 Chapter 15 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. Chapter 15 The Missing Heavyweight 1. Mr. Dalton, sir, very important. Rogers had carefully assimilated his master's theory of the economy of words, sometimes even to the point of obscuring his meaning. Taking the last piece of toast from the rack, Malcolm Sage, with great deliberation, proceeded to butter it. Then, with a nod to the waiting Rogers, he poured out the last cup of coffee the pot contained. A moment later the door opened to admit a clean-shaven little man of about fifty, prosperous in build and appearance, but obviously laboring under some great excitement. His breath came in short, spasmodic gasps. His thin, sandy hair had clearly not been brushed since the day before, whilst his chin and upper lip bore obvious traces of a night's growth of beard. He seemed on the point of collapse. He's gone! Disappeared! he burst out as Rogers closed the door behind him. Malcolm Sage rose, motioned his caulder to a chair at the table, and resumed his own seat. Heard breakfast, he inquired quietly, resuming his occupation of getting the toast carefully and artistically buttered. Good God, man! exploded Mr. Dalton almost hysterically. Don't you understand? Burns has disappeared. I gathered as much, said Malcolm Sage, calmly, as he reached for the marmalade. Pond telephoned from Stanton, continued Mr. Dalton. I was in fed. I got dressed and came round here at once. I— He stopped suddenly as Rogers entered with a fresh relay of coffee. Without a word, he proceeded to pour out a cup for Mr. Dalton, who, after moments' hesitation, drank it greedily. Rogers glanced interrogatingly from the dish that had contained eggs and bacon to Malcolm Sage, who nodded. When it withdrawn, Mr. Dalton opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and gave to Malcolm Sage, who, having superimposed upon the butter a delicate amber film of marmalade, proceeded to cut up the toast into a series of triangles. But apparently it was the only thing in life that interested him. For weeks passed, the British and American sporting world had thought and talked of nothing but the forthcoming fight between Charlie Burns and Bob Jefferson for the heavyweight championship of the world. The event was due to take place two days hence at the Olympia for a purse of forty thousand pounds offered by Mr. Montague Dalton, the Prince of Impresarios. Never had a contest been looked forward to with greater eagerness than the Burns versus Jefferson match. A great change had come over public opinion in regard to price fighting, thanks to the elevating influence of Mr. Dalton. It was no longer referred to as brutalising and debasing. Refined and nice-minded people found themselves mildly interested and patriotically hopeful that Charlie Burns, the British champion, would win. In two years Mr. Dalton had achieved what the National Sporting Club had failed to do in a quarter of a century. Long and patiently it laboured to bring about this match, which many thought would prove the keystone to the arch of Burns's fame, incidentally to that of the Impresario himself. And now he's disappeared! Clean gone! Mr. Dalton almost sobbed. Tell me. Malcolm Sage looked up from his plate, the last triangle of toast poised between finger and thumb. In short, to cut out sentences, like bursts from a machine gun, Mr. Dalton proceeded to tell his story. That morning, at six o'clock, when Elf Pond, Burns's trainer, had entered his room to warn him that it was time to get up, he founded unoccupied. At first he thought that Burns had gone down before him, but immediately his eye fell in the bed and he saw that it had not been slept in, he became alarmed. Going to the bedroom door he had shouted to the sparring partners, and soon the champion's room was filled with men in various stages of disobeye. Only for a moment, however, had they remained inactive. At Elf Pond's word of command they had spread helter-skelter over the house and grounds, causing the early morning air to echo with their shouts for Charlie. What at length he became assured that Burns had disappeared, Elf Pond telephoned first to Mr. Dalton, and then to Mr. Pepwith, Burns's backer. I told Pond to do nothing and tell no one, said Mr. Dalton, in conclusion, and when I left my rooms my man was trying to get through to Pepwith to ask him to keep the story to himself. Malcolm Sage nodded approval. Now, what's to be done? He looked at Malcolm Sage with the air of a man who was just told a doctor of his alarming symptoms and almost breathlessly awaits the verdict. Breakfast, a shave, then more motor down to Stanton, and Malcolm Sage proceeded to fill his briar, his whole attention absorbed in the operation. A moment later, Rogers ended with a fresh supply of eggs and bacon. Mr. Dalton shook his head. Instinctively, his hand had gone up to his unshaven chin. It was probably the first time in his life that he'd sat at table without shaving. He prided himself upon his personal appearance, and his younger days he'd been known as Dandy Dalton. The car, in half an hour, Rogers, said Malcolm Sage, as he rose from the table. When you finished, he said, turning to Mr. Dalton, Rogers will give you hot water, a razor, and anything else you want. By the time you have shaved, I shall be ready. But don't you see, think what it began, Mr. Dalton. An empty stomach, neither seas nor things, was Malcolm Sage's oracular ritual, and he went over to the window and seated himself at his writing table. For the next half hour, he was engaged with his correspondence, and in telephoning instructions to his office. By the time Mr. Dalton had breakfasted and shaved, the car was at the door. During the run to Stanton, both men were silent. Mr. Dalton was speculating as to what would happen at the Olympia on the following night if Burns failed to appear. Whilst Malcolm Sage was occupied with thoughts, the object of which was to prevent such a catastrophe. They're sure to say it's a yellow streak, Mr. Dalton burst out on one occasion, but as Malcolm Sage took no notice of the remark, he subsided into the silence, and the car hummed its way along the Portsmouth Road. Burns' training quarters were situated at Stanton, near Guildford, here, under the vigilant eye of Alph Pond, and with the help of a large retinue of sparring partners, he was getting himself into what had come to be called Burns' condition, which meant that he would enter the ring trained to the minute. Never did athlete work more conscientiously than Charlie Burns. As the car turned into a side road, flanked on either hand by Elms, Mr. Dalton tapped on a window screen, and Timbs pulled up. Malcolm Sage had requested that the car be stopped a hundred yards before it reached the grove where the training quarters were situated. Wait for me here, he said, as he got out. It's the first gate on the right, said Mr. Dalton. Walking slowly away from the car, Malcolm Sage examined with great care the road itself. Presently he stopped, and, taking from his pocket the steel spring measure, he proceeded to measure a portion of the surface of the dusty roadway. Having made several entries in a notebook, he then turned back to the car, his eyes still on the road. Instructing Timbs to remain where he was, Malcolm Sage motioned to Mr. Dalton to get out. This way, said Malcolm Sage, leading him to the extreme left-hand side of the road. Turning into the gates of the grove, they walked up the drive towards the house. In front stood a group of men in various and nondescript costumes. As Malcolm Sage and Mr. Dalton approached, a man in a soiled white sweater and voluminous grey flannel trousers, generously turned up at the extremities, detached himself from the group, and came towards them. He was puffy of face, with pouched eyes and a moist skin. Yet in his day, Elfpond had been an unbeatable middleweight, and the greatest master of the Ringcraft of his time. But that was near the generation ago. In agonized silence he looked from Mr. Dalton to Malcolm Sage, then back again to Mr. Dalton. There was, in his eyes, the misery of despair. With the preliminary greetings over, Elfpond led the way round to a large coach-house in the rear, which had been fitted up as a gymnasium. Here were to be seen all the appliances necessary to the training of a boxer for a great contest, including a rope ringing at one end. He was here only yesterday. There was a world of tragedy and pathos in Elfpond's tone, something like a groan burst from the sparring-partners. With a quick, comprehensive glance, Malcolm Sage seemed to take in every detail. It's a bad business, Pond, said Mr. Dalton, who found the mute despair of these hard-living, hard-hitting men rather embarrassing. What I better do, required Elfpond. I've put the whole matter in Mrs. Sage's hands, said Mr. Dalton. He'll find them, if anyone can. A score of eyes were turned speculatively upon Malcolm Sage. In none was there the least ray of hope. All had now made up their minds that Jefferson would win the fight by default. Slowly and methodically, Malcolm Sage drew the story of Burns' disappearance from Elfpond, the sparring-partners occasionally acting as a chorus. When all had been told, Malcolm Sage gazed from some moments at the fingernails of his left hand. You were confident he would win, he asked at length. Confident! There was incredulity and wonder in Elfpond's voice. Then, with a sudden inspiration... Look at Kit! He cried. Look at him! And he indicated with a nod a fair-haired giant standing on his ride. Malcolm Sage looked. The man's face showed the stress and strain of battle. His nose had taken on something of the quality of cubism. His right eye was out of commission, and there was an ugly purple patch on his left cheek. And his right ear looked as if a wasp had stung it. He did that in one round, and him the third. Kit asked Fred, and he got it, same as Jeff would. Explained Elfpond proudly, a momentary note of elation in his voice. There was also something of pride in the grin with which Kit stood the scrutiny of the others. Do you know of any reason why Burns should have left his room? Malcolm Sage looked from one to the other interrogatingly. There wasn't any, was Elfpond's response, and the others nodded their concurrence. He knew no one in the neighbourhood? He knew no one to speak of. A few local gents would drop in occasional to see how he was getting on, and then a lot of newspaper chaps came down from London. There was that in Elfpond's tone, which seemed to suggest that in his opinion such questions were foolish. Did he receive any letters or telegrams yesterday? Was the next question? Letters! Elfpond laughed sardonically. Shoals of him! He turned them all over to Sandy Lane, indicating a red-headed man on the right. He wasn't much at writing letters, said Sandy Lane, by way of explanation. His hands were made for better things, cried Elfpond scornfully, and the sparring partners nodded their agreement. Did he turn over to you the whole of his correspondence? Asked Malcolm Sage, turning to Sandy Lane. Sometimes he'd keep a letter, broken Elfpond, but not often, sort of personal, he added, as if to explain the circumstance. From a woman, perhaps, suggested Malcolm Sage, taking off his head and stroking the back of his head. Woman! cried Elfpond scornfully. Charlie had no use for women, or he wouldn't have been the boxer he was. He was quite himself. Quite natural, yesterday, asked Malcolm Sage. Quite himself, repeated Elfpond deliberately. Then, once more, indicating kid, he added, look at kid, that's what he's done in one round. There was with his tone all the contempt of knowledge for ignorance. Malcolm Sage resumed his head, and, taking his pipe from his pocket, proceeded to stuff it with tobacco, as if that were the only problem in the world. On everything he did, he seemed to concentrate his entire attention to the exclusion of all else. No smoking-ear, if you please, said Elfpond sharply. Malcolm Sage returned his pipe to his pocket without comment. Now, what are you going to do? There was challenge in Elfpond's voice, as he eyed Malcolm Sage with disfavour. In his world, men with bold conical heads and golden spectacles did not count for much. How many people know of the disappearance? inquired Malcolm Sage, ignoring the question. Outside of us here, only Mr. Pappwith was the response. For fully a minute, Malcolm Sage did not reply. At length, he turned to Mr. Dalton. Can you arrange to remain here to meet Mr. Pappwith? he inquired. I propose doing so, was the reply. You want to find Burns, I suppose, Malcolm Sage asked of Elfpond in low-level tones. Elfpond and his colleagues eyed him, as if he had asked the most astonishing question. You bar me, demanded the trainer, putting into words the looks of the others. You will continue with the day's work, as if nothing had happened, continued Malcolm Sage. No one outside must know that. But how the hell are we going to do that with Charlie Gron? Broke in Elfpond, taking a step forward with clenched fists. You are a friend here, indicated kid. Campose as Burns, was Malcolm Sage's quiet reply, as he looked into the trainer's eye without the flicker of an eyelash. You, Mr. Dalton, I will ask to remain here with Mr. Pappwith, until I communicate with you. On no account leave the training quarters, even if you have to wait here until tomorrow evening. But, began Elfpond, then he stopped and gazed at the sparring partners, blinking his eyes in stupid bewilderment. Have I your promise? inquired Malcolm Sage of Mr. Dalton. As far as I am concerned, yes, was the response, and I think I can answer for Pappwith. It's very inconvenient, though. Not so inconvenient as having to explain things at the Olympia tomorrow night, remarked Malcolm Sage dryly. Now he continued, turning once more to Elfpond. I suppose you've all got something on this fight? Something on it, cried Elfpond. Then, turning to the sparring partners, he cried. He asked if we've got something on it. Like God, he groaned. Got our shirts on it. That's what we got on it. Our shirts! And his voice broke in something like a sob. You had better post someone at the gate to tell all inquirers that Burns is doing well and is confident of winning, said Malcolm Sage to Mr. Dalton, and keep an eye on the telephone. Tell anyone who rings up the same. In fact, and he turned to the others. As far as you are concerned, Burns is still with you. Do you understand? They looked at one another in a way that was little suggestive of understanding. Did Burns wear the same clothes throughout the day? Asked Malcolm Sage of the trainer. Course he didn't! Elfpond made no effort to disguise the contempt he felt. In the daytime he used to wear flannel trousers and a sweater, same as me. Except when he was sparring, then he put on drawers. Always would have everything same as it was going to be with Charlie. Seconds? Referee? Timekeeper? Said it made him feel at home when the time came. Quaint he was in some of his ideas. Then, from the time he got up, until bedtime, he wore the same clothes, quite with Malcolm Sage, without looking up from the inevitable contemplation of his fingernails. No, he didn't. Elfpond's pet is boredom at this useless question into a far corner. It was always a bit of a nip, was Charlie. After it finished the day's work, he'd put on a suit of dark dots, a white colour, a watch on his wrist, and all that banco, and would play poker or billiards until half past eight, when we'd all turn in. The look with which Elfpond concluded this itinerary plainly demanded if there were any more of them silly questions coming. Now I should like to see Burns's room. Malcolm Sage and Mr. Dalton followed Elfpond upstairs to a large room on the first floor, as destitute of the attributes of comfort as a guard room. A bed, a wash-hand-stand, and a chest of drawers comprised the furniture. A few articles of clothing were strewn about, and in one corner lay a pair of dumbbells. The windows were open, top and bottom. Malcolm Sage passed from one to the other and looked out. He examined carefully each of the window-edges. Are these the clothes he wore when he got up? He inquired, indicating a sweater and a pair of flannel trousers that lay on a chair. Elfpond nodded. Swiftly, Malcolm Sage felt in the pockets. There was nothing there. A minute later he left the room, followed by the others. Descending the stairs, he passed along the hall and out onto the short drive, accompanied by Mr. Dalton and Elfpond. Halfway towards the gate, Malcolm Sage stopped. You will hear from me some time today or tomorrow, he said. Do exactly as I've said, and if I don't telephone before tomorrow evening, go to the Olympia as if Burns were to be there. You might have sent out to my car a pair of drawers and boots in case I find him. You're going to find him, then? Elfpond suddenly gripped Malcolm Sage's arm with what was almost ferocity. Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders. If you do as I tell you, it will help. By the way, he added, if you have time, you might put 25 pounds on Burns for me. Mr. Dalton will be responsible for the amount. Now I want to look about me. And with that Malcolm Sage walked a few steps down the drive, leaving two men staring after him as if it either solved or propounded the riddle of the universe. For some minutes he stood in the centre of the drive, looking about him. Stepping to the right he glanced back at the house, and then towards the road. Finally he made for a large clump of rhododendrons that lay between the road and the house. Motioning the others to remain where they were on the gravel drive, he walked to a clear space of short grass between the rhododendrons and the hedge bordering the road. Going down upon his knees he proceeded to examine the ground with great care and attention. For nearly half an hour he crawled from place to place, absorbed in grass, shrub and flower bed. Finally he penetrated half into the privet hedge that bordered the road. The sparring partners had now joined the other two on the drive, and the group stood watching the strange movements of the man who, in their opinion, had already shown obvious symptoms of insanity. Presently Malcolm Sage emerged from the hedge in his hand a long cigar, round the centre of which was a red and gold band. For fully a minute he stood examining this with great care. Then, taking a lettercase from his pocket, he carefully placed the cigar in the hinge, returned the case to his pocket, and rejoined the group of wide-eyed spectators. Found anything? inquired Elfpond eagerly. Several things, replied Malcolm Sage. What? The man grouped themselves round him, breathless with interest. By the way, said Malcolm Sage, turning to Elfpond. Does Burns happen to smoke long Havana cigars with a red? Smoke, yelled Elfpond in horror. Him? Smoke? You blinking while barmy? he demanded, looking Malcolm Sage up and down as if meditating an attack upon him. I'd like to see the man who'd so much as dare to strike a match here. Nick leared about him angrily, whilst the sparring partners shoveled their feet and murmured among themselves. There was just the suspicion of a fluttering at the corners of Malcolm Sage's mouth. I'm afraid Elfpond is rather excited just at present, said Mr. Dalton tactfully. By now he'd entirely regained his own composure. Burns is a great lover of tobacco, and Elfpond takes no risks. You were saying that you'd discovered several things? Again the group of men drew closer to Malcolm Sage, their heads thrust forward as if fearful of missing a word. For one thing Burns left his room last night to meet a woman by... It's a lie! cried Elfpond heatedly. It's a damned lie! I don't believe it! A rather dainty creature, small and well-dressed. She was accompanied by several men, one of them rather stout, very careful of his clothes, and an invetrid smoker. The others were bigger, rougher men. They all came in a car, which arrived after the motor-bicycle, which in turn arrived later than the small car. The sparring partners exchanged glances whilst Elfpond stared. Subsequently they drove off in a very great hurry. Incidentally they took Burns with them, but against his will. On the way down the girl was in the tunnel, but on the return journey she sat beside the driver. As Burns was in the tunnel it was no doubt a precaution. I don't believe a word! interrupted Elfpond. He's making it all up! Without appearing to notice the remark, Malcolm Sage turned and walked towards the gate, Mr. Dalton following a step in the rear. Liar! growled Elfpond as he turned towards the house. Ready liar! he added, as if finding consolation in the term. He'll never find old Charlie. Tell me Sage, were you serious? asked Mr. Dalton as they reached the gate. Entirely. I'm afraid poor Pond thought you were making game of us. He added apologetically. Do you mind explaining how you arrived at your conclusions? Behind that clump of rhododendrons began Malcolm Sage. There's written a whole history. The marks of boots or shoes with very high heels suggests a woman. The size and daintyness of the footwear tell the rest. As Burns appeared she stepped towards him. Her very short steps indicate both fashionable clothes and smallness of stature. And the man who was careful about his clothes? He stood behind a holly-bush with an umbrella. But how did you know? He'd been leaning upon it, and there was the mark where it had sunk into the soft turf, up to the point where the silk joins the stick. A man who carries an umbrella on a kidnapping adventure must be habitually in fear of rain. None but a well-dressed man would fear rain. Then, as he had a cigar in his hand with the end bitten off, it shows the habitual smoker. He was only waiting for the end of the drama before lighting up. His height I get from his stride, and his size by the fact that, like Humpty Dumpty, he had a great fall. I'll tell you the rest later. I'm afraid it's an ugly business. But the girl riding beside the driver? Burst out, Mr. Dalton, bewildered by the facts that Malcolm Sater 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. The hurry of departure is shown by the fact that the car started before one of the men had taken his place, and his footsteps running beside it before jumping onto the running board are quite clear. I'll ring you up later. I cannot stay now. And with that he hurried away. Back along your own tracks, Timms, said he, on reaching the car. He then walked onto the main road. With head over right shoulder, Timms carefully backed the car, Malcolm Sage, signalling that he was to turn to the right. Instructing Timms to drive slowly, Malcolm Sage took a seat beside him, keeping his eyes fixed upon the off-side of the road. He stopped the car at each crossroad, and walked down at some twenty or thirty yards. His eyes bent downwards as if in search of something. At the end of half an hour he instructed Timms to drive back to London at his best speed. Two. 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 shining of her nose, and William Johnson was in process of readjusting his ideas as the lack of the dramatic element at the Malcolm Sage Bureau, as compared with detective fiction and the films. About three o'clock a tall, clean-shaven man was shown into Malcolm Sage's room. He had a hard mouth, keen, alert eyes, and an air suggestive of the fact that he knew the worst there was to be known about men, and acted accordingly. With a nod Malcolm Sage motioned him to a seat. Six months before he had saved Dick Lindler from the dock by discovering the real criminal in whose stead Lindler was about to be charged with a series of frauds. Since then Malcolm Sage had always been sure of such insight information in the bookmaking world as he required. How's the betting now? inquired Malcolm Sage. Ninth to two on Jefferson offered, and new takers was the reply. There's something up, Mr. Sage. I'll take my dying oath on it, he said, leaning across the table and dropping his voice. Any big amounts, inquired Malcolm Sage. Nah, that's what troubles me. The money's being spread about so. The funny thing is that a lot of it's being put on by letter. I've had a dozen myself today. Malcolm Sage nodded slowly as he filled his pipe, which with great deliberation he proceeded to light until the whole surface of the tobacco glowed. Then as if suddenly realizing that Lindler was not smoking, he pulled open a drawer, drew out a cigar box, and pushed it across, watching him closely from beneath his eyebrows as he did so. Lindler opened the box, then looked interrogatingly at Malcolm Sage. Didn't know he smugged the same boys and sticks as the downy one, he said, picking up a long cigar with a red and gold band and examining it. Who's he? Old Nathan Goldsmith, the stinking Jew. I'm sorry, said Malcolm Sage. That should not have been there. Try one or the others. Lindler looked across at him curiously. Personally myself, he said. I believe he's at the bottom of all this heavy backing of Jefferson. Malcolm Sage continued to smoke as if the matter did not interest him, whilst Lindler bit off the end of the cigar he had selected and proceeded to light it. Several of his crowd have been around this morning, trying to load me up. He continued presently, when the cigar was drawing to satisfaction. Master stayed up all night to be in time, he added scathingly. Have you seen Goldsmith himself? Not since yesterday afternoon. Does he usually carry an umbrella? Lindler laughed. The boys call him Jampy Goldsmith, he said. You really think that the Goldsmith's gang is backing Jefferson? They've been at it for the last week, was the response. They know 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 QT, was the response. Find out all you can about Goldsmith and his friends. Keep in touch with me here if you'll learn anything. Incidentally, keep on the water wagon until after the fight. Righto! said Lindler, rising. But I wish you'd tell me. I have told you, said Malcolm Sage, and with that he took the proffered hand, and a moment later Dick Lindler passed through the outer door. As he did so, he almost collided with Thompson, who had just jumped out of Malcolm Sage's car, and was dashing towards the door. Thompson rushed across the outer office, through the glass-panel door, and passed swiftly into Malcolm Sage's room. It's the car-writer-off-chief, he said, making an effort to control his excitement. I picked it up outside Jimmy Dilks. There were three men in it. Malcolm Sage nodded, then, opening a drawer, produced a sealed packet. If I am not back here by half-bast-fall, he said, ring up Inspector Wensdale, and ask him to come round at once with a couple of men, and wait in the outer office. Give him this packet, as a letter inside. If he's not there, get anyone else you know. Thompson stared. In spite of long association, Malcolm Sage, there were still times when he failed to follow his chief's line of reasoning. If I telephone or write, canceling these instructions, ignore anything I say. Do you understand? I understand, Chief, said Thompson. Malcolm Sage picked up his hat and stick and left the room. Tims, who'd been waiting at the outer door, sprang to his seat, and almost before the door of the car had closed, it jerked forward, and was soon threading its sinew's way towards Coventry Street. Five minutes later, Malcolm Sage pressed a bell-push on the fifth floor of a large block of flats known as Coventry Mention's. The door was opened by a heavily-built, ill-favoured man. In response to Malcolm Sage's request to see Mr. Goldschmidt, he was told that he couldn't. Tell him, said Malcolm Sage, fixing his steel-grey eyes upon the man in a steady gaze, that Mr. Malcolm Sage wishes to see him about something that happened last night, and about something more that is to happen tomorrow night. He'll understand. A sudden look of apprehension in the man's eyes seemed to suggest that he at least understood. He hesitated for a moment, then, with a gruff, wait here, shut the door in Malcolm Sage's face. Three minutes later he opened it again, and, inviting him to enter, led the way along a passage, at the end of which was a door which the man threw open. Malcolm Sage found himself in a darkened room, from which the light was excluded by heavy curtains. For a moment he looked about him, unable to distinguish any object. When his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw seated in an armchair a man with a handkerchief held to his face. Mr. Goldschmidt, he interrogated, as he seated himself in the centre of the room. Well, what is it? was a thickly spoken retort. I came to ask your views on the fight tomorrow night, and to enquire if you think the odds of nine to two on Jefferson are justified. There was an exclamation from the armchair. If you've got anything to say, said the thick voice, angrily, get it off your chest and go to hell, he added, as an afterthought. What do you want? the voice demanded, as Malcolm Sage remained silent. 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 at it. Here, cover it up, or else I'll have you thrown out into the street. What is it? I want either you, or one of your friends, to come with me to where Charlie Burns has been taken. There was a stifled exclamation from the chair, then a howl of agony as the hand holding the handkerchief dropped. At the same moment three 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 the puffy face of a man of about sixty, in the centre of which was a hideous, purple splotch that had once been a nose. A moment later the handkerchief obscured the unsavory sight. What else all this about? shouted one of the men, advancing into the room, the others remaining by the door. Slowly Malcolm Sage turned and regarded three men, whose appearance proclaimed their pre-delistic calling. I was just asking Mr. Goldschmidt to be so good as to accompany me to where Charlie Burns is. He was interrupted by exclamations from all three men. What hell do you mean? demanded he who had spoken, a dark ill-favourite 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' training quarters to keep an appointment made in the name of a girlfriend of Burns. He came out, quite unsuspectingly, was overpowered, and subsequently taken in Mr. Goldschmidt's car to a place with which I am unacquainted, so that he shall not appear at the Olympia tomorrow night. He drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. His heir was that of a chess player who knows that he can mate his opponent in two moves. It's a damn lie! roared one of the men, whilst Goldschmidt shrieked something that was unintelligible. You drove out by way of Putney Hill, Escher, and Clendon Crossroads. 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 clumper for other dendrons. It's a damn lie! choked Goldschmidt. By the way, continued Margemsage, your fair friend drove out in the tonneau, but returned seated beside the driver, and one of you was nearly left behind, and entered the car after it had started. The men looked at one another in bewilderment. E. U. Goldschmidt carried an umbrella, continued Margemsage, and took cover behind the holly-bush, but he came out a little too soon, hence that nose. Burns was playing possum. You were rather anxious 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 Margemsage calmly. Oh, you are, are you? sneered the spokesman, as he moved a little closer to Margemsage. And I am in a position to prove that we're four to one. Three to one, corrected Margemsage 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, what about it? demanded nigger. If Burns had delivered over to me within two hours, unharned and in fighting trim, and a check for £1,000 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 next twenty-four hours, London will probably have its first experience of lynch law. With that, Margemsage struck a match and proceeded to light his pipe. That all, sneered the man, ain't having nothing else you like. I cannot recall anything else at the moment, said Margemsage, imperturbably, as he looked across at the fellow over the top of the burning match. You dirty knuck, burst out the man by the door, who had hitherto remained silent, a pretty sort of stoopidgen you are. Spioniness, wasn't you? demanded nigger, edging nearer to Margemsage. It's ten minutes past four, remarked Margemsage coolly, as he glanced at his brist watch. Oh, it is, is it, was the retort, and in another hour it'll be ten minutes past five. I have to be back at my office by half past four, Margemsage looked about for some receptacle in which to throw the spent match. You don't say so. Again, nigger edged a little nearer, but Margemsage appeared not to notice it. Well, I may as well tell you that you don't leave here until eleven o'clock tomorrow night, see? There were murmurs of approval from the others. Then perhaps you will send out and buy me a toothbrush, was Margemsage's quiet rejoinder. End of Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen of Margemsage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins This lipovox recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon Chapter Sixteen, the great fight of the Olympia One Never had the Olympia seen such a crowd as was gathered to watch the fight between Charlie Burns of England and Joe Dafferson of America. Never in its career of hybrid ugliness had it witnessed such excitement. For thirty-six hours the wildest rumours had been current. Charlie Burns had broken down, run away, committed suicide, and refused to fight. He had broken a leg, an arm, a finger, and had torn more tendons than he possessed. He'd sprained ankles, rung withers, been overtrained, had contracted every known disease in addition to manifesting a yellow streak. The atmosphere was electrical, the spectators whispered among themselves, exchanging views and rumours. The most fantastical stories were related, credited, and debated with gravity and concern. If some ill-advised optimist ventured to question a particularly legrupious statement, he was challenged to explain the betting which had crapped up to six to one on Jefferson, Offit, with no takers. The arrival of the Prince of Wales gave a well-convent for pent-up excitement. Accused as he was to enthusiastic acclamation, the Prince seemed a little embarrassed by the warmth and intensity of his greeting. The preliminary bouts ran their course, of interest only to those immediately concerned, who were more truly alone in the midst of that vast concourse than some anchoride in the desert of Sahara. The heat was unbearable, the atmosphere suffocating. Men smoked their cigars and cigarettes jerkily, now indulging in a series of staccatoed puffs, now ignoring them until they went out. Slowly the time crapped on as by the bedside of death. If those ridiculously bobbing figures in the ring would only seize their caperings, BREAK BREAK! The voice of the referee suddenly split through a pocket of silence. Everyone seemed startled, then the curtain of sound once more descended and wrapped the assembly in its impenetrable folds. The gong sounded at the beginning and the end of each round, and so it went on. Mr. Bapweth sat in the front row near the Prince, smiling, smiling, forever smiling. He was a dapper little man, with a fury, clean-shaven face, and a fringe of grizzled hair above his ears that gave the light of the operant silkiness with which its head was crowned. Next to him was Mr. Dalton, who tethered and smiled, smiled and tethered, but his eyes moved restlessly over the basin of faces, as if in search of an answer to some unanswered question. At length the preliminary bouts were ended. As the combatants had arrived unharolded, so they departed unsung. Although no one appeared to be watching, a sudden hush fell over the assembly. That dramatic moment had arrived. A few minutes would see the rumours confirmed or disproved. Men, seasoned spectators of a hundred fights, found the tension almost unbearable. The MCE climbed through the ropes and looked fussily about him. He appealed to the spectators for silence during the actual rounds and for the discontinuance of smoking. A black carpet box, sealed as if it contained dueling pistols instead of gloves, was thrust into the ring. Men took a last fond draw at their cigars and cigarettes before mechanically extinguishing them. All eyes were directed towards the spot where the combatants would appear. The referee turned expectantly in the same direction. A group of men in flannels and sweaters were seen moving towards the ring. Among them was a sleek, dark-haired man in a long dressing gown of bottle-green. It was Joe Jefferson. Suddenly a great roar burst out, echoing and re-echoing continuously as the group approached the ring and Jefferson climbed through the ropes. Then came another hush. A second group of men was observed approaching the ring. There was a shout as those nearest recognized Elf pond among them. It developed into a roar, then died away as if strangled, giving place to a hum of suppressed inquiry. Everyone was either asking or looking the same question. Where is Burns? Elf pond and his associates moved to the ringside as if bound for a funeral. Their gloom seemed suddenly to pervade the whole vast concourse. Men talked to one another mechanically, their eyes fixed upon the group. There was a strange hush. The men reached the ringside and stood looking at one another. The audience looked at them. What had happened? None seemed to notice three men moving down the opposite gangway towards the ring. The man in the centre was muffled in a heavy overcoat that reached to his heels. A soft-felled head was pulled down over his eyes. One or two spectators in their immediate neighbourhood gave them a hasty, curious glance. Suddenly Elf pond gave a wild whoop and, breaking away from his fellows, dashed towards the three strangers. In a moment the overcoat and muffler were thrown aside and the head knocked off, revealing the fair-haired and smiling Charlie Burns. Gripping Burns' hand, Elf pond broke down. Tears streamed down his battle-seared features and he sobbed with his choking agony of a strong 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 off to wave. The whole Olympia appeared to have gone mad. Noble peers, grave judges, sedate generals, and austere philosophers acted as if suddenly bereft of the restraining influences of civilisation and decorum. Hucked and fondled by his seconds, Burns reached the ring and climbed into it. The black cardboard box was opened. The man's hands bandaged. The gloves done. Still the pandemonium raged, now dying down, now bursting out again with increased volume. Jefferson and Burns shook hands. The referees stood in the middle of the ring, and, with arms extended aloft, appeared to be imploring the blessing of heaven. The crowd, however, understood, and the great uproar died down to a hum of sound. Then, for the first time, it was noticed that, in place of the habitual smile that had made Burns the idol he was, there was a grim set about his jaw that caused those nearest to the ring to wonder and to speculate. Charlie Burns' battle smile had become almost a tradition. If it only fight more and box less, Alph Pond would say complainingly, he'd beat the whole blink and whirl one hand. Suddenly a hush fell upon the assembly, a hush as pronounced as had been the previous pandemonium. The referee took a final look round. Behind Burns, Alph Pond could be seen sponging his face over a small bucket. He was once more himself. There were things to be done. Almost before anyone realised it, the gong sounded, the fight had begun. God! The exclamation broke involuntarily from Alph Pond as he dropped the sponge and gazed before him with wide-staring eyes. He's fighting! he cried, almost dancing with excitement. Did ever you 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 defensive watchfulness, Charlie Burns had darted at his man. Before anyone knew what was happening, his left crashed between Jefferson's eyes, a blow that caused him to reel back almost to the ropes. Before he could recover, a right hook had sent him staggering against the ropes themselves. For a second it looked as if he would collapse over them. Pulling himself together, however, he strove to clinch. But Burns was too quick for him. Stepping back swiftly, he fainted with his left, and Jefferson, expecting a repetition of the first 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 guarded himself together. At nine he was on his feet. Once more, Burns was upon him, and Jefferson saved himself by clinging. It was clear that he was badly shaken. Three times during the first round Burns floored his man. The onlookers were mad with excitement. Back in his own corner, Charlie Burns was sitting, a hard-set look in his eyes, his jaw square and firm. Elf-pond first about him like a hen over a chick. "'Shut up, Elf. I know what I'm doing,' said Burns sharply. "'He knows what he's doing,' repeated Elf-pond ecstatically. "'Hear that, Sandy. He knows what he's doing. And so does Jeff. I'll lay a pony to a pink pill,' he added. Once more the gong sounded. Once more Burns sprang up and darted at his man. Jefferson tried first a dodge and then to clinch, but without a veil. He was unnerved. His strategy and tactics had been planned in view of Burns's usual methods. But here was an entirely different man to deal with. A great fighter. Twice more Jefferson went down, taking a count of nine on each occasion. He seemed to share with the spectators the knowledge that there would be no third round. On rising the second time he seemed determined to change his tactics. He rushed forward, fighting gamely, apparently in the hope of getting a lucky knockout blow. Without giving an inch, Burns threw off the blows and, fainting with it left, crashed his ride full on the point of his opponent's jaw. Jefferson's hands fell, and for a second he stood gazing stupidly before him. Then his knees sagged, and with a deliberation that seemed almost intolerable, he crashed forward on his face, one arm outstretched as if in protest. Again, the timekeeper's voice was heard monotonously counting. Burns turned to his corner without waiting for the conclusion of the count. He knew the strength behind that blow. Two Later that night, just as Big Ben was taking breath preparatory to his supreme effort, Malcolm Sage was seated in his big arm chair, smoking a final pipe before bed, and turning over in his mind the happenings of the day and the probable events of the morrow. His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a hammering at the outer door of his chambers, followed by the sound of loud and hilarious voices as Rogers answered the summons. A moment later the door of the sitting room burst open, and there flowed into the room Charlie Burns and his entourage, all obviously in the best of spirits. In the background stood Rogers, with expression on his face, looking towards his master. Malcolm Sage rose and shook hands with Burns, Mr. Dalton, and Mr. Papwith, Elf Pond, and his assistants. Sorry, Mr. Sage, cried Burns, with a laugh, but the boys wouldn't wait, although I told them, calling time was four till six. And they laughed again, the laugh of a man who has not a care in the world. He also ripped Malcolm Sage's hand with a heartiness that made him wince. The others in turn shook hands in a way that caused Malcolm Sage to wonder why America had not long since seized to be a republic. The man dropped into chairs in various parts of the room, and Rogers, who had disappeared at the signal for Malcolm Sage, now returned with a tray of glasses, siphons, and liquefies. Soon the whole company was drinking the health of Malcolm Sage with an earnestness which convinced him that on the morrow there would be trouble with Colonel Sappinger, who lived above and cherished Carlyle's hatred of sound. And now, Mr. Sage, said Elf Pond, you want to know how you found Charlie? He won't tell us anything. Wonderful, I call it, he added, and there was a murmur of a scent from the others as they proceeded to light the cigars that Rogers handed round. It was not very difficult, said Malcolm Sage, stuffing tobacco into his pipe from a terracotta jar beside him. As he applied a light to the bowl, the others exchanged glasses. From the first, he continued, it was obvious that some message or letter had been conveyed to our friend Burns. He gazed across at the champion, who looked uncomfortable. As he had not mentioned the fact to any of his friends, continued Malcolm Sage a little slighly. It seemed obvious to assume that there was a lady in the case. Elf Pond looked reproachfully at Burns, who readened beneath the united gaze of seven pairs of eyes. There the appointment had been for the evening, proceeded Malcolm Sage, was obvious from the fact that Burns disappeared in the blue suit he always changed into after the day's work. Elf Pond looked across at Mr. Dalton, nodding his approval of the reasoning. It was Kitty, or I thought it was, burst out Burns. She said something terrible had happened, and that she must see me, he added. Kitty Graham was shortly to become Mrs. Charlie Burns, but during the period of training she had been rigorously excluded from all intercourse with her fiancé by order of the autocratic Elf Pond. The meeting was arranged for the further side of the large clump of her dendrons, which acted as a screen, continued Malcolm Sage. When Burns arrived there, he saw a girl standing a little distance away. Before he could reach her, however, he was seized and a chloroform pad held over his mouth. The suddenness of the attack dazed him. He did not struggle, but held his breath. He— How de blazes did you know that, Mr. Sage? burst out Burns. You are always a quick thinker in the ring, said Malcolm Sage, and you were a quick thinker then. You smelled chloroform, held your breath, and thought it was a sort of instinctive ring craft. But you—began Burns. There were no marks of a struggle where you were seized. You probably realised that your only chance lay in letting the enemy think you were losing consciousness. Burns nodded. Seeing that there was no sign of trouble, continued Malcolm Sage, the principal in this little affair stepped out from where he had been taking cover just at the moment when Burns broke loose and let out. Movement has always a primary attraction for the eye, and Burns got this man full on the nose and ruined it. He also sent him clean into the Privet Hedge where he collapsed. Who was it? demanded Elf Pond fiercely. There were, however, too many of them for Burns, continued Malcolm Sage, ignoring the question. They had planned the attack very carefully, each clinging to a limb. Soon they had him unconscious and bound in the car. Then they turned their attention to their leader. Yes, but how did you find Burns? asked Mr Dalton eagerly. I didn't, said Malcolm Sage. They showed me where he was. But, began Mr Pepwith, whose shiny, clean-shaven face, normally suggestive of a turner's sunset, now looked like a conflagration. After half an hour's fruitless effort to track the car down side-roads, I returned to London as fast as my man could take me, proceeded Malcolm Sage, and I immediately set inquiries on foot as to the betting on the stock exchange at Tethysal's, the National Sporting Club, and other places. By three o'clock that afternoon I knew pretty well who it was that had been laying heavily against Burns. That simplified matters. Elf Pond and Burns exchanged admiring glances. As you know, for more than a week previously the betting had made it clear that heavy sums were being laid on Jefferson. In the course of ten days it had veered round from five to four on Burns to nine to two against. As there were no rumours detrimental to his condition or state of health, this could only mean that a lot of money was being put on Jefferson. I found out the names of the principal layers and the amounts. I discovered that all were extremely active with the exception of one. That, I decided, was the man with the umbrella. Who's he, the malecenni, whose mouth had not seized the gape since Malcolm Sage began his story? The man Burns knocked out. He'd been leaning rather heavily on the handle whilst he can cover behind a holly-bush, and the metal cap at the base of the silk was clearly marked on the ground. He was also holding an unlit cigar in his hand which he left in the hedge. By a great good chance this was recognised by someone I happen to know as a brand smoked by a certain backer of Jefferson. Well, I'm damned, broke in Elf Pond with intense earnestness. So, you see, I'd quite a lot to help me. I was searching for a well-dressed man. But how did you know he was well-dressed? queried Mr. Dalton. His footprints showed that he wore boots of a fashionable model, explained Malcolm Sage. He also carried an umbrella, even on occasions such as this. I had to look for a well-dressed man who always carried an umbrella, and who smoked large and expensive cigars, and, most important of all, whose nose had been smashed out of all recognition. But how could you tell I got him on the nose? demanded Burns, leaning forward eagerly. There was quite a pull of blood beneath the hedge, explained Malcolm Sage. He was probably there for some minutes while his friends were making sure of you, Burns. Blood would not have flowed so generously as a result of a blow from the fist, except from the nose. You're a knockout, that's what you are, Mr. Sage, said Elf Pond, with admiring conviction. I'd never have thought of it all, he added, with the air of one desiring to be absolutely fair. Finally, continued Malcolm Sage, there was the car. It was a large car, a defect in one of the tyres enabled me to determine that by a steel rule. It was obviously heavily laden, and the near-back wheel was out of track. This fact, of course, was of no help on the high road, where other cars would blot out the track. But if I could show that someone who had been heavily backing Jefferson had a nose badly damaged, and a car with a near-back wheel out of track, in just the same way that this particular wheel was out of track, and that its tyres were the same as those of the car that drew up outside Burns' training quarters, then I should have a wealth of circumstantial evidence that it would be almost impossible to confute. For my friend at Scotland Yard, I obtained the number of the car belonging to the man whom this evidence involved. As Stanton is off the Portsmouth Road, I telephoned to the Automobile Association patrols at Putney Hill, Asher and Clennon Crossroads. I was told that on the previous evening this particular car was seen going in the direction of Guildford. These patrols take the numbers of all cars that pass, as it had not passed Liz, where the next patrol is stationed, there was another link in the chain. Well, I'm blowed. The exclamation broke involuntarily from Kid. As the patrols go off duty at dusk, I could get no further help from them, continued Malcolm Sage. I sent the man to watch Jefferson's training quarters, although I was fairly certain that he and his party were in no way involved. Malcolm Sage went on to narrate his call upon Nathan Goldschmidt, carefully omitting any mention of the name or address. His hearers listened with breathless interest. I concluded that they had taken their prisoner to some lonely, empty house, he explained, but there was not time to search all the empty houses in the home counties, so the man with the damaged nose had to come with me in my car, and his friends followed in his. But how did you manage it? gasped into pep with. At first they showed fight, said Malcolm Sage, and threatened to keep me prisoner until after the fight. Gee! exclaimed Kid. I anticipated some such move, and had instructed my people that unless I were backed by half-bast fall, they were to deliver certain packets to the editors of well-known London papers. In these packets was told the story as far as I'd been able to trace it. This I informed them. What did they say to that? asked Mr. Dalton. They insisted that I telephone, countermanding my orders, but as I explained that I had told my man Thompson, he was to disregard any telephone message or written instructions he might receive from me. They realized that the game was up. I also informed them that Inspector Wensdale and two of his men were waiting at my office in anticipation of a possible hold-up. Well, I'm blessed, exclaimed Althe Pond, if you ain't it. I pointed out, continued Malcolm Sage, that whereas by producing burns they would have a fight for their money, if the truth became known not only would their bets most likely be forfeited, but they would probably have to go to law to recover their stake money. I further pledged Mr. Dalton, Mr. Pappwith, and Burns not to take any legal action. I rather suspect that in this I was technically conspiring to defeat the ends of justice. But weren't you afraid they'd do a double cross? asked Burns. They heard me instruct one of my assistants that unless I were back by nine o'clock that evening, their notes I'd written and addressed were to be delivered. Incidentally, the Inspector was present, unofficially, of course. You ought to be in the ring with a head like that, said Althe Pond, sorrowfully. We found Burns fairly comfortable in the wine cellar of an empty house near Ripley. They had left him food and water and beer. In all probability, unawakening tomorrow morning, had we not found him, he would have discovered the door unlocked and himself no longer a prisoner. Malcolm Sage paused with the air of one who has told his story. But why did you keep Pappwith and me at Stanton until late this afternoon? inquired Mr. Dalton. In the first instance, to be in charge and to see that Burns' disappearance was kept secret, it was obvious that every endeavour would be made to put a lot of money on Jefferson before the fact became known. This would lead to rumour and later to inquiry. Subsequently, I decided that you were both better out of London as you would have been interviewed and bound to give something away in spite of the utmost caution. At now, Mr. Sage, said Mr. Dalton, who are the scoundrels? I have promised not to give their names, was the quiet reply. Not give their names, cried several of his hearers in Unison. Malcolm Sage then proceeded to explain that unless the gang had seen a loophole of escape they would not have thrown up the sponge. Had exposure been inevitable in any case they would have brazen it out, knowing that whatever happened to themselves Burns could not appear at the Olympia. The knowledge that their identity would not be divulged tempted them to risk the loss of their money. Apart from this, he added, the details I was able to give seemed to convince them that they had either been watched or given away. You must remember that they've lost enormous sums of money, Malcolm Sage went on, and there will be another one thousand pounds for Centimity's Hospital. It was further understood that if I could discover any one of them had inspired a covering bed, I was released from my promise. This is why the odds got to six to one. Incidentally, they ensured the defeat of their man. When Burns entered the ring tonight, it was to fight, not to box. And that's true, said Elfpond, nodding his head and reaching for another cigar. He never fought like it before in all his puff. And where were you last night? inquired Mr. Pepwith of Burns. In my bed, said Malcolm Sage, and my friend Inspector Wensdale of Scotland Yard and I slept here. Burns has never been out of Wensdale's sight until we handed him over this evening. I've been having police protection, laughed Burns. Still, you didn't ought to have gone two days without doing anything, said Elfpond. Oh, I had a bit of sparring with Mr. Sage, said Burns, in spite of the glasses. If you want to see some pretty footwork, Elf, you get him to put the gloves on. I knew it, cried Elfpond, with conviction. Then, turning to the others, didn't I say you ought to have been in the ring? And Malcolm Sage found relief from the admiring eyes of his guests, engaging down at the well-bitten mouthpiece of his briar. But why did you let me think that Jefferson and his crowd were in it? inquired Burns, with corrugated brow. Well, said Malcolm Sage, slowly, as I had put twenty-five pounds on you to steady pond's nerves, I didn't want to lose it. And Elfpond winked gleefully across at Mr. Dalton. CHAPTER XVII Lady Deen calls on Malcolm Sage. Lady Deen wishes to see you, Miss. Sure, the archbishop of Canterbury isn't with her, Johnny Deere? asked Gladys Norman sweetly, without looking up from the cleaning of her typewriter. In her own mind she was satisfied that this was a little joke inspired by Thompson. No, Miss, she's alone, replied the literal William Johnson. Show her leadership in, she said, still playing for safety. DASH! she muttered, as, having inadvertently touched the release, the carriage slid to the left, pinching her finger in its course. William Johnson departed, his head half turned over his right shoulder, in admiration of one who could hear with such unconcern that a real lady had called to see her. As her door opened for a second time, Gladys Norman assiduously kept her eyes fixed upon her machine. No, Johnny, she remarked, still without looking up. It's no good! Lady Deen's don't call upon typists at nine thirty a.m., so buzz off, little beanlet, I'm— But this Lady Deen does! Gladys Norman jumped to her feet, knocking over the benzene bottle, and dropping her brush into the vitals of the machine. Before her stood a fair-haired girl, her violet eyes brimming with mischief and laughter, whilst in her arms she carried a mass of red roses. I'm so sorry, folded Gladys Norman, biting her lower lip, and conscious of her heightened collar and the violet stained gloves that had once been white. I thought Johnny was playing a joke. Lady Deen nodded brightly, while Gladys Norman stooped to pick up the benzene bottle, then with a motion of her head indicated to William Johnson that his presence was no longer required. Reluctantly the lad turned, and a moment later the door closed slowly behind him. I want you to help me, said Lady Deen, dropping the roses onto the leaf of Gladys Norman's typing table. These are for Mrs. Sage. For the chief, cried Gladys Norman in astonishment, then she laughed. The idea of a riot of red roses in Malcolm Sage's room struck her as funny. You see, said Lady Deen, this is the birthday of the Malcolm Sage Bureau, and I'm going to decorate his room. I don't, began Gladys Norman hesitatingly, when Lady Deen interrupted her. It's all right, she cried. I'll take all the responsibility. But we've got no vases, objected Gladys Norman. My chauffeur has some in the car, and there are heaps more roses, she added. More, cried Gladys Norman aghast. Heaps, repeated Lady Deen, dimpling with laughter at the consternation on Gladys Norman's face. Ah, here they are, as the door opened, and a mass of riot roses appeared, with a florid face peering over the top. Put them down there, Smithson, said Lady Deen, indicating a spot in front of Gladys Norman's table. Now fetch the vases, and the rest of the roses. The rest, exclaimed Gladys Norman. Lady Deen laughed. She was thoroughly enjoying the girl's bewilderment. He's not come yet, she interrogated. The girl shook her head. He won't be here for half an hour yet, she said. He had to go down into the city. That will just give his time, cried Lady Deen, stooping and picking up an armful of the white roses. You bring the red ones, she cried over her shoulder, as she passed through Malcolm Sage's door, just as Smithson entered with several purple vases. Picking up the red roses, Gladys Norman followed the others into Malcolm Sage's room. Her feelings were those of someone constrained to commit sacrilege against her will. Now get some water, Smithson. Water, my lady, repeated Smithson, looking about him vaguely, as Moses might have done in the wilderness. Yes, ask the lad, be quick, cried Lady Deen, with deft fingers beginning to arrange the roses in the vases. Oh, please help me, she cried, turning to Gladys Norman, who'd stood watching her as if fascinated. But she began, when Lady Deen interrupted her. Quick, cried Lady Deen excitedly, or he'll be here before we've finished. Then, convinced that it was the work of Kismet, or the devil, Gladys Norman threw herself into the task of arranging the flowers. When Thompson arrived some ten minutes later, he stood at the door of Malcolm Sage's room, listening with his mouth, as Gladys Norman had expressed it. When it regained the power of speech, he uttered two words. Jumping, jahoshaphat! But into them he precipitated all the emotion of his being. Go away, Tommy, we're busy! cried Gladys Norman over her shoulder. Do you hear, go away! she repeated, stamping her foot angrily, as he made no movement to obey. And Thompson slid away, and closed the door, convinced that in the course of the next half hour there would be the very Jews to pay. He knew the chief better than Gladys, he told himself, and if there were one thing calculated to bring out all the stern as it is nature, it was flippancy, and what could be more flippant than decorating the room of a great detective with huge bowls and vases of red and white roses. Regardless of Thompson's forebodings, Lady Dean smelt herself as she put the finishing touches to the last vase, whilst Gladys Norman gathered up the litter of leaves and stalks that lay on the floor, throwing them into the fireplace. She then removed the last spots of water from Malcolm Sage's table. Lady Dean took from her bag a small leather case, which she opened and placed in the centre of the table opposite Malcolm Sage's chair. It was a platinum ring of antique workmanship, with a carbation of lapis lazulaire. Oh, how lovely! cried Gladys Norman, as she gazed at the ring's exquisite workmanship. Presently the two girls stepped back to gaze at their henley work. In a few minutes they had transformed in a steer businessman's room into what looked like a miniature rose-show. From every point red and white roses seemed to knot their fragrant heads. I began Gladys Norman. Then she stopped suddenly, arrested by a slight sound behind her. She spun round on her heel. Malcolm Sage stood in the doorway, with Thompson and William Johnson a few feet behind him. Slowly and deliberately he looked round the room. Then his eyes rested on Lady Dean. "'How do you do, Lady Dean?' he said quietly, extending his hand. For a moment she was conscious of an unaccustomed sensation of fear. "'You are not cross,' she interrogated, looking up at him quizzically, her head a little on one side. "'You see, it's the bureau's birthday, and—' She stopped suddenly. Malcolm Sage had dropped her hand and walked over to his table. Picking up the ring he examined it intently. Then turned to Lady Dean, interrogation in his eyes. "'It's from my husband and me,' she said simply. "'You're such lovely hands, and—and we should like you to wear it.' Without a word he removed the ring from the case and put it on the third finger of his right hand, which he then extended to Lady Dean, who took it with a little laugh of happiness. "'You're not really cross,' she said, looking up at him a little anxiously. "'To me they stand for so much, Lady Dean,' he said gravely, that I am not even speculating as to their probable effect upon the faith of my clients.' A Malcolm Sage smiled. It was that smile glad as Norman Saul as she closed the door behind her, and which Thompson resolutely refused to believe. End of Chapter 17. End of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins. Recorded by Anna Simon in 2010.