Beware of Johnny Washington

by Francis Durbridge

  She was busily making pencil notes on the letters for the benefit of her secretary when her telephone rang and a familiar voice said:

  ‘Miss Glyn—remember me?’

  Her face lit up as she tried to speak in a level tone.

  ‘Of course, Mr Washington. I was wondering if you’d phone.’

  ‘You’re pretty busy, I guess?’

  ‘Pretty busy.’

  ‘No time to help cement the ties of Anglo-American relations?’

  ‘It rather depends what that involves.’ There was a flicker of amusement around her mobile mouth.

  ‘I thought maybe we could have lunch some place,’ he suggested. ‘It’d do you good to get away from the grindstone.’

  She considered this for a moment, then said: ‘Where d’you think?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ he replied after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I’d like to make it Sevenoaks. I have special reasons for wanting to stick around these parts for a day or two, and there are some things I want to talk to you about. Can you make it?’

  ‘I could be down there about one-thirty, if that suits you.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. There’s an hotel just along from the Post Office called the Star and Garter. You can’t miss it. I’ll be waiting in the lounge. Sure you can make it O.K.?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she promised, pushing the stack of letters into a folder with one hand as she replaced the receiver with the other.

  Verity knew that the art of getting into the depths of Kent with maximum speed and minimum wear and tear on nerves lay in choosing a route which avoided the London tram-lines as far as possible, and half an hour later she was following her own favourite course through the leafy roads of Dulwich. It was a sunny day, with a cool breeze stirring the treetops, and there were signs of activity on many of the sports fields she passed as the groundsmen made their preparations for the afternoon.

  She reached the Star and Garter with just over five minutes to spare, and ran her car into the car park at the back of the hotel.

  In the lounge, Johnny was talking to an elderly farmer, whom he deserted as she came through the door.

  ‘Right on time,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘I guess you’re just about the first punctual woman I ever met. I was expecting to wait another half-hour at the very least. We ought to have a drink to celebrate.’

  They sat in a corner of the lounge and sipped their drinks.

  ‘What happened about those damp patches on the floor of the club-room?’ she was anxious to know. ‘You said you were going to mention them to Inspector Kennard.’

  Johnny shook his head.

  ‘Afraid there was nothing much in that,’ he told her. ‘Kennard said he’d had the experts look at the patches but they couldn’t find any traces of blood. If there had been any blood there, someone had cleaned it up pretty thoroughly.’

  Verity sighed.

  ‘We seem to come up against a dead end whichever way we turn. But I still think that Gerald was murdered.’

  He rose and took her empty glass.

  ‘Come in to lunch,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll feel more like coping with life’s little problems after a good meal.’

  They went into the long oak-panelled dining-room, with its low beams, glistening cutlery and bleached tablecloths. True, there was no deferential head waiter, but the young lady who deputized filled the breach very competently, and brought them a meal that was obviously home-produced and cooked to perfection. The soup was innocent of any contact with tin; the chicken had not ranged its run for a day over ten months; the vegetables might have been picked from the garden an hour previously, and the tart was smothered with rich blackcurrant jam that had never been inside a factory.

  Johnny seemed determined not to discuss their present problems over lunch. He asked her a number of questions about her job, her experiences as a young reporter on a suburban paper in Cape Town; he discussed the shows that were on in Town, with passing reference to Miss Candy Dimmott, which somehow made Verity feel vaguely uncomfortable. He even launched upon a long story as to how he had persuaded a notorious woman confidence trickster to pay several thousand pounds for a necklace that was practically worthless under the impression that she would more than double the price of it.

  ‘You seem to meet some very peculiar people,’ she observed, as they sat drinking their coffee.

  ‘Yes, I’m not what you’d call a highly respectable guy, I’m afraid,’ he sighed. Verity laughed.

  ‘If you were highly respectable, you’d probably be running a canning factory in Chicago.’

  ‘And then I’d never have had the pleasure of meeting you. I guess I like things the way they are.’

  They went on to talk about the differences between the American and English viewpoints, the ending of Marshall Aid, the strange anomalies of the film industry, the short-comings of UNO, the privileged position of the Arts Council, and the colour bar in the tropical countries. Anything, in fact, but the activities of a certain Max Fulton. Johnny seemed strangely reluctant to discuss the sordid realities of crime with his guest, who in her turn appeared quite content to let the conversation drift pleasantly and await his leisure before turning to sterner topics.

  After lunch, at his suggestion, they took a short stroll through the ancient main thoroughfare as far as the entrance to Knoll Park, pausing occasionally to peer into antique shops or examine an inscription on a tombstone in the churchyard.

  When they got back to the hotel, it was decided that, to save Verity’s petrol, they should go on to Caldicott Manor in Johnny’s car, and that he should bring her back to the hotel in the late afternoon. He drove in leisurely fashion through the winding Kent lanes which wound over the wooded hill-sides and down into the spacious valleys. It was after three o’clock before they had settled themselves in the familiar drawing-room, where the afternoon sun was streaming in through a smaller window beside the fireplace.

  Verity sat by the open french window and looked across the smooth lawns to the orchards beyond. A solitary blackbird perched on the low wall that enclosed the little courtyard and gazed at her curiously.

  ‘I asked you to come down here, Verity—by the way, is it O.K. to call you Verity?’

  ‘Of course. What were you saying?’

  ‘I was going to say that I wanted to see you because I’ve been thinking pretty hard about what you said about your brother—’

  ‘And about Max Fulton?’

  ‘That’s right. Especially about Max Fulton. I reckon if he really is this fellow Grey Moose who’s behind these big robberies, then you ought to tell Sir Robert Hargreaves all about it.’

  ‘He’d never believe me,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Don’t be too sure about that. Sir Robert’s listened to a heck of a lot of stories in his day, and he only got to his present job by being able to sort out the truth more than once in a while. He’s no fool.’

  ‘But they don’t even believe Gerald was murdered,’ she declared impulsively. ‘You heard the statements at the inquest. And when I talked to Inspector Kennard afterwards he obviously seemed to think I had a bee in my bonnet.’

  Johnny lazily reached out for an ash-tray.

  ‘Supposing,’ he said quietly, ‘that I have a certain amount of proof—enough to satisfy me at any rate—that your brother was murdered?’

  ‘You mean you can prove it to them?’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s a small point,’ he said at length. ‘But it seems to me pretty convincing.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Why should your brother want change for a pound when he’d charged the drinks to me and had over eight shillings in loose change in his trouser pocket?’

  Verity’s smooth forehead furrowed in thought.

  ‘And there’s just one more point,’ said Johnny, ‘that calls for a little clearing up.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your brother was holding that gun in his left hand.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she agre
ed, looking puzzled. ‘But Gerald was left-handed.’

  ‘Of course, he was.’

  ‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you, Verity, that your brother was murdered by someone with a little too much imagination, and not quite enough intelligence. You didn’t identify the body, but I can tell you that your brother never inflicted that wound on himself; it was physically impossible.’

  She rose to her feet in some agitation.

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Johnny? If my brother was murdered, why do the police think it was suicide?’

  ‘Hold your horses, honey,’ said Johnny quietly. ‘Maybe the police ain’t so sure about that suicide after all.’

  ‘But it’s been in all the newspapers, and even at the inquest they never even asked for an adjournment.’

  ‘All the same, I’ve got a hunch they aren’t satisfied.’

  ‘Then why don’t they do something?’

  Johnny shrugged.

  ‘I guess they’ve got their own ways of working,’ he hazarded. ‘Maybe they’re not the F.B.I.’s ways, but you’ve got some mighty peculiar laws in this country that are liable to trip up anybody, including the police, if they don’t keep to strict procedure. I dare say they’ve a pretty good reason for holding off a murder charge just yet awhile—there’s a chance they may be waiting to get two birds with one stone. It doesn’t always pay to call the bluff too soon when you’re dealing with some of these crooked characters. They’re liable to hop a plane and vanish.’

  ‘Yes,’ she mused quietly, almost to herself. ‘Max Fulton has done that before today.’

  The door opened to admit Winwood carrying a heavily loaded tea tray. They noticed it was after five o’clock.

  ‘On the table by the window,’ said Johnny.

  The butler set down the tray and quietly withdrew.

  Johnny eyed the tea-tray somewhat quizzically and said to his visitor:

  ‘I can’t get used to this afternoon tea set-up. Maybe you wouldn’t mind …’

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Verity, taking up the milk jug, and pulling the cups and saucers towards her. ‘How d’you like it?’

  ‘I guess it’s all much the same to me. Pretty strong and fairly sweet. I tried suggesting to Winwood that he should give me coffee, but I thought he’d pass through the floor.’

  Verity laughed and dropped two lumps of sugar into his cup. ‘You’ll get used to our quaint old English customs in time,’ she assured him.

  Johnny sipped his tea and pulled a face.

  ‘By the way, did you notice that quaint old customer at the inquest?’ he asked.

  ‘You mean the little old man who was staying at the Kingfisher—what was his name?’

  ‘Horatio Quince. He’s a sort of antiquarian, specializing in old inns, but dabbling in anything ancient that he happens to come across. Quite a character.’

  ‘You don’t think he had any connection—?’ she hesitated.

  ‘He could have, I suppose. He was the only other person in the place except Bache and his wife, as far as we know.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling we don’t know everything by a long way,’ she said grimly. He passed her a plate of home-made scones, then said quietly:

  ‘I noticed something about the Kingfisher that rang a bell somewhere. In fact, it was old Quince who indirectly drew my attention to it. Try another of those scones …’

  He passed the jam, helped himself to another scone, then went on thoughtfully:

  ‘If you read the reports of the robberies at Preston and Gloucester that gelignite gang pulled off, there was a man killed each time. And before they died, each man whispered the words “Grey Moose”. Your brother had been telling me about it that night he came to see me …’

  ‘Yes, I know about Grey Moose,’ interposed the girl. ‘Gerald said he was quite sure Max Fulton was using that name over here. Of recent years he has taken to using names like that—in Canada he was known as The Spider; in Brazil they called him Black Visor. Gerald always used to say he liked those fancy names because he was very vain, and it made him sound daredevil and romantic. It also helped him to command a certain amount of respect among his supporters; some of them never knew his real name, so they couldn’t give him away if the police questioned them.’

  ‘The more I hear of that customer,’ mused Johnny, ‘the less I like him.’

  ‘He’s a danger to any civilized community,’ said the girl, and the note of bitterness in her voice was more pronounced than it had been. Then she suddenly became conscious of her duties and asked if he would like some more tea.

  ‘No, sir!’ exclaimed Johnny piously, reaching for a cigarette, then replacing it in the box when he noticed that his guest had not finished.

  ‘About this Grey Moose I was telling you …’ he went on. ‘Over at the Kingfisher they hold a weekly meeting of the Antediluvian Order of Bison in a special club-room.’

  ‘There’s nothing very unusual about that,’ commented Verity. ‘Most of these pubs are headquarters for Buffs or Foresters or some queer society.’

  ‘Hold your horses, honey,’ begged Johnny. ‘The point about this set-up is that it’s called the Grey Moose Lodge. Now, does that strike a chord?’

  ‘Grey Moose Lodge …’ she repeated, her eyes widening the merest fraction. ‘You think they might be meeting under the cloak of these Bison or whatever they call themselves?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Johnny. ‘Looks to me as if it would be a pretty good cover.’

  ‘Couldn’t Scotland Yard keep the inn under observation?’

  ‘Surely. The place is swarming with plain-clothes men. Inspector Dovey’s hovering around too—Kennard has handed over to him.’

  ‘Inspector Dovey? Oh, yes, he was working on the case with Gerald. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice it,’ grinned Johnny. ‘We’ve had one or two friendly arguments in the past. Still, I got a soft spot for Charles Montague Dovey. He’s unorthodox—we’ve got that in common. Maybe if he hadn’t been quite so rude to his superiors, he’d have been a really big shot.’

  ‘Did you go inside this club-room?’ she inquired, a note of eagerness in her tone.

  ‘Oh, yes, I made Harry Bache unlock it. He didn’t seem very pleased. But we didn’t find anything in there, except the coat of arms, or whatever they call it, and some chairs and one or two small tables. And a lot of robes and chains and things in a large cupboard. It didn’t get us very far, but I still have a hunch that …’

  Johnny broke off as the telephone rang in the hall outside, and excusing himself he went out to answer it. When he returned there was a fresh glint in his eyes.

  ‘I’ll be coming back to Town with you,’ he announced. ‘That was the assistant commissioner. He says he particularly wants to see me.’

  She replaced her cup and saucer on the tray and said with some deliberation:

  ‘Johnny, does this mean you’re really going to work with the police?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Maybe—maybe not. I guess we’ll both be pulling in the same direction. Whether we use the same tactics is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘Was that the assistant commissioner himself on the phone?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘He must have been very persuasive.’

  ‘Not particularly. He just gave me a bit of news.’ He paused for a moment, then added in a casual tone:

  ‘There’s been a big robbery at Brighton, and it seems they’ve left another card around with my name on it.’

  ‘Another robbery?’ she exclaimed anxiously. ‘Johnny, what does this mean?’

  ‘It means,’ replied Johnny Washington emphatically, ‘that this affair is getting beyond a joke!’

  CHAPTER VIII

  LONDON BY THE SEA

  THOSE pioneers who exploited the health-giving effects of sea-bathing on Brighton’s placid beaches would, no doubt, have been a trifle startled to see the fung
us urban growth that resulted, and the endless surge of traffic that snaked its way towards the town every Saturday afternoon.

  Brighton’s early-closing habits are somewhat erratic. A section of the shops close on Wednesdays for their weekly half-holiday, others on Thursdays and some on Saturdays. Dollands was a large Jewish family business that had always closed on Saturdays, and Grey Moose had selected it partly for this reason. It was also in a suitable position for his purpose, for it stood in the lower half of West Street below the ornate clock tower, and about half-way down a fairly steep incline.

  Leaving herself plenty of time to spare, Shelagh Hamilton insinuated the long bonnet of her sports Harman-Grade into the stream of Brighton-bound traffic just beyond Purley, and swept along the trunk road at a steady forty miles an hour.

  As she was well ahead of time, she turned off the main road just outside the town, and was presently meandering through the well-kept Regency squares in Hove. But she paid little attention to that dignified architecture; her brain was busy with the details of the adventure ahead. It seemed fool-proof, whichever way she looked at it. Every item had been checked and double-checked; everybody concerned knew exactly what he had to do.

  They had all gone to Brighton by different routes at various times, so there could be very little risk of their being seen together. Moreover, the odds were that the local police would be scattered and very busily occupied with the traffic on a Saturday afternoon.

  Shelagh steered the car on to the smooth tarmac of the promenade and sniffed the tang of the salt air appreciatively. She was feeling beautifully keyed-up now, ready for any emergency. The six cylinders of the sports car purred with a suggestion of the eighty miles an hour they could produce in a matter of seconds.

  Presently, she turned left into the town, and the clock at the cross-roads pointed to exactly twenty-five minutes to three as she slid to the side of the rose-tinted pavement just round the corner of North Street and throttled down the powerful engine until it was barely audible. This done, she sat back, and took a cigarette from her small handbag. There was not the slightest trace of emotion in her smooth immobile features. Even when the bulky form of a policeman stopped beside the car, she showed no sign of alarm.