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

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.