‘Hi, Johnny! Where have you been hiding yourself lately?’ demanded a cultured voice with just the barest trace of a foreign accent.
‘Well, well!’ exclaimed Johnny, laying down his knife and fork. ‘If it isn’t Max Fabian. How’s the world treating you?’ He introduced Verity and invited the newcomer to join them. But Fabian shook his head.
‘Sorry, old man, I’m expecting a certain party on a little matter of business. May see you later.’
And he went off to the table reserved for him, a trim figure in his dinner jacket and razor-creased trousers.
‘Is he a great friend of yours?’ inquired Verity, as they continued their dinner.
‘Nobody in this joint is a friend of mine, or of anyone else’s. They’re not the sort of folk who make friends—only business acquaintances or sleeping partners,’ explained Johnny patiently. ‘The only friendship they’re capable of forming is with a wad of banknotes.’
‘How horrible!’ said Verity with a little shudder.
‘Oh, I guess you get used to it,’ said Johnny philosophically. ‘They’re quite interesting characters in their way, and folks have always had a kind of fascination for me. Take Fabian, for instance …’
‘You mean the man you just introduced to me?’
‘That’s right. Fabian is something new in the crime racket, a really international “fence”, with headquarters in half a dozen countries.’
‘You mean he’s a receiver of stolen property?’
‘In a very big way only. Fabian never bothers with the small-time crooks. I doubt if he ever makes a deal for less than ten thousand. Strictly big-time, that’s Fabian.’
‘What nationality is he?’
‘His father was a clock repairer in a back street in Rome; his mother was a Greek servant girl. Fabian was a petty thief in Rome before the war, and during the war years he was right in the black market with both feet. The dollars that boy turned over must have upset the exchanges more than somewhat. Now, he’s operating across half the civilized globe; Fabian’s one of the penalties of civilization!
‘And don’t let that smiling boy act fool you,’ went on Johnny. ‘Fabian is ruthless with a capital R. He learnt it in the back alleys of Rome, and he’ll never forget.’
The trio began to saw and thump its way through a Strauss waltz with somewhat surprising dexterity. The leader, a brassy blonde with a generous figure and ready smile, was obviously a great favourite with the male members of the club.
‘You certainly know some colourful types, Johnny,’ smiled Verity, as the waiter placed an enormous ice in front of her. ‘Tell me some more about Fabian.’
‘I guess there isn’t much to tell. He’s the biggest receiver of stolen gems in the world—has his own staff to break ’em up—fake ’em up—repolish ’em—and never makes less than a hundred per cent profit. You see, all his set-ups are operated under cover of a legitimate business, and nobody’s been able to prove that it was anything but above board—yet.’
‘Shouldn’t you tell all this to the police?’ demanded Verity, wide-eyed.
‘Maybe I should,’ chuckled Johnny. ‘If it was as simple as all that. Maybe the police know in any case and wouldn’t thank me for squeaking. Besides, there’s no knowing when a guy like Fabian won’t come in useful. I always say there’s no point in upsetting people unless there’s money in it.’
Verity laughed. ‘That’s one way of looking at things.’
The crowd in the club was getting thicker now; almost every table was occupied with the queerest assortment of humanity Verity had seen. There were dowager types who might have been Gaiety girls in their youth, thin middle-aged women with a nervous manner and abrupt gestures, and a sprinkling of very expensively dressed young ladies from gown shops, beauty establishments and film studios, whose purpose was obviously solely to entertain and bring prestige to their male escorts.
It seemed to Verity that the conversation had a slightly sinister buzz, perhaps on account of its polyglot nature. Waiters quickened the pace to and from the kitchens, and the trio began an extract from Verdi that was quite beyond its powers.
A tall, attractive girl, beautifully dressed in a dark gown stood in the doorway for a moment and caught Verity’s eye. She watched her move to a table where Fabian rose to welcome her. As she sat down, Verity pointed her out to Johnny.
‘Where have I seen that girl before?’ she asked with a puzzled little frown.
Johnny whistled softly to himself as he saw Fabian summon a waiter to order a drink for his guest.
‘You’ve seen her this evening,’ he told Verity in a tone that controlled any trace of surprise. ‘You saw her outside my place in a car … She’s my neighbour—Shelagh Hamilton.’
CHAPTER XI
WHAT’S YOUR POISON?
IF Johnny had been intrigued at the sight of a business meeting between Shelagh Hamilton and Fabian, he certainly did not allow it to interfere with his sleep, and it was not until he heard a heavy knock at his door and a voice informing him that it was nine o’clock that he returned fully to consciousness and recalled that he was due at the Yard in an hour’s time.
He went down into the dining-room at the St Regis to be informed that breakfast was over, but as a great favour the waiter rescued a fillet of lukewarm sole and a couple of dejected pieces of toast for him. Coffee, it seemed, was right out of the question and orange juice unheard of. He asked for the head waiter to offer some protest at such hospitality, only to be told that gentleman never came on duty at breakfast. And the manager of the hotel was busy in another part of the building. Johnny gave it up, paid his account and set out for New Scotland Yard.
There did not seem to be many taxis about on this fine Sunday morning, and Johnny had a rooted objection to any more walking than was absolutely necessary. However, he eventually found one in Piccadilly, and was outside the main entrance to the Yard just before ten.
He was ushered into the assistant commissioner’s office without any delay, and discovered Sir Robert already there chatting to Dovey and Kennard. A report from the Brighton police of the previous day’s affair was on Hargreaves’s desk and made none too pleasant reading.
‘Well, what do we know about Slim Copley?’ asked Johnny, as soon as they had exchanged greetings.
‘We’re holding him on a charge of being implicated with the Brighton robbery,’ replied Sir Robert, ‘but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be easy to make him talk—and if he did I’m not sure that he knows very much.’
‘No harm in trying,’ said Johnny. ‘I see from this morning’s papers that the robbery wasn’t discovered until some time after the truck bashed into the shop.’
‘That’s so,’ said Dovey. ‘Actually, whoever did the job set off the burglar alarm, but the damn fools thought it was the lorry that had jolted it. They didn’t find out any different till one of the partners came along with the keys.’
‘I see. Has anybody tried to make him talk?’
‘Yes, Dovey and Kennard have both had a go at him without very much satisfaction.’
‘We found the nameplate on the lorry was a fake,’ said Dovey, ‘and he won’t say if he was driving for anybody. His story is that he bought the lorry to go into business himself and the brakes were faulty. But we’ve had the brakes tested and they’re quite O.K., so it was obviously a put-up job.’
‘What’s he say to all that?’
‘He simply insists he’s sticking to his statement.’
Johnny leaned against the window-ledge and thoughtfully watched a solitary tram swaying gently over Lambeth Bridge.
‘There must be some way of making him talk,’ he reflected, almost to himself.
‘We’ll see,’ said the assistant commissioner. ‘You’d better bring him in, Kennard.’
Dovey and Kennard went out, and Sir Robert turned to Johnny.
‘How much d’you think he knows?’ he asked.
‘Enough to break up that outfit if we can get the truth out of him,’ replied
Johnny. ‘D’you mind if I talk to him, Chief?’
Sir Robert hesitated.
‘Well, it isn’t usual, but it seems we’ve got to use unorthodox methods on this job. We don’t want any of that American third degree stuff, mind.’
‘Leave it to me, sir,’ smiled Johnny. ‘I’ll handle him with kid gloves.’
Presently, the door opened and the two inspectors reappeared, with a very sullen prisoner between them. Slim looked as if he had not slept well; his hair was dishevelled, his face badly shaved and his necktie carelessly knotted.
Kennard set down a letter-tray containing an assortment of small articles on the assistant commissioner’s desk.
‘These were found in his pockets, sir,’ he said quietly, and Johnny moved across to take a look at them while Sir Robert seated the prisoner in a chair facing the strong light from the tall window.
In the tray were a new gold cigarette case, a wallet containing a driving licence and twenty-four pound notes, as well as several faded newspaper cuttings concerning the owner’s speedway exploits, a cheap postcard photo of a girl, a dirty handkerchief, a small battered silver flask containing some sort of liquor, a large penknife, a ball-pointed pencil with a patent gadget for checking sparking-plugs, and a few shillings worth of loose change.
‘What the ’ell’s the big idea of all this?’ rasped Slim Copley’s unpleasant voice, as he looked round the room with a furtive air. ‘I ain’t a blasted criminal—I got my rights.’
Johnny Washington walked round and perched on the edge of the desk. He fixed Slim with an intense stare, then smiled lazily.
‘Of course, you’ve got your rights, Slim,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing to worry about—you and I are just going to have a little talk.’
Slim Copley licked his lips nervously and again looked round the little group of immobile faces.
‘I got nothing to say,’ he stammered. ‘I want a solicitor here if you’re askin’ me questions …’
‘I tell you it’s all right, Slim,’ interposed Johnny once more. ‘This is just a little talk off the record. We know a bit more about this Brighton set-up than you think, Slim. It’s for your own good we’re giving you this chance to tell us what you know. You’re mixing with a pretty tough crowd, Slim. They’ve already wiped out a couple of inside men who let them down. They’ve no time for failures, and it looks as if you’re going to need protection.’
‘I can look after myself,’ said Slim sullenly.
‘I dare say the other two had the same ideas about that.’ There was a quiet intensity about Johnny’s voice that compelled attention. Slim became more and more ill at ease; from time to time he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘We know you’re connected with the Grey Moose gang because we’ve seen you at the Kingfisher,’ went on Johnny, quite unperturbed. ‘Was that where you planned this little coup?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, yes you do, Slim. Just as well as you know those pound notes in your wallet there are part of the proceeds from the Gloucester job. We’re catching up with the Grey Moose crowd pretty fast, Slim.’
‘I got nothing to do with any gang!’ growled Slim.
‘Then all I can say, Slim, is I hope for your sake you’re pretty fond of children.’
‘What the ’ell has kids got to do with this? I didn’t hurt no kids!’
‘I’m trying to tell you how, Slim. I said I hoped you were mighty fond of children, because this time you’re the sucker who’s holding the baby. And, oh boy, what a bouncing baby it is! I shouldn’t wonder if your share of the rake-off came to a couple of thousand, Slim. I told you that crowd has no time for failures—all you’ll get will be a bullet in the guts, the same as the lorry driver at Preston and the night watchman at Gloucester. Of course, that’s assuming you manage to wriggle out of taking the rap for this job—and it isn’t going to be easy. They’re piling up quite a bit of evidence against you, Slim, and you’ve got a record that’s none too healthy. I don’t suppose the judge’ll feel any too brotherly towards you.’
Johnny paused for a moment to let Slim assimilate all the implications to the full, and he certainly seemed to find them none too comforting. He licked his lips nervously once more and ran a finger uneasily around the neck of his collar. He dropped his eyes and refused to meet Johnny’s unwavering gaze.
‘If you know what’s good for you, Slim,’ continued the soft remorseless voice, ‘you’ll start talking right now. You’ve nothing to lose except your cut on that job, and you’ll never get that now. You’re not playing with small-time crooks, you know; you’ll need protection from the police till this gang is smashed, or they’ll get you just as surely as they got the others.’
Slim Copley’s hands were clenched so tightly that the whites of his knuckles showed, and his forehead was corrugated in a sullen frown. He was obviously weighing up the pros and cons of his present position and finding it none too happy. There was a heavy silence in the room, and everyone seemed to be experiencing a feeling of tension except Johnny Washington, who still perched on the edge of the desk with his arms folded. Slim’s breathing became slowly more noticeable until he almost appeared to be gasping for breath.
‘All right … I’ll talk … but I got to have a drink first. I’m all shot to pieces.’
His distress was obviously genuine, and Johnny looked inquiringly at the other two, for he hadn’t a notion where he would get a drink in New Scotland Yard at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning. Then it became obvious that Slim was referring to the small silver flask which had been taken from him when he was searched. At a nod from Sir Robert, Kennard passed it to Johnny, who held on to it for a moment.
‘First of all, Slim, tell us something about this set-up that’s responsible for the jewel robberies.’
‘I—I don’t know much about it … it’s run by a bloke who calls himself Grey Moose … he looks after everything.’
‘How does he get the stuff out of the country?’
‘I don’t know anything about that—I think it’s by aeroplane … a private plane.’
‘And the airfield?’
‘I’ve never set eyes on it.’
‘But you’ve seen Grey Moose? You’d recognize him again?’
Slim gulped hard, appeared to be about to say something, then suddenly grabbed the flask from Johnny’s hand. For some ten seconds he noisily swallowed down the spirit—and Johnny judged the flask to have been well over half full. But almost before he had finished, the flask fell from his hands; he sank back in his chair, the blood draining from his face.
‘Slim—what is it?’
Slim seemed to be struggling for breath.
‘I—I—my throat—’
Johnny picked up the flask and sniffed it. Mingling with the smell of whisky was the unmistakable odour of carbolic acid.
‘Where did you get this whisky?’ he asked.
Slim’s hands were still clawing at his throat, then he clutched his stomach, obviously in great pain.
‘The Kingfisher—’ he gasped, rolling forward on the floor. Dovey knelt and lifted his head, while Johnny felt his pulse. Sir Robert picked up the telephone and asked for a police surgeon immediately.
‘It’s too late,’ said Johnny, looking up a minute later. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Yes, he’s dead all right,’ repeated Kennard, in an almost expressionless voice. ‘What was in that flask, Mr Washington?’
‘Whisky mixed with enough carbolic acid to kill three men I should imagine,’ replied Johnny. ‘It might be an idea to send it down to your Fingerprints Department first and have it tested before it goes to the laboratory. There’s just a chance there may be some smudges that would give us a clue.’
‘He said he had it from the Kingfisher,’ said Kennard.
‘That was the whisky. It doesn’t follow that the poison was put in at the same time.’
‘That’s true,’ nodded Dovey.
‘Are you sure it�
��s too late?’ asked Sir Robert anxiously. ‘Perhaps if we could force an antidote …’
‘You’d be wasting your time,’ murmured Johnny.
‘But it’s—it’s impossible!’ exclaimed the bewildered Sir Robert. This was the first time in his long experience that anything like this had happened inside Scotland Yard, and he found it difficult to believe.
‘We’d better try artificial respiration till the doctor gets here,’ said Dovey, preparing to do so. But it was obviously too late. There was suddenly a sharp knock at the door.
‘That’ll be the doctor,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Come in!’
The door opened and the sergeant from the front hall came in with one of the familiar buff slips filled in by waiting callers.
‘There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,’ he said to Sir Robert.
‘I can’t see him now! Tell him to phone!’ snapped the assistant commissioner.
The sergeant hesitated, then said diffidently:
‘He said it was rather important, sir, and he’s made a special journey …’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Sir Robert. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s a Mr Quince, sir. Mr Horatio Quince.’
CHAPTER XII
JOHNNY MAKES A SUGGESTION
‘QUINCE?’ repeated Sir Robert taking the slip from the sergeant. ‘That’s the fellow who is staying at the Kingfisher, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. He’s an antiquarian, so he says,’ replied Dovey.
‘H’m … maybe he’s stumbled across something.’
‘He’s a cute old bird, sir,’ put in Johnny. ‘I guess it might be as well to see him.’
‘All right, Sergeant,’ nodded Sir Robert. ‘Ask him to wait a few minutes. I’ll phone when I’m free.’
The sergeant withdrew unobtrusively, and they turned to the body of Slim Copley again.
‘Just our confounded luck,’ growled Kennard. ‘In another couple of minutes he’d have told us everything we want to know.’
‘How did the poison get in the flask?’ said Sir Robert, with a bewildered air. ‘He certainly wasn’t the type to commit suicide; I’m sure he didn’t know the liquor was poisoned.’
Beware of Johnny Washington Page 11
