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

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.