Malcolm Sage, Detective by Herbert George Jenkins (i can read books TXT) 📕

"That's true," said Alf Pond, nodding his head and reaching for another cigar. "He never fought like it before in all his puff."

"And where were you last night?" enquired Mr. Papwith 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 oughter have gone two days without doing anythink," said Alf Pond.

"Oh! I had a bit of sparring with Mr. Sage," said Burns, "in spite of the glasses. If you want to see some pretty foot-work, Alf, you get him to put the gloves on."

"I knew it," cried Alf Pond, with conviction; then, turning to the others, "Didn't I say he oughter been in the ring?"

And Malcolm Sage found relief from the admiring eyes of his guests in gazing down at the well-bitten mouthpiece of his briar.

"But why did you let me think that Jefferson and his crowd were in it?" enquired 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 Alf Pond winked gleefully across at Mr. Doulton.

"Lady Dene wishes to see you, Miss."

"Sure the Archbishop of Canterbury isn't with her, Johnnie dear?" 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 Ladyship in," she said, still playing for safety. "Da—— sh!" 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, Johnnie," she remarked, still without looking up. "It's no good. Lady Denes don't call upon typists at 9.30 a.m., so buzz off, little beanlet. I'm——"

"But this Lady Dene does."

Gladys Norman jumped to her feet, knocking over the benzine bottle and dropping her brush into the vitals of the machine.

Before her stood a fair-haired girl, her violet eyes brimming with mischievous laughter, whilst in her arms she carried a mass of red roses.

"I'm so sorry," faltered Gladys Norman, biting her lower lip, and conscious of her heightened colour and the violet-stained gloves that had once been white. "I thought Johnnie was playing a joke."

Lady Dene nodded brightly, whilst Gladys Norman stooped to pick up the benzine 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 Dene, dropping the roses on to the leaf of Gladys Norman's typing-table. "These are for Mr. 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 Dene, "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 Dene 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 Dene, dimpling with laughter at the consternation on Gladys Norman's face. "Ah! here they are," as the door opened and a mass of white roses appeared, with a florid face peering over the top.

"Put them down there, Smithson," said Lady Dene, 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 Dene 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 us time," cried Lady Dene, 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 Dene, with deft fingers beginning to arrange the roses in the vases. "Oh! please help me," she cried, turning to Gladys Norman, who had stood watching her as if fascinated.

"But——" she began, when Lady Dene interrupted her.

"Quick!" cried Lady Dene 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 he had regained the power of speech, he uttered two words.

"Jumping Je-hosh-o-phat!"; 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 deuce to pay.

He knew the Chief better than Gladys, he told himself, and if there were one thing calculated to bring out all the sternness in his 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 Dene smiled to 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 Dene 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 carbuchon of lapis lazuli.

"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 handiwork. In a few minutes they had transformed an austere, business-man's room into what looked like a miniature rose-show. From every point red and white roses seemed to nod their fragrant heads.

"I——" began Gladys Norman, then she stopped suddenly, arrested by a slight sound behind her. She span 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 Dene.

"How do you do, Lady Dene," he said quietly, extending his hand.

For a moment she was conscious of an unaccustomed sensation of fear.

"You're 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
Dene, interrogation in his eyes.

"It's from my husband and me," she said simply. "You have 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 Dene, 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 Dene," he said gravely, "that I am not even speculating as to their probable effect upon the faith of my clients."

And Malcolm Sage smiled.

It was that smile Gladys Norman saw as she closed the door behind her, and which Thompson resolutely refused to believe.

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