Francis Durbridge - Beware of Johnny Washington - Based on ‘Send for Paul Temple’

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.