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

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.’