Malcolm Sage, Detective Part 23

"But you haven't got a brother," broke in Thompson.

"I told him that for the good of his soul, Tommy, and of the girls who came after me," she added a little grimly.

"It was funny," she continued after a pause. "He didn't seem a bit eager to engage me after that. Said my speeds (which I hadn't told him) were not good enough; but to show there was no ill-feeling he tried to kiss me at parting. So I boxed his ears, slung his own inkpot at him and came away. Oh! it's a great game, Tommy, played slow," she added as an after-thought, and she hummed a s.n.a.t.c.h of a popular fox-trot.

"The swine!"

Thompson had just realised the significance of what he had heard.

There was an ugly look in his eyes.

"I then got a job at the Ministry of Economy and later at the Ministry of Supply, and the Chief lifted me out by my bobbed hair and put me into Department Z. That's why I call him my haven of refuge. See, dearest?"

"What's the name of the fellow in Shaftesbury Avenue?" demanded Thompson, his thoughts centring round the incident she had just narrated.

"Naughty Tommy," she cried, making a face at "Mustn't get angry and vicious. Besides," she added, "the Chief did for him."

"You told him?" cried Thompson incredulously, his interest still keener than his appet.i.te.

"I did," she replied airily, "and he dropped a hint at Scotland Yard.

I believe the gallant gentleman in Shaftesbury Avenue has something more than a smack and an inky face to remember little Gladys by. He doesn't advertise for secretaries now."

Thompson gazed at her, admiration in his eyes.

"But that doesn't explain why I always want to please the Chief, does it?" she demanded. "In romance, the knight kills the villain for making love to the heroine, and then gets down to the same dirty work himself. Now the 'Chief ought to have been bursting with volcanic fires of pa.s.sion for me. He should have crushed me to his breast with merciless force, I beating against his chest-protector with my clenched fists. Finally I should have lain pa.s.sive and unresisting in his arms, whilst he covered my eyes, ears, nose and 'transformation' with fevered, pa.s.sionate kisses; not pecks like yours, Tommy; but the real thing with a punch in them."

"What on earth----" began Thompson, when she continued.

"There should have been a fearful tempest on the other side of his ribs. I should----"

"Don't talk rot, Gladys," broke in Thompson.

"I'm not talking rot," she protested. "I read it all in a novel that sells by the million." Then after a moment's pause she continued:

"He saved me from the dragon; yet he doesn't even give me a box of chocolates, and everybody in Whitehall knows that chocolates and kisses won the war. When I fainted for him and he carried me into his room, he didn't kiss me even then."

"You wouldn't have known it if he had," was Thompson's comment.

"Oh! wouldn't I?" she retorted. "That's all you know about girls, Mr.

Funny Thompson."

He stared across at her, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.

"He doesn't take me out to dinner as other chiefs do," she continued; "yet I hop about like a linnet when he buzzes for me. Why is it?"

She gazed across at Thompson challengingly.

A look of anxiety began to manifest itself upon his good-natured features. Psycho-a.n.a.lysis was not his strong point. In a vague way he began to suspect that Gladys Norman's devotion to Malcolm Sage was not strictly in accordance with Trade Union principles.

"There, get on with your chicken, you poor dear," she laughed, and Thompson, picking up his knife and fork, proceeded to eat mechanically. From time to time he glanced covertly across at Gladys.

"As to the Chief's looks," she continued, "his face is keen and taut, and he's a strong, silent man; yet can you see his eyes hungry and tempestuous, Tommy? I can't. Why is it," she demanded, "that when a woman writes a novel she always stunts the strong, silent man?"

Thompson shook his head, with the air of a man who has given up guessing.

"Imagine getting married to a strong, silent man," she continued, "with only his strength and his silence, and perhaps a cheap gramophone, to keep you amused in the evenings." She shuddered.

"No," she said with decision, "give me a regular old rattle-box without a chin, like you, Tommy."

Mechanically Thompson's hand sought his chin, and Gladys laughed.

"Anyway, I'm not going to marry, in spite of the tube furniture-posters. Uncle Jake says it's all nonsense to talk about marriages being made in heaven; they're made in the Tottenham Court Road."

Thompson had, however, returned to his plate. In her present mood, Gladys Norman was beyond him. Realising the state of his mind, she continued:

"He's got a head like a pierrot's cap and it's as bald as a fivepenny egg, when it ought to be beautifully rounded and covered with crisp curly hair. He wears gla.s.ses in front of eyes like bits of slate, when they ought to be full of slumbrous pa.s.sion. His jaw is all right, only he doesn't use it enough; in books the strong, silent man is a regular old chin-wag, and yet I fall over myself to answer his buzzer. Why it is, I repeat?" She looked across at him mischievously, enjoying the state of depression to which she had reduced him.

Thompson merely shook his head.

"For all that," she continued, picking up her own knife and fork, which in the excitement of describing Malcolm Sage she had laid down, "for all that he would make a wonderful lover--once you could get him started," and she laughed gleefully as if at some hidden joke.

Thompson gazed at her over a fork piled with food, which her remark had arrested half-way to his mouth.

"He's chivalrous," she continued. "Look at the way he always tries to help up the very people he has downed. It's just a game with him----"

"No, it's not," burst out Thompson, through a mouthful of chicken and saute potato.

She gave him a look of disapproval that caused him to swallow rapidly.

"The Chief doesn't look on it as a game," he persisted. "He's out to stop crime and----"

"But that's not the point," she interrupted. "What I want to know is why do I bounce off my chair like an india-rubber ball when he buzzes?" she demanded relentlessly. "Why do I want to please him?

Why do I want to kick myself when I make mistakes? Why--Oh! Tommy,"

she broke off, "if you only had a brain as well as a stomach," and she looked across at him reproachfully.

"Perhaps it's because he never complains," suggested Thompson, as he placed his knife and fork at the "all clear" angle, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh of contentment.

"You don't complain, Tommy," she retorted; "but you could buzz yourself to blazes without getting me even to look up."

For fully a minute there was silence; Gladys Norman continued to gaze down at the debris to which she had reduced her roll.

"No," she continued presently, "there is something else. I've noticed the others; they're just the same." She paused, then suddenly looking across at him she enquired, "What is loyalty, Tommy?"

"Standing up and taking off your hat when they play 'G.o.d Save the King,'" he replied glibly.

She laughed, and deftly flicked a bread pill she had just manufactured, catching Thompson beneath the left eye and causing him to blink violently.

"You're a funny old thing," she laughed. "You know quite well what I mean, only you're too stupid to realise it. Look at the Innocent-- for him the Chief is the only man in all the world. Then there's Tims. He'd get up in the middle of the night and drive the Chief to blazes, and hang the petrol. Then there's you and me."

Thompson drew a cigarette-case from his pocket.