Beware of Johnny Washington

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘How much longer do we have to stay here, Johnny?’ she inquired, trying not to sound too bored.

  ‘Why, all day, of course,’ replied Johnny. ‘The fish’ll be biting any minute now …’

  ‘And then am I supposed to cook them over a wood fire?’

  Johnny laughed. ‘Heck, no! There’s a whole basketful of food and drink in the back of the car.’

  This information cheered her slightly, but a few minutes later she found herself looking at her watch again. It was just a quarter to eleven. They had already been sitting beside this deserted pond for nearly two hours without a fish as much as raising its nose above the surface.

  ‘Gee, can’t you feel this sun soaking into the pores?’ enthused Johnny. ‘I guess this is just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Don’t you find it a bit dull—I mean when the fish aren’t biting?’ said Verity.

  ‘Not a dull moment,’ he assured her, cheerfully.

  ‘But you’ve got such an active brain, Johnny.’

  ‘Even the most active brain needs to relax some time,’ he informed her. ‘Besides, I’m a lazy guy at heart. Just sitting around, that’s the life for me, I guess.’

  ‘Oh no it isn’t,’ she contradicted. ‘You’re just in that sort of mood. It’s a reaction from all the excitement you’ve been through lately.’

  Johnny looked up at her and grinned.

  ‘Certainly was exciting,’ he agreed.

  They sat watching his float for a few moments without speaking, each busy with their thoughts of the events of the past few weeks.

  ‘That was pretty smart of you to find out about those pigeons being used to get the stuff out of the country,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’d often seen ’em circling round the Kingfisher, and I asked the landlord about them once or twice. He told me about the races you hold over here—it was all new to me, so I was kinda interested. Maybe that’s why it stuck in my mind, and when you’d overheard ’em say: “Release at dawn”, something went click. By the way, I forgot to tell you, I heard from Sir Robert this morning that Fabian was at the receiving end. The police were on the watch in all the cities where he has his undercover business. The two pigeons that got away came down in Brussels, and Fabian’s agent was caught redhanded taking off the cylinders.’

  ‘But of course they didn’t get Fabian,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it means his Brussels place closes down from now on, and he daren’t show his face in Belgium anyhow,’ said Johnny cheerfully. ‘It’s only a matter of time before these guys make a slip.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll make one yourself one of these days, Johnny,’ she observed softly. Johnny laughed.

  ‘Maybe I will. But why worry about that on a lovely morning?’

  A large pike came to the surface in the centre of the pond and promptly went to sleep in the morning sunlight.

  ‘There—why don’t you catch that one?’ cried Verity excitedly. Johnny shook his head.

  ‘I guess he’s had more than enough food for the next few hours. Besides, I never was partial to pike.’

  ‘Weren’t you a bit suspicious of Inspector Dovey when he turned up that morning?’ she asked presently.

  ‘It did give me a start for a moment,’ he admitted. ‘Simply because I couldn’t altogether leave Dovey out of my list of suspects: and Dovey was in the room that morning Slim Copley took the poison—he actually had access to that flask. What was more, he knew you were Locksley’s sister. All the same, I’d known Dovey for quite a while, and he didn’t seem right for the part of Grey Moose. He’d told me stories of his days with the county constabularies, and they seemed genuine enough. When I heard that pigeon go up from the back of the pub, I was pretty sure Dovey wasn’t our man.’

  ‘It could have been released by an associate,’ she suggested.

  ‘Except that, as far as we know, Grey Moose’s organization had been reduced to one man—Grey Moose himself.’

  ‘He could have roped in someone to do the dirty work,’ she pointed out. ‘He’s been rather good at that in the past.’

  ‘You think of everything,’ grinned Johnny, drawing in his line and casting it in a new direction. ‘Anyhow, Kennard didn’t bother to deny anything when we caught him with the stuff.’

  ‘You’re very lucky to have got out of that tunnel alive,’ said Verity, with a slight shudder. She hesitated a moment, then asked: ‘Have they found anything down there yet?’

  ‘Nothing except a piece of an old Roman drinking vessel that would have delighted the heart of poor Mr Quince,’ replied Johnny.

  ‘Poor old Quince,’ she murmured. ‘It’s a shame he didn’t live to see the end of Max Fulton.’

  Johnny laid down his rod for a moment to light a cigarette. ‘I’m not so sure we’ve seen the end of Max Fulton,’ he said quietly.

  ‘But I thought you said that tunnel had caved in for over thirty yards …’

  ‘The fact remains that they haven’t yet found Max’s body.’

  ‘But how could he have possibly got out?’

  Johnny shrugged.

  ‘He might have got the lift to work somehow, even climbed the lift shaft. He might even have escaped by another tunnel beyond the lift and sealed it up after him. One thing’s certain, anyway—if he did get away, he’s out of the country by this time, and we shan’t see any more of him for quite a while.’

  ‘Well, it’s a relief to know that,’ said Verity, looking at her watch again and wondering how soon she dare suggest they should begin lunch. ‘I expect Sir Robert’s pleased. I’m surprised he didn’t offer to put you on the permanent strength at the Yard.’

  ‘He knew better than that.’

  Verity scratched another gnat-bite on her right ankle.

  ‘It was certainly an amazing achievement on Fulton’s part to get into Scotland Yard. Have they found out exactly how he managed it?’ she inquired.

  ‘Actually, it was comparatively straightforward,’ Johnny told her. ‘Max simply murdered the real Kennard, who was being sent by the South African police to London to clear up a diamond smuggling case, and assumed his identity. After that, he got special permission to stay on and study Scotland Yard methods.’

  ‘But surely there was a body?’ queried Verity.

  ‘Oh, yes, a body went overboard all right. But it was supposed to be that of a Mr Marcus Soden, which was Max’s name on the ship’s passenger register. As it happened on the first night out, hardly anybody knew anyone else, and it was comparatively easy for Max to slip into the dead man’s shoes.’

  Verity made a futile dab at a threatening fly and changed her position on the camp stool.

  ‘How did you get to hear all this?’ she asked.

  ‘We eventually persuaded Doctor Randall to talk.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say a word.’

  ‘She’s still in love with him, of course.’

  ‘Love’s a wonderful thing when it makes a woman hold her tongue,’ said Johnny thoughtfully.

  ‘Are you hinting that our chatter is frightening away the fish?’ she suggested.

  ‘Well, they’re certainly not biting,’ he smiled.

  ‘We’ve not scared the old pike—he’s still fast asleep,’ she reminded him, indicating that ancient placidly floating on the surface of the pond.

  ‘Why not let me have a go?’ she suggested.

  Johnny looked surprised.

  ‘But—but you don’t want to fish, do you?’ he stammered.

  ‘At least it’s better than doing nothing,’ she replied gravely. ‘Besides, it’ll be something to write about in my column.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, somewhat grudgingly handing over the rod, ‘I guess it can’t do much harm if you hold it for a few minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Johnny,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘I’ll take great care of it.’

  ‘Keep your hand steady,’ he advised, watching her closely.

  ‘Wouldn’t it seem more natural if
the fly at the end of the line moved around a bit?’ she suggested. ‘Otherwise, it’s pretty dull for everybody.’

  ‘No, no, it won’t do at all,’ he said so anxiously, that she sat perfectly still and obeyed his instructions. Presently, she said quietly:

  ‘When are you going back to America, Johnny?’

  ‘Did I say anything about going back?’ he demanded in some surprise.

  ‘Well, no, but it’s your home, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so, but I like it here, too. I can relax here.’ He blew out a leisurely stream of smoke from his cigarette.

  ‘There’s more money to be made over there, of course,’ she ventured.

  ‘Who cares about money? I get by all right!’

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t make much out of the fish you catch. And the States must be much more exciting …’

  Johnny eased himself on his haunches and looked at her with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Say, are you trying to tell me I’ve outstayed my welcome?’ he demanded.

  She laughed.

  ‘Of course not, Johnny. I just thought that perhaps some nice American girl was patiently waiting for you.’

  ‘You don’t know much about our girls if you think they wait patiently. No, there’s nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I’ve been seriously thinking of settling down here. I like this part of the world—it suits me. The fishing’s O.K. and a guy can take time off to think.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she nodded. ‘You’ve a lovely old house and a perfect butler. What more could a man want?’

  Johnny shifted his feet awkwardly, plucked a blade of grass, and looked frankly worried.

  ‘I guess there is something else,’ he said at last.

  ‘Oh?’ murmured Verity absently, her eyes on the float. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a woman,’ he blurted out. ‘I thought maybe you and me, Verity. I thought …’

  ‘Yes?’ said Verity, rubbing yet another gnat-bite just below her knee.

  ‘Well,’ continued Johnny desperately, ‘you’ve often said how you like the old manor, and you’re crazy about Winwood, and I thought maybe in time you could get around to letting me keep an eye on you, just in case Max Fulton came back and—’

  ‘Johnny!’ she cried with sudden fervour.

  ‘Yes?’ he responded, eagerly stumbling to his feet.

  ‘Johnny! Look! I believe I’ve got a bite!’

  THE END

  POSTSCRIPT

  IN addition to adapting his radio plays into novels, Francis Durbridge was often asked to write short stories featuring the popular duo of Paul and Steve Temple. Although he only rarely took up the invitation, stories did occasionally appear in publications such as Radio Times and the Daily Mail Annual for Boys and Girls. One of the earliest examples, ‘A Present for Paul’, appeared in the Christmas Eve edition of the Yorkshire Evening Post on Tuesday 24 December 1946, and is reprinted here for the first time.

  A PRESENT FOR PAUL

  A PAUL TEMPLE Christmas Short Story written for ‘The Yorkshire Evening Post’ by the BBC’s No.1 Thriller Writer, Francis Durbridge.

  IT was exactly six days before Christmas when Steve saw the clock. It was in a jeweller’s on the corner of Regent Street, and it was marked £74 10s.

  It was a very small clock for such a large sum of money, but the moment Steve saw it she knew it was just what she had been looking for. The clock was made of onyx and silver and was shaped like a miniature bookcase. It was the ideal Christmas present for a popular novelist.

  Steve stood for a moment staring in at the shop window and admiring the clock, then, with a dirty look at the price ticket, she pushed open the door. The assistant was a tall man with a bald head and a curious habit of flicking the end of his nose. His name was O’Hara, and Steve took an instant dislike to him.

  O’Hara’s salary was £5 15s, but he dismissed the £74 10s with a gesture of contempt. It was hardly to be considered. A trifle. A mere bagatelle. ‘It’s an infinitesimal sum for such a lovely time-piece’, he said.

  While the assistant was making the clock into a neat little parcel, Steve scribbled a cheque for the mere bagatelle. She resisted the temptation to add ‘chicken-feed’ as she pushed it across the counter.

  When the parcel was ready O’Hara said: ‘There’s no official guarantee with the clock, madam, but if it does give you any trouble I hope you’ll let us know.’

  ‘You can depend on it,’ said Steve and carried the parcel out to the waiting car.

  When she arrived at the flat she rang the bell for Charlie instead of using her key. She didn’t want Temple to catch even a glimpse of his Christmas present.

  Charlie smiled when he saw her standing on the steps trying to conceal the parcel.

  ‘The coast’s clear, Mrs T.,’ he said, ‘Mr Temple left for Scotland Yard just over ’alf an hour ago.’ Steve said, very quietly: ‘Scotland Yard, Charlie?’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘Sir Graham Forbes telephoned. He said it was urgent.’

  Sir Graham Forbes was perturbed. Temple noticed this as soon as he entered the Commissioner’s office at New Scotland Yard. Forbes was frowning and nervously tapping the comer of the blotting-pad with a paper-knife. Temple said: ‘What’s on your mind, Sir Graham?’

  ‘Royston’s escaped, Temple. I don’t have to tell you what that means.’

  Paul Temple took out his cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, and flicked his lighter. ‘Royston? he said. His tone was polite and non-committal.

  The Commissioner looked up. He was still frowning, and there was a note of irritation in his voice.

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember Royston,’ he said. ‘He called himself Caesar Antonio, and he was the trumpet player with Ted Wayne.’

  Temple laughed and replaced his cigarette case. He remembered Royston alias Caesar Antonio only too well. He remembered the tall, lithe figure in the grey suit; the way Royston walked across the dance floor at the Palais de Danse; the way he held his hands dangling down by the side of his pockets.

  He remembered Royston’s eyes, too. Dark brown eyes with flecks of cold light in them.

  Temple said: ‘Why are you telling me about Royston?’

  ‘Because Royston’s a pretty unpleasant customer, and he hasn’t forgotten the part you played in the Gregory affair. It’s my bet he’ll pay you an unexpected visit.’

  Temple said: ‘If he does he’ll get an unexpected welcome.’

  ‘Watch your step,’ warned Forbes, ‘Royston isn’t a fool, not by any stretch of imagination.’

  The Commissioner hesitated and put down the paper knife. He looked very serious. He said: ‘He’s a very dangerous man, Temple.’

  Paul Temple nodded. He knew that Sir Graham was speaking the truth. Royston was a man to be reckoned with.

  In the taxi, on the way back to the flat, Paul Temple thought a great deal about Mr Royston, alias Caesar Antonio. He remembered the night that Royston had carefully placed the bomb in the cloakroom at the Belgravia Hotel. That was what Sir Graham had meant, of course. Carefully placed time-bombs were a speciality of Mr Royston’s. Temple was still thinking of the notorious Mr Royston when he arrived at the flat.

  Steve had prepared tea, the sort of tea Temple liked. Hot scones and strawberry jam.

  They sat in front of the open fire place.

  After she had poured him his cup of tea Steve said: ‘What did Sir Graham want?’

  Temple evaded the question. He had no intention of telling Steve that Royston was at large. He said: ‘We’ll have Christmas on top of us before we know where we are.’ Then with a smile: ‘I saw an awfully nice cigarette case today!’ Temple described the gold cigarette case in great detail and at great length.

  Steve laughed. She was thinking of the clock. ‘You’ll get half a dozen handkerchiefs,’ she said, ‘and like it.’

  After ten, Temple retired to the study. He was writing a 10,000-word story for a popular magazine and he still had a thousan
d words to write.

  It was a quarter to eight when he laid down his pen, stretched his legs and sat staring across the room at the photo of Steve and Sir Graham Forbes. It had been taken in Scotland in 1940 when Temple had investigated the Z4 mystery. He was still staring at the photo when he became conscious of a ticking noise. He realised now that he’d been conscious of it for some little time. He got up from the desk and crossed to the cupboard. The cupboard was full of old books and discarded manuscripts. As soon as he opened the cupboard door and turned over the manuscripts, Temple saw the parcel.

  It had been put there deliberately. There was no doubt about it. The small, neat brown-paper parcel had been concealed beneath the mass of odds and ends.

  Temple hesitated for a moment, then lifted the parcel off the ledge. He held it close to his ear. He could hear it ticking.

  What was it Sir Graham had said? ‘Watch your step, Royston isn’t a fool …’

  Temple remembered the warning and for the second time that day he found himself thinking of the cloakroom at the Belgravia Hotel.

  Quickly he carried the parcel out of the study, through the hall, down the stairs and into the street.

  Steve’s car was still outside the flat. Temple climbed into the driver’s seat and rather gingerly put the parcel down on the seat beside him.

  The thing was still ticking. Even when the car was running he imagined he could still hear the tick tock, tick tack, tick tock.

  It took him just over 12 minutes to reach the river. Slowly, almost tenderly, he lifted the parcel out of the car and crossed to the parapet. There was no explosion when the parcel hit the water. Fifteen minutes later Paul Temple was back in the flat.

  One morning at breakfast several days later Steve said: ‘I see they’ve caught Royston.’

  Temple was surprised. ‘How did you know about Royston?’ he asked.

  ‘It was in last night’s paper. They said he escaped from gaol several days ago.’