Beware of Johnny Washington

by Francis Durbridge

  As they replaced the trap door, Shelagh said:

  ‘What are you going to tell Bache?’

  He brushed the dust from the knees of his trousers. ‘I’ll tell him Lew is with the girl,’ he decided, and they went back up the steps.

  ‘Shall I refill Lew’s glass?’ she asked, when they were straightening the room. He shook his head.

  ‘Harry Bache knows Lew would never leave an unemptied glass behind him. Leave it as it is.’

  ‘I must say I never thought you had it in you, Doc,’ she said quietly, as they waited for Harry Bache to return. His lips set in a tight, expressionless smile for a moment.

  ‘If it comes to that, I’d no idea you could be quite so tough,’ he murmured. At that moment, they heard Bache outside, and picked up their glasses.

  ‘Did you get rid of them all right, Harry?’ asked the doctor as Bache came in.

  ‘Yes, I stowed ’em away under a heap of old scrap iron that looked as if it had been there for years.’ He paused and looked round the room. ‘’Allo, what’s ’appened to Lew?’

  ‘Oh, he went downstairs to have a look at the girl. He wanted to see if she was the same one who called at White Lodge this week,’ replied Randall easily.

  ‘He’ll never learn to keep his nose out of things that don’t concern ’im,’ declared Harry Bache.

  The doctor leaned over and passed him a glass. ‘Oh, well, he’ll be back in a minute. Here’s your drink.’

  Bache took the glass and set it down on the table beside him.

  ‘I can’t ’elp feelin’ a bit worried about that rozzer. ’E ’ad a good look at both of us. Did the radio message say ’e’d snuffed it?’

  ‘The chief didn’t say,’ answered Shelagh.

  The innkeeper shuffled his feet uncomfortably and looked from one to the other, a thoughtful frown creasing his none too clean features.

  ‘What the devil is Lew doin’?’ he demanded irritably. ‘I can’t hear any sound of talking …’

  ‘For one thing, the lady is heavily gagged,’ smiled Shelagh, ‘and for another, they’d be too far away for you to hear anything less than a shout or scream.’

  ‘Well, I wish ’e’d ’urry up and come back,’ sniffed Bache, fumbling in his pocket and taking out a cigarette.

  ‘You’re pretty jumpy, Harry,’ said Randall soothingly. ‘Why don’t you have a drink to steady your nerves?’

  But Harry Bache made no effort to take the hint.

  ‘What about the doings for the Brighton job?’ he demanded in a dissatisfied tone. ‘That was to ’ave come through in time for yesterday’s meetin’.’

  ‘The chief will be along with it tonight,’ explained Shelagh. ‘He told me on the phone your cut will be just on five thousand.’

  ‘Five thousand!’ Harry whistled. ‘By God, I’ll paint the ruddy town red! And after that, I’ll get outer that stinkin’ pub and get me a nice little place at Brighton—near the racecourse—see a bit o’ life there.’

  Randall smiled:

  ‘That’s fine!’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Here’s luck to the new pub!’ He took a sip at his drink, but Harry Bache did not join him.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ demanded Randall curiously. ‘Have you gone on the wagon?’

  Harry Bache gave a mirthless little chuckle. ‘Me on the wagon! That’d be a fine start to runnin’ a new pub, that would!’

  ‘Then drink up, Harry, and toast the new venture,’ smiled Shelagh, raising her glass. But Harry Bache’s whisky remained untouched. He and the doctor eyed each other.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Randall at last. ‘Why aren’t you drinking?’

  For a moment the innkeeper did not reply. Then he rose slowly to his feet and with a sudden movement produced a revolver from an inside pocket.

  ‘Because I’m no sucker!’ he snapped.

  Doctor Randall took an involuntary step backwards, and Bache construed it as a move to escape.

  ‘You keep away from that door or I’ll blow your blasted brains out!’ he rasped. ‘Don’t think I ’aven’t got a good idea what’s in that glass.’

  ‘Put down that gun, Harry, and don’t be a damned fool,’ advised the doctor. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that drink.’

  ‘No?’ said Bache sarcastically. ‘All right then, you drink it.’

  ‘I tell you it’s harmless …’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Shelagh.

  ‘All right,’ said Bache, swinging round on her. ‘Then you drink it.’

  ‘You know I never touch whisky.’

  Harry Bache laughed sardonically.

  ‘In that case, it’s the doc who’ll ’ave to oblige.’ With his left hand he slid the glass along the table in the doctor’s direction.

  ‘But before you drink it, tell me what you’ve done with Lew and Cosh,’ ordered Bache, waving his revolver threateningly.

  ‘I told you we haven’t seen Cosh,’ said Randall somewhat shakily.

  ‘Come on now—I want the truth,’ rasped the innkeeper threateningly.

  ‘Now listen to me, Harry,’ began Randall in a persuasive tone.

  ‘I’m not listenin’ to yer—I’m tellin’ yer. I don’t want any of this soft soap business. What’s ’appened to those two? You can tell me the truth or drink this whisky.’

  Randall backed a step, but to his surprise Shelagh came forward and picked up the glass.

  ‘You know I loathe whisky,’ she said calmly, ‘but just to satisfy you, Harry, I’ll drink half of it.’

  ‘Garn! You wouldn’t dare,’ retorted Bache disbelievingly.

  ‘We’ve told you it was nothing but whisky. All right now, I’ll prove it.’

  Slowly, she raised the glass to her lips, but before it touched them she twisted her wrist and flung the contents full into Bache’s face. For a moment, he was blinded, and in that instant Randall snatched up the whisky bottle and brought it down on Bache’s head.

  ‘Thanks, Shelagh,’ gasped Randall. ‘That was a near thing.’ He seemed momentarily exhausted by his sudden effort, but presently stooped and examined the inert form.

  ‘Listen!’ said Shelagh suddenly. ‘Isn’t that a car?’

  They awaited the slamming of the car doors, but heard nothing.

  ‘Better move him out of sight, just in case,’ decided Randall. ‘Could you give me a hand?’

  Together they lifted Harry Bache and pushed him behind the settee. But they were not quick enough.

  ‘You really shouldn’t go to all that trouble,’ said a polite voice from the doorway, and they swung round to see Mr Quince standing there. For five seconds there was complete silence then Randall said quietly:

  ‘Come in, Mr Quince. Come in and close the door.’

  The little man did so without taking his eyes off them.

  ‘Let me see, you will be Doctor Randall. I think we met on the night of—er—that deplorable affair at the Kingfisher.’

  ‘That’s so, Mr Quince.’

  ‘And this, no doubt, is your charming niece I have heard so much about,’ continued Mr Quince imperturbably.

  ‘You seem to know quite a lot about us,’ said Randall, with just a barely audible edge in his voice. ‘But you haven’t told us anything about yourself.’

  ‘It’s very charming of you to inquire,’ smiled Mr Quince amiably. ‘I’ll be delighted to oblige. What exactly do you want to know about me?’

  ‘Suppose you begin by telling us precisely who you are, and what you are doing here tonight.’

  ‘But surely our old friend Bache told you who I am. I’m Horatio Quince, a retired schoolmaster, interested in antiques, and almost anything from a bygone age. As you know, I have been staying for some two weeks at the Kingfisher, exploring the local countryside, and I have come across the remains of a most interesting Roman villa at Chevening that—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interposed Randall, now slightly suspicious that for some reason Mr Quince was playing for time, ‘but that doesn’t explain why you a
re here.’

  ‘But I should have thought that would be obvious, my dear Doctor. This place is teeming with ancient relics. Why, just along the way is the most remarkably preserved Roman bastion that is quite unbelievable. The aerial attacks on the City have revealed some really wonderful stretches of the ancient Roman wall—I assure you that they are well worth a visit. In fact, I am surprised you haven’t seized the opportunity long before this to—’

  ‘You don’t look at ruins at this time of night,’ interrupted Shelagh coldly, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘I assure you those old walls look quite different by moonlight. There’s a poem by Scott on the subject—’

  ‘There is no moon tonight,’ Shelagh interrupted him once more.

  At that moment, Mr Quince noticed that Randall was covering him with the black revolver that had fallen from Harry Bache’s hand.

  ‘Really, Doctor Randall, is that necessary?’ he said, in a mildly reproving tone.

  The doctor made a threatening movement.

  ‘We are still waiting for you to answer our questions, Mr Quince. What are you doing down here?’

  ‘Please be careful with that revolver; it’s a most dangerous weapon,’ said Mr Quince apprehensively.

  ‘I’m glad you appreciate that. Now, for the last time, will you answer my question?’

  ‘Certainly—certainly. I came to look for a lady whom I understand is being detained here.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Mr Quince hesitated, and the doctor repeated the question.

  ‘I believe,’ said Mr Quince, ‘that her professional name is Miss Verity Glyn.’

  Randall sat back on the edge of the table.

  ‘I see,’ he nodded. ‘And may I ask how you knew she was here?’

  ‘Really, Doctor, that’s rather a long story.’

  ‘Then you’d better tell it quickly. There’s no time to lose.’

  Mr Quince looked from one to the other with a remonstrating air. ‘I must ask you to believe that Miss Glyn is really only an acquaintance—yes, indeed, the merest acquaintance,’ he began mildly. ‘I read something in her column about ancient buildings, and I wrote her a little note—’

  ‘This is leading nowhere,’ broke in Shelagh. ‘He’s just stalling for time.’ She nodded to Randall, who motioned Mr Quince back towards the door.

  ‘Come along, then, Mr Quince,’ he said suavely. ‘We’ll take you to meet your friend Miss Glyn.’

  Mr Quince looked round nervously.

  ‘Open the door,’ snapped Randall.

  Slowly, Mr Quince turned the knob and pulled the door towards him. As it opened, he stood behind it, leaving a clear view of the doorway and the sight of Johnny Washington standing there holding an automatic.

  ‘Drop that gun, Randall!’

  With a metallic clank the doctor’s revolver fell to the floor. Shelagh glanced across at him contemptuously.

  ‘How the devil did you get here?’ snapped Shelagh Hamilton.

  ‘With Mr Quince,’ replied Johnny curtly. ‘And that’s the last question from you, my friend. I’m getting a bit tired of monkeying around with your crowd, and I guess this affair’s going to be cleared up right now. Come on in, Verity, and give us a hand.’

  Verity came up behind him and into the room. She looked pale and there was a cut on her cheek and ominous red marks on her wrists. Her hair was untidy, but there was a triumphant gleam in her eye and she moved with a quiet intensity.

  ‘Pick up that revolver, will you, Verity?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘I’m very much afraid there is a—er—body behind the settee,’ interposed the gentle voice of Mr Quince. ‘I just caught sight of a man’s foot as I came into the room.’

  ‘Move out the settee then, will you, Mr Quince?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ murmured the little man. ‘It’s Mr Bache. He seems to have a very nasty head wound: I doubt if he’ll recover consciousness for some time. He should have instant attention, Mr Washington.’

  ‘He’ll have to wait,’ decided Johnny.

  ‘What are we going to do with them?’ asked Verity, indicating Randall and Shelagh.

  ‘Take ’em downstairs and tie ’em up in the room where I found you,’ decided Johnny. ‘You go on ahead and I’ll bring up in the rear. And don’t hesitate to shoot if there’s any nonsense.’ He turned to the two captives.

  ‘Miss Hamilton—Doctor Randall—you heard what I said.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ interposed Mr Quince. ‘Are you forgetting this?’ He indicated the attaché case on the table. Still keeping Randall and Shelagh covered, Johnny examined the pile of jewellery. He whistled softly.

  ‘The Trevelyan job … Quite a nice little haul, eh, Doctor?’ Randall made an involuntary movement, but Johnny’s Colt waved him back.

  ‘I think perhaps you’d better stay here, Mr Quince, and keep an eye on this stuff,’ said Johnny. ‘We’ll be back in five minutes, then we’ll prepare to receive a certain distinguished visitor.’

  He looked across at Shelagh as he said this, but she avoided his eye.

  ‘Certainly, I’ll wait here,’ agreed Mr Quince, settling himself as comfortably as possible and taking a much-used briar pipe from one pocket and a folded newspaper from the other. He was settling back to read it as Johnny and Verity shepherded their prisoners from the room and out into the passage.

  Johnny produced his torch and they soon found their way down to the room where Verity had been tied to a chair. There were still several lengths of rope lying around, and Johnny tied up his captives very efficiently to a couple of chairs.

  Verity was beginning to look rather tired now, and she was very glad when the unpleasant task had been completed. Johnny gagged both Randall and the girl, using his own handkerchief and the large one that he had untied from Verity’s mouth when he released her.

  As they closed the door behind them, she whispered:

  ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Wait for Grey Moose,’ he replied almost nonchalantly.

  ‘What makes you so sure he’ll come?’

  ‘For one thing to see you; for another to pick up that stuff from Trevelyans. By the way, did you happen to overhear them say anything about that job?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘They didn’t talk very much… though I did happen to catch one stray phrase that sounded queer.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Something about “Release at dawn” …’

  ‘Release at dawn,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘That seems to ring a bell.’

  ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘We’ll sort it out, all in good time,’ he assured her, as they quietly climbed the cellar steps and moved towards the room where they had left Mr Quince. ‘As soon as we’ve dealt with our visitor, I’ll phone the Yard and—’

  He suddenly stood stockstill and gripped her wrist.

  ‘That’s my car!’ he exclained, as they heard the unmistakable roar of an engine, and with flying leaps he went bounding up the basement steps. But he was only just in time to see a rapidly disappearing tail light turn into Great Tower Street and vanish.

  ‘Johnny—who could it have been?’ cried Verity, who had followed him up the steps, and was standing by his side, shivering in the night air.

  Johnny stood lost in thought for a few moments.

  ‘There’s always a chance it might have been some car thief who saw it standing there with no one about,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll phone the Yard and get ’em to put out a description. Come on, honey, let’s see if our Mr Quince is ready.’

  They retraced their footsteps and went back to the sitting-room.

  Johnny went in first, and almost at once he turned and stretched out his arm to restrain Verity from following him; he realized that the man they had been waiting for had already left. Not only was there no sign of the attaché case containing the spoils of the robbery at Trevelyans, but slumped against the table, with a stiletto in his back, lay Horatio Quince.

>   CHAPTER XXIV

  THE DESERTED CAR

  BY a stroke of good fortune they discovered a City policeman on duty at the corner of Great Tower Street and sent him back to the cellar to take charge of Randall and Shelagh Hamilton. Johnny went into the same telephone box which Shelagh had used a couple of hours previously and was immediately connected to New Scotland Yard; unfortunately Sir Robert Hargreaves had left an hour earlier. Johnny put in a call to Sir Robert’s home address in Hampstead, and after a short delay, the assistant commissioner came to the telephone.

  ‘Hallo, Washington,’ said the familiar voice, ‘we’ve been wondering what’s happened to you.’

  Johnny gave him a very rapid résumé of the events of the evening.

  ‘H’m, you’ve certainly been busy,’ commented the assistant commissioner grimly. ‘Is Miss Glyn all right?’

  ‘She’s O.K.’ said Johnny, ‘and I guess we’ve pretty near broken up that gang.’

  ‘But we still haven’t got Grey Moose.’

  ‘You said it. Maybe we will yet, though. I’ve still got a card or two up my sleeve.’

  ‘Well for heaven’s sake let’s get busy,’ said Hargreaves. ‘Is there anything you want me to do?’

  ‘Yes, first of all, have Randall and the girl taken in. I told the officer I saw not to budge till you sent someone along.’

  ‘Right, I’ll attend to that,’ promised Sir Robert. ‘We ought to get some useful information out of them. They know the identity of Grey Moose, of course.’

  ‘They sure do. But whether we can make ’em talk is quite another matter. That Randall guy’s a tough customer, and the girl wouldn’t say a word if you tortured her with hot irons.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I’ve been getting the dope on her. She’s Max’s special girl friend—follows him round the world. I guess they’ve just been planning a big getaway—that’s if their past routine is anything to go by.’

  ‘Humph! Well, is there anything else you want me to do?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like you to arrange with your Sevenoaks people to let me have two or three men early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’ll get Dovey to fix that up right away.’