Читать книгу Beware of Johnny Washington: Based on ‘Send for Paul Temple’ - Francis Durbridge, Francis Durbridge - Страница 10

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?’

‘Not to my knowledge. They’ll tell you more about that at the Yard, I dare say.’

The sergeant paused to make several notes, and Johnny sipped his whisky. Quince sat with an air of polite attention, as if he were listening to a lecture.

‘Did you come here for any particular reason tonight?’ continued the sergeant.

‘The usual reason,’ answered Johnny with a faint grin. ‘I’d run out of whisky at home, and we wanted a nightcap before closing time. I stayed to clean up the plugs in my car and the superintendent came in ahead of me to order the drinks. Mr Bache here has told you the rest.’

‘All this happened just before ten o’clock, I take it?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Johnny. ‘About five to, I should think.’

The sergeant jotted down some further notes, then turned to Harry Bache.

‘I’d like you to go over your statement again, Mr Bache,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Just to make sure that nothing has been left out and so the doctor can hear it.’

With a certain reluctance, Harry Bache agreed.

‘I was standin’ behind the bar ’ere doin’ me crossword puzzle when this fellow comes in and orders a couple of whiskies and says put ’em down to Mr Washington. Then ’e asks me if I could change ’im a quid. so I goes off into the sitting-room to get the money. When I gets back I sees him lyin’ there, just like ’e is now.’

‘You are quite sure there was no one else in any of these rooms?’

‘Only the missus in the back, and Mr Quince upstairs. I never saw anyone else.’

‘And you heard nothing?’

‘Not a sound—there’s a silencer thing on that gun,’ added the landlord confidentially. ‘They only makes a noise like a kid’s popgun.’

‘How d’you know that?’ snapped the sergeant.

‘I goes to the pictures when I get the chance!’ retorted the landlord with a certain acerbity.

‘All right, there’s no need to be funny,’ growled Hubble. ‘We got enough trouble here as it is, without you puttin’ in any back answers. Don’t forget you’re the most important witness, and I’ll warn you that you’ll have to keep your wits about you.’

‘I’ve told you the truth, and that’s all there is to it,’ replied Harry Bache obstinately. ‘You know as much about it as I do now.’

The sergeant looked round the room.

‘Is this gentleman staying here?’ he inquired.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Johnny. ‘This is Mr Quince.’

For the first time the sergeant became really conscious of the keen brown eyes of the gentleman in question. He crossed over to Quince, and stood with his arms akimbo.

‘Well, sir, can you help us to throw a little light on this affair?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sergeant,’ replied Quince meeting his gaze quite confidently. ‘This sort of thing is rather outside my province, you know. In fact, I can’t recall ever having set eyes on a dead man before in my life.’

‘Where were you when this happened?’ interposed the sergeant, to forestall any possible reminiscences.

‘In my room reading. Mr Bache came up to tell me what had occurred, and naturally I was extremely upset.’

Harry Bache sniffed. ‘You didn’t look very upset to me.’

Quince turned to him with an injured air.

‘One does not always display one’s emotions to strangers,’ he murmured. ‘You may remember my saying that I would follow you downstairs in a few minutes. I needed a little time to collect myself.’

There was something slightly pathetic about Quince’s dignified restraint, and Johnny found himself feeling rather sorry for the poor old boy. At the same time, he had to admit that Quince appeared comparatively unruffled and dispassionate about the tragedy that had just been enacted. He imagined that he was a retired school teacher, for he was treating the sergeant’s inquiries with the same patience one would display towards an over-persistent pupil. Nevertheless, the sergeant found him a far more agreeable witness than the landlord, for he made cool and accurate replies to his questions, with no hint of blustering or concealment.

‘How long have you been staying here, Mr Quince?’ he inquired.

‘I arrived yesterday afternoon—I am making a short tour of these parts.’

‘Could I have your full name and permanent address?’ he asked.

‘Horatio Quince, 17 Quadrant Row, Bayswater, London,’ he announced, and the sergeant wrote it down very solemnly.

‘You may be needed as a witness at the inquest, Mr Quince. I’ll let you know about that later, when I’ve had a word with the inspector.’

‘Have you any idea when that will be?’

‘Probably tomorrow afternoon.’

At that moment the constable returned to report that he had discovered nothing unusual in any other room in the house, and that he had made a thorough search of any possible hiding-places both inside and outside.

The sergeant was frankly puzzled. He was very dubious that an exalted official of Scotland Yard would commit suicide in a small country inn: on the other hand, nobody seemed to have seen any murderer. He went over to Johnny and checked that he had seen no one leave from the back of the inn while he had been in the car park. And the landlord had seen no one else enter or leave through the front. All the same, he was not entirely satisfied about Harry Bache, and presently tackled him again.

‘Now, Mr Bache, I want to get this little matter cleared up. Think carefully—could anyone have come in here while you were in the back room getting that change?’

Bache rubbed the back of his head.

‘Yes,’ he decided. ‘They could ’ave come in ’ere either from upstairs or the street.’

‘What about the back door?’

‘I reckon I’d ’ave ’eard anyone who came in that way. The door sticks and makes a jarrin’ sort of noise when you open it.’

‘And you didn’t hear anyone come downstairs?’

‘I didn’t hear anyone,’ replied Bache, ‘though I’m not sayin’ anyone might not ’ave crept down very quiet like.’ He looked meaningly in the direction of Quince, who was, however, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, apparently quite unconscious of any insinuation. Somewhat baffled, the sergeant instructed his colleague to telephone for an ambulance to take the body to the mortuary, then recollected himself and abruptly cancelled the order. The inspector would probably want to see everything exactly as it was; he was inclined to be fussy and unwilling to accept a report from an inferior officer, no matter how detailed or reliable it might be. Besides, he might even decide to call in Scotland Yard.

Sergeant Hubble, somewhat lamely, ordered the constable to telephone Inspector Martin at Sevenoaks. It would have been nice to be able to present the inspector with an open and shut case, but things very rarely worked out that way in real life; only in those cheap thrillers his fourteen-year-old son was always reading. Anyhow, there wasn’t much more he could do, for he was certain that if this was a case of murder, the person responsible was no longer on the premises.

There might be some sort of clue in the way of fingerprints, but they were going to take a bit of sorting out in a public room of that sort which was used by all and sundry for eight hours a day. The ‘smudges’ on the gun itself would almost certainly prove to be those of the dead man.

The constable returned to say that Inspector Martin would be at the station in twenty minutes, and would the sergeant meet him there.

‘I’ll run you back if you like, Sergeant,’ volunteered Johnny, and the sergeant gratefully accepted the offer. Johnny went off to start his car, saying he would pick the sergeant up outside the front door. Hubble gave instructions to the constable, who was to remain in charge during his absence, then turned to thank Doctor Randall for his help. The doctor cut short Hubble’s apologies for troubling him.

‘I’m only too glad to have been able to give a hand, Sergeant. It reminded me of old times on the Gold Coast. I remember once when I—’

But the appearance of Washington cut short his reminiscences, and as he was going the sergeant turned to speak to Quince.

‘It will be all right for you to go back to your room, sir,’ he said respectfully. ‘I doubt if the inspector will want to see you tonight.’

Quince permitted himself a circumspect little smile.

‘Thank you, Sergeant, and you, too, Mr Washington,’ he murmured gratefully and wished everyone good night. Johnny smiled politely and watched him until he was out of sight. Quite frankly, Quince puzzled him. He hardly looked a sinister type, but you could never tell with these odd eccentric little characters.

Johnny and the sergeant made a move towards the door, but Harry Bache called after them.

‘What am I supposed to do about that?’ He indicated the body. ‘We can’t just leave ’im ’ere all night.’

The sergeant waved aside the interruption.

‘I’ll attend to that presently. Pearman will look after things here till I get back.’ He turned to the constable and ordered him to keep a close watch on the front door.

‘Don’t let anyone in.’

‘You want me to wait and see the inspector?’ queried Doctor Randall.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, Doctor. Just a formality.’

‘I’ll be delighted.’

The doctor looked as if he meant it, for he had settled down in the most comfortable chair with another glass of whisky. Outside, the engine of Johnny’s saloon roared for a moment, doors slammed, gears changed and the sound of the car slowly receded into the night.

What seemed to be an oppressive silence fell upon the house. The constable went over to the body, pulled the sheet further over the head, and perched on a stool.

A minute or two went by, then Harry Bache suddenly said: ‘Why don’t we go into the back room? There’s still a good fire—looks more cheerful.’

‘Good idea!’ approved the doctor, getting to his feet.

‘What about you, Mr Pearman?’ asked the landlord.

The policeman shook his head.

‘I think I’d better stop in here if you don’t mind.’

‘Please yourself. We’ll be out there if you want us.’

Harry Bache and the doctor went out along the short passage to the little back sitting-room, where a small but lively fire was burning between the two old-fashioned hobs. The doctor set his glass, still half-full, on the table, and made himself comfortable in a well-worn rocking chair, while Harry Bache closed the door with some care.

‘Where’s your wife?’ asked the doctor, as soon as he was settled. Harry Bache made an upward gesture with a grimy thumb.

‘Packed ’er off to bed out of the way,’ he answered. They began to talk in low voices.

‘I don’t like this business, Doc,’ said Harry Bache, in a hoarse, apprehensive voice. ‘I ain’t never been mixed up with anything like this before.’ His Cockney origin became more apparent than ever in his agitation.

‘Don’t be a damned fool!’ snapped Randall in low tones. ‘Everything’s turned out all right. You’ve only got to keep your wits about you.’ His face was redder than usual, possibly because of the quantity of whisky he had drunk that evening. Harry Bache leaned against the mantelpiece and looked into the fire.

‘It’s tricky, Doc. I can’t think what the devil brought ’im ’ere—of all places. D’you think ’e’d found out anything?’

‘Well, nobody’ll know the answer to that now,’ replied Randall grimly.

‘It’s a nasty business,’ repeated Bache. ‘I don’t like the looks of that Mr Washington. E’s a queer bird, if you ask me.’

‘Yes,’ nodded the doctor. ‘I’ve read one or two things about him in the papers; we’ll have to keep an eye on him.’

‘What’s ’e want to come and live in these parts for?’ demanded Bache curiously.

‘He’s very fond of fishing.’

‘That’s what he says. But I don’t trust ’im. I’ve got a feeling ’e’s up to something.’

‘Pull yourself together,’ said Randall, taking a gulp at his whisky. ‘It’s quite simple. Locksley came down to see him because of that card left behind on the Gloucester job.’

‘Card? What card? I don’t know anything about—’

‘Skip it, and give me another drink. You don’t have to worry about Johnny Washington. We’ll look after him.’

The landlord opened a cupboard, took out a bottle and filled two glasses.

‘I thought for a minute ’e’d got wise about the club-room—’e asked to go inside—and found a damp patch on the floor, where I wiped up the—’

‘You damn fool! What did you want to let him go in for!’ The doctor was on his feet now, towering above the little innkeeper.

‘I ’ad to let ’im in. ’E said the police would want to go and ’ave a look round … it’d ’ave looked fishy if I’d tried to keep ’im out.’

The doctor sat down again.

‘He never mentioned anything about the club-room,’ he reflected. ‘Maybe he didn’t attach any importance to whatever he saw there.’

‘Anyhow, ’e can’t prove nothing,’ nodded the innkeeper. ‘I’m the only witness, and I got my story.’

‘Of course you have,’ rallied the doctor. ‘There’ll be no trouble.’ For a minute or two they drank in silence. Then Bache said suddenly:

‘’Eard anything about the next job?’

‘Yes,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Brighton.’

‘Ah …’ Harry Bache nodded several times. ‘Plenty of stuff down there if you know where to lay ’ands on it.’

‘It’s practically settled,’ Randall told him. ‘We’ll be meeting on Thursday.’

‘Not here?’ queried the landlord in some alarm.

‘Why not? This business will be all over by then. It’ll be safe as anywhere.’ The doctor drained his glass for the ninth time that evening.

‘This is a big job at Brighton,’ he went on. ‘One of the biggest we’ve taken on yet, and we’ve got to leave nothing to chance.’ He got up and went over to the door, opened it a few inches and closed it again before adding in a low tone:

‘I had the tip this morning that Grey Moose may be coming down here himself.’