‘THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB is a clearing house for the best detective and mystery stories chosen for you by a select committee of experts. Only the most ingenious crime stories will be published under the THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB imprint. A special distinguishing stamp appears on the wrapper and title page of every THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB book—the Man with the Gun. Always look for the Man with the Gun when buying a Crime book.’

Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., 1929

Now the Man with the Gun is back in this series of COLLINS CRIME CLUB reprints, and with him the chance to experience the classic books that influenced the Golden Age of crime fiction.

Copyright

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by John Long Ltd 1951

'A Present for Paul' first published by the Yorkshire Evening Post 1946

Copyright © Estate of Francis Durbridge 1946, 1951

Introduction © Melvyn Barnes 2017

Jacket layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008242053

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008242046

Version: 2017-09-07

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

I. AN OBVIOUS CLUE

II. ENTER JOHNNY WASHINGTON

III. GREY MOOSE

IV. A JOB FOR THE POLICE

V. INQUISITIVE LADY

VI. A PRELIMINARY CONFERENCE

VII. A CALL FROM SCOTLAND YARD

VIII. LONDON BY THE SEA

IX. TALK OFF THE RECORD

X. RENDEZVOUS

XI. WHAT’S YOUR POISON?

XII. JOHNNY MAKES A SUGGESTION

XIII. AN UNEXPECTED PRESENT

XIV. A STRAIGHT TIP

XV. AN INFORMAL VISIT

XVI. BEHIND THE PANEL

XVII. THE SECRET TUNNEL

XVIII. ‘THE BEST LAID PLANS …’

XIX. A CASE OF ABDUCTION?

XX. EXIT VERITY GLYN?

XXI. MR QUINCE HAD A CLUE

XXII. THE ENEMY CAMP

XXIII. RUN TO EARTH

XXIV. THE DESERTED CAR

XXV. ‘RELEASE AT DAWN’

XXVI. THE END OF GREY MOOSE

POSTSCRIPT: A PRESENT FOR PAUL

The Detective Story Club

About the Publisher

INTRODUCTION

FRANCIS Henry Durbridge (1912–1998) was arguably the most popular writer of mystery thrillers for BBC radio and television from the 1930s to the 1970s, after which he enjoyed a successful career as a stage dramatist. His radio serials are regularly repeated today, while his stage plays remain among the staple fare of amateur and professional theatre companies.

He was born in Kingston upon Hull and educated at Bradford Grammar School, Wylde Green College and Birmingham University, and as an undergraduate he began to pursue his schoolboy ambition to become a writer. Although he later worked briefly in a stockbroker’s office, his career as a full-time writer was assured by the BBC in the early 1930s when he responded to the broadcaster’s voracious appetite by providing comedy plays, children’s stories, musical libretti and numerous short sketches.

It was nevertheless his first two serious radio dramas, Promotion and Murder in the Midlands, that showed the sort of scriptwriting he particularly favoured. In 1938, at the age of twenty-five, he established himself in the crime fiction field when the BBC broadcast his serial Send for Paul Temple. Listeners ecstatically submitted over 7,000 requests for more, no doubt finding his light touch and characteristic ‘cliff-hangers’ a welcome distraction from worries about the gathering storm in Europe. Almost immediately Durbridge became one of the foremost writers of radio thrillers, with a prolific output that he further expanded by sometimes using the pseudonyms Frank Cromwell, Nicholas Vane and Lewis Middleton Harvey. To place him in context, in the mid-twentieth century his closest comparators were Edward J. Mason and Lester Powell (both coincidentally born the same year as Durbridge), together with Ernest Dudley, Alan Stranks and Philip Levene.

Send for Paul Temple was broadcast in eight episodes from 8 April to 27 May 1938. In this first case for the novelist-detective he meets newspaper reporter Steve Trent, who tells him that she has changed her name from Louise Harvey in order to pursue a gang of jewel thieves. The murder of her brother, a Scotland Yard man, unites Temple and Steve in their determination to unmask the Knave of Diamonds. That achieved, they create crime fiction history by deciding to marry—thus securing a quick return to the airwaves in Paul Temple and the Front Page Men in the autumn of 1938 and thereafter cementing their position as a mainstay of the BBC.

The early Paul Temple radio serials were adapted as books from the outset, but Durbridge’s first five novelisations were collaborations with another author because at that time he regarded himself as essentially a writer of dialogue, a scriptwriter rather than a novelist. Send for Paul Temple was published by John Long in June 1938, so it was presumably written while the radio serial was being broadcast and was intended to capitalise on the serial’s success. It was described in newspaper advertisements at the time as ‘the novel of the thriller that created a BBC fan-mail record’, and it was made Book of the Month by the Crime Book Society. The co-author was identified as John Thewes, although today it is widely believed that this was a pseudonym of Charles Hatton (who used his own name when collaborating on the next four Paul Temple novels). There is further evidence that Durbridge saw the wider potential of Send for Paul Temple, because he adapted it as a stage play produced in Birmingham in 1943 and also co-wrote the screenplay of the 1946 film version.

The Paul Temple serials proved to be Durbridge’s most enduring work for the radio, and they continued until 1968. One could easily assume that in the twenty-first century they might be regarded as passé, but today the Temples have been re-introduced to radio listeners through repeats of the surviving original recordings and new productions of the ‘lost’ serials, and there is a continuing market in printed books, e-books, CDs, DVDs and downloads. A new generation, together with those feeling nostalgic, can follow the exploits of the urbane detective who is constantly faced with bombs concealed in packages or booby-trapped ‘radiograms’, who deplores violence except in self-defence, and who never uses bad language but regularly utters the oath ‘By Timothy!’ The appeal seems undiminished, irrespective of the fact that the Durbridge milieu of Thames houseboats, expensive apartments, luxury sports cars and sophisticated cocktails must surely be alien to the lives of many among his present day audience.

The Temples were by no means the only protagonists created for radio audiences by Francis Durbridge. Among others was Johnny Washington, who appeared in eight episodes from 12 August to 30 September 1949 entitled Johnny Washington Esquire. This was not a serial, but a run of complete thirty-minute plays described as ‘the adventures of a gentleman of leisure’, with a young American scoring barely legal coups in Robin Hood style at the expense of London underworld characters. Of particular interest was the fact that Johnny was played by the Canadian actor Bernard Braden, who before his move to the UK had played the title role in the Canadian radio version of Send for Paul Temple in 1940.

Given Durbridge’s astuteness in maximising the commercial opportunities provided by his plot ideas, he would have wanted to get Johnny Washington Esquire into book form while its success on the radio was still fresh. His problem was that the radio series would be unsuitable as a novel, as it consisted of eight separate stories. The popular central character could nevertheless still be used in a full-length book, which resulted in John Long publishing Beware of Johnny Washington in April 1951.

Rather than produce a new and original novel, Durbridge took his 1938 book Send for Paul Temple and re-wrote it, with every character name changed and Johnny Washington instead of Paul Temple joining reporter Verity Glyn instead of Steve Trent in the hunt for her brother’s killer. In the ‘new’ book, Johnny is framed by a gang of criminals who leave visiting cards bearing his name on their crime scenes. Although usually an object of police suspicion, Johnny has to side reluctantly with the law in order to clear his name, protect the threatened Verity and identify the ruthless gang leader who calls himself Grey Moose.

So why did Durbridge re-cycle his earlier book in this way? It is unlikely that he was so dissatisfied with Send for Paul Temple that he made a purposeful attempt to improve upon it, because it had already achieved a classic status and had been reprinted several times (and indeed is still in print today). The obvious answer must surely be that Durbridge needed to use the Johnny Washington character before the name was forgotten, given the fact that he was to write no more Washington plays for the radio, and it was therefore necessary to act with the minimum of delay. It is also likely that he was trying to widen his appeal to the reading public, and was keen to secure recognition for more than his creation of the Temples. There could even have been a degree of insurance against the slim possibility that after five Paul Temple novels some readers might have begun to tire of them, which was one of the factors that from 1952 onwards encouraged Durbridge to create a brand of record-breaking television serials that deliberately excluded the Temples.

In the case of his novels, he was nevertheless careful to keep all his options open. Paul Temple books continued to appear from 1957 to 1988 (three were original and five were based on his radio serials); sixteen of his television serials were novelised between 1958 and 1982; and he wrote two stand-alone novels (Back Room Girl in 1950 and The Pig-Tail Murder in 1969) plus several novellas as newspaper serials. In addition it must be said that Beware of Johnny Washington was not the only example of re-cycling, as his novels Design for Murder (1951), Another Woman’s Shoes (1965) and Dead to the World (1967) were all originally Paul Temple radio serials that became non-Temple books with recycled plots—although only one of these, Beware of Johnny Washington, had also appeared as a separate Temple book.

In spite of its history, or perhaps because of it, Beware of Johnny Washington remains of considerable interest to Durbridge enthusiasts. It is a good solid thriller with many of the author’s typical elements and trademark twists and turns, written in a smooth and readable style that improves upon the slightly stilted early Temple novelisations. While it follows the storyline of Send for Paul Temple, it is more than just a straight transcription with new character names. Sub-plots are changed and developed, while Washington himself is given a personality and lifestyle that clearly distinguishes him from Temple.

Above all, unlike most of Durbridge’s other novels, Beware of Johnny Washington has not been available since its first publication over sixty-five years ago. For the host of Durbridge fans, that is a big attraction.

MELVYN BARNES

February 2017

CHAPTER I
AN OBVIOUS CLUE

‘ANOTHER gelignite job,’ said Chief Inspector Kennard, folding his arms and gazing moodily through the tall window of the deputy commissioner’s office.

‘Eight thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds,’ added Superintendent Locksley in a worried tone. ‘Gloucester this time—we never know where they’ll turn up next.’

The Deputy Commissioner, Sir Robert Hargreaves, pulled a stack of variously coloured folders towards him and selected a grey one. For a minute or two he thumbed over the papers without speaking. His subordinates eyed each other a trifle uncomfortably and waited for him to speak.

They watched him turn over one report after another, scanning them briefly and stopping twice to make a pencilled note on the pad at his elbow. Meanwhile, the cigarette he had been smoking slowly burnt on the ash-tray beside him.

A man in his late fifties, Sir Robert had attained his present position by a reputation for his capacity to digest facts rapidly and methodically and, having done so, to arrive at a rapid decision which usually proved to be the right one.

The smoke from the chief’s cigarette tickled Locksley’s nose and he felt a sudden craving to light one himself, but would not dare to do so without Sir Robert’s invitation. There was an air of discipline about this plainly furnished office which one did not associate with tea-drinking and cigarettes. When you went to see Sir Robert you gave him your information, received his instructions, and left to put them into operation.

However, the gelignite robberies were in a class of their own and on a scale that had not been encountered at the Yard for some years. A lorry load of gelignite which had been dispatched to the scene of some mining operations in Cornwall had never arrived at its destination, though the driver was discovered lying senseless at the side of the road in the early hours of the morning. All he remembered was climbing into his cab after calling at an all-night pull-up near Taunton, and receiving a blow on the head which resulted in slight concussion. He had not even caught a glimpse of his assailant.

A week later, the safe at a large super cinema at Norwich was blown open with gelignite, and the week’s takings, amounting to about one thousand five hundred pounds, were stolen. This was presumably in the nature of a try-out, for the gelignite gang almost immediately went after bigger game. They began with a jeweller’s safe in Birmingham, which yielded over five thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds, pearls and platinum settings. After Birmingham came Leicester, Sheffield, Oldham and Shrewsbury. The aggregate value of the stolen goods was now in the region of five figures.

The deputy commissioner looked up from the report of the raid on the Gloucester jewellers, which he had been scanning carefully.

‘What about this night watchman?’ he inquired.

‘I’m afraid he’s dead, sir,’ replied Locksley. ‘He was pretty heavily chloroformed and according to the doctor his heart was in a bad state to stand up to any sudden shock.’

Sir Robert frowned.

‘This is getting extremely serious,’ he murmured. ‘We shall have the papers playing it up worse than ever; then some damn fool will be asking a question in the House. Was this night watchman above board?’

Locksley shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. He’d only been with the firm about a month. He joined them under the name of Brookfield, but we soon found he had a long record as Wilfred Hiller, alias Burns. Everything from petty thefts to smash and grab.’

‘Humph! He might have been part of the set-up,’ grunted Sir Robert. ‘Pity they gave him an overdose …’

‘It was one way to make sure he didn’t talk—and to avoid paying him his cut,’ Kennard pointed out quietly.

Sir Robert nodded. ‘Who was in charge down there?’ he asked.

‘Inspector Dovey had already arrived when we got there—you remember we recalled him from the Special Branch to work on the gelignite jobs,’ replied Locksley. ‘He was questioning the constable who had discovered the robbery, a young man named Roscoe. Roscoe’s only been in the force two years, but he’s quite a good record. He was apparently passing the jewellers on his beat and noticed that the side door was open a couple of inches, so he went in to investigate.’

‘What about fingerprints?’

‘Nothing we can trace, except Hiller, the night watchman’s, and they were nowhere near the safe,’ replied Locksley. ‘It was the same on all the other jobs. There’s somebody running the outfit who knows his way around.’

Sir Robert shrugged and went on reading the report, a tiny furrow deepening between his eyebrows, and his lips tightening into a thin line.

‘What did Dovey have to say?’ he inquired at length.

Kennard smiled. ‘He didn’t seem to know whether he was coming or going. Talked about a large criminal organization—I think he’s been meeting too many international spies.’ A note of contempt in his voice prompted Hargreaves to ask:

‘Then you don’t think it is a criminal organization?’

Kennard shook his head most decisively, a flicker of a grin around his thin mouth.

‘We’re always reading about these big criminal set-ups,’ he said sarcastically, ‘but I’ve been with the police here and abroad for over fifteen years without coming across a sign of any really elaborate organization. Crooks don’t work that way; it’s every man for himself and to hell with the one who’s caught. Of course, we had the racecourse gangs a few years back, but that was different—not what you’d call scientifically planned crime. If you ask me, these jobs have been pulled by a little bunch of old lags.’

Sir Robert swung round in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘What do you think, Locksley?’ he demanded. The superintendent glanced across at his colleague and shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his chair.

‘I’m afraid I don’t agree with Kennard, Sir Robert,’ he admitted at last. The inspector looked startled for a moment and appeared to be about to make some comment, but he changed his mind, and Locksley went on: ‘I thought the same as Kennard for some time, but I’ve come to the conclusion this last week or so that these jobs are being planned to the last detail by some mentality far and away above that of the average crook.’

Hargreaves gave no sign as to whether he was impressed by this argument, other than by making a brief note on his pad.

‘Did you see the night watchman before he died?’ he asked. Locksley nodded.

‘Yes, sir. He was in pretty bad shape, of course, and I thought he wouldn’t be able to say anything. But the doctor gave him an injection, and he seemed to recover consciousness.’

‘Well, what did he say?’ urged Hargreaves with a note of impatience in his tone.

The superintendent rubbed his hands rather nervously.

‘I couldn’t be quite sure, sir,’ he replied dubiously, ‘but it sounded to me rather like “Grey Moose”.’

There was a sound of suppressed chuckle from Kennard, but the deputy commissioner was quickly turning through his file.

‘Here we are,’ he said suddenly. ‘A report on the Oldham case—you remember Smokey Pearce died rather mysteriously soon after. He was run over by a lorry—found by a constable on the Preston road—there was an empty jewel case on him from the Oldham shop.’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Kennard. ‘But we couldn’t get him to talk …’

‘Wait,’ said Hargreaves. ‘He did manage to get out a couple of words before he passed out … “Grey Moose”.’

‘The same words exactly,’ said Locksley, his eyes lighting up. ‘But what the devil do they mean? It might be a brand of pressed beef—’

‘Or one of these American cigarettes,’ put in Kennard.

Hargreaves waved aside these interruptions.

‘It must mean something,’ he insisted. ‘Two dying men don’t speak the same words exactly just by coincidence.’

Locksley nodded slowly.

‘I see what you’re driving at, sir,’ he said. ‘You think these two were in on those jobs, and the gang wiped ’em out so as to take no chances of their giving the game away. They sound a pretty callous lot of devils.’

‘I should say that it’s the head of this organization who is behind these—er—liquidations,’ mused Sir Robert. ‘They are quite obviously part and parcel of his plans.’

‘Then you agree with Locksley that there is an organization,’ queried Kennard abruptly.

Sir Robert rubbed his forehead rather wearily with his left hand while he continued to turn over reports with his right. At last, he closed the folder.

‘That seems to be the only conclusion, Inspector,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘If they were just the usual small-time safe-busters, like Peter Scales, or “Mo” Turner or Larry the Canner, the odds are we’d have got one or more of them by now. They’d try to get rid of the stuff through one of the fences we’ve got tabs on, and we’d be on to them. But the head of this crowd has obviously his own special means of disposal.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Locksley. ‘We haven’t traced a single item in all those jobs yet.’

‘He could be holding on to the stuff till it cools down,’ suggested Kennard.

‘I shouldn’t imagine that’s very likely,’ said the deputy commissioner, thoughtfully tracing a design on his blotting pad with his paper-knife. ‘I can’t help agreeing with Locksley that we’re up against something really big, and we’ve got to pull every shot out of the locker. Now, are you absolutely sure there was nothing about the Gloucester job that might give us something to go on?’

He looked from one to the other and there was silence for a few seconds. Then Locksley slowly took a bulging wallet from his inside pocket and extracted a small piece of paste-board about half the size of a postcard.

‘There was this card,’ he said, in a doubtful tone.

Sir Robert took the card and examined it carefully.

‘Where did you find it?’ he asked.

‘In the waste-paper basket just by the safe at the Gloucester jewellers. As you see, it was torn into five pieces, but it wasn’t difficult to put it together.’

Sir Robert picked up a magnifying glass and placed the card under it. On the card was printed in imitation copperplate handwriting:

With the compliments of Johnny Washington.

‘So that joker from America has popped up again,’ murmured Sir Robert. ‘Where’s the catch this time?’

During the past year or so, Scotland Yard had come to know this strange young man from America, with the mobile features, rimless glasses and ingenuous smile rather too well. For the presence of Johnny Washington usually meant trouble for somebody. As often as not, it was for some unscrupulous operator either inside or on the verge of the underworld, but the police were usually none too pleased about it, for the matter invariably entailed a long and complicated prosecution, even when Mr Washington had presented them with indisputable evidence. And what particularly annoyed the police was the fact that Johnny Washington always emerged as debonair and unruffled as ever, and often several thousand dollars to the good. The Yard chiefs had experienced a pronounced sensation of relief when Johnny had informed them that he had bought a small manor house not far from Sevenoaks, and proposed to devote his energies to collecting pewter and playing the country squire.

‘Where’s the catch?’ repeated Sir Robert, turning the card over and peering at it again.

‘In the first place,’ replied Locksley, ‘Johnny says he has never set foot in Gloucester in his life.’

‘Well, you know what a confounded liar the fellow is,’ retorted Hargreaves. ‘Have you checked on him at all?’

‘The jewellers say they have never set eyes on him,’ said Locksley.

‘I don’t suppose they’ve set eyes on any of the gang that did the job,’ grunted the commissioner. ‘Did you find out if he had an alibi?’

‘Yes, he had an alibi all right. He was up in Town for the night to see a girl named Candy Dimmott in a new musical—seems he knew her in New York. He stayed at the St Regis—got in soon after midnight. According to the doctor, the night watchman had been chloroformed about that time—and the constable found him soon after 2 a.m. So Washington simply couldn’t have been in Gloucester then.’

‘You never can tell with that customer,’ said Kennard dubiously.

‘I questioned the night porter at the St Regis—he knows Washington well, and swears he never left the place while he was on duty,’ said Locksley. He turned to his chief again. ‘There’s another thing about that card, sir.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’

‘There are no fingerprints on it. I used rubber gloves when I put it together, and whoever tore it up and put it in that waste-paper basket must have done the same. Now, if Mr Washington left that card deliberately, why should he go to the trouble of using gloves?’

‘He might have been wearing them anyhow,’ pointed out Kennard.

Locksley shrugged.

‘Yet again, if he wanted to leave a card, why tear it up?’ he demanded earnestly.

Sir Robert rested his chin on his hand and gazed thoughtfully at the fire.

‘I begin to see what you’re driving at,’ he murmured. ‘You think this card business is a plant—presumably to distract attention from the real master mind.’

‘That’s about it, sir,’ agreed Locksley. ‘Washington’s name has been in the papers several times—and there was that silly article about Johnny being the modern Robin Hood. It’s given somebody an idea.’

Sir Robert picked up a wire paper fastener and very deliberately clipped the card to the report of the Gloucester robbery.

‘You haven’t seen Washington?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. I spoke to him twice on the telephone. He seemed a bit surprised, then amused. But he helped me all he could about the alibi when he saw how serious it was.’

‘Alibi or not, I think we should keep an eye on that gentleman,’ suggested Kennard.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ replied Hargreaves. ‘You know him fairly well, don’t you, Locksley?’

‘I certainly saw something of him in the Blandford case.’

‘All right, then you can pop down to his place and have a talk to him as soon as you can get away from here today. And if you get the slightest hint that he is the brains behind this gang, don’t take any chances. Just tell him you are rechecking his alibi.’

‘It isn’t easy to fool Johnny Washington,’ said Locksley, slipping his little black notebook back into his inside pocket.

‘I must say, sir, I’m not convinced that it is a real organization we’re up against,’ insisted Kennard. ‘What makes you so sure about that?’

Sir Robert began to pace up and down between his desk and the fireplace.

‘It’s more a hunch than anything,’ he confessed. ‘For one thing, they’ve tackled such a variety of jobs—the average safe-buster sticks to one line as a rule and goes after the sort of stuff he can get rid of without much trouble. This gelignite gang have already robbed a cinema, a bank, two jewellers and a factory office. It takes a very unusual brain to plan such a variety of jobs in a comparatively short time.’

‘A brain like Johnny Washington’s?’ queried Kennard.

Sir Robert Hargreaves did not reply.

CHAPTER II
ENTER JOHNNY WASHINGTON

CALDICOTT MANOR is a sturdy four-square white house standing about half a mile outside the village of Caldicott Green, near the junction of the main road to Sevenoaks, which is some four miles away.

From the moment he set eyes on it in an agent’s catalogue, the manor had intrigued Johnny Washington, who had been suddenly overcome with the idea of retiring into the heart of the English countryside and getting back to nature for a spell after his exciting but profitable incursions into the London underworld.

He also liked the look of Caldicott Green, with its small stream running parallel with the main street and draining into a large pool near the manor which offered possibilities for fishing, one of his favourite forms of relaxation. Mr Washington was burdened with over-large and slightly troublesome feet which debarred him from most forms of sport. Angling, however, was ideal, for it allowed him to relax at full length for long periods on sunny afternoons, taking the weight off his pedal extremities. Johnny claimed that many of his best ideas had come to him while sitting beside a placid stream, hopefully awaiting a bite that never materialized.

His enemies were wont to declare that Johnny suffered with his feet because he was too big for his boots, and there was possibly something in this accusation, for this young man from America could have bluffed his way into the secret councils of the Atomic Control Commission as nonchalantly as if he were the man who originally split the atom.

But the secret of his success lay in the fact that he never over-estimated himself; his bluffs were always a part of a coolly calculated scheme and designed for a specific purpose.

Naturally, having enriched himself to some considerable extent at the expense of a wide variety of social parasites, he had made a number of bitter enemies, so he was not in the least surprised to hear of the attempt to implicate him in the jewel robbery at Gloucester. It was by no means the first time such a thing had happened; in fact, he was often surprised that it did not occur more often.

Johnny Washington lay on the enormous settee in his drawing-room (that was what the previous tenant had called it) awaiting the arrival of his nearest neighbours, Doctor Randall and his niece, Shelagh Hamilton, with whom he had scraped acquaintance at a nearby point-to-point meeting. They had promptly invited him to lunch, and he was now about to return their hospitality. Johnny had not planned to intermingle with the local country folk, but he had to admit that the doctor and his niece rather intrigued him. The niece in particular. Shelagh, who bore not the slightest resemblance in features to her uncle, seemed right out of place in the heart of the Kent countryside. Johnny had met plenty of her type in the night spots of New York; in fact she awakened vague murmurings of nostalgia inside him.

Blonde, brittle, perfectly made-up, exquisitely manicured, Shelagh looked as if she had been born with a lipstick in one hand and a drink in the other. She had a lively turn of conversation which amused Johnny; she was a cynic to the tips of her blood-red fingernails and he liked meeting people who had no respect for those who sat in the seats of the mighty. But he found it hard to believe that she was Doctor Randall’s niece, and found it idly intriguing to speculate upon their exact relationship.

Randall was a man in his early fifties, a very energetic type, somewhat wizened by many tropical suns, for he had told Johnny that he had worked on the Gold Coast for some years before his retirement, and he certainly talked knowledgeably about certain parts of the world, so that he made a very agreeable dining companion. But there was again an air of mystery about him; he ran a couple of large cars and horses for himself and Shelagh, and to all outward appearance seemed to live at the rate of about ten thousand pounds a year.

Johnny was pondering upon these and other minor matters while he smoked one of his favourite Chesterfields, when the telephone rang in the hall, and his butler, Winwood, came in to tell him he was wanted.

Johnny had always had a yearning for the genuine type of old English butler he had seen in so many indifferent British films. He had interviewed over thirty men for the job, and Winwood came nearest to the genuine article. This was possibly because Winwood had played such a part in no fewer than sixty-eight films, and was now driven to play it in real earnest as a result of the parlous condition of the British film industry!

Winwood had carefully omitted to mention to his employer that his experience had been largely upon the sound stages of Denham and Pinewood, rather than the stately homes of England, but Johnny was not over-fussy about details of domestic routine, as long as his butler looked the part. And he delighted to watch him throw open a door and announce in nicely modulated tones as he was doing at this moment:

‘There is a Superintendent Locksley who would like to speak to you on the telephone, sir.’

Johnny gave Winwood an appreciative grin, then slowly placed his slippered feet on the floor.

‘O.K. Winwood, I’ll be right out,’ he nodded.

Superintendent Locksley, wanted to know if he might drop in a little later that evening, and Johnny assured the detective that he would be delighted to see him. He was just replacing the receiver when the front door bell rang and Winwood opened it to usher in his guests. Apologizing for his slippers, he led them into a tiny conservatory he had converted into a cocktail bar.

Johnny commented on the fact that Shelagh was looking particularly attractive.

‘I adore you Americans,’ she laughed. ‘You always say exactly the right thing at the right moment. Now I feel that the three hours I spent at the hairdresser’s wasn’t entirely wasted.’

Johnny grinned.

‘If only I’d known, I’d have invited some more people,’ he assured her. ‘You’re worth a much bigger audience!’

She accepted a cocktail and sipped it appreciatively, but Doctor Randall preferred whisky, and drank three before dinner, explaining somewhat apologetically that it was the sundowner habit he had developed in the tropics. This was the doctor’s cue for a series of stories about his adventures which lasted half-way through dinner, despite cynical comments from Shelagh.

Winwood served the meal impeccably and poured coffee from the silver coffee-pot with such dignity that, as Johnny whispered to Shelagh, you expected to see a curtain go up at any minute and find yourself starting on Act Two.

The doctor went on drinking whisky which appeared to evoke longer and more lurid reminiscences, until at last Johnny turned to Shelagh and pleasantly inquired:

‘What about your past, Miss Hamilton? Haven’t you ever had any hair-raising adventures?’

‘I dare say,’ she replied non-committally, ‘but I guess I know when to keep my mouth shut.’ She looked across at her uncle meaningly, and he seemed to take the hint, for soon afterwards he announced that they must be going. It was after nine-thirty and there was still no sign of Superintendent Locksley, for which Johnny was secretly thankful, for he was not particularly anxious for his country neighbours to suspect that he had any dealings with the police—he was well aware how rumour distorts and magnifies in the rural areas.

Still discoursing upon the origins of sleeping sickness, the doctor vanished into the night, holding his niece’s arm rather more tightly than would have appeared necessary. Ten minutes later, Winwood announced Superintendent Locksley with the quiet aplomb of the trusted retainer who is acquainted with every skeleton in the family cupboard.

Johnny had seen Locksley quite frequently when they were concerned with the mysterious dope smuggling that had been centred upon the police station of the little Thames-side town of Blandford, which Johnny had eventually traced, by what he modestly termed a stroke of luck, to the police sergeant of the station, who had been using his lost property department as a distribution centre.

Starting by disliking each other to some extent, Johnny and the superintendent had been mildly surprised to discover they had mutual interests, such as fishing and American cigarettes, and a weakness for unorthodox methods. Locksley had risen to his present rank by reason of his alert mind that showed a genius for bypassing routine procedure and getting quick results.

Johnny favoured the same methods, but was the first to admit that it was much easier for him to apply them, for he did not have to contend with a massive list of rules and regulations. Since their first meeting, they had occasionally enjoyed a drink together at the hostelry just round the corner from New Scotland Yard, comparing notes about their mutual acquaintances in the underworld and elsewhere. They were slightly startled to discover how many times they had reached exactly the same conclusions.

Johnny waved Locksley to the most comfortable arm-chair and asked if he had had any food.

‘Thanks, Johnny, I snatched a quick supper on the way down—that’s why I’m a bit late,’ said the Superintendent.

‘Well at least you’ll let me give you a drink— Winwood, a whisky for Mr Locksley.’

Winwood took the drink over to Locksley, then crossed to Johnny and murmured discreetly:

‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are almost out of whisky. The doctor was—ahem—a trifle heavy on our last bottle.’

‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Johnny. ‘Is it as bad as that? I must nip down and see Harry Bache at the Kingfisher.’ He turned to Locksley. ‘Perhaps you’d like to run down to the local with me. The landlord there lets me have the odd bottle of my favourite brand now and then. We can have a quick one while we’re there—it’s not a bad old pub, and there’s a stuffed pike in the “snug” that will interest you …’

Locksley smiled and nodded. Winwood withdrew and closed the door silently behind him. Johnny carefully placed his feet on his favourite fireside stool and grinned at the superintendent.

‘Well, Locksley, is somebody still trying to put the smear on me?’

Locksley took an appreciative gulp at his whisky and leaned back in his chair.

‘It’s still the same smear,’ he replied. ‘The chief isn’t altogether happy about your alibi.’

‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ murmured Johnny, rubbing his chin with his long sensitive fingers. He reached for a package of Chesterfields and flicked one over to Locksley. ‘You tell your boss he’s darn lucky to find me with such a good alibi. It isn’t once in a blue moon I stay the night in Town; I wouldn’t have done this time if I hadn’t taken my girl friend on to a night spot.’

‘She could corroborate all that, I suppose, if necessary?’

Johnny frowned.

‘Say, what’s going on now?’

‘You didn’t take her home, I suppose?’

‘I put her into a taxi in Piccadilly just on midnight—we’d have stayed on later but she’d had a hectic day and wanted some sleep. Then I went straight back to the hotel, just as I told you. You don’t think I’m pulling a fast one, do you?’

‘No, no, of course not, Johnny,’ said Locksley with a worried expression. ‘But these gelignite robberies have got us all a bit rattled. Close on one hundred thousand pounds’ worth in a few months.’

Johnny pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘Chee, somebody’s thinking big for once in a while,’ he commented. ‘Looks like they’re trying to nationalize the crime racket.’

‘So you see, Johnny, the D.C. is out to follow up every clue like grim death. He’s convinced—and so am I, for that matter—that this is a large organization under the direction of a master mind. And if we can take a short cut to the master mind, the sooner we’ll clear up the business.’

Johnny blew out a large cloud of smoke.

‘Are you trying to tell me that your boss suspects that I’m the big black chief?’

‘He wants to make absolutely certain that you’re not,’ said Locksley earnestly. ‘After all, he knows you’re pretty cute, and you’ve been around quite a bit on both sides of the Atlantic. You’re the sort of unknown quantity that might well be in charge of a gang of this sort—not that I think for a moment—’ he added hastily.

‘I appreciate that!’ grinned Johnny.

‘But you see,’ went on Locksley, ‘he’s got to eliminate as many possibilities as he can. Also, he thought you might be able to give him some inkling as to who would be likely to want to plant the Gloucester job on to you.’

Johnny shrugged.

‘It might be any of the boys and girls—Princess Vaniscourt, Skeff Larabie, Billy Sorrell; they’d murder their own mother if they thought they could frame me.’

Locksley took another gulp of whisky and looked round the room for a minute without speaking. Then he said somewhat cautiously:

‘This is a very nice place you’ve got here. You’ve done nicely for yourself, Johnny.’

Johnny grinned again.

‘Meaning where did I get the doh-ray-me? Do we have to go into all that? Maybe you’d like to see a signed statement from my accountants.’

‘No, no, of course not.’ Locksley looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny, but we’re all a bit nervy about this business. There hasn’t been anything this big for some years now, and I dare say one or two of us will be out of a job by the time it’s over.’ He leaned forward in his chair and looked directly at his host.

‘Are you quite sure you haven’t any ideas about it, Johnny?’

Johnny Washington flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette.

‘To tell you the honest truth, old man, I’ve hardly given it a thought. I’ve been concentrating on rusticating these past few months.’

Locksley took out his wallet and passed over the visiting card, with the copperplate inscription.

‘Can’t you think whose work that’s likely to be?’ he demanded seriously.

Johnny flicked the card with his fingernail.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he said.

‘You’ve never had any cards like that yourself?’

Johnny shook his head.

‘I’ve never bothered about visiting cards—always thought they were kinda old-fashioned.’

‘You haven’t sent anyone a present with a card like that enclosed?’

‘No; in that case I’d use my own handwriting.’ He paused for a moment, then asked: ‘If you’ve come here to collect my fingerprints to see if they tally with those on the card, go right ahead, brother.’

Locksley gloomily shook his head, and took another drink. ‘There aren’t any “smudges” on the card; at least there weren’t when I found it,’ he said. ‘That’s what made me suspicious. If you’d wanted to advertise the job as your work, you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to bother about fingerprints.’

‘Nor would I have bothered to tear up that card,’ ruminated Johnny. ‘And if I had really wanted to get rid of the card I wouldn’t have been such a mug as to leave it lying around in a trash basket.’

‘It might have led us on a pretty involved false trail if you hadn’t happened to have that alibi,’ said the superintendent. ‘I’d have had to set a couple of men on to tail you night and day.’

Johnny laughed and passed the card back to Locksley, who replaced it in his wallet.

‘This gelignite gang interests me,’ said Johnny Washington, wriggling his toes inside his slippers. ‘I always like meeting people with new ideas. Tell me more about the set-up, that’s if it isn’t top secret.’

Locksley filled in the details of the chain of robberies very rapidly, but there was little that was new to Johnny, who had read most of the accounts in the newspapers. When Locksley had finished, Johnny poured the remainder of the whisky into his guest’s glass.

‘About this night watchman at Gloucester,’ he murmured. ‘Did you see him before he passed out?’

‘Yes,’ said Locksley. ‘He was an old lag named Hiller, and he’d had a heavy dose of chloroform; too much for his heart.’

‘Then he didn’t say anything?’

‘Well, he did come round just before the end, and he whispered two words quite distinctly—“Grey Moose”. For a minute I thought perhaps he might be talking nonsense, then I remembered.’

‘What did you remember?’

‘Just after the gang pulled the Oldham job, we picked up a man named Smokey Pearce, run over by a lorry on the Preston road. Just before he died, he said the same two words.’

‘Grey Moose,’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘It might mean anything … some sort of password maybe …’

‘It doesn’t suggest anything to you?’ queried Locksley, eyeing him closely.

‘Not a thing—except that I seem to have seen the words somewhere—can’t call it to mind right now. It might be some sort of trade name.’

‘We’ve been into all that,’ nodded Locksley. ‘But you’ll agree that when two dying men say the same thing it must have some sort of significance, specially as they were both suspected of being linked with the gelignite gang.’

‘You got something there,’ agreed Johnny thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could help you, brother, but I guess I’ve had enough of the crime racket to last me for a while. All I want to do is mooch around, a little fishing, a trip to Town once in a way, a lot of relaxing and a drink at the local … and that reminds me; we better get going if we don’t want to be shut out.’

He fumbled for his shoes and put them on with a certain amount of effort.

‘How far is this pub?’ asked Locksley.

‘It won’t take us five minutes in the car,’ Johnny told him. ‘I think you’ll like the Kingfisher—it’s a fairly old inn—oak beams and all that—dates back quite a way. We Americans are always suckers for tradition.’

‘You’re also suckers for Scotch whisky,’ said Locksley with a faint smile as they went out.

Johnny’s car was an enormous American roadster, but the engine seemed to be cold, and missed on two of its cylinders all the way to the inn.

‘I guess the plugs are getting clogged up,’ frowned Johnny as they drew up in front of the Kingfisher Inn. ‘I’d better run her round to the back and take a quick look at ’em. It won’t take a minute; you go in and order the drinks—be sure to tell Bache they’re on me.’

Locksley got out and Johnny ran the car into the little car park at the back of the inn, where he manœuvred it until the bonnet was exactly under the solitary electric light. Then he took out the offending plugs and carefully cleaned and replaced them. He was a little longer than he had anticipated because an elusive blob of grease on one of the plugs was more than usually obstinate.

He had replaced the bonnet and was just about to switch off all the lights, when there was a shout from inside the Kingfisher. Then a door opened and there was a sound of running feet. Washington immediately recognized the diminutive figure of Harry Bache, the landlord of the inn.

‘I thought it was your car, Mr Washington,’ he gasped breathlessly.

‘Anything wrong, Harry?’ asked Johnny noting his obvious distress.

‘Was that feller with you—the bloke what just come in?’

‘Yes, of course. Didn’t he tell you to put the drinks down to me?’

‘That’s right—but I was a bit suspicious like, as I’d never seen him before. And then, while my back was turned, it happened … My God, it’s awful!’

‘What happened?’

‘Why he … shot himself!’ The little innkeeper’s eyes seemed to bulge right out of his head, and he clutched at the mascot on the front of Washington’s car as if he were about to faint.

CHAPTER III
GREY MOOSE

WASHINGTON reached inside the car and took out a silver flask from one of the side pockets. He unscrewed the top and passed it to Harry.

‘Drink this,’ he ordered. The innkeeper took the flask in a shaking right hand, gulped down a mouthful of brandy and passed it back. Johnny slipped it into his pocket ready for further emergencies.

‘All right, Mr Washington,’ the landlord said hoarsely. ‘We’d better go in now and see if there’s anything we can do.’

‘O.K. then, come on. No time to be lost.’

They went in through the back door, along a short passage and into the saloon bar.

‘I’ve locked the front door, sir,’ breathed Harry Bache’s hoarse voice behind him as Johnny went into the room. He stood for a moment on the threshold as if to establish a clear impression of his surroundings.

The body of Superintendent Locksley was almost the first thing he saw, for his attention was directed to it by an overturned table and stool in a far corner of the saloon. The body lay nearby, with a trickle of blood flowing from the head and a revolver clasped in the left hand.

On Washington’s left was the small service room, which was connected to the saloon by a small enclosed counter, and opened out into the bar which was usually patronized by local farmworkers. Apparently the house had been empty of customers at the time, for it seemed quite deserted now. Washington was not altogether surprised at this, for Harry Bache was always grumbling about the lack of custom, although the brewery had spent a considerable sum upon refurnishing the saloon with small tables, imitation antique settles and small stools.

Washington went over to Locksley, placed a finger on the neck artery, then turned to Bache.

‘Anyone else around?’

‘I told the missus to stay in the kitchen. And there’s a Mr Quince upstairs …’

Washington took in the room—the little service counter with its rows of bottles on their shelves, the new chromium-plated beer engine, the cash register, the advertisements for cigarettes and soft drinks, the recently built brick fireplace, the reproduction oak settles, the heavy china ash-trays, the solitary siphon at one end of the counter …

Harry Bache shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

‘Can’t think what made ’im do it, Mr Washington,’ he burst forth at last. ‘Never known such a thing in all me born days—’e comes in and orders two double whiskies and the moment I turn my back—’

‘Can I use your telephone?’ asked Johnny somewhat abruptly.

Harry Bache nodded in the direction of the passage, where Johnny found the instrument in a small alcove. He was connected with the police station and spoke to the sergeant in charge. The police surgeon was not available. Washington suggested that the sergeant should get Doctor Randall, who was comparatively near at hand.

Harry Bache was still standing nervously in the doorway of the saloon bar; he had obviously overheard the telephone conversation.

‘What did you mean, Mr Washington, when you said as ’ow it might be suicide?’ he demanded with an aggressive note in his voice. Washington ignored him and went over to the body of Locksley, stooped and examined the revolver for a minute, then turned to Harry Bache.

‘What were you doing when this man came in?’ he asked.

‘A crossword,’ was the prompt reply. ‘The place was as quiet as the grave—I ’ave to do something or I’d go barmy.’

‘You were standing behind the bar?’ asked Johnny.

‘That’s right. He come in and ordered the whiskies—said they was to be charged up to you—and just as I was going to pour ’em ’e asked me if I could change a pound note. So I went off into the sitting-room to get the money, and when I gets back ’e’s lying there just like ’e is now, with that gun in ’is ’and. Give me a proper turn it did—thought for a minute I was goin’ to pass out. I ’ollers to the missis to stop where she is, and comes out to see if you was ’ere like ’e said.’

‘How long were you out there?’ inquired Johnny.

‘About three or four minutes I dare say. I ’ad a bit of an argument with the missis about ’arf a dollar she’d borrowed from the petty cash.’

Johnny thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and sat down on one of the stools.

‘I suppose someone could have come in here while you were in the sitting-room,’ he suggested.

Harry Bache rubbed the back of his head with his rather dirty hand. ‘I reckon they might,’ he conceded. ‘They could ’ave come from upstairs or through the front door.’

‘What about that door yonder?’

Johnny indicated a door to the right of the bar.

‘That’s the club room—only used one night a week by club members. I always keep it locked, on account of the stuff in there.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Oh, you know—robes and chains of office and all that tomfoolery.’

Johnny Washington walked over to the door and tried the knob. The door was locked. Johnny paced back to the bar and picked up one of the two empty glasses, which were standing side by side, and poured into it a generous measure of brandy from his flask. Then he glanced inquiringly at the landlord, who shook his head.

‘No more for me, Mr Washington.’

Johnny sipped the brandy thoughtfully. A solitary car went past outside. They could hear the clock ticking in the public bar. Suddenly, Harry Bache said:

‘Funny I never ’eard that gun go off. Nor the missus neither or she’d soon ’ave—’

‘Not much mystery about that,’ replied Johnny absently. ‘If you look at the gun you’ll see it’s fitted with a silencer—that cylindrical gadget fastened to the end of the barrel. There’d only be a sort of quiet pop.’

‘Cor, ’e didn’t ’arf make a job of it, and no error!’ ejaculated the innkeeper. ‘But it beats me what ’e wants to come ’ere for—never set eyes on ’im in me life before.’

‘You’re quite sure about that?’ said Johnny quietly.

‘Course I’m sure. Who is ’e, anyway?’

‘Oh, just a friend of mine. By the way, did you say there was someone upstairs?’

‘That’s right. An old gent, name of Quince. Bit of a queer bird if you ask me. Got ’ere yesterday afternoon—says ’e’s on a tour of the county—asked me all sorts of questions about this ’ere place. There wasn’t much I could tell ’im, I’ve only bin ’ere six months myself.’

‘I think you’d better ask Mr Quince to come down here,’ decided Johnny.

Harry Bache seemed surprised.

‘What do we want the old geezer nosin’ about for?’ he asked.

‘The police sergeant will be sure to want to see him when he gets here, so we might as well break it to him gently.’

Harry Bache shrugged.

‘O.K. with me if you say so, Mr Washington!’

Johnny watched him go out muttering towards the stairs in the passage. He had always felt a vague dislike for this little man, but had tried to be friendly, as he had been with most of the folk round about. But there always seemed to be something lacking about the atmosphere at the Kingfisher Inn; there was none of that warm bonhomie one associated with the typical British country pub. Which was, no doubt, the reason why most of the locals patronized the other inn which was in the centre of the village.

When he heard the landlord’s footsteps at the top of the stairs, Johnny swiftly crossed over to the till, cautiously rang up ‘No Sale’, opened the drawer, examined the contents and closed it again. Before doing so, he stood apparently lost in thought for quite a couple of minutes, until he could hear distant voices from the stairhead.

However, Bache returned alone, and said that Mr Quince would be down in a minute.

‘I broke it to ’im,’ he went on, ‘and he took it as if I was passin’ the time of day. Never turned a blinkin’ ’air. If you ask me ’e’s as tough as the Office o’ Works and Board o’ Trade rolled into one!’

Johnny lit a cigarette and wondered how much longer the police would be. For the first time, the full implications of the death of Locksley impressed themselves upon him. The superintendent had come to see him about his possible connection with the gelignite gang; he had brought him down here for a drink and he had either committed suicide or had been murdered. Scotland Yard were going to be very difficult from now on, and it looked as if he was going to be involved with this case whether he liked it or not.

A sound outside the door cut short his reflections, and he swung round to see Mr Quince standing in the doorway. He was a man in the late seventies, neatly dressed in a dark blue suit but with, curiously enough, a fancy waistcoat. Johnny saw Quince take one look at the body then turn away again. After introducing himself, he led the old man to the settle where he sat facing away from the body.

‘As the dead man was a friend of mine, Mr Quince, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions, just for my private information. Of course, the police will probably ask you much the same questions, so it may help you to get things straight in your mind.’

‘I’ll be only too pleased,’ replied Quince with a little smile, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help very much. What is it you want to know?’

‘Well now,’ said Johnny, ‘I wonder if you could remember what time it was when you went to your room tonight.’

Mr Quince hesitated a moment, then said: ‘It was just on ten o’clock, because I remember thinking the place should be closed. I sat reading for a short while; I happened to come across a most interesting book about this part of the world—’

‘Quite so,’ put in Johnny suavely, hoping to head the old boy off what was obviously a favourite theme.

‘This affair must be quite a shock for you, Mr Washington,’ he went on. ‘The idea of a friend committing suicide is very distressing, an act of sheer desperation that is beyond the comprehension of many of us—’

‘Mr Quince,’ Johnny interrupted again, ‘what makes you so certain that this is suicide?’

For a moment he seemed a trifle bewildered.

‘What makes me so certain?’ he repeated in a puzzled tone. ‘What else can it be, Mr Washington? Unless, of course, Mr Bache shot your friend.’

There was a faint clatter from behind the bar as Harry Bache dropped a glass he had been wiping back into a bowl of dirty water.

‘’Ere! What are you gettin’ at?’

His voice sounded unduly harsh, and the back of his neck turned a deep red. He came from behind the bar, still clutching the towel. He drew himself up to the full extent of his five feet two inches and glowered down at Mr Quince.

‘What should I want to kill ’im for? Never set eyes on the cove in my life.’

Mr Quince stood up and peered at the body.

‘There doesn’t seem to be very much blood, Mr Bache,’ he announced a trifle wistfully.

‘There’s enough to give me the willies,’ retorted Harry Bache in a grating tone. ‘This ain’t no laughin’ matter, I can tell yer. Blokes ’ave lost their licence over affairs like this before today.’ A thought seemed to strike him and he swung round and confronted Quince.

‘If it comes to that, you might ’ave done it yourself. You wasn’t in bed when I knocked at your door.’

‘That’s quite true, Mr Bache,’ he said calmly. ‘I happened to be reading.’

‘Have you decided to stay here long?’ interrupted Johnny, conscious of the passing of the valuable minutes.

‘I haven’t quite made up my mind,’ replied Quince. ‘Most probably until the end of the week.’

This was the cue for Harry Bache to intervene once more.

‘You didn’t say nothing about that when you signed the register,’ he reminded him. ‘You said it was only for one night.’

But Mr Quince was in no way dismayed. He treated Harry Bache rather like a recalcitrant child.

‘It was my original intention to remain here only one night, but I found this part of the world so extremely interesting.’

‘You don’t say?’ exclaimed the landlord with heavy sarcasm.

‘Indeed I do. This inn must be at least five hundred years old—I refer to the outside walls of course—and the beams; they are quite magnificent.’

‘You can ’ave ’em,’ sniffed the landlord. ‘I been ’ere six months too long for my likin’.’

‘I’m sure it all seems quite snug,’ said Quince politely. ‘I should have thought you would get quite a number of tourists …’

Harry Bache did not deign to reply. He looked across at the body once again and shivered.

‘Them police are a long time gettin’ ’ere,’ he muttered. ‘Wish they’d ’urry up … it fair gives me the creeps to see ’im lyin’ there starin’ at nothin’.’ He turned to Washington.

‘Couldn’t we cover ’im up, sir? Just till the police come … it wouldn’t do no harm.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Johnny.

‘All right. I’ll get an old sheet from the linen cupboard,’ nodded Bache, as he hurried out of the room with some alacrity, obviously relieved to get away from the sight of the corpse. He went off upstairs, and they could hear him opening a cupboard.

Quince sat quite still for a minute without speaking. Then he slowly walked round the room, pausing for some seconds to peer at the body. Presently, he said:

‘Was he a very great friend of yours, Mr Washington?’

Johnny shrugged.

‘I hadn’t known him more than a year or so. But he was a good guy. We got along.’

Quince nodded.

‘I thought for a moment his face was familiar, but I see now he’s quite a stranger to me.’

‘His name was Locksley—he was a superintendent at Scotland Yard.’ Mr Quince was suitably impressed.

‘Scotland Yard?’ he repeated. ‘Dear, dear, that makes it even more serious, doesn’t it?’

‘It certainly is very serious,’ agreed Johnny.

Quince walked over to the door which led into the club-room and bent down to examine the floor.

‘Is it my imagination, Mr Washington, or is there a damp patch here by the door?’

He went over to him.

‘’M, it could be,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps somebody spilt their beer.’

‘There’s hardly been anyone in all evening,’ Quince told him. ‘This—er—moisture is quite recent—as if someone had cleaned up a mess of some sort.’

‘You mean,’ said Johnny quietly, ‘it could be blood.’

‘I’m not saying so,’ replied Quince hastily, ‘but it must be something.’

Johnny measured the distance from the body with his eye. It was quite ten feet … and if the blood came from the body why should anyone wish to clear it up before the police arrived? Johnny shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared pensively at the locked door.

When Harry Bache returned with the sheet and covered the body, Johnny said quite casually:

‘Have you got the key to that club-room handy?’

A shifty look came into the landlord’s eyes.

‘I’m not supposed to let anybody in there,’ he replied defensively.

‘Somebody goes in to clean the place?’ queried Johnny softly.

‘Of course they do—the missus does it. But it’s a private room. What d’you want to go in there for?’

‘Mr Quince and I thought we’d like to take a look round.’

Harry Bache was obviously reluctant to comply with. Johnny’s request.

‘There’s nothing to see in there I tell you—just a table and some chairs …’

‘In that case,’ said Johnny, ‘there can be no possible harm in our taking a look.’

He hesitated a moment, then said meaningly: ‘The police will almost certainly want to see in there.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘It’s fairly obvious I should have thought,’ said Johnny. ‘A murderer might have left some trace.’

‘Murderer!’ gasped Bache. ‘Mr Washington, you don’t think—’

‘I think you’d better give me that key,’ replied Johnny smoothly. Mumbling to himself, the landlord went over to the till, opened the drawer as far as it would go, and took out the key. Then he joined Johnny and Quince at the door of the club-room. The key fitted easily; he opened the door and switched on the light … As he had said, it was just a bare room as far as furniture was concerned, apart from a small table and about a dozen chairs. Opposite the door, a large cupboard occupied almost half the length of the wall. Johnny nodded in its direction.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked.

‘Oh, their robes and chains of office and all that sort of rubbish,’ sniffed Bache. ‘Like a lot of kids they are, playing dressing up.’

The room smelt strongly of disinfectant Johnny noticed as he crossed over to open the cupboard. As the landlord had said, it was full of shapeless robes and decorations. Meanwhile, Quince had crossed to the fireplace and was stooping to examine the floor again. Washington joined him at once, and turned to Harry Bache.

‘When did you say this room was last used?’ he asked.

‘Why—on club night—last Tuesday,’ said Bache.

‘Then how do you account for this damp patch on the floor?’

Bache was on the defensive again.

‘There’s always damp coming through the floors in this place,’ he almost snarled. ‘I can’t help that, can I?’

Johnny looked round for an ally in Quince, but found the old man studying an insignia mounted above the fireplace.

‘Founded in 1756,’ he was murmuring to himself, ‘how very interesting … Mr Washington, have you seen this? It’s a sort of coat of arms…’

He went across and read the inscription under his breath.

‘Loyal Antediluvian Order of Bison … Grey Moose Lodge 1478 … Grey Moose …’

CHAPTER IV
A JOB FOR THE POLICE

JOHNNY looked round cautiously, somewhat apprehensive that his low whisper might have been overheard. But Quince gave no hint of having noticed anything unusual, and Harry Bache was moving over towards the door, as if to hurry them out.

‘I must remember to make a note to look into these ancient orders,’ Quince was saying. ‘I’m sure one could write a whole book about them. I’m quite certain it has never been done before.’ He turned to the landlord.

‘Can you tell me who runs this—er—lodge?’ he asked him. Harry Bache sniffed.

‘Yes, it’s a feller named Dimthorpe—keeps a greengrocer’s in the village. And you won’t get much out of him,’ he added in a surly tone.

While Quince gossiped to the landlord, Johnny peered at the shield above the fireplace, with its second-rate reproduction of a moose’s head and somewhat faded gilt lettering. Of course, it might be just a coincidence that the gelignite gang had some connection with a Grey Moose Lodge—there must be scores of others in various parts of the country. But he could not help feeling that Superintendent Locksley’s death had some connection with this room. Maybe he had been inside himself and seen someone; Harry Bache could have been lying about the place always being locked. He suddenly realized that Quince was talking to him.

‘May I ask if you have any information about the history of these ancient orders?’ he was asking. Johnny came back to earth with a start.

‘Me, sir? Why not very much I guess. I went to one or two Elks’ dinners when I was in the States, but I can’t say I ever really belonged.’

‘What exactly is the purpose behind these organizations?’

Johnny shook his head.

‘You have me there, brother. I had some good times with the Elks, but I don’t remember anyone performing any good deeds.’

A fleeting expression of annoyance flitted across Quince’s features, but he obviously had no intention of abandoning the idea.

‘There must be some source where one can obtain such information,’ he mused. ‘After all, secret societies are against the law … at least I think they are … Or would that be one of those Defence Regulations?’

Johnny broke open a new package of Chesterfields and offered Quince one. The old man refused, and Johnny lit one for himself. He didn’t know what to make of this old boy, but he was hardly a sinister type. All the same, the strangest people got mixed up in murder, folks who looked as if the sight of the merest scratch would send them into a dead faint.

Johnny was suddenly conscious of a car approaching in the distance; its engine came nearer, roared for a few seconds then stopped. Two doors opened and slammed and there were footsteps outside. Harry Bache hurried off to open the front door, and Johnny and Mr Quince returned to the saloon, closing the club-room door behind them.

Almost at once, they heard voices, the suave tones of Doctor Randall mingling with the richer country dialects of Sergeant Hubble and the constable with him. It seemed that the doctor had picked them up in his car, and there had been a slight delay in locating the constable. Johnny knew them both by sight, but had never done more than pass the time of day with them.

While Doctor Randall examined the body, the sergeant questioned Harry Bache, the constable slowly taking down his replies in long-hand. The sergeant had already been acquainted with the dead man’s identity, and fairly bristled with self-importance. Year after year he had patiently awaited the call to Scotland Yard, the big assignment, the congratulatory pat on the shoulder from the Commissioner. Now his probation was over. Scotland Yard had come to him!

Sergeant Hubble was out to show his superiors just how a job like this should be handled; all the evidence very much to the point, nothing overlooked, and no nonsense from any of the witnesses! This case was going to be run exactly as Sergeant Hubble wanted it.

While the constable took down one or two minor details from Harry Bache, the sergeant strolled across to where Doctor Randall was kneeling beside the body.

‘Ah, revolver in the left hand,’ noted Hubble at a quick glance, making a mental note of the fact. The doctor had pulled away the sheet and began his examination, first asking for as much light as possible. Harry Bache went out into the passage and pressed down two more switches. Having made certain that there were no other visible signs of violence upon the body, Randall turned his attention to the head wound which was undoubtedly the cause of the death.

Sergeant Hubble began to take a few notes on his own account, concerning the position of the body in relation to the rest of the furniture, a description of the Luger clasped in the dead man’s left hand, and the exact position of the wound in the head.

Apparently, he did not leap to the conclusion that Locksley had committed suicide, for he sent his constable to make a thorough investigation of the other rooms for trace of a possible intruder.

Meanwhile Johnny Washington and Quince sat patiently at the far corner of the bar, awaiting their turn to be questioned. For some reason best known to himself, the sergeant had apparently decided to defer this until the doctor had completed his examination. From time to time Quince went on prattling, half to himself, about the history of friendly societies, craftsmen’s guilds and similar institutions, while Johnny puffed moodily at his cigarette and said very little.

At length, Doctor Randall replaced his instruments in his worn attaché case and rose somewhat painfully to his feet.

‘The man has been dead nearly half an hour I should say,’ he announced. ‘He must have died almost instantaneously. The bullet penetrated the brain.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘Would you like me to make a full written report?’

‘If you’d be so good,’ nodded Hubble. ‘The police surgeon won’t be back for a few days; it was lucky you were available, or I’d have had to telephone Sevenoaks.’

The doctor signalled to Harry Bache and asked for a strong whisky, which was very quickly poured out. With a keen sense of his responsibilities, the sergeant refused a drink. However, Johnny accepted one, and while he was sipping it the sergeant came over to him.

‘I understand that the deceased was a friend of yours, Mr Washington,’ he began respectfully.

‘Not exactly a friend,’ returned Johnny with equal politeness. ‘Let’s say a close acquaintance. He’d come down to see me on a matter of business.’

The sergeant’s bushy eyebrows were raised at that.

‘You mean Scotland Yard business, Mr Washington?’

‘That is so.’

Hubble bit his pencil, hesitating how to frame his next question.

‘Could that business have had any connection with this unfortunate affair?’ he asked, with a certain deliberation.

‘It could have,’ replied Johnny, his tone remaining as non-committal as before. ‘That is, if this turns out to be a case of murder.’

‘Then you don’t think it might be suicide?’ persisted Hubble somewhat portentously.

Johnny shook his head.

‘The superintendent seemed like the last man in the world to commit suicide.’

‘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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