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

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.’

‘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.