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

Moose,’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘It might mean anything … some sort of password maybe …’

      ‘It doesn’t suggest anything to you?’ queried Locksley, eyeing him closely.

      ‘Not a thing—except that I seem to have seen the words somewhere—can’t call it to mind right now. It might be some sort of trade name.’

      ‘We’ve been into all that,’ nodded Locksley. ‘But you’ll agree that when two dying men say the same thing it must have some sort of significance, specially as they were both suspected of being linked with the gelignite gang.’

      ‘You got something there,’ agreed Johnny thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could help you, brother, but I guess I’ve had enough of the crime racket to last me for a while. All I want to do is mooch around, a little fishing, a trip to Town once in a way, a lot of relaxing and a drink at the local … and that reminds me; we better get going if we don’t want to be shut out.’

      He fumbled for his shoes and put them on with a certain amount of effort.

      ‘How far is this pub?’ asked Locksley.

      ‘It won’t take us five minutes in the car,’ Johnny told him. ‘I think you’ll like the Kingfisher—it’s a fairly old inn—oak beams and all that—dates back quite a way. We Americans are always suckers for tradition.’

      ‘You’re also suckers for Scotch whisky,’ said Locksley with a faint smile as they went out.

      Johnny’s car was an enormous American roadster, but the engine seemed to be cold, and missed on two of its cylinders all the way to the inn.

      ‘I guess the plugs are getting clogged up,’ frowned Johnny as they drew up in front of the Kingfisher Inn. ‘I’d better run her round to the back and take a quick look at ’em. It won’t take a minute; you go in and order the drinks—be sure to tell Bache they’re on me.’

      Locksley got out and Johnny ran the car into the little car park at the back of the inn, where he manœuvred it until the bonnet was exactly under the solitary electric light. Then he took out the offending plugs and carefully cleaned and replaced them. He was a little longer than he had anticipated because an elusive blob of grease on one of the plugs was more than usually obstinate.

      He had replaced the bonnet and was just about to switch off all the lights, when there was a shout from inside the Kingfisher. Then a door opened and there was a sound of running feet. Washington immediately recognized the diminutive figure of Harry Bache, the landlord of the inn.

      ‘I thought it was your car, Mr Washington,’ he gasped breathlessly.

      ‘Anything wrong, Harry?’ asked Johnny noting his obvious distress.

      ‘Was that feller with you—the bloke what just come in?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Didn’t he tell you to put the drinks down to me?’

      ‘That’s right—but I was a bit suspicious like, as I’d never seen him before. And then, while my back was turned, it happened … My God, it’s awful!’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘Why he … shot himself!’ The little innkeeper’s eyes seemed to bulge right out of his head, and he clutched at the mascot on the front of Washington’s car as if he were about to faint.

       CHAPTER III

       GREY MOOSE

      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