Beware of Johnny Washington: Based on ‘Send for Paul Temple’

‘You don’t happen to know if he’s been suffering from ill health?’

‘Not to my knowledge. They’ll tell you more about that at the Yard, I dare say.’

The sergeant paused to make several notes, and Johnny sipped his whisky. Quince sat with an air of polite attention, as if he were listening to a lecture.

‘Did you come here for any particular reason tonight?’ continued the sergeant.

‘The usual reason,’ answered Johnny with a faint grin. ‘I’d run out of whisky at home, and we wanted a nightcap before closing time. I stayed to clean up the plugs in my car and the superintendent came in ahead of me to order the drinks. Mr Bache here has told you the rest.’

‘All this happened just before ten o’clock, I take it?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Johnny. ‘About five to, I should think.’

The sergeant jotted down some further notes, then turned to Harry Bache.

‘I’d like you to go over your statement again, Mr Bache,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Just to make sure that nothing has been left out and so the doctor can hear it.’

With a certain reluctance, Harry Bache agreed.

‘I was standin’ behind the bar ’ere doin’ me crossword puzzle when this fellow comes in and orders a couple of whiskies and says put ’em down to Mr Washington. Then ’e asks me if I could change ’im a quid. so I goes off into the sitting-room to get the money. When I gets back I sees him lyin’ there, just like ’e is now.’

‘You are quite sure there was no one else in any of these rooms?’

‘Only the missus in the back, and Mr Quince upstairs. I never saw anyone else.’

‘And you heard nothing?’

‘Not a sound—there’s a silencer thing on that gun,’ added the landlord confidentially. ‘They only makes a noise like a kid’s popgun.’

‘How d’you know that?’ snapped the sergeant.

‘I goes to the pictures when I get the chance!’ retorted the landlord with a certain acerbity.

‘All right, there’s no need to be funny,’ growled Hubble. ‘We got enough trouble here as it is, without you puttin’ in any back answers. Don’t forget you’re the most important witness, and I’ll warn you that you’ll have to keep your wits about you.’

‘I’ve told you the truth, and that’s all there is to it,’ replied Harry Bache obstinately. ‘You know as much about it as I do now.’

The sergeant looked round the room.

‘Is this gentleman staying here?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Johnny. ‘This is Mr Quince.’

For the first time the sergeant became really conscious of the keen brown eyes of the gentleman in question. He crossed over to Quince, and stood with his arms akimbo.

‘Well, sir, can you help us to throw a little light on this affair?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sergeant,’ replied Quince meeting his gaze quite confidently. ‘This sort of thing is rather outside my province, you know. In fact, I can’t recall ever having set eyes on a dead man before in my life.’

‘Where were you when this happened?’ interposed the sergeant, to forestall any possible reminiscences.

‘In my room reading. Mr Bache came up to tell me what had occurred, and naturally I was extremely upset.’

Harry Bache sniffed. ‘You didn’t look very upset to me.’

Quince turned to him with an injured air.

‘One does not always display one’s emotions to strangers,’ he murmured. ‘You may remember my saying that I would follow you downstairs in a few minutes. I needed a little time to collect myself.’

There was something slightly pathetic about Quince’s dignified restraint, and Johnny found himself feeling rather sorry for the poor old boy. At the same time, he had to admit that Quince appeared comparatively unruffled and dispassionate about the tragedy that had just been enacted. He imagined that he was a retired school teacher, for he was treating the sergeant’s inquiries with the same patience one would display towards an over-persistent pupil. Nevertheless, the sergeant found him a far more agreeable witness than the landlord, for he made cool and accurate replies to his questions, with no hint of blustering or concealment.

‘How long have you been staying here, Mr Quince?’ he inquired.

‘I arrived yesterday afternoon—I am making a short tour of these parts.’

‘Could I have your full name and permanent address?’ he asked.

‘Horatio Quince, 17 Quadrant Row, Bayswater, London,’ he announced, and the sergeant wrote it down very solemnly.

‘You may be needed as a witness at the inquest, Mr Quince. I’ll let you know about that later, when I’ve had a word with the inspector.’

‘Have you any idea when that will be?’

‘Probably tomorrow afternoon.’

At that moment the constable returned to report that he had discovered nothing unusual in any other room in the house, and that he had made a thorough search of any possible hiding-places both inside and outside.

The sergeant was frankly puzzled. He was very dubious that an exalted official of Scotland Yard would commit suicide in a small country inn: on the other hand, nobody seemed to have seen any murderer. He went over to Johnny and checked that he had seen no one leave from the back of the inn while he had been in the car park. And the landlord had seen no one else enter or leave through the front. All the same, he was not entirely satisfied about Harry Bache, and presently tackled him again.

‘Now, Mr Bache, I want to get this little matter cleared up. Think carefully—could anyone have come in here while you were in the back room getting that change?’

Bache rubbed the back of his head.

‘Yes,’ he decided. ‘They could ’ave come in ’ere either from upstairs or the street.’

‘What about the back door?’

‘I reckon I’d ’ave ’eard anyone who came in that way. The door sticks and makes a jarrin’ sort of noise when you open it.’

‘And you didn’t hear anyone come downstairs?’

‘I didn’t hear anyone,’ replied Bache, ‘though I’m not sayin’ anyone might not ’ave crept down very quiet like.’ He looked meaningly in the direction of Quince, who was, however, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, apparently quite unconscious of any insinuation. Somewhat baffled, the sergeant instructed his colleague to telephone for an ambulance to take the body to the mortuary, then recollected himself and abruptly cancelled the order. The inspector would probably want to see everything exactly as it was; he was inclined to be fussy and unwilling to accept a report from an inferior officer, no matter how detailed or reliable it might be. Besides, he might even decide to call in Scotland Yard.

Sergeant Hubble, somewhat lamely, ordered the constable to telephone Inspector Martin at Sevenoaks. It would have been nice to be able to present the inspector with an open and shut case, but things very rarely worked out that way in real life; only in those cheap thrillers his fourteen-year-old son was always reading. Anyhow, there wasn’t much more he could do, for he was certain that if this was a case of murder, the person responsible was no longer on the premises.

There might be some sort of clue in the way of fingerprints, but they were going to take a bit of sorting out in a public room of that sort which was used by all and sundry for eight hours a day. The ‘smudges’ on the gun itself would almost certainly prove to be those of the dead man.

The constable returned to say that Inspector Martin would be at the station in twenty minutes, and would the sergeant meet him there.

‘I’ll run you back if you like, Sergeant,’ volunteered Johnny, and the sergeant gratefully accepted the offer. Johnny went off to start his car, saying he would pick the sergeant up outside the front door. Hubble gave instructions to the constable, who was to remain in charge during his absence, then turned to thank Doctor Randall for his help. The doctor cut short Hubble’s apologies for troubling him.

‘I’m only too glad to have been able to give a hand, Sergeant. It reminded me of old times on the Gold Coast. I remember once when I—’

But the appearance of Washington cut short his reminiscences, and as he was going the sergeant turned to speak to Quince.

‘It will be all right for you to go back to your room, sir,’ he said respectfully. ‘I doubt if the inspector will want to see you tonight.’

Quince permitted himself a circumspect little smile.

‘Thank you, Sergeant, and you, too, Mr Washington,’ he murmured gratefully and wished everyone good night. Johnny smiled politely and watched him until he was out of sight. Quite frankly, Quince puzzled him. He hardly looked a sinister type, but you could never tell with these odd eccentric little characters.

Johnny and the sergeant made a move towards the door, but Harry Bache called after them.

‘What am I supposed to do about that?’ He indicated the body. ‘We can’t just leave ’im ’ere all night.’

The sergeant waved aside the interruption.

‘I’ll attend to that presently. Pearman will look after things here till I get back.’ He turned to the constable and ordered him to keep a close watch on the front door.

‘Don’t let anyone in.’

‘You want me to wait and see the inspector?’ queried Doctor Randall.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, Doctor. Just a formality.’

‘I’ll be delighted.’

The doctor looked as if he meant it, for he had settled down in the most comfortable chair with another glass of whisky. Outside, the engine of Johnny’s saloon roared for a moment, doors slammed, gears changed and the sound of the car slowly receded into the night.

What seemed to be an oppressive silence fell upon the house. The constable went over to the body, pulled the sheet further over the head, and perched on a stool.

A minute or two went by, then Harry Bache suddenly said: ‘Why don’t we go into the back room? There’s still a good fire—looks more cheerful.’

‘Good idea!’ approved the doctor, getting to his feet.

‘What about you, Mr Pearman?’ asked the landlord.

The policeman shook his head.

‘I think I’d better stop in here if you don’t mind.’

‘Please yourself. We’ll be out there if you want us.’

Harry Bache and the doctor went out along the short passage to the little back sitting-room, where a small but lively fire was burning between the two old-fashioned hobs. The doctor set his glass, still half-full, on the table, and made himself comfortable in a well-worn rocking chair, while Harry Bache closed the door with some care.

‘Where’s your wife?’ asked the doctor, as soon as he was settled. Harry Bache made an upward gesture with a grimy thumb.

‘Packed ’er off to bed out of the way,’ he answered. They began to talk in low voices.

‘I don’t like this business, Doc,’ said Harry Bache, in a hoarse, apprehensive voice. ‘I ain’t never been mixed up with anything like this before.’ His Cockney origin became more apparent than ever in his agitation.

‘Don’t be a damned fool!’ snapped Randall in low tones. ‘Everything’s turned out all right. You’ve only got to keep your wits about you.’ His face was redder than usual, possibly because of the quantity of whisky he had drunk that evening. Harry Bache leaned against the mantelpiece and looked into the fire.

‘It’s tricky, Doc. I can’t think what the devil brought ’im ’ere—of all places. D’you think ’e’d found out anything?’

‘Well, nobody’ll know the answer to that now,’ replied Randall grimly.

‘It’s a nasty business,’ repeated Bache. ‘I don’t like the looks of that Mr Washington. E’s a queer bird, if you ask me.’

‘Yes,’ nodded the doctor. ‘I’ve read one or two things about him in the papers; we’ll have to keep an eye on him.’

‘What’s ’e want to come and live in these parts for?’ demanded Bache curiously.

‘He’s very fond of fishing.’

‘That’s what he says. But I don’t trust ’im. I’ve got a feeling ’e’s up to something.’

‘Pull yourself together,’ said Randall, taking a gulp at his whisky. ‘It’s quite simple. Locksley came down to see him because of that card left behind on the Gloucester job.’

‘Card? What card? I don’t know anything about—’

‘Skip it, and give me another drink. You don’t have to worry about Johnny Washington. We’ll look after him.’

The landlord opened a cupboard, took out a bottle and filled two glasses.

‘I thought for a minute ’e’d got wise about the club-room—’e asked to go inside—and found a damp patch on the floor, where I wiped up the—’

‘You damn fool! What did you want to let him go in for!’ The doctor was on his feet now, towering above the little innkeeper.

‘I ’ad to let ’im in. ’E said the police would want to go and ’ave a look round … it’d ’ave looked fishy if I’d tried to keep ’im out.’

The doctor sat down again.

‘He never mentioned anything about the club-room,’ he reflected. ‘Maybe he didn’t attach any importance to whatever he saw there.’

‘Anyhow, ’e can’t prove nothing,’ nodded the innkeeper. ‘I’m the only witness, and I got my story.’

‘Of course you have,’ rallied the doctor. ‘There’ll be no trouble.’ For a minute or two they drank in silence. Then Bache said suddenly:

‘’Eard anything about the next job?’

‘Yes,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Brighton.’

‘Ah …’ Harry Bache nodded several times. ‘Plenty of stuff down there if you know where to lay ’ands on it.’

‘It’s practically settled,’ Randall told him. ‘We’ll be meeting on Thursday.’

‘Not here?’ queried the landlord in some alarm.

‘Why not? This business will be all over by then. It’ll be safe as anywhere.’ The doctor drained his glass for the ninth time that evening.

‘This is a big job at Brighton,’ he went on. ‘One of the biggest we’ve taken on yet, and we’ve got to leave nothing to chance.’ He got up and went over to the door, opened it a few inches and closed it again before adding in a low tone:

‘I had the tip this morning that Grey Moose may be coming down here himself.’

CHAPTER V

INQUISITIVE LADY

‘How ever did I get on without you, Winwood?’ lazily demanded Johnny Washington, levering himself into a slightly more comfortable position in his arm-chair. His butler smiled politely without vouchsafing any reply.

It was just after nine on the Thursday morning after the death of Superintendent Locksley, on whom the coroner had returned an open verdict. There had been plenty of sensational headlines during the past few days, but the police did not seem to be much nearer establishing the exact cause of their colleague’s death. Crime reporters with varying degrees of imagination speculated upon the case from a number of angles, and two or three ‘played up’ Johnny Washington’s connection with it. They would not readily forget the young American’s comparatively recent exploits amongst the strange characters in and around the London underworld, and as it was known that Locksley had been investigating the gelignite robberies, the natural inference was that Johnny Washington was in some way linked up with that gang. With the result that a number of brisk young men, usually wearing shabby raincoats, had been seen in the district of Caldicott Manor during the past two days. Most of them had called at the house, but had been duly repulsed by the faithful Winwood, who, having performed just such an operation some forty times in a wide assortment of film productions, was able to command a variety of techniques suitable for any emergency.

Johnny gazed out of his french windows across a vista of Kent orchards, while Winwood methodically read reports from all the morning newspapers of the inquest on Superintendent Locksley. His own evidence was detailed quite fully, but gave no clue as to the reason the superintendent had visited him on that fatal evening. As he had caught sight of Inspector Dovey from the Yard in close consultation with the coroner just before the inquest, Johnny guessed that this omission had been carefully arranged.

All the reports of the inquest so far had proved reasonably discreet, until Winwood turned to the melodramatic pages of the Daily Reflector, with its lively display of two-inch headlines and bathing beauties on each alternate sheet.

‘This is a little more sensational, sir,’ began Winwood with a slight apologetic cough, deferentially inclining his head exactly as he had done in some long-since forgotten epic. He started to read a report with the by-line, ‘By Our Crime Correspondent’.

‘Playboy Johnny Washington was a guest of New Scotland Yard chiefs last night, when he discussed with Chief Inspector Kennard the incidents leading to the tragic death of Superintendent Locksley at the Kingfisher Inn, near Sevenoaks, which was the subject of today’s inquest. Further sensational disclosures may be expected in the near future.’

Johnny wriggled his toes inside his very comfortable slippers and asked Winwood to pour him some more coffee.

As the butler passed the cup to Johnny, he said quietly:

‘I forgot to tell you, sir, that a gentleman called to see you when you were in London yesterday.’

‘Really?’ said Johnny with some interest. ‘Did he leave his name?’

‘Yes, sir. It was a Mr Quince.’

‘Quince?’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘Now I wonder what he wanted?’

‘He didn’t say, sir. He seemed quite a pleasant gentleman, but he wouldn’t leave any message. He said he might call again if you didn’t get in touch with him. He’s staying at the Kingfisher.’

Johnny nodded absently and deftly extracted a cigarette from the silver box on the small table beside him. As he lit it, Winwood asked:

‘Shall I go on reading the reports, sir?’

‘No, that’ll do for now, Winwood. You’d better run along and see cook about lunch—or whatever you do at this time of morning.’

The butler hesitated.

‘I’m afraid several of those reporters are likely to call again this morning, sir. You won’t be making any statement to the press?’

Johnny unlatched the french window and opened it to admit the cool morning breeze.

‘No, Winwood, I guess we won’t be making any statements just yet awhile. As far as the press boys are concerned, I’ve always found it pays to say as little as possible.’

Winwood nodded approvingly. He rather enjoyed rebuffing the gentlemen of the press.

Johnny perched on the top stone step, which was already quite warm from the early morning sunshine, and gazed out across the orchards. A tractor was chugging away busily somewhere nearby, and there was something vaguely reassuring about the neatly shaven lawns and trim, well-kept borders.

‘This is the life, Winwood,’ he murmured. ‘Folks are crazy to stifle themselves in towns … what is it some poet fellow says about a flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou …?’

‘Yes, sir, that reminds me,’ said Winwood, who was still hovering near the window. ‘One of the reporters who called yesterday was a young lady—a most attractive young lady.’

Johnny wagged an indolent finger.

‘Now, Winwood, take it easy.’

‘She was most insistent, sir. In fact, she refused to take “No” for an answer.’

‘That’s too bad,’ murmured Johnny. ‘Blonde or brunette?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘I said was she dark or fair?’

‘A sort of chestnut I think would describe her colouring, sir.’

‘Very nice, too. Did she leave a name?’

‘Yes, sir. She was a Miss Verity Glyn.’

‘Verity Glyn,’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘I’ve seen that name some place.’ He went over to the pile of newspapers and found a copy of the Daily Messenger. Folding back the pages, he turned to a column headed: “Feminine Fancies”, and there at the foot of the column was the name he sought.

Johnny chuckled.

‘I’ve been in some queer places in my time, Winwood, but I’ve never been in a heart-throb column before. Well, I guess it’s all experience, as the chorus girl said when she stepped into the crinoline.’

‘Quite so, sir. And if Miss Glyn calls again, am I to tell her to—’ He was interrupted by the peal of the front door bell.

‘That’s probably Inspector Kennard,’ said Johnny, as Winwood went off to open the door. ‘Better show him in here, Winwood.’

Johnny wandered back to the french windows. The morning sunshine was very tempting. He stepped out and stretched himself, yawned mightily, felt for the inevitable package of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, and was about to extract one when he was distracted by the sound of raised voices inside the house. Winwood seemed to be expostulating with a girl who was displaying some signs of persistence.

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