Malcolm Sage, Detective

"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.

II

"So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from themap before him.

"Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," said

Inspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.

Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.

"Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst outexplosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready madefor 'em."

"To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He nevercould resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints asclues instead of means of identification.

"It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector, confidentially. "Last time The Daily Telegram went for usbecause – "

"You haven't found a dust-pan full of clues?" suggested Malcolm Sage, who was engaged in forming geometrical designs with spent matches.

"They're getting a bit restive, too, at the Yard," he continued. Hewas too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maimingbusiness that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referringto Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Nowthe general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with theCommissioner."

For some seconds Malcolm Sage devoted himself to his designs.

"Any theory?" he enquired at length, without looking up.

"I've given up theorising," was the dour reply.

In response to a further question as to what had been done, theinspector proceeded to detail how the whole neighbourhood had beenscoured after each maiming, and how, night after night, watchers hadbeen posted throughout the district, but without result.

"I have had men out night and day," continued the inspector gloomily."He's a clever devil whoever he is. It's my opinion the man's alunatic," he added.

Malcolm Sage looked up slowly.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"His cunning, for one thing," was the reply. "Then it's so senseless.

No," he added with conviction, "he's no more an ordinary man than

Jack-the-Ripper was."

He went on to give details of his enquiries among those living inthe district. There was absolutely nothing to attach even theremotest suspicion to any particular person. Rewards had beenoffered for information; but all without producing the slightestevidence or clue.

"This man Hinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking about for morematches.

"Oh! the general's got him on the brain. Absolutely nothing in it.I've turned him inside out. Why, even the Deputy Commissioner had ago at him, and if he can get nothing out of a man, there's nothingto get out."

"Well," said Malcolm Sage rising, "keep the fact to yourself that Iam interested. I suppose, if necessary, you could arrange for twentyor thirty men to run down there?" he queried.

"The whole blessed Yard if you like, Mr. Sage," was the feelingreply.

"We'll leave it at that for the present then. By the way, if youhappen to think you see me in the neighbourhood you needn't rememberthat we are acquainted."

The inspector nodded comprehendingly and, with a heart lightenedsomewhat of its burden, he departed. He had an almost child-likefaith in Malcolm Sage.

For half an hour Malcolm Sage sat engrossed in the map of the sceneof the maimings. On it were a number of red-ink crosses with figuresbeneath. In the left-hand bottom corner was a list of the variousoutrages, with the date and the time, as near as could beapproximated, against each.

The numbers in the bottom corner corresponded with those beneath thecrosses.

From time to time he referred to the two copies of Whitaker'sAlmanack open before him, and made notes upon the writing-pad athis side. Finally he ruled a square upon the map in red ink, andthen drew two lines diagonally from corner to corner. Then withoutlooking up from the map, he pressed one of the buttons of theprivate-telephone. "Tims," he said through the mouthpiece.

Five minutes later Malcolm Sage's chauffeur was standing oppositehis Chief's table, ready to go anywhere and do anything.

"To-morrow will be Sunday, Tims."

"Yessir."

"A day of rest."

"Yessir!"

"We are going out to Hempdon, near Selford," Malcolm Sage continued, pointing to the map. Tims stepped forward and bent over to identifythe spot. "The car will break down. It will take you or any othermechanic two hours to put it right."

"Yessir," said Tims, straightening himself.

"You understand," said Malcolm Sage, looking at him sharply, "youor any other mechanic?"

"Yessir," repeated Tims, his face sphinx-like in its lack ofexpression.

He was a clean-shaven, fleshless little man who, had he not been achauffeur, would probably have spent his life with a straw betweenhis teeth, hissing lullabies to horses.

"I shall be ready at nine," said Malcolm Sage, and with another

"Yessir" Tims turned to go.

"And Tims."

"Yessir." He about-faced smartly on his right heel. "You mightapologise for me to Mrs. Tims for depriving her of you on Sunday.Take her out to dinner on Monday and charge it to me."

"Thank you, sir, very much, sir," said Tims, his face expressionless.

"That is all, Tims, thank you."

Tims turned once more and left the room. As he walked towards theouter door he winked at Gladys Norman and, with a sudden dive, madea frightful riot of William Johnson's knut-like hair. Then, withoutchange of expression, he passed out to tune up the car for its runon the morrow.

Malcolm Sage's staff knew that when "the Chief" was what Tims called"chatty" he was beginning to see light, so Tims whistled loudly athis work: for he, like all his colleagues, was pleased when "theChief" saw reason to be pleased.

The following morning, as they trooped out of church, theinhabitants of Hempdon were greatly interested in the break-down ofa large car, which seemed to defy the best efforts of the chauffeurto coax into movement. The owner drank cider at the SpottedWoodpigeon and talked pleasantly with the villagers, who, onlearning that he had never even heard of the Surrey cattle-maimings, were at great pains to pour information and theories into hisreceptive ear.

The episode quite dwarfed the remarkable sermon preached by Mr.Callice, in which he exhorted his congregation to band themselvestogether to track down him who was maiming and torturing God'screatures, and defying the Master's merciful teaching.

It was Tom Hinds, assisted by a boy scout, who conducted MalcolmSage to the scene of the latest outrage. It was Hinds who describedthe position of the mare when she was discovered, and it was he whopocketed two half-crowns as the car moved off Londonwards.

That evening Malcolm Sage sat long and late at his table, engrossedin the map that Inspector Wensdale had sent him.

Finally he subjected to a thorough and exhaustive examination thethumb-nail of his right hand. It was as if he saw in its polishedsurface the tablets of destiny.

The next morning he wrote a letter that subsequently caused Sir JohnHackblock to explode into a torrent of abuse of detectives ingeneral and one investigator in particular. It stated in a few wordsthat, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, MalcolmSage would not be able to undertake the enquiry with which Sir JohnHackblock had honoured him until the end of the month following. Hehoped, however, to communicate further with his client soon afterthe 23rd of that month.

CHAPTER V INSPECTOR WENSDALE IS SURPRISED

I

Nearly a month had elapsed, and the cattle-maiming mystery seemed asfar off solution as ever. The neighbourhood in which the crimes hadbeen committed had once more settled down to its usual occupations, and Scotland Yard had followed suit.

Sir John Hackblock had written to the Chief Commissioner and aquestion had been asked in the House.

Inspector Wensdale's colleagues had learned that it was dangerous tomention in his presence the words "cattle" or "maiming." Theinspector knew that the affair was referred to as "Wensdale'sWaterloo," and his failure to throw light on the mystery wasbeginning to tell upon his nerves.

For three weeks he had received no word from Malcolm Sage. Onemorning on his arrival at Scotland Yard he was given a telephonemessage asking him to call round at the Bureau during the day.

"Nothing new?" queried Malcolm Sage ten minutes later, as theinspector was shown into his room by Thompson.

The inspector shook a gloomy head and dropped his heavy frame into achair.

Malcolm Sage indicated with a nod that Thompson was to remain.

"Can you borrow a couple of covered government lorries?" queried

Malcolm Sage.

"A couple of hundred if necessary," said the inspector dully.

"Two will be enough," was the dry rejoinder. "Now listen carefully,Wensdale. I want you to have fifty men housed some ten miles awayfrom Hempdon on the afternoon of the 22nd. Select men who have donescouting, ex-boy scouts, for preference. Don't choose any with baldheads or with very light hair. See that they are wearing darkclothes and dark shirts and, above all, no white collars. Take withyou a good supply of burnt cork such as is used by niggerminstrels."

Malcolm Sage paused, and for the fraction of a second there was acurious fluttering at the corners of his mouth.

Inspector Wensdale was sitting bolt upright in his chair, gazing atMalcolm Sage as if he had been requested to supply two lorry-loadsof archangels.

"It will be moonlight, and caps might fall off," explained MalcolmSage. "You cannot very well ask a man to black his head. Above all,"he continued evenly, "be sure you give no indication to anyone whyyou want the men, and tell them not to talk. You follow me?" hequeried.

"Yes," said the inspector, "I – I follow."

"Don't go down Hempdon way again, and tell no one in theneighbourhood; no one, you understand, is to know anything aboutit. Don't tell the general, for instance."

"Him!" There was a world of hatred and contempt in the inspector'svoice. Then he glanced a little oddly at Malcolm Sage.

Malcolm Sage went on to elaborate his instructions. The men were tobe divided into two parties, one to form a line north of the sceneof the last outrage, and the other to be spread over a particularzone some three miles the other side of Hempdon. They were toblacken their faces and hands, and observe great care to show nolight colouring in connection with their clothing. Thus they wouldbe indistinguishable from their surroundings.

"You will go with one lot," said Malcolm Sage to the inspector, "andmy man Finlay with the other. Thompson and I will be somewhere inthe neighbourhood. You will be given a pass-word for purposes ofidentification. You understand?"

"I think so," said the inspector, in a tone which was suggestivethat he was very far from understanding.

"I'll have everything typed out for you, and scale-plans of whereyou are to post your men. Above all, don't take anyone into yourconfidence."

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1

See John Dene of Toronto for the story of how Malcolm Sagefrustrated the enemies of Sir John Dene.