Kitobni o'qish: «Malcolm Sage, Detective», sahifa 10

II

Three weeks passed and there was no development in the McMurrayMystery. Malcolm Sage had heard nothing from Inspector Carfon, whowas busily engaged in an endeavour to trace the tramp seen in theneighbourhood of "The Hollows" on the day previous to the murder.

Sir John Dene had called several times upon Malcolm Sage, whom hehad come to regard as infallible, only to be told that there was nonews. He made no comment; but it was obvious that he was greatlydisappointed.

Interest began to wane, the newspapers devoted themselves to other"stunts," and the McMurray Mystery seemed fated to swell the list ofunfathomed crimes with which, from time to time, the Press likes totwit Scotland Yard.

Suddenly the whole affair flared up anew, and Fleet Street once moredevoted itself and its columns to the death of Professor JamesMcMurray.

A brief announcement that a man of the vagrant class had beenarrested in London whilst endeavouring to sell a gold watch believedto be that of Professor McMurray, was the first spark. Later thewatch was identified and the man charged with the murder. Heprotested his innocence, saying that he had picked up the watch bythe roadside, just outside Gorling, nearly a month before. Therewere bloodstains upon his clothes, which he explained by saying hehad been fighting with another man who had made his nose bleed.

Inspector Carfon, unable to keep a note of triumph out of his voice, had telephoned the news to Malcolm Sage, who had asked forparticulars of the man, his pipe, and a specimen of his tobacco; butday after day had passed without these being forthcoming. Finallythe man, against whom the police had built up a damaging case, hadbeen committed for trial.

Two weeks later he was found guilty at the assizes and sentenced todeath.

Then it was that Malcolm Sage had written to Inspector Carfon curtlyasking him to call at eleven on the following day, bringing with himthe information for which he had asked. At the same time he wrote toSir John Dene and Sir Jasper Chambers.

Punctually at eleven on the following morning the inspector calledat the Malcolm Sage Bureau.

"Sorry, Mr. Sage," he said, as he entered Malcolm Sage's room, "I'vebeen so rushed that I haven't been able to get round," and hedropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table.

Malcolm Sage pushed across the cigar box.

"That's his tobacco-box," said Inspector Carfon, placing on thetable a small tin-box.

Opening it, and after a swift glance at the contents, Malcolm Sageraised it to his nose: "Cigarette-ends," he remarked without lookingup.

"And that's his pipe." The inspector laid on the table a black clappipe, with some two inches of stem attached to the bowl.

Malcolm Sage scarcely glanced at it. Pulling out a drawer heproduced a small cardboard box, which he opened and pushed towardsthe inspector.

"That is the tobacco smoked by the murderer. The makers are preparedto swear to it."

"Where the deuce did you get it?" gasped the inspector.

"Grain by grain from the linoleum in the laboratory," repliedMalcolm Sage. "That is why it was necessary to be sure it was swepteach day. It also helped me to establish the man as middle or upperclass. This tobacco is expensive. What is the man like who has beencondemned?"

"A regular wandering willie," replied the inspector. "Oldish chap, gives his age as sixty-one. Five foot three and a half, thin as arake, twenty-nine inch chest. Miserable sort of devil. Says hepicked up the watch about a quarter of a mile from 'The Hollows'early one morning."

"Does he eat marmalade?"

"Eat it!" the inspector laughed. "He wolfs it. I remembered what yousaid and took a pound along with me to Strinton, just for fun." Helooked across at Malcolm Sage a little shamefacedly. "I afterwardsheard that there was only the jar and the label left; but I don'tsee what all this has to do with it. The fellow's got to swing forit and – "

"Carfon, you've made a fool of yourself."

The inspector started back in his chair as if someone had struck him.

"I gave you a description of the man who had killed ProfessorMcMurray; yet you proceed to build up a fantastical case againstthis poor devil."

"But – " began the inspector. He was interrupted by the door beingburst violently open and Sir John Dene shot into the room.

For a moment he stood staring at the two men, Gladys Norman and

William Johnson framed in the doorway behind him.

"Sir Jasper's killed himself," he cried.

"Moses' aunt!" cried the inspector, starting to his feet.

Malcolm Sage sat immovable at his table, his eyes upon hisoutstretched hands. Slowly looking up he motioned to Miss Norman toclose the door, then nodded towards a chair into which Sir John Denesank. The inspector resumed his own seat. It was obvious that thenews had considerably shaken him.

"You knew?" Sir John Dene interrogated, his voice a little unsteady.

"I expected it," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "But how, Mr. Sage?"enquired Inspector Carfon in a whisper, his throat dry withexcitement.

"Because I wrote to him yesterday saying that I could not allow thecondemned man to be sacrificed. It was Sir Jasper Chambers whokilled Professor McMurray."

For a moment Inspector Carfon's eyes looked as if they would startout of his head. He turned and looked at Sir John Dene, who withunsteady hand was taking a cheroot from his case.

Malcolm Sage drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it.

"On the Tuesday night," he began, "it is obvious that Professor

McMurray admitted someone to the laboratory. That man was Sir Jasper

Chambers.

"When the two had dined together a week before," proceeded MalcolmSage, "an appointment was obviously made for a week later. Theprofessor's last words were significant: 'Anyway, Chambers, you willbe the first to know.' If the experiments had proved fatal, howcould Sir Jasper be the first to know unless an appointment had beenmade for him to call at the laboratory and discover for himself theresult?"

The inspector coughed noisily.

"When Sir Jasper learned of the unqualified success of theexperiments, and saw by the professor's changed appearance proof ofhis triumph, he remembered the article in The Present Century. Herealised that in the lengthening of human life a terriblecatastrophe threatened the world. Humanitarianism triumphed over hisaffection for his friend, and he killed him."

Sir John Dene nodded his head in agreement. The inspector wasleaning forward, his arms on the table, staring at Malcolm Sage withglassy eyes.

"The assailant was clearly a tall, powerful man and left-handed.That was shown by the nature of the blow. That he had some knowledgeof physiology is obvious from the fact that he made no attempt at asecond blow to insure death, as a layman most likely would have done.He knew that he had smashed the occipital bone right into the brain.In his early years Sir Jasper studied medicine.

"The crime committed, Sir Jasper proceeded to cover his tracks. Withthe poker he loosened the sockets of the bolts and that of the lockin order to give an impression that the door had been burst openfrom without. He then left the place and, to suggest robbery as amotive for the crime, he took with him the professor's gold watch, which he threw away. This was found a few hours later by the trampwhom you, Carfon, want to hang for a crime of which he knowsnothing." There was a note of sternness in Malcolm Sage's voice.

"But – " began the inspector.

"I suspect," continued Malcolm Sage, "that after he had left thelaboratory, Sir Jasper suddenly realised that the professor hadprobably recorded in his book all his processes. He returned, discovered the manuscript, and was for hours absorbed in it, atfirst smoking continuously, later too interested in his task tothink of his pipe. It must be remembered that he had studiedmedicine."

The inspector glanced across at Sir John Dene, who sat rigidly inhis chair, his eyes fixed upon Malcolm Sage.

"I rather think that he was aroused from his preoccupation by theringing of the bell announcing the arrival of the professor'sbreakfast. He then realised that he could not leave the place untilnightfall. He therefore ate that meal, carefully avoiding themarmalade, which he disliked, and subsequently he consumed theluncheon, and dinner, passed through the wicket."

Malcolm Sage paused to press down the tobacco in his pipe.

"He burned the manuscript, tearing up letters and throwing them intothe waste-paper basket to give the appearance of Professor McMurrayhaving had a clearing-up. He then destroyed all the test-tubes hecould find. Finally he left the laboratory late on the Wednesdaynight, or early Thursday morning."

"But how did you find out all this?" It was Sir John Dene who spoke.

"First of all, Sir Jasper and the murderer smoke the same tobacco,'Ormonde Mixture.' I verified that by picking Inspector Carfon'spocket." Taking a tobacco-pouch from a drawer Malcolm Sage handed itacross the table. "You will remember Sir Jasper lent me his pouch. Ihad picked up some tobacco on the floor and on the hearth.

"Secondly, the murderer was left-handed, and so is Sir Jasper.

"Thirdly, the murderer does not eat marmalade and Sir Jasper had thesame distaste."

"But how – ?" began the inspector.

"I telephoned to his housekeeper in the name of a local grocer andasked if it would be Sir Jasper who had ordered some marmalade, asan assistant could not remember the gentleman's name. That grocer, Isuspect, got into trouble, as the housekeeper seemed to expect himto know that Sir Jasper disliked marmalade."

"Well, you seem to have got the thing pretty well figured out,"remarked Sir John Dene grimly.

"Another man's life and liberty were at stake," was the calm reply,"otherwise – " he shrugged his shoulders.

"As Sir Jasper did not come forward I wrote to him yesterday givinghim until noon to-day to make a statement," continued Malcolm Sage,"otherwise I should have to take steps to save the man condemned."

Then after a short pause he continued: "In Sir Jasper Chambers youhave an illustration of the smallness of a great mind. He hasdevoted his vast wealth to philanthropy; yet he was willing to allowanother man to be hanged for his crime."

"And this, I take it," said Sir John Dene, "is his reply," and hehanded a letter across to Malcolm Sage.

"Read it out," he said.

Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly through the pages and then read: —

My Dear Dene, —

By the time you receive this letter I shall be dead. I have justreceived a letter from Mr. Malcolm Sage, which shows him to be a manof remarkable perception, and possessed of powers of analysis anddeduction that I venture to think must be unique. All he says iscorrect, but for one detail. I left the laboratory in the firstinstance with the deliberate intention of returning, although I didnot realise the significance of the manuscript until after I hadtampered with the fastenings of the doors. Had my servants foundthat my bed had not been slept in, suspicion might have attacheditself to me. I therefore returned to remedy this, and I left a noteto say that I had gone out early for a long walk, a thing Ifrequently do.

In his experiments McMurray had succeeded beyond his wildestimaginings, and I foresaw the horrors that must inevitably followsuch a discovery as his. I had to choose between myself and thewelfare of the race, and I chose the race.

I did not come forward to save the man condemned for the crime, as Iregarded my life of more value to the community than his.

Will you thank Mr. Sage for the very gentle and humane way in whichhe has written calling upon me to see that justice be not outraged.

I am sending this letter by hand. My body will be found in my study.

I have used morphia as a means of satisfying justice.

Very sincerely yours,

Jasper Chambers.

"It was strange I should have made that mistake about the reason forhis leaving the laboratory," said Malcolm Sage meditatively. "I madetwo mistakes, one I corrected; but the other was unpardonable."

And he knocked the ashes from his pipe on to the copper tray beforehim with the air of a man who is far from satisfied.

"And I might have arrested an O.M.," murmured Inspector Carfon, ashe walked down Whitehall. "Damn."

CHAPTER XIII THE GYLSTON SLANDER

"It's all very well for the Chief to sit in there like a five-guineapalmist," Gladys Norman cried one morning, as after interviewing theumpteenth caller that day she proceeded vigorously to powder hernose, to the obvious interest of William Johnson; "but what aboutme? If anyone else comes I must speak the truth. I haven't an unusedlie left."

"Then you had better let Johnson have a turn," said a quiet voicebehind her.

She span round, with flaming cheeks and white-flecked nose, to seethe steel grey eyes of Malcolm Sage gazing on her quizzicallythrough gold-rimmed spectacles. There was only the slightestfluttering at the corners of his mouth.

As his activities enlarged, Malcolm Sage's fame had increased, andhe was overwhelmed with requests for assistance. Clients bore downupon him from all parts of the country; some even crossing theChannel, whilst from America and the Colonies came a flood ofletters giving long, rambling details of mysteries, murders anddisappearances, all of which he was expected to solve.

Those who wrote, however, were as nothing to those who called. Theyarrived in various stages of excitement and agitation, only to bemet by Miss Gladys Norman with a stereotyped smile and the equallystereotyped information that Mr. Malcolm Sage saw no one except byappointment, which was never made until the nature of the would-beclient's business had been stated in writing.

The Surrey cattle-maiming affair, and the consequent publicity itgave to the name of Malcolm Sage, had resulted in something like asiege of the Bureau's offices.

"I told you so," said Lady Dene gaily to her husband, and he hadnodded his head in entire agreement.

Malcolm Sage's success was largely due to the very quality that hadrendered him a failure as a civil servant, the elasticity of hismind.

He approached each problem entirely unprejudiced, weighed theevidence, and followed the course it indicated, prepared at anymoment to retrace his steps, should they lead to a cul-de-sac.

He admitted the importance of the Roman judicial interrogation, "cuibono?" (whom benefits it?); yet he realised that there was alwaysthe danger of confusing the pathological with the criminal.

"The obvious is the correct solution of most mysteries," he had onceremarked to Sir James Walton; but there is always the possibility ofexception.

The Surrey cattle-maiming mystery had been a case in point. Evenmore so was the affair that came to be known as "The GylstonSlander." In this case Malcolm Sage arrived at the truth by arefusal to accept what, on the face of it, appeared to be theobvious solution.

It was through Roger Freynes, the eminent K.C., that he first becameinterested in the series of anonymous letters that had createdconsiderable scandal in the little village of Gylston.

Tucked away in the north-west corner of Hampshire, Gylston was avillage of some eight hundred inhabitants. The vicar, the Rev. JohnCrayne, had held the living for some twenty years. Aided by his wifeand daughter, Muriel, a pretty and high-spirited girl of nineteen,he devoted himself to the parish, and in return enjoyed greatpopularity.

Life at the vicarage was an ideal of domestic happiness. Mr. and Mrs.Crayne were devoted to each other and to their daughter, and she tothem. Muriel Crayne had grown up among the villagers, devotingherself to parish work as soon as she was old enough to do so. Sheseemed to find her life sufficient for her needs, and many were thecomparisons drawn by other parents in Gylston between the vicar'sdaughter and their own restless offspring.

A year previously a new curate had arrived in the person of the Rev.Charles Blade. His frank, straightforward personality, coupled withhis good looks and masculine bearing, had caused him to be greatlyliked, not only by the vicar and his family, but by all theparishioners.

Suddenly and without warning the peace of the vicarage was destroyed.One morning Mr. Crayne received by post an anonymous letter, inwhich the names of his daughter and the curate were linked togetherin a way that caused him both pain, and anxiety.

A man with a strong sense of honour himself, he cordially despisedthe anonymous letter-writer, and his first instinct had been toignore that which he had just received. On second thoughts, however,he reasoned that the writer would be unlikely to rest content with asingle letter; but would, in all probability, make the samecalumnious statements to others.

After consulting with his wife, he had reluctantly questioned hisdaughter. At first she was inclined to treat the matter lightly; buton the grave nature of the accusations being pointed out to her, shehad become greatly embarrassed and assured him that the curate hadnever been more than ordinarily attentive to her.

The vicar decided to allow the matter to rest there, and accordinglyhe made no mention of the letter to Blade.

A week later his daughter brought him a letter she had found lyingin the vicarage grounds. It contained a passionate declaration oflove, and ended with a threat of what might happen if the writer'spassion were not reciprocated.

Although the letter was unsigned, the vicar could not disguise fromhimself the fact that there was a marked similarity between thehandwriting of the two anonymous letters and that of his curate. Hedecided, therefore, to ask Blade if he could throw any light on thematter.

At first the young man had appeared bewildered; then he had pledgedhis word of honour, not only that he had not written the letters, but that there was no truth in the statements they contained.

With that the vicar had to rest content; but worse was to follow.

Two evenings later, one of the churchwardens called at the vicarageand, after behaving in what to the vicar seemed a very strangemanner, he produced from his pocket a letter he had received thatmorning, in which were repeated the scandalous statements containedin the first epistle.

From then on the district was deluged with anonymous letters, allreferring to the alleged passion of the curate for the vicar'sdaughter, and the intrigue they were carrying on together. Some ofthe letters were frankly indelicate in their expression and, as thewhole parish seethed with the scandal, the vicar appealed to thepolice for aid.

One peculiarity of the letters was that all were written upon thesame paper, known as "Olympic Script." This was supplied locally toa number of people in the neighbourhood, among others, the vicar, the curate, and the schoolmaster.

Soon the story began to find its way into the newspapers, andBlade's position became one full of difficulty and embarrassment. Hehad consulted Robert Freynes, who had been at Oxford with his father, and the K.C., convinced of the young man's innocence, had soughtMalcolm Sage's aid.

"You see, Sage," Freynes had remarked, "I'm sure the boy is straightand incapable of such conduct; but it's impossible to talk to thatass Murdy. He has no more imagination than a tin-linnet."

Freynes's reference was to Chief Inspector Murdy, of Scotland Yard, who had been entrusted with the enquiry, the local police havingproved unequal to the problem.

Although Malcolm Sage had promised Robert Freynes that he wouldundertake the enquiry into the Gylston scandal, it was not untilnearly a week later that he found himself at liberty to motor downinto Hampshire.

One afternoon the vicar of Gylston, on entering his church, found astranger on his knees in the chancel. Note-book in hand, he wastranscribing the inscription of a monumental brass.

As the vicar approached, he observed that the stranger wasvigorously shaking a fountain-pen, from which the ink had evidentlybeen exhausted.

At the sound of Mr. Crayne's footsteps the stranger looked up, turning towards him a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, above which abald conical head seemed to contradict the keenness of the eyes andthe youthful lines of the face beneath.

"You are interested in monumental brasses?" enquired the vicar, ashe entered the chancel, and the stranger rose to his feet. "I am thevicar," he explained. There was a look of eager interest in the palegrey eyes that looked out from a placid, scholarly face.

"I was taking the liberty of copying the inscription on this,"replied Malcolm Sage, indicating the time-worn brass at his feet,"only unfortunately my fountain-pen has given out."

"There is pen and ink in the vestry," said the vicar, impressed bythe fact that the stranger had chosen the finest brass in the church, one that had been saved from Cromwell's Puritans by the ingenuity ofthe then incumbent, who had caused it to be covered with cement.Then as an afterthought the vicar added, "I can get your pen filledat the vicarage. My daughter has some ink; she always uses afountain-pen."

Malcolm Sage thanked him, and for the next half-hour the vicarforgot the worries of the past few weeks in listening to a man whoseemed to have the whole subject of monumental brasses and Normanarchitecture at his finger-ends.

Subsequently Malcolm Sage was invited to the vicarage, where anotherhalf-hour was occupied in Mr. Crayne showing him his collection ofbooks on brasses.

As Malcolm Sage made a movement to depart, the vicar suddenlyremembered the matter of the ink, apologised for his remissness, andleft the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle offountain-pen ink. Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket his pen, andproceeded to replenish the ink from the bottle. Finally he completedthe transcription of the lettering of the brass from a rubbingproduced by the vicar.

Reluctant to allow so interesting a visitor to depart, Mr. Craynepressed him to take tea; but Malcolm Sage pleaded an engagement.

As they crossed the hall, a fair girl suddenly rushed out from adoor on the right. She was crying hysterically. Her hair wasdisordered, her deep violet eyes rimmed with red, and her moist lipsseemed to stand out strangely red against the alabaster paleness ofher skin.

"Muriel!"

Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly at the vicar. The look of scholarlycalm had vanished from his features, giving place to a set sternnessthat reflected the tone in which he had uttered his daughter's name.

At the sight of a stranger the girl had paused, then, as ifrealising her tear-stained face and disordered hair, she turned anddisappeared through the door from which she had rushed.

"My daughter," murmured the vicar, a little sadly, Malcolm Sagethought. "She has always been very highly strung and emotional," headded, as if considering some explanation necessary. "We have to bevery stern with her on such occasions. It is the only way to repressit."

"You find it answers?" remarked Malcolm Sage.

"She has been much better lately, although she has been sorely tried.

Perhaps you have heard."

Malcolm Sage nodded absently, as he gazed intently at the thumb-nailof his right hand. A minute later he was walking down the drive, histhoughts occupied with the pretty daughter of the vicar of Gylston.

At the curate's lodgings he was told that Mr. Blade was away, andwould not return until late that night.

As he turned from the gate, Malcolm Sage encountered a pale-faced, narrow-shouldered man with a dark moustache and a hard, peevishmouth.

To Malcolm Sage's question as to which was the way to the inn, henodded in the direction from which he had come and continued on hisway.

"A man who has failed in what he set out to accomplish," was Malcolm

Sage's mental diagnosis of John Gray, the Gylston schoolmaster.

It was not long before Malcolm Sage realised that the village ofGylston was intensely proud of itself. It had seen in the Londonpapers accounts of the mysterious scandal of which it was the centre.A Scotland Yard officer had been down, and had subjected many of theinhabitants to a careful cross-examination. In consequence Gylstonrealised that it was a village to be reckoned with.

The Tired Traveller was the centre of all rumour and gossip. Hereeach night in the public-bar, or in the private-parlour, accordingto their social status, the inhabitants would forgather and discussthe problem of the mysterious letters. Every sort of theory wasadvanced, and every sort of explanation offered. Whilst popularopinion tended to the view that the curate was the guilty party, there were some who darkly shook their heads and muttered, "We shallsee."

It was remembered and discussed with relish that John Gray, theschoolmaster, had for some time past shown a marked admiration forthe vicar's daughter. She, however, had made it clear that thecadaverous, saturnine pedagogue possessed for her no attractions.

During the half-hour that Malcolm Sage spent at The Tired Traveller, eating a hurried meal, he heard all there was to be heard aboutlocal opinion.

The landlord, a rubicund old fellow whose baldness extended to hiseyelids, was bursting with information. By nature capable of makinga mystery out of a sunbeam, he revelled in the scandal that hummedaround him.

After a quarter of an hour's conversation, the landlord'sconversation, Malcolm Sage found himself possessed of a bewilderingamount of new material.

"A young gal don't have them highsterics for nothin'," my hostremarked darkly. "Has fits of 'em every now and then ever since shewas a flapper, sobbin' and cryin' fit to break 'er heart, and thevicar that cross with her."

"That is considered the best way to treat hysterical people,"remarked Malcolm Sage.

"Maybe," was the reply, "but she's only a gal, and a pretty onetoo," he added inconsequently.

"Then there's the schoolmaster," he continued, "'ates the curatelike poison, he does. Shouldn't be surprised if it was him that doneit. 'E's always been a bit sweet in that quarter himself, has Mr.Gray. Got talked about a good deal one time, 'angin' about arterMiss Muriel," added the loquacious publican.

By the time Malcolm Sage had finished his meal, the landlord waswell in his stride of scandalous reminiscence. It was with obviousreluctance that he allowed so admirable a listener to depart, and itwas with manifest regret that he watched Malcolm Sage's cardisappear round the curve in the road.

A little way beyond the vicarage, an admonitory triangle caused Timsto slow up. Just by the bend Malcolm Sage observed a youth and agirl standing in the recess of a gate giving access to a meadow.Although they were in the shadow cast by the hedge, Malcolm Sage'squick eyes recognised in the girl the vicar's daughter. The youthlooked as if he might be one of the lads of the village.

In the short space of two or three seconds Malcolm Sage noticed thechange in the girl. Although he could not see her face very clearly, the vivacity of her bearing and the ready laugh were suggestive of agaiety contrasting strangely with the tragic figure he had seen inthe afternoon.

Muriel Crayne was obviously of a very mercurial temperament, hedecided, as the car swung round the bend.

The next morning, in response to a telephone message, Inspector

Murdy called on Malcolm Sage.

"Well, Mr. Sage," he cried, as he shook hands, "going to haveanother try to teach us our job," and his blue eyes twinkledgood-humouredly.

The inspector had already made up his mind. He was a man withmany successes to his record, achieved as a result of undoubtedastuteness in connection with the grosser crimes, such astrain-murders, post-office hold-ups and burglaries. He was incapable, however, of realising that there existed a subtler form oflaw-breaking, arising from something more intimately associated withthe psychic than the material plane.

"Did you see Mr. Blade?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Saw the whole blessed lot," was the cheery reply. "It's all asclear as milk," and he laughed.

"What did Mr. Blade say?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking keenlyacross at the inspector.

"Just that he had nothing to say."

"His exact words. Can you remember them?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"Oh, yes!" replied the inspector. "He said, 'Inspector Murdy, I havenothing to say,' and then he shut up like a real Whitstable."

"He was away yesterday," remarked Malcolm Sage, who then told theinspector of his visit. "How about John Gray, the schoolmaster?" hequeried.

"He practically told me to go to the devil," was the genial reply.Inspector Murdy was accustomed to rudeness; his profession invitedit, and to his rough-and-ready form of reasoning, rudeness meantinnocence; politeness guilt.

He handed to Malcolm Sage a copy of a list of people who purchased"Olympic Script" from Mr. Grainger, the local Whiteley, volunteeringthe information that the curate was the biggest consumer, as if thatsettled the question of his guilt.

"And yet the vicar would not hear of the arrest of Blade," murmuredMalcolm Sage, turning the copper ash-tray round with his restlessfingers.

The inspector shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Sheer good nature and kindliness, Mr. Sage," he said. "He's asgentle as a woman."

"I once knew a man," remarked Malcolm Sage, "who said that in theannals of crime lay the master-key to the world's mysteries, past, present and to come."

"A dreamer, Mr. Sage," smiled the inspector. "We haven't time fordreaming at the Yard," he added good-temperedly, as he rose andshook himself like a Newfoundland dog.

"I suppose it never struck you to look elsewhere than at thecurate's lodgings for the writer of the letters?" enquired MalcolmSage quietly.

"It never strikes me to look about for someone when I'm sitting onhis chest," laughed Inspector Murdy.

"True," said Malcolm Sage. "By the way," he continued, withoutlooking up, "in future can you let me see every letter as it isreceived? You might also keep careful record of how they aredelivered."

"Certainly, Mr. Sage. Anything that will make you happy."

"Later I may get you to ask the vicar to seal up any subsequentanonymous letters that reach him without allowing anyone to see thecontents. Do you think he would do that?"

"Without doubt if I ask him," said the inspector, surprise in hiseyes as he looked down upon the cone of baldness beneath him, realising what a handicap it is to talk to a man who keeps his eyesaverted.