"I am confident that when Challoner's affairs are gone into there will 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 across the room, switch off the light, and then find his way back to the table."
"That's true enough," said Inspector Wensdale.
"On the other hand, a murderer, who has to stand at a door for at least some seconds, would not risk leaving on the light, which would attract the attention of anyone who might by chance be in the hall, or on the stairs."
Inspector Wensdale caught Thompson's left eye, which deliberately closed and then re-opened. There was a world of meaning in the movement.
"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 will think."
"He won't," remarked Malcolm Sage; "that is why he assumed it was suicide."
"Did you suspect Peters was armed?" enquired Sir James.
"I saw the pistol under his left armpit," said Malcolm Sage. "It's well known with American gunmen as a most convenient place for quick drawing."
"If it hadn't been for you, Mr. Sage, he'd have got me," saidInspector Wensdale.
"There'll be a heavy car-full for Tims," remarked Malcolm Sage, as he walked towards the door.
"Disguise," Malcolm Sage had once re-marked, "is the chief characteristic of the detective of fiction. In actual practise it is 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;" as he spoke he had stroked the top of his head, which rose above his strongly-marked brows like a down-covered cone.
He maintained that a disguise can always be identified, although not necessarily penetrated. This in itself would be sufficient to defeat the end of the disguised man by rendering him an object of suspicion. Few men can disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how clever they 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 been tinctured by the vivid fiction with which he beguiled his spare time.
In the heart of William Johnson there were three great emotions: his hero-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 he was the recognised colleague of Malcolm Sage, the avowed admirer of Miss Norman, and the austere employer of Tims—chauffeurs never took liberties with the hair of their employers, no matter how knut-like it might be worn.
It was with the object of making sure of the first turret of his castle in Spain, that William Johnson devoted himself to the earnest study of what he conceived to be his future profession.
He read voraciously all the detective stories and police-reports he came across. Every moment he could snatch from his official duties he devoted to some scrap of paper, booklet, or magazine. He strove to cultivate his reasoning powers. Never did a prospective client enter the Malcolm Sage Bureau without automatically setting into operation William Johnson's mental induction-coil. With eyes that were covertly keen, he would examine the visitor as he sat waiting for the two sharp buzzes on the private telephone which indicated that Malcolm Sage was at liberty.
It mattered little to William Johnson that error seemed to dog his footsteps; that he had "deduced" a famous pussyfoot admiral as a comedian addicted to drink; a lord, with a ten century lineage, as a man selling something or other; a Cabinet Minister as a company promoter in the worst sense of the term; nothing could damp his zeal.
Malcolm Sage's "cases" he studied as intimately as he could from his position as junior; but they disappointed him. They seemed lacking in that element of drama he found so enthralling in the literature he read and the films he saw.
Malcolm Sage would enter the office as Malcolm Sage, and leave it asMalcolm Sage, as obvious and as easily recognisable as St. Paul'sCathedral. He seemed indifferent to the dramatic possibilities ofdisguise.
William Johnson longed for some decrepit and dirty old man or woman to enter the Bureau, selling boot-laces or bananas and, on being peremptorily ordered out, to see the figure suddenly straighten itself, and hear his Chief's well-known voice remark, "So you don't recognise me, Johnson—good." There was romance.
He yearned for a "property-room," where executive members of the staff would disguise themselves beyond recognition. In his more imaginative moments he saw come out from that mysterious room a full-blooded Kaffir, whereas he knew that only Thompson had entered.
He would have liked to see Miss Norman shed her pretty brunetteness and reappear as an old apple-woman, who besought him to buy of her wares. He even saw himself being transformed into a hooligan, or a smart R.A.F. officer, complete with a toothbrush moustache and "swish."
In his own mind he was convinced that, given the opportunity, he could achieve greatness as a master of disguise, rivalling the highly-coloured stories of Charles Peace. He had even put his theories to the test.
One evening as Miss Norman, who had been working late, was on her way to Charing Cross Underground Station, she was accosted by a youth with upturned collar, wearing a shabby cap and a queer Charlie Chaplain moustache that was not on straight. In a husky voice he enquired his way to the Strand.
"Good gracious, Johnnie!" she cried involuntarily. "What on earth's the matter?"
A moment later, as she regarded the vanishing form of WilliamJohnson, she wanted to kill herself for her lack of tact.
"Poor little Innocent!" she had murmured as she continued down Villiers Street, and there was in her eyes a reflection of the tears she had seen spring to those of William Johnson, whose first attempt at disguise had proved so tragic a failure.
Neither ever referred to the incident subsequently—although for days William Johnson experienced all the unenviable sensations of Damocles.
From that moment his devotion to Gladys Norman had become almost worship.
But William Johnson was not deterred, either by his own initial failure or his chief's opinion. He resolutely stuck to his own ideas, and continued to expend his pocket-money upon tinted glasses, false-moustaches and grease paint; for hidden away in the inner recesses of his mind was the conviction that it was not quite playing the game, as the game should be played, to solve a mystery or bring a criminal to justice without having recourse to disguise.
It was to him as if Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar in a soft hat and a burberry, or Wellington had met Blücher in flannels and silk socks.
Somewhere in the future he saw himself the head of a "WilliamJohnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of charactersthat would rival a Dickens novel, with another legend reading, "Mr.William Johnson as he appears."
With these day-dreams, the junior at the Malcolm Sage Bureau would occupy the time when not actually engaged either in the performance of his by no means arduous duties, or in reading the highly-coloured detective stories from which he drew his inspiration.
From behind the glass-panelled door would come the tick-tack of MissNorman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony ofLondon, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying awayagain as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.
From these reveries William Johnson would be aroused either by peremptory blasts upon the buzzer of the private-telephone, or by the entry of a client.
One morning, as he was hesitating between assuming the disguise of a naval commander and a street-hawker, a florid little man with purple jowl and a white, bristling moustache hurtled through the swing-door, followed by a tall, spare man, whose clothing indicated his clerical calling.
"Mr. Sage in?" demanded the little man fiercely.
"Mr. Sage is engaged, sir," said the junior, his eyes upon the clergyman, in whose appearance there was something that caused William Johnson to like him on the spot.
"Take my card in to him," said the little, bristly man. "Tell him that General Sir John Hackblock wishes to see him immediately." The tone was suggestive of the parade-ground rather than a London office.
At that moment Gladys Norman appeared through the glass-panelled door. The clergyman immediately removed his hat, the general merely turned as if changing front to receive a new foe.
"Mr. Sage will be engaged for about a quarter of an hour. I am his secretary," she explained. She, also, looked at the general's companion, wondering what sort of teeth were behind that gentle, yet firm mouth. "Perhaps you will take a seat," she added.
This time the clergyman smiled, and Gladys Norman knew that she too liked him. Sir John looked about him aggressively, blew out his cheeks several times, then flopped into a chair. His companion also seated himself, and appeared to become lost in a fit of abstraction.
William Johnson returned to his table and became engrossed, ostensibly in the exploits of an indestructible trailer of men; but really in a surreptitious examination of the two callers.
He had just succeeded in deducing from their manner that they were father and son, and from the boots of the younger that he was low church and a bad walker, when two sharp blasts on the telephone-buzzer brought him to his feet and half-way across the office in what was practically one movement. With Malcolm Sage there were two things to be avoided, delay in answering a summons, and unnecessary words.
"This way, sir," he said, and led them through the glass-panelled door to Malcolm Sage's private room.
With a short, jerky movement of his head Malcolm Sage motioned his visitors to be seated. In that one movement his steel-coloured eyes had registered a mental photograph of the two men. That glance embraced all the details; the dark hair of the younger, greying at the temples, the dreamy grey eyes, the gentle curves of a mouth that was, nevertheless, capable of great sternness, and the spare, almost lean frame; then the self-important, overbearing manner of the older man. "High Anglican, ascetic, out-of-doors," was Malcolm Sage's mental classification of the one, thus unconsciously reversing the William Johnson's verdict. The other he dismissed as a pompous ass.
"You Mr. Sage?" Sir John regarded the bald conical head and gold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been unpolished buttons on parade.
Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly, and proceeded to gaze down at his fingers spread out on the table before him. After the first appraising glance he rarely looked at a client.
"I am Sir John Hackblock; this is my friend, the Rev. GeoffreyCallice."
Again a slight inclination of the head indicated that Malcolm Sage had heard.
Mr. Llewellyn John would have recognised in Sir John Hackblock the last man in the world who should have been brought into contact with Malcolm Sage. The Prime Minister's own policy had been to keep Malcolm Sage from contact with other Ministers, and thus reduce the number of his embarrassing resignations.
"I want to consult you about a most damnable outrage," exploded the general. "It's inconceivable that in this——"
"Will you kindly be as brief as possible?" said Malcolm Sage, fondling the lobe of his left ear. "I can spare only a few minutes."
Sir John gasped, glared across at him angrily; then, seeming to take himself in hand, continued:
"You've heard of the Surrey cattle-maiming outrages?" he enquired.
Malcolm Sage nodded.
"Well, this morning a brood-mare of mine was found hacked about in an unspeakable manner. Oh, the damn scoundrels!" he burst out as he jumped from his chair and began pacing up and down the room.
"I think it will be better if Mr. Callice tells me the details," said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "You seem a little over-wrought."
"Over-wrought!" cried Sir John. "Over-wrought! Dammit, so would you be if you had lost over a dozen beasts." In the army he was known as "Dammit Hackblock."
Mr. Callice looked across to the general, who, nodding acquiescence, proceeded to blow his nose violently, as if to bid Malcolm Sage defiance.
"This morning a favourite mare belonging to Sir John was found mutilated in a terrible manner——" Mr. Callice paused; there was something in his voice that caused Malcolm Sage to look up. The gentle look had gone from his face, his eyes flashed, and his mouth was set in a stern, severe line.
"Good preacher," Malcolm Sage decided as he dropped his eyes once more, and upon his blotting pad proceeded to develop the Pons Asinorum into a church.
In a voice that vibrated with feeling and suggested great self-restraint, Mr. Callice proceeded to tell the story of the latest outrage. How when found that morning the mare was still alive, of the terrible nature of her injuries, and that the perpetrator had disappeared, leaving no trace.
"Her look, sir! Dammit!" the general broke in. "Her eyes have haunted me ever since. They——" His voice broke, and he proceeded once more to blow his nose violently.
Mr. Callice went on to explain that after having seen the mare put out of her misery, Sir John had motored over to his lodgings and insisted that they should go together to Scotland Yard and demand that something be done.
"Callice is Chairman of the Watchers' Committee," broke in Sir John.
"I should explain," proceeded Mr. Callice, "that some time ago we formed ourselves into a committee to patrol the neighbourhood at night in the hope of tracing the criminal. On the way up Sir John remembered hearing of you in connection with Department Z and, as he was not satisfied with his call at Scotland Yard, he decided to come on here and place the matter in your hands."
"This is the twenty-ninth maiming?" Malcolm Sage remarked, as he proceeded to add a graveyard to the church.
"Yes, the first occurred some two years ago." Then, as if suddenly realising what Malcolm Sage's question implied, he added: "You have interested yourself in the affair?"
"Yes," was the reply. "Tell me what has been done."
"The police seem utterly at fault," continued Mr. Callice. "Locally we have organised watch-parties. My boys and I have been out night after night; but without result. I am a scout-master," he explained.
"The poor beasts' sufferings are terrible," he continued after a slight pause. "It is a return to barbarism;" again there was the throb of indignation in his voice.
"You have discovered nothing?"
"Nothing," was the response, uttered in a tone of deep despondency."We have even tried bloodhounds; but without result."
"And now I want you to take up the matter, and don't spare expense," burst out Sir John, unable to contain himself longer.
"I will consider the proposal and let you know," said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "As it is, my time is fully occupied at present; but later——" He never lost an opportunity of resenting aggression by emphasising the democratic tendency of the times. Mr. Llewellyn John had called it "incipient Bolshevism."
"Later!" cried Sir John in consternation. "Why, dammit, sir! there won't be an animal left in the county. This thing has been going on for two years now, and those damn fools at Scotland Yard——"
"If it were not for Scotland Yard," said Malcolm Sage quietly, as he proceeded to shingle the roof of the church, the graveyard having proved a failure, "we should probably have to sleep at night with pistols under our pillows."
"Eh!" Sir John looked across at him with a startled expression.
"Scotland Yard is the head-quarters of the most efficient and highly-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 this torturing of poor dumb beasts?" cried the general indignantly. "I've shown them the man. It's Hinds; I know it. I've just been to see that fellow Wensdale. Why, dammit! he ought to be cashiered, and I told 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 poacher or his dog; but, dammit! I won't set traps for them," and he puffed out his cheeks aggressively.
"Hinds used to set traps to save himself the trouble of patrolling the preserves," explained Mr. Callice, "and one day Sir John discovered him actually watching the agonies of a dog caught across the hind-quarters in a man-trap." Again there was the wave of feeling in the voice, and a stern set about the mouth.
"It's Hinds right enough," cried the general with conviction. "The man's a brute. Now will you——?"
"I will let you know as soon as possible whether or no I can take up the enquiry," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I fear that is the best I can promise."
"But——" began Sir John; then he stopped and stared at Malcolm Sage as 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 the scoundrel. Poor Betty," he added in a softer tone.
"I will write to you shortly," said Malcolm Sage. There was dismissal in his tone.
With darkened jowl and bristling moustache Sir John strutted towards the door. Mr. Callice paused to shake hands with Malcolm Sage, and then followed the general, who, with a final glare at William Johnson, as he held open the swing-door, passed out into the street, convinced that now the country was no longer subject to conscription it would go rapidly to the devil.
For the next half-hour Malcolm Sage pored over a volume of press-cuttings containing accounts of previous cattle-maimings.
Following his usual custom in such matters, he had caused the newspaper accounts of the various mutilations to be collected and pasted in a press-cutting book. Sooner or later he had determined to devote time to the affair.
Without looking up from the book he pressed three times in rapid succession a button of the private-telephone. Instantly Gladys Norman appeared, note-book in hand. She had been heard to remark that if she were dead "three on the buzzer" would bring her to life again.
"Whitaker and Inspector Wensdale," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes still on the book before him.
When deep in a problem Malcolm Sage's economy in words made it difficult for anyone but his own staff to understand his requirements.
Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, William Johnson placedWhitaker's Almanackon the table, then he in turn disappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.
Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied the pages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closed the book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, the signal that he was through to the number required. Drawing the pedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.
"That Inspector Wensdale?—Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about the cattle-maiming business.—I've just heard of it.—I've not decided yet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spot of 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.
"So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from the map before him.
"Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," saidInspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.
Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.
"Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst out explosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready made for 'em."
"To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He never could resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints as clues instead of means of identification.
"It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector, confidentially. "Last timeThe Daily Telegramwent for us because——"
"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. He was too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maiming business that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referring to Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Now the general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with the Commissioner."
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, the inspector proceeded to detail how the whole neighbourhood had been scoured after each maiming, and how, night after night, watchers had been 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 a lunatic," 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 thanJack-the-Ripper was."
He went on to give details of his enquiries among those living in the district. There was absolutely nothing to attach even the remotest suspicion to any particular person. Rewards had been offered for information; but all without producing the slightest evidence or clue.
"This man Hinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking about for more matches.
"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 a go at him, and if he can get nothing out of a man, there's nothing to get out."
"Well," said Malcolm Sage rising, "keep the fact to yourself that I am interested. I suppose, if necessary, you could arrange for twenty or thirty men to run down there?" he queried.
"The whole blessed Yard if you like, Mr. Sage," was the feeling reply.
"We'll leave it at that for the present then. By the way, if you happen to think you see me in the neighbourhood you needn't remember that we are acquainted."
The inspector nodded comprehendingly and, with a heart lightened somewhat of its burden, he departed. He had an almost child-like faith in Malcolm Sage.
For half an hour Malcolm Sage sat engrossed in the map of the scene of the maimings. On it were a number of red-ink crosses with figures beneath. In the left-hand bottom corner was a list of the various outrages, with the date and the time, as near as could be approximated, against each.
The numbers in the bottom corner corresponded with those beneath the crosses.
From time to time he referred to the two copies ofWhitaker's Almanackopen before him, and made notes upon the writing-pad at his side. Finally he ruled a square upon the map in red ink, and then drew two lines diagonally from corner to corner. Then without looking up from the map, he pressed one of the buttons of the private-telephone. "Tims," he said through the mouthpiece.
Five minutes later Malcolm Sage's chauffeur was standing opposite his 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 identify the spot. "The car will break down. It will take you or any other mechanic 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 of expression.
He was a clean-shaven, fleshless little man who, had he not been a chauffeur, would probably have spent his life with a straw between his 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 might apologise 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 the outer door he winked at Gladys Norman and, with a sudden dive, made a frightful riot of William Johnson's knut-like hair. Then, without change of expression, he passed out to tune up the car for its run on 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 at his work: for he, like all his colleagues, was pleased when "the Chief" saw reason to be pleased.
The following morning, as they trooped out of church, the inhabitants of Hempdon were greatly interested in the break-down of a large car, which seemed to defy the best efforts of the chauffeur to coax into movement. The owner drank cider at the Spotted Woodpigeon and talked pleasantly with the villagers, who, on learning that he had never even heard of the Surrey cattle-maimings, were at great pains to pour information and theories into his receptive ear.
The episode quite dwarfed the remarkable sermon preached by Mr. Callice, in which he exhorted his congregation to band themselves together to track down him who was maiming and torturing God's creatures, and defying the Master's merciful teaching.
It was Tom Hinds, assisted by a boy scout, who conducted Malcolm Sage to the scene of the latest outrage. It was Hinds who described the position of the mare when she was discovered, and it was he who pocketed two half-crowns as the car moved off Londonwards.
That evening Malcolm Sage sat long and late at his table, engrossed in the map that Inspector Wensdale had sent him.
Finally he subjected to a thorough and exhaustive examination the thumb-nail of his right hand. It was as if he saw in its polished surface the tablets of destiny.
The next morning he wrote a letter that subsequently caused Sir John Hackblock to explode into a torrent of abuse of detectives in general and one investigator in particular. It stated in a few words that, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, Malcolm Sage would not be able to undertake the enquiry with which Sir John Hackblock had honoured him until the end of the month following. He hoped, however, to communicate further with his client soon after the 23rd of that month.
Nearly a month had elapsed, and the cattle-maiming mystery seemed as far off solution as ever. The neighbourhood in which the crimes had been 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 a question had been asked in the House.
Inspector Wensdale's colleagues had learned that it was dangerous to mention in his presence the words "cattle" or "maiming." The inspector knew that the affair was referred to as "Wensdale's Waterloo," and his failure to throw light on the mystery was beginning to tell upon his nerves.
For three weeks he had received no word from Malcolm Sage. One morning on his arrival at Scotland Yard he was given a telephone message asking him to call round at the Bureau during the day.
"Nothing new?" queried Malcolm Sage ten minutes later, as the inspector was shown into his room by Thompson.
The inspector shook a gloomy head and dropped his heavy frame into a chair.
Malcolm Sage indicated with a nod that Thompson was to remain.
"Can you borrow a couple of covered government lorries?" queriedMalcolm 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 away from Hempdon on the afternoon of the 22nd. Select men who have done scouting, ex-boy scouts, for preference. Don't choose any with bald heads or with very light hair. See that they are wearing dark clothes and dark shirts and, above all, no white collars. Take with you a good supply of burnt cork such as is used by nigger minstrels."
Malcolm Sage paused, and for the fraction of a second there was a curious fluttering at the corners of his mouth.
Inspector Wensdale was sitting bolt upright in his chair, gazing at Malcolm Sage as if he had been requested to supply two lorry-loads of archangels.
"It will be moonlight, and caps might fall off," explained Malcolm Sage. "You cannot very well ask a man to black his head. Above all," he continued evenly, "be sure you give no indication to anyone why you want the men, and tell them not to talk. You follow me?" he queried.
"Yes," said the inspector, "I—I follow."
"Don't go down Hempdon way again, and tell no one in the neighbourhood;no one, you understand, is to know anything about it. Don't tell the general, for instance."
"Him!" There was a world of hatred and contempt in the inspector's voice. Then he glanced a little oddly at Malcolm Sage.
Malcolm Sage went on to elaborate his instructions. The men were to be divided into two parties, one to form a line north of the scene of the last outrage, and the other to be spread over a particular zone some three miles the other side of Hempdon. They were to blacken their faces and hands, and observe great care to show no light colouring in connection with their clothing. Thus they would be indistinguishable from their surroundings.
"You will go with one lot," said Malcolm Sage to the inspector, "and my man Finlay with the other. Thompson and I will be somewhere in the neighbourhood. You will be given a pass-word for purposes of identification. You understand?"
"I think so," said the inspector, in a tone which was suggestive that he was very far from understanding.
"I'll have everything typed out for you, and scale-plans of where you are to post your men. Above all, don't take anyone into your confidence."
Inspector Wensdale nodded and looked across at Thompson, as if to assure himself that after all it really was not some huge joke.
"If nothing happens on the 22nd, we shall carry-on the second, third, and fourth nights. In all probability we shall catch our man on the 23rd."
"Then you know who it is?" spluttered the inspector in astonishment.
"I hope to know on the 23rd," said Malcolm Sage dryly, as he rose and walked towards the door. Directness was his strong point. Taking the hint, Inspector Wensdale rose also and, with the air of a man not yet quite awake, passed out of the room.
"You had better see him to-morrow, Thompson," said Malcolm Sage, "and explain exactly how the men are to be disposed. Make it clear that none must show themselves. If they actually see anyone in the act, they must track him, not try to take him."
Thompson nodded his head comprehendingly.
"Make it clear that they are there to watch; but I doubt if they'll see anything," he added.
At eleven o'clock on the night of July the 23rd, two motor lorries glided slowly along some three miles distant from one another. From their interiors silent forms dropped noiselessly on to the moon-white road. A moment later, slipping into the shadow of the hedge, they disappeared. All the previous night men had watched and waited; but nothing had happened. Now they were to try again.
Overhead the moon was climbing the sky, struggling against masses of cloud that from time to time swung themselves across her disc.
In the village of Hempdon all was quiet. The last light had been extinguished, the last dog had sent forth a final challenging bark, hoping that some neighbouring rival would answer and justify a volume of canine protest.
On the western side of the highway, and well behind the houses, two figures were standing in the shadow cast by a large oak. Their faces and hands were blackened, rendering them indistinguishable from their surroundings.
One wore a shade over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a precaution against the moonlight being reflected on the lenses.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half passed. They waited. Presently one gripped the arm of the other and pointed. At the back of the house immediately-opposite there was a slight movement in the shade cast by a hedge. Then the line readjusted itself and the shadow vanished. A moment later it reappeared in a patch of moonlight, looking like a large dog.
Stooping low Malcolm Sage and Thompson followed the dog-like form, themselves taking advantage of every patch of shadow and cover that offered.
The mysterious form moved along deliberately and without haste, now disappearing in the shadow cast by some tree or bush, now reappearing once more on the other side.
It was obviously taking advantage of everything that tended to conceal its movements.
Once it disappeared altogether, and for five minutes the two trackers lay on their faces and waited.
"Making sure he's not being followed," whispered Thompson, andMalcolm Sage nodded.
Presently the figure appeared once more and, as if reassured, continued its slow and deliberate way.
Once a dog barked, a short, sharp bark of uncertainty. Again there was no sign of the figure for some minutes. Then it moved out from the surrounding shadows and continued its stealthy progress.
Having reached the outskirts of the village, it continued its crouching course along the western side of the hedge flanking the roadside.
Malcolm Sage and Thompson followed under the shadow of a hedge running parallel.
For a mile the slow and laborious tracking continued. Suddenly Malcolm Sage stopped. In the field on their right two horses were grazing in the moonlight. It was the scene of the tragedy of the month previous!
For some minutes they waited expectantly. Suddenly Malcolm Sage gripped Thompson's arm and pointed. From under the hedge a dark patch was moving slowely towards the nearer of the two animals. It was apparently the form of a man, face downward, wriggling along inch by inch without bending a limb.
"Get across. Cut off his retreat," whispered Sage. "Look out for the knife."
Thompson nodded and slid away under cover of the hedge separating the field in which the horses were from that along which the watchers had just passed.
Slowly the form approached its quarry. Once the horse lifted its head as though scenting danger; but the figure was approaching upwind.
Suddenly it raised itself, appearing once more like a large dog. Then with a swift, panther-like movement it momentarily disappeared in the shadow cast by the horse.
There was a muffled scream and a gurgle, as the animal collapsed, then silence.
A minute later the form seemed to detach itself from the carcase and wriggled along towards the hedge, a dark patch upon the grass.
Malcolm Sage was already half-way through the second field, keeping well under the shelter of the hedge. He reached a spot where the intersecting hedge joined that running parallel with the highroad. There was a hole sufficiently large for a man to crawl through from one field to the other. By this Malcolm Sage waited, a life-preserver in his hand.
At the sound of the snapping of a twig, he gripped his weapon; a moment later a round, dark shape appeared through the hole in the hedge. Without hesitating Malcolm Sage struck.
There was a sound, half grunt, half sob, and Malcolm Sage was on his feet gazing down at the strangest creature he had ever encountered.
Clothed in green, its face and hands smeared with some pigment of the same colour, lay the figure of a tall man. Round the waist was a belt from which was suspended in its case a Gurkha's kukri.
Malcolm Sage bent down to unbuckle the belt. He turned the man on his back. As he did so he saw that in his hand was a small, collapsible tin cup covered with blood, which also stained his lips and chin, and dripped from his hands, whilst the front of his clothing was stained in dark patches.
"I wonder who he is," muttered Thompson, as he gazed down at the strange figure.
"Locally he is known as the Rev. Geoffrey Callice," remarked MalcolmSage quietly.
And Thompson whistled.
"And that damned scoundrel has been fooling us for two years." Sir John Hackblock glared at Inspector Wensdale as if it were he who was responsible for the deception.
They were seated smoking in Sir John's library after a particularly early breakfast.
"I always said it was the work of a madman," said the inspector in self-defence.
"Callice is no more mad than I am," snapped Sir John. "I wish I were going to try him," he added grimly. "The scoundrel! To think——" His indignation choked him.
"He is not mad in the accepted sense," said Malcolm Sage as he sucked meditatively at his pipe. "I should say that it is a case of race-memory."
"Race-memory! Dammit! what's that?" Sir John Hackblock snapped out the words in his best parade-ground manner. He was more purple than ever about the jowl, and it was obvious that he was prepared to disagree with everyone and everything. As Lady Hackblock and her domestics would have recognised without difficulty, Sir John was angry.
"How the devil did you spot the brute?" he demanded, as Malcolm Sage did not reply immediately.
"Race-memory," he remarked, ignoring the question, "is to man what instinct is to animals; it defies analysis or explanation."
Sir John stared; but it was Inspector Wensdale who spoke.
"But how did you manage to fix the date, Mr. Sage?" he enquired.
"By the previous outrages," was the reply.
"The previous outrages!" cried Sir John. "Dammit! how did they help you?"
"They all took place about the time the moon was at the full. There were twenty-eight in all." Malcolm Sage felt in his pocket and drew out a paper. "These are the figures."
In his eagerness Sir John snatched the paper from his hand, and withInspector Wensdale looking over his shoulder, read:
Day before full moon . . . . 4Full moon . . . . . . 15Day after . . . . . . 7Second day after . . . . . 2—Total 28 . . . . . . 28
"Well, I'm damned!" exclaimed Sir John, looking up from the paper atMalcolm Sage, as if he had solved the riddle of the universe.
The inspector's only comment was a quick indrawing of breath.
Sir John continued to stare at Malcolm Sage, the paper still held in his hand.
"That made matters comparatively easy," continued Malcolm Sage. "The outrages were clearly not acts of revenge upon any particular person; for they involved nine different owners. They were obviously the work of someone subject to a mania, or obsession, which gripped him when the moon was at the full."
"But how did you fix the actual spot?" burst out Inspector Wensdale excitedly.
"Each of the previous acts had been either in a diametrically opposite direction from that immediately preceding it, or practically on the same spot. For instance, the first three were north, east, and south of Hempdon, in the order named. Then the cunning of the perpetrator prompted him to commit a fourth, not to the west; but to the south, within a few yards of the previous act. The criminal argued, probably subconsciously, that he would be expected to complete the square."
"But what made you fix on Hempdon as the headquarters of the blackguard?" enquired Sir John.
"That was easy," remarked Malcolm Sage, polishing the thumb-nail of his left hand upon the palm of his right.
"Easy!" The exclamation burst involuntarily from the inspector.
"You supplied me with a large scale-map showing the exact spot where each of the previous maimings had taken place. I drew a square to embrace the whole. Lines drawn diagonally from corner to corner gave me the centre of gravity."
"But——" began the inspector.
Ignoring the interruption Malcolm Sage continued.
"A man committing a series of crimes from a given spot was bound to spread his operations over a fairly wide area in order to minimise the chance of discovery. The longer the period and the larger the number of comes, the greater the chance of his being located somewhere near the centre of his activities."
"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Sir John for the second time. Then suddenly turning to Inspector Wensdale, "Dammit!" he exploded, "why didn't you think of that?"
"There was, of course, the chance of his striking in another direction," continued Malcolm Sage, digging into the bowl of his pipe with a penknife, "so I placed the men in such a way that if he did so he was bound to be seen."
Inspector Wensdale continued to gaze at him, eager to hear more.
"But what was that you said about race-memory?" Sir John had quieted down considerably since Malcolm Sage had begun his explanation.
"I should describe it as a harking back to an earlier phase. It is to the mind what atavism is to the body. In breeding, for instance"—Malcolm Sage looked across to Sir John—"you find that an offspring will manifest characteristics, or a taint, that is not to be found in either sire or dam."
Sir John nodded.
"Well, race-memory is the same thing in regard to the mental plane, a sort of subconscious wave of reminiscence. In Callice's case it was in all probability the memory of some sacrificial rite of his ancestors centuries ago."
"A case of heredity."
"Broadly speaking, yes. At the full moon this particular tribe, whose act Callice has reproduced, was in the habit of slaughtering some beast, or beasts, and drinking the blood, probably with the idea of absorbing their strength or their courage. Possibly the surroundings at Hempdon were similar to those where the act of sacrifice was committed in the past.
"It must be remembered that Callice was an ascetic, and consequently highly subjective. Therefore when the wave of reminiscence is taken in conjunction with the surroundings, the full moon and his high state of subjectivity, it is easy to see that material considerations might easily be obliterated. That is why I watched the back entrance to his lodgings."
"And all the time we were telling him our plans," murmured the inspector half to himself.
"Yes, and he would go out hunting himself," said Sir John. "Damn funny, I call it. Anyway, he'll get seven years at least."
"When he awakens he will remember nothing about it. You cannot punish a man for a subconscious crime."
Sir John snorted indignantly; but Inspector Wensdale nodded his head slowly and regretfully.
"Anyway, I owe you five hundred pounds," said Sir John to MalcolmSage; "and, dammit! it's worth it," he added.
Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders as he rose to go.
"I was sorry to have to hit him," he said regretfully, "but I was afraid of that knife. A man can do a lot of damage with a thing like that. That's why I told you not to let your men attempt to take him, Wensdale."
"How did you know what sort of knife it was?" asked the inspector.
"Oh! I motored down here, and the car broke down. Incidentally I made a lot of acquaintances, including Callice's patrol-leader, a bright lad. He told me a lot of things about Callice and his ways. A remarkable product the boy scout," he added. "Kipling calls him 'the friend of all the world.'"
Sir John looked across at Inspector Wensdale, who was strongly tempted to wink.
"Don't think too harshly of Callice," said Malcolm Sage as he shook hands with Sir John. "It might easily have been you or I, had we been a little purer in mind and thought."
And with that he passed out of the room with Inspector Wensdale followed by Sir John Hackblock, who was endeavouring to interpret the exact meaning of the remark.
"They said he was a clever devil," he muttered as he returned to the library after seeing his guests off, "and, dammit! they were right."
"Well," cried Tims, one Saturday night, as he pushed open the kitchen door of the little flat he occupied over the garage. "How's the cook, the stove, and the supper?"
"I'm busy," said Mrs. Tims, a little, fair woman, with blue eyes, an impertinent nose, and the inspiration of neatness in her dress, as she altered the position of a saucepan on the stove and put two plates into the oven to warm.
This was the invariable greeting between husband and wife. Tims went up behind her, gripped her elbows to her side, and kissed her noisily.
"I told you I was busy," she said.
"You did, Emmelina," he responded. "I heard you say so, and how's his Nibs?"
The last remark was addressed to an object that was crawling towards him with incoherent cries and gurgles of delight. Stooping down, Tims picked up his eighteen-months-old son and held him aloft, chuckling and mouthing his glee.
"You'll drop him one of these days," said Mrs. Tims, "and then there'll be a pretty hullaballoo."
"Well, he's fat enough to bounce," was the retort. "Ain't you,Jimmy?"
Neither Tims nor Mrs. Tims seemed to be conscious that without variations these same remarks had been made night after night, week after week, month after month.
"How's Mr. Sage?" was the question with which Mrs. Tims always followed the reference to the bouncing of Jimmy.
"Like Johnny Walker, still going strong," glibly came the reply, just as it came every other night. "He was asking about you to-day," added Tims.
"About me?" Mrs. Tims turned, all attention, her cooking for the time forgotten.
"Yes, wanted to know when I was going to divorce you."
"Don't be silly, Jim," she cried. "What did he say, really now?" she added as she turned once more to the stove.
"Oh! he just asked if you were well," replied Tims, more interested in demonstrating with the person of his son how an aeroplane left the ground than in his wife's question.
"Anything else?" enquired Mrs. Tims, prodding a potato with a fork to see if it was done.
Tims was not deceived by the casual tone in which the question was asked. He was wont to say that, if his wife wanted his back teeth, she would get them.
"Nothing, my dear, only to ask if his Nibs was flourishin'," and with a gurgle of delight the aeroplane soared towards the ceiling.
Mrs. Tims had not forgotten the time when Malcolm Sage visited her several times when she was ill with pneumonia. She never tired of telling her friends of his wonderful knowledge of household affairs. He had talked to her of cooking, of childish ailments, of shopping, in a way that had amazed her. His knowledge seemed universal. He had explained to her among other things how cracknel biscuits were made and why croup was so swift in its action.
Tims vowed that the Chief had done her more good than the doctor, and from that day Malcolm Sage had occupied chief place in Mrs. Tims's valhalla.
"Quaint sort o' chap, the Chief," Tims would remark sometimes in connection with some professional episode.
"Pity you're not as quaint," would flash back the retort from Mrs. Tims, whose conception of loyalty was more literal than that of her husband.
Supper finished and his Nibs put to bed, Tims proceeded to enjoy his pipe and evening paper, whilst Mrs. Tims got out her sewing. From time to time Tims's eyes would wander over towards the telephone in the corner.
Finally he folded up the paper, and proceeded to knock out the ashes from his pipe preparatory to going to bed. His eyes took a last look at the telephone just as Mrs. Tims glanced up.
"Don't sit there watching that telephone," she cried, "anyone would think you were wanting——"
"Brrrrrrr—brrrrrrr—brrrrrr," went the bell.
"Now perhaps you're happy," cried Mrs. Tims as he rose to answer the call, whilst she put on the kettle to make hot coffee to fill the thermos flasks without which she never allowed the car to go out at night. It was her tribute to "the Chief."
In his more expansive moments Malcolm Sage would liken himself to a general practitioner in a diseased-infected district. It is true that there was no speaking-tube, with its terrifying whistle, a few feet from his head; but the telephone by his bedside was always liable to arouse him from sleep at any hour of the night.
As Tims had folded up his newspaper with a view to bed, Malcolm Sage was removing his collar before the mirror on his dressing-table, when his telephone bell rang. Rogers, his man, looked interrogatingly at his master, who, shaking his head, passed over to the instrument and took up the receiver.
"Yes, this is Malcolm Sage—Speaking—Yes." Then for a few minutes he listened with an impassive face. "I'll be off within ten minutes—The Towers, Holdingham, near Guildford—I understand."
While he was speaking, Rogers, a little sallow-faced man with fish-like eyes and expressionless face, had moved over to the other telephone and was droning in a monotonous, uninflected voice, "Chief wants car in five minutes."
It was part of Malcolm Sage's method to train his subordinates to realise the importance of intelligent and logical inference.
Returning to the dressing-table, Malcolm Sage took up another collar, slipped a tie between the fold, and proceeded to put it on.
As he did so he gave instructions to Rogers, who, note-book in hand, and with an expression of indifference that seemed to say "Kismet," silently recorded his instructions.
"My address will be The Towers, Holdingham, near Guildford. Be on the look-out for messages."
Without a word Rogers closed the book and, picking up a suit-case, which was always ready for emergencies, he left the room. Two minutes later Malcolm Sage followed and, without a word, entered the closed car that had just drawn up before his flat in the Adelphi.
Rogers returned to the flat, switched the telephone on to his own room, and prepared himself for the night, whilst Malcolm Sage, having eaten a biscuit and drunk some of Mrs. Tims's hot coffee, lay back to sleep as the car rushed along the Portsmouth road.
In the library at The Towers three men were seated, their faces lined and drawn as if some great misfortune had suddenly descended upon them; yet their senses were alert. They were listening.
"He ought to be here any minute now," said Mr. Llewellyn John, thePrime Minister, taking out his watch for the hundredth time.
Sir Lyster Grayne, First Lord of the Admiralty, shook his head.
"He should do it in an hour," said Lord Beamdale, the Secretary ofWar, "if he's got a man who knows the road."
"Sage is sure——" began Sir Lyster; then he stopped abruptly, and turned in the direction of the further window.
A soft tapping as of a finger-nail upon a pane of glass was clearly distinguishable. It ceased for a few seconds, recommenced, then ceased again.
Mr. Llewellyn John looked first at Sir Lyster and then on towards where Lord Beamdale sat, heavy of frame and impassive of feature.
Sir Lyster rose and walked quickly over to the window. As he approached the tapping recommenced. Swinging back the curtain he disappeared into the embrasure.
The others heard the sound of the window being raised and then closed again. A moment later Malcolm Sage appeared, followed by Sir Lyster, who once more drew the curtain.
At the sight of Malcolm Sage, Mr. Llewellyn John's features relaxed from their drawn, tense expression. A look of relief flashed momentarily into Lord Beamdale's fish-like eyes.
"Thank God you've come, Sage!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, with a sigh of relief as he grasped Malcolm Sage's hand as if it had been a lifebelt and he a drowning man. "I think you have met Lord Beamdale," he added.
Malcolm Sage bowed to the War Minister, then with great deliberation removed his overcoat, carefully folded it, and placed it upon a chair, laying his cap on top. He then selected a chair at the table that gave him a clear view of the faces of the three Ministers, and sat down.
"Why did you come to the window?" enquired Sir Lyster, as he resumed his own seat. "Did you know this was the library?"
"I saw a crack of light between the curtains," replied Malcolm Sage. "It may be desirable that no one should know I have been here," he added.
"Something terrible has happened, Sage," broke in the Prime Minister, his voice shaking with excitement. He had with difficulty contained himself whilst Malcolm Sage was taking off his overcoat and explaining his reason for entering by the window. "It's—it's——" His voice broke.
"Perhaps Sir Lyster will tell me, or Lord Beamdale," suggestedMalcolm Sage, looking from one to the other.
Lord Beamdale shook his head.
"Just a bare outline, Sir Lyster," said Malcolm Sage, spreading out his fingers before him.
Slowly, deliberately, and with perfect self-possession, Sir Lyster explained what had happened.
"The Prime Minister and Lord Beamdale came down with me on Thursday night to spend the weekend," he said. "Incidentally we were to discuss a very important matter connected with this country's er— foreign policy." The hesitation was only momentary. "Lord Beamdale brought with him a document of an extremely private nature. This I had sent to him earlier in the week for consideration and comment.
"If that document were to get to a certain Embassy in London no one can foretell the calamitous results. It might even result in another war, if not now certainly later. It was, I should explain, of a private and confidential nature, and consequently quite frankly expressed."
"And you must remember——" began Mr. Llewellyn John excitedly.
"One moment, sir," said Malcolm Sage quietly, without looking up from an absorbed contemplation of a bronze letter-weight fashioned in the form of a sphinx.
Mr. Llewellyn John sank back into his chair, and Sir Lyster resumed.
"Just over an hour and a half ago, that is to say soon after eleven o'clock, it was discovered that the document in question was missing, and in its place had been substituted a number of sheets of blank paper."
"Unless it's found, Sage," cried Mr. Llewellyn John, jumping up from his chair in his excitement, "the consequences are too awful to contemplate."
For a few seconds he strode up and down the room, then returning to his chair, sank back into its comfortable depths.
"Where was the document kept?" enquired Malcolm Sage, his long, sensitive fingers stroking the back of the sphinx.
"In the safe," replied Sir Lyster, indicating with a nod a small safe let into the wall.
"You are in the habit of using it for valuable documents?" queriedMalcolm Sage.
"As a matter of fact very seldom. It is mostly empty," was the reply.
"Why?"
"I have a larger safe in my dressing-room, in which I keep my papers. During the day I occasionally use this to save going up and down stairs."
"Where do you keep the key?"
"When there is anything in the safe I always carry it about with me."
"And at other times?"
"Sometimes in a drawer in my writing-table," said Sir Lyster; "but generally I have it on me."
"When was the document put into the safe?"
"At a quarter to eight to-night, just as the second dressing-gong was sounding."
"And you yourself put it in, locked the door, and have retained the key ever since?" Malcolm Sage had exhausted the interest of the sphinx and was now drawing diagrams with his forefinger upon the morocco surface of the table.
Sir Lyster nodded.
"I put the key in the pocket of my evening vest when I changed," he said. "After the other guests had retired, the Prime Minister raised a point that necessitated reference to the document itself. It was then I discovered the substitution."
"But for that circumstance the safe would not have been opened until when?" queried Malcolm Sage.
"Late to-night, when I should have transferred the packet to the safe in my dressing-room."
"Would you have examined the contents?"
"No. It is my rule to cut adrift from official matters from dinner-time on Saturday until after breakfast on Monday. It was only in deference to the Prime Minister's particular wish that we referred to the document to-night."
"I take it that the rule you mention is known to your guests and servants?"
"Certainly."
"There is no doubt that it was the document itself that you put in the safe?"
"None; the Prime Minister and Lord Beamdale saw me do it."
"No doubt whatever," corroborated Mr. Llewellyn John, whilst LordBeamdale wagged his head like a mandarin.
"Does anyone else know that it is missing?" asked Malcolm Sage after a short pause.
Sir Lyster shook his head.
"Only we three; and, of course, the thief," he added.
Malcolm Sage nodded. He had tired of the diagrams, and now sat stroking the back of his head.
"Has anyone left the house since the discovery; that is, as far as you know?" he queried at length.
"No one," said Sir Lyster.
"The servants, of course, have access to this room?"
"Yes; but only Walters, my butler, is likely to come here in the evening, except, of course, my secretary."
"Where does he dine?"
"Miss Blair," corrected Sir Lyster, "always takes her meals in her own sitting-room, where she works. It is situated at the back of the house on the ground floor."
Again Malcolm Sage was silent, this time for a longer period.
"So far as you know, then," he said at length, addressing Sir Lyster, "only three people in the house were acquainted with the existence of the document; you, the Prime Minister, and Lord Beamdale."
Sir Lyster inclined his head.
"You are certain of that?" Malcolm Sage looked up swiftly and keenly. "Your secretary and Lady Grayne, for instance, they knew nothing about it?"
"Nothing; of that I am absolutely certain," replied Sir Lyster coldly.
"And the nature of the document?" enquired Malcolm Sa'ge.
Sir Lyster looked across at Mr. Llewellyn John, who turned interrogatingly to Lord Beamdale.
"I am afraid it is of too private a nature to——" he hesitated.
"If you require me to trace something," said Malcolm Sage evenly, "you must at least tell me what that something is."
"It is a document which——" began Lord Beamdale, then he, too, paused.
"But, surely, Sage," broke in Mr. Llewellyn John, "is it not necessary to know the actual contents?"
"If you had lost something and would not tell me whether it was a dog or a diamond, would you expect me to find it?"
"But——" began Mr. Llewellyn John.
"I'm afraid we are wasting time, gentlemen," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I would suggest Scotland Yard. The official police must work under any handicap imposed. I regret that I am unable to do so."
He walked across to the chair where lay his cap and coat.