Beware of Johnny Washington: Based on ‘Send for Paul Temple’

‘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.

However, Bache returned alone, and said that Mr Quince would be down in a minute.

‘I broke it to ’im,’ he went on, ‘and he took it as if I was passin’ the time of day. Never turned a blinkin’ ’air. If you ask me ’e’s as tough as the Office o’ Works and Board o’ Trade rolled into one!’

Johnny lit a cigarette and wondered how much longer the police would be. For the first time, the full implications of the death of Locksley impressed themselves upon him. The superintendent had come to see him about his possible connection with the gelignite gang; he had brought him down here for a drink and he had either committed suicide or had been murdered. Scotland Yard were going to be very difficult from now on, and it looked as if he was going to be involved with this case whether he liked it or not.

A sound outside the door cut short his reflections, and he swung round to see Mr Quince standing in the doorway. He was a man in the late seventies, neatly dressed in a dark blue suit but with, curiously enough, a fancy waistcoat. Johnny saw Quince take one look at the body then turn away again. After introducing himself, he led the old man to the settle where he sat facing away from the body.

‘As the dead man was a friend of mine, Mr Quince, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions, just for my private information. Of course, the police will probably ask you much the same questions, so it may help you to get things straight in your mind.’

‘I’ll be only too pleased,’ replied Quince with a little smile, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t help very much. What is it you want to know?’

‘Well now,’ said Johnny, ‘I wonder if you could remember what time it was when you went to your room tonight.’

Mr Quince hesitated a moment, then said: ‘It was just on ten o’clock, because I remember thinking the place should be closed. I sat reading for a short while; I happened to come across a most interesting book about this part of the world—’

‘Quite so,’ put in Johnny suavely, hoping to head the old boy off what was obviously a favourite theme.

‘This affair must be quite a shock for you, Mr Washington,’ he went on. ‘The idea of a friend committing suicide is very distressing, an act of sheer desperation that is beyond the comprehension of many of us—’

‘Mr Quince,’ Johnny interrupted again, ‘what makes you so certain that this is suicide?’

For a moment he seemed a trifle bewildered.

‘What makes me so certain?’ he repeated in a puzzled tone. ‘What else can it be, Mr Washington? Unless, of course, Mr Bache shot your friend.’

There was a faint clatter from behind the bar as Harry Bache dropped a glass he had been wiping back into a bowl of dirty water.

‘’Ere! What are you gettin’ at?’

His voice sounded unduly harsh, and the back of his neck turned a deep red. He came from behind the bar, still clutching the towel. He drew himself up to the full extent of his five feet two inches and glowered down at Mr Quince.

‘What should I want to kill ’im for? Never set eyes on the cove in my life.’

Mr Quince stood up and peered at the body.

‘There doesn’t seem to be very much blood, Mr Bache,’ he announced a trifle wistfully.

‘There’s enough to give me the willies,’ retorted Harry Bache in a grating tone. ‘This ain’t no laughin’ matter, I can tell yer. Blokes ’ave lost their licence over affairs like this before today.’ A thought seemed to strike him and he swung round and confronted Quince.

‘If it comes to that, you might ’ave done it yourself. You wasn’t in bed when I knocked at your door.’

‘That’s quite true, Mr Bache,’ he said calmly. ‘I happened to be reading.’

‘Have you decided to stay here long?’ interrupted Johnny, conscious of the passing of the valuable minutes.

‘I haven’t quite made up my mind,’ replied Quince. ‘Most probably until the end of the week.’

This was the cue for Harry Bache to intervene once more.

‘You didn’t say nothing about that when you signed the register,’ he reminded him. ‘You said it was only for one night.’

But Mr Quince was in no way dismayed. He treated Harry Bache rather like a recalcitrant child.

‘It was my original intention to remain here only one night, but I found this part of the world so extremely interesting.’

‘You don’t say?’ exclaimed the landlord with heavy sarcasm.

‘Indeed I do. This inn must be at least five hundred years old—I refer to the outside walls of course—and the beams; they are quite magnificent.’

‘You can ’ave ’em,’ sniffed the landlord. ‘I been ’ere six months too long for my likin’.’

‘I’m sure it all seems quite snug,’ said Quince politely. ‘I should have thought you would get quite a number of tourists …’

Harry Bache did not deign to reply. He looked across at the body once again and shivered.

‘Them police are a long time gettin’ ’ere,’ he muttered. ‘Wish they’d ’urry up … it fair gives me the creeps to see ’im lyin’ there starin’ at nothin’.’ He turned to Washington.

‘Couldn’t we cover ’im up, sir? Just till the police come … it wouldn’t do no harm.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Johnny.

‘All right. I’ll get an old sheet from the linen cupboard,’ nodded Bache, as he hurried out of the room with some alacrity, obviously relieved to get away from the sight of the corpse. He went off upstairs, and they could hear him opening a cupboard.

Quince sat quite still for a minute without speaking. Then he slowly walked round the room, pausing for some seconds to peer at the body. Presently, he said:

‘Was he a very great friend of yours, Mr Washington?’

Johnny shrugged.

‘I hadn’t known him more than a year or so. But he was a good guy. We got along.’

Quince nodded.

‘I thought for a moment his face was familiar, but I see now he’s quite a stranger to me.’

‘His name was Locksley—he was a superintendent at Scotland Yard.’ Mr Quince was suitably impressed.

‘Scotland Yard?’ he repeated. ‘Dear, dear, that makes it even more serious, doesn’t it?’

‘It certainly is very serious,’ agreed Johnny.

Quince walked over to the door which led into the club-room and bent down to examine the floor.

‘Is it my imagination, Mr Washington, or is there a damp patch here by the door?’

He went over to him.

‘’M, it could be,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps somebody spilt their beer.’

‘There’s hardly been anyone in all evening,’ Quince told him. ‘This—er—moisture is quite recent—as if someone had cleaned up a mess of some sort.’

‘You mean,’ said Johnny quietly, ‘it could be blood.’

‘I’m not saying so,’ replied Quince hastily, ‘but it must be something.’

Johnny measured the distance from the body with his eye. It was quite ten feet … and if the blood came from the body why should anyone wish to clear it up before the police arrived? Johnny shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared pensively at the locked door.

When Harry Bache returned with the sheet and covered the body, Johnny said quite casually:

‘Have you got the key to that club-room handy?’

A shifty look came into the landlord’s eyes.

‘I’m not supposed to let anybody in there,’ he replied defensively.

‘Somebody goes in to clean the place?’ queried Johnny softly.

‘Of course they do—the missus does it. But it’s a private room. What d’you want to go in there for?’

‘Mr Quince and I thought we’d like to take a look round.’

Harry Bache was obviously reluctant to comply with. Johnny’s request.

‘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 …’

CHAPTER IV

A JOB FOR THE POLICE

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.

At length, Doctor Randall replaced his instruments in his worn attaché case and rose somewhat painfully to his feet.

‘The man has been dead nearly half an hour I should say,’ he announced. ‘He must have died almost instantaneously. The bullet penetrated the brain.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘Would you like me to make a full written report?’

‘If you’d be so good,’ nodded Hubble. ‘The police surgeon won’t be back for a few days; it was lucky you were available, or I’d have had to telephone Sevenoaks.’

The doctor signalled to Harry Bache and asked for a strong whisky, which was very quickly poured out. With a keen sense of his responsibilities, the sergeant refused a drink. However, Johnny accepted one, and while he was sipping it the sergeant came over to him.

‘I understand that the deceased was a friend of yours, Mr Washington,’ he began respectfully.

‘Not exactly a friend,’ returned Johnny with equal politeness. ‘Let’s say a close acquaintance. He’d come down to see me on a matter of business.’

The sergeant’s bushy eyebrows were raised at that.

‘You mean Scotland Yard business, Mr Washington?’

‘That is so.’

Hubble bit his pencil, hesitating how to frame his next question.

‘Could that business have had any connection with this unfortunate affair?’ he asked, with a certain deliberation.

‘It could have,’ replied Johnny, his tone remaining as non-committal as before. ‘That is, if this turns out to be a case of murder.’

‘Then you don’t think it might be suicide?’ persisted Hubble somewhat portentously.

Johnny shook his head.

‘The superintendent seemed like the last man in the world to commit suicide.’

‘You don’t happen to know if he’s been suffering from ill health?’