Malcolm Sage, Detective (Musaicum Vintage Mysteries). Herbert George Jenkins

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      CHAPTER IV THE SURREY CATTLE-MAIMING MYSTERY

       Table of Contents

      I

       Table of Contents

      "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 as

       Malcolm Sage, as obvious and as easily recognisable as St. Paul's

       Cathedral. He seemed indifferent to the dramatic possibilities of

       disguise.

      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 William

       Johnson, 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 "William

       Johnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.

       William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of characters

       that 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 Miss

       Norman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony of

       London, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying away

       again as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.

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