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

‘There’s nothing to see in there I tell you—just a table and some chairs …’

‘In that case,’ said Johnny, ‘there can be no possible harm in our taking a look.’

He hesitated a moment, then said meaningly: ‘The police will almost certainly want to see in there.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘It’s fairly obvious I should have thought,’ said Johnny. ‘A murderer might have left some trace.’

‘Murderer!’ gasped Bache. ‘Mr Washington, you don’t think—’

‘I think you’d better give me that key,’ replied Johnny smoothly. Mumbling to himself, the landlord went over to the till, opened the drawer as far as it would go, and took out the key. Then he joined Johnny and Quince at the door of the club-room. The key fitted easily; he opened the door and switched on the light … As he had said, it was just a bare room as far as furniture was concerned, apart from a small table and about a dozen chairs. Opposite the door, a large cupboard occupied almost half the length of the wall. Johnny nodded in its direction.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked.

‘Oh, their robes and chains of office and all that sort of rubbish,’ sniffed Bache. ‘Like a lot of kids they are, playing dressing up.’

The room smelt strongly of disinfectant Johnny noticed as he crossed over to open the cupboard. As the landlord had said, it was full of shapeless robes and decorations. Meanwhile, Quince had crossed to the fireplace and was stooping to examine the floor again. Washington joined him at once, and turned to Harry Bache.

‘When did you say this room was last used?’ he asked.

‘Why—on club night—last Tuesday,’ said Bache.

‘Then how do you account for this damp patch on the floor?’

Bache was on the defensive again.

‘There’s always damp coming through the floors in this place,’ he almost snarled. ‘I can’t help that, can I?’

Johnny looked round for an ally in Quince, but found the old man studying an insignia mounted above the fireplace.

‘Founded in 1756,’ he was murmuring to himself, ‘how very interesting … Mr Washington, have you seen this? It’s a sort of coat of arms…’

He went across and read the inscription under his breath.

‘Loyal Antediluvian Order of Bison … Grey Moose Lodge 1478 … Grey Moose …’

JOHNNY looked round cautiously, somewhat apprehensive that his low whisper might have been overheard. But Quince gave no hint of having noticed anything unusual, and Harry Bache was moving over towards the door, as if to hurry them out.

‘I must remember to make a note to look into these ancient orders,’ Quince was saying. ‘I’m sure one could write a whole book about them. I’m quite certain it has never been done before.’ He turned to the landlord.

‘Can you tell me who runs this—er—lodge?’ he asked him. Harry Bache sniffed.

‘Yes, it’s a feller named Dimthorpe—keeps a greengrocer’s in the village. And you won’t get much out of him ,’ he added in a surly tone.

While Quince gossiped to the landlord, Johnny peered at the shield above the fireplace, with its second-rate reproduction of a moose’s head and somewhat faded gilt lettering. Of course, it might be just a coincidence that the gelignite gang had some connection with a Grey Moose Lodge—there must be scores of others in various parts of the country. But he could not help feeling that Superintendent Locksley’s death had some connection with this room. Maybe he had been inside himself and seen someone; Harry Bache could have been lying about the place always being locked. He suddenly realized that Quince was talking to him.

‘May I ask if you have any information about the history of these ancient orders?’ he was asking. Johnny came back to earth with a start.

‘Me, sir? Why not very much I guess. I went to one or two Elks’ dinners when I was in the States, but I can’t say I ever really belonged.’

‘What exactly is the purpose behind these organizations?’

Johnny shook his head.

‘You have me there, brother. I had some good times with the Elks, but I don’t remember anyone performing any good deeds.’

A fleeting expression of annoyance flitted across Quince’s features, but he obviously had no intention of abandoning the idea.

‘There must be some source where one can obtain such information,’ he mused. ‘After all, secret societies are against the law … at least I think they are … Or would that be one of those Defence Regulations?’

Johnny broke open a new package of Chesterfields and offered Quince one. The old man refused, and Johnny lit one for himself. He didn’t know what to make of this old boy, but he was hardly a sinister type. All the same, the strangest people got mixed up in murder, folks who looked as if the sight of the merest scratch would send them into a dead faint.

Johnny was suddenly conscious of a car approaching in the distance; its engine came nearer, roared for a few seconds then stopped. Two doors opened and slammed and there were footsteps outside. Harry Bache hurried off to open the front door, and Johnny and Mr Quince returned to the saloon, closing the club-room door behind them.

Almost at once, they heard voices, the suave tones of Doctor Randall mingling with the richer country dialects of Sergeant Hubble and the constable with him. It seemed that the doctor had picked them up in his car, and there had been a slight delay in locating the constable. Johnny knew them both by sight, but had never done more than pass the time of day with them.

While Doctor Randall examined the body, the sergeant questioned Harry Bache, the constable slowly taking down his replies in long-hand. The sergeant had already been acquainted with the dead man’s identity, and fairly bristled with self-importance. Year after year he had patiently awaited the call to Scotland Yard, the big assignment, the congratulatory pat on the shoulder from the Commissioner. Now his probation was over. Scotland Yard had come to him!

Sergeant Hubble was out to show his superiors just how a job like this should be handled; all the evidence very much to the point, nothing overlooked, and no nonsense from any of the witnesses! This case was going to be run exactly as Sergeant Hubble wanted it.

While the constable took down one or two minor details from Harry Bache, the sergeant strolled across to where Doctor Randall was kneeling beside the body.

‘Ah, revolver in the left hand,’ noted Hubble at a quick glance, making a mental note of the fact. The doctor had pulled away the sheet and began his examination, first asking for as much light as possible. Harry Bache went out into the passage and pressed down two more switches. Having made certain that there were no other visible signs of violence upon the body, Randall turned his attention to the head wound which was undoubtedly the cause of the death.

Sergeant Hubble began to take a few notes on his own account, concerning the position of the body in relation to the rest of the furniture, a description of the Luger clasped in the dead man’s left hand, and the exact position of the wound in the head.

Apparently, he did not leap to the conclusion that Locksley had committed suicide, for he sent his constable to make a thorough investigation of the other rooms for trace of a possible intruder.

Meanwhile Johnny Washington and Quince sat patiently at the far corner of the bar, awaiting their turn to be questioned. For some reason best known to himself, the sergeant had apparently decided to defer this until the doctor had completed his examination. From time to time Quince went on prattling, half to himself, about the history of friendly societies, craftsmen’s guilds and similar institutions, while Johnny puffed moodily at his cigarette and said very little.