPIA

I

Never had the Olympia seen such a crowd as was gathered to watch thefight between Charley Burns of England and Joe Jefferson of America,Never in its career of hybrid ugliness had it witnessed suchexcitement.

For thirty-six hours the wildest rumours had been current. CharleyBurns had broken down, run away, committed suicide, and refused tofight. He had broken a leg, an arm, a finger, and had torn moretendons than he possessed. He had sprained ankles, wrung withers, been overtrained, had contracted every known disease in addition tomanifesting a yellow streak.

The atmosphere was electrical. The spectators whispered amongthemselves, exchanging views and rumours. The most fantasticalstories were related, credited, and debated with gravity and concern.

If some ill-advised optimist ventured to question a particularlylugubrious statement, he was challenged to explain the betting, which had crept up to six to one on Jefferson offered, with notakers.

The arrival of the Prince of Wales gave a welcome vent for pent-upexcitement. Accustomed as he was to enthusiastic acclamation, thePrince seemed a little embarrassed by the warmth and intensity ofhis greeting.

The preliminary bouts ran their course, of interest only to thoseimmediately concerned, who were more truly alone in the midst ofthat vast concourse than some anchorite in the desert of Sahara.

The heat was unbearable, the atmosphere suffocating. Men smokedtheir cigars and cigarettes jerkily, now indulging in a series ofstaccatoed puffs, now ignoring them until they went out.

Slowly the time crept on as by the bedside of death. If thoseridiculously bobbing figures in the ring would only cease theircaperings!

"Break! Break!" The voice of the referee suddenly split through a"pocket" of silence. Everyone seemed startled, then the curtain ofsound once more descended and wrapped the assembly in itsimpenetrable folds. The gong sounded the beginning and the end ofeach round, and so it went on.

Mr. Papwith sat in the front row near the Prince. Smiling, smiling, for ever smiling. He was a dapper little man, with a fiery, clean-shaven face, and a fringe of grizzled hair above his ears thatgave the lie to the auburn silkiness with which his head was crowned.Next to him was Mr. Doulton, who chatted and smiled, smiled andchatted; but his eyes moved restlessly over the basin of faces, asif in search of an answer to some unuttered question.

At length the preliminary bouts were ended. As the combatants hadarrived unheralded, so they departed unsung. Although no oneappeared to be watching, a sudden hush fell over the assembly. Thedramatic moment had arrived. A few minutes would see the rumoursconfirmed or disproved. Men, seasoned spectators of a hundred fights, found the tension almost unbearable.

The M.C. climbed through the ropes and looked fussily about him. Heappealed to the spectators for silence during the actual rounds andfor the discontinuance of smoking. A black cardboard box, sealed asif it contained duelling-pistols instead of gloves, was thrust intothe ring. Men took a last fond draw at their cigars and cigarettesbefore mechanically extinguishing them.

All eyes were directed towards the spot where the combatants wouldappear.

The referee turned expectantly in the same direction. A group of menin flannels and sweaters was seen moving towards the ring. Amongthem was a sleek, dark-haired man in a long dressing-gown of bottlegreen. It was Joe Jefferson.

Suddenly a great roar burst out, echoing and reechoing continuouslyas the group approached the ring and Jefferson climbed through theropes.

Then came another hush. A second group of men was observedapproaching the ring. There was a shout as those nearest recognisedAlf Pond among them. It developed into a roar, then died away as ifstrangled, giving place to a hum of suppressed inquiry. Everyone waseither asking, or looking, the same question.

"Where is Burns?"

Alf Pond and his associates moved to the ringside as if bound for afuneral.

Their gloom seemed suddenly to pervade the whole vast concourse. Mentalked to one another mechanically, their eyes fixed upon the group.

There was a strange hush. The men reached the ringside and stoodlooking at one another. The audience looked at them. What hadhappened?

None seemed to notice three men moving down the opposite gangwaytowards the ring. The man in the centre was muffled in a heavyovercoat that reached to his heels, a soft felt hat was pulled downover his eyes. One or two spectators in their immediateneighbourhood gave them a hasty, curious glance.

Suddenly Alf Pond gave a wild whoop and, breaking away from hisfellows, dashed towards the three strangers. In a moment theovercoat and muffler were thrown aside and the hat knocked off, revealing the fair-haired and smiling Charley Burns.

Gripping Burns's hand, Alf Pond broke down. Tears streamed down hisbattle-seared features, and he sobbed with the choking agony of astrong man.

Then suddenly everything became enveloped in a dense volume of sound.Men and women stood on their chairs and waved frantically, madly, anything they could clutch hold of to wave. The whole Olympiaappeared to have gone mad. Noble peers, grave judges, sedategenerals and austere philosophers acted as if suddenly bereft of therestaining influences of civilisation and decorum.

Hugged and fondled by his seconds, Burns reached the ring andclimbed into it. The black cardboard box was opened, the men's handsbandaged, the gloves donned. Still the pandemonium raged, now dyingdown, now bursting out again with increased volume.

Jefferson and Burns shook hands. The referee stood in the middle ofthe ring and, with arms extended aloft, appeared to be imploring theblessing of heaven. The crowd, however, understood, and the greatuproar died down to a hum of sound.

Then for the first time it was noticed that, in place of thehabitual smile that had made Burns the idol he was, there was a grimset about his jaw that caused those nearest to the ring to wonderand to speculate.

Charley Burns's "battle-smile" had become almost a tradition.

"If he'd only fight more and box less," Alf Pond would saycomplainingly, "he'd beat the whole blinkin' world with one hand."

Suddenly a hush fell upon the assembly, a hush as pronounced as hadbeen the previous pandemonium. The referee took a final look round.Behind Burns, Alf Pond could be seen sponging his face over a smallbucket. He was once more himself. There were things to be done.

Almost before anyone realised it the gong sounded; the fight hadbegun.

"God!"

The exclamation broke involuntarily from Alf Pond, as he dropped thesponge and gazed before him with wide-staring eyes.

"He's fighting," he cried, almost dancing with excitement. "Did everyou see the like, Sandy?" But Sandy's eyes were glued upon the ring.His hands and feet moved convulsively – he was a fighter himself.

Discarding his traditional opening of boxing with swift defensivewatchfulness, Charley Burns had darted at his man. Before anyoneknew what was happening his left crashed between Jefferson's eyes, ablow that caused him to reel back almost to the ropes.

Before he could recover, a right hook had sent him staggeringagainst the ropes themselves. For a second it looked as if he wouldcollapse over them. Pulling himself together, however, he strove toclinch; but Burns was too quick for him. Stepping back swiftly, hefeinted with his left, and Jefferson, expecting a repetition of thefirst blow, raised his guard. A white right arm shot out to the mark, and Jefferson went down with a crash.

The timekeeper's voice began to drone the monotonous count; at eight

Jefferson gathered himself together; at nine he was on his feet.