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

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