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

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СКАЧАТЬ will be all right for you to go back to your room, sir,’ he said respectfully. ‘I doubt if the inspector will want to see you tonight.’

      Quince permitted himself a circumspect little smile.

      ‘Thank you, Sergeant, and you, too, Mr Washington,’ he murmured gratefully and wished everyone good night. Johnny smiled politely and watched him until he was out of sight. Quite frankly, Quince puzzled him. He hardly looked a sinister type, but you could never tell with these odd eccentric little characters.

      Johnny and the sergeant made a move towards the door, but Harry Bache called after them.

      ‘What am I supposed to do about that?’ He indicated the body. ‘We can’t just leave ’im ’ere all night.’

      The sergeant waved aside the interruption.

      ‘I’ll attend to that presently. Pearman will look after things here till I get back.’ He turned to the constable and ordered him to keep a close watch on the front door.

      ‘Don’t let anyone in.’

      ‘You want me to wait and see the inspector?’ queried Doctor Randall.

      ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Doctor. Just a formality.’

      ‘I’ll be delighted.’

      The doctor looked as if he meant it, for he had settled down in the most comfortable chair with another glass of whisky. Outside, the engine of Johnny’s saloon roared for a moment, doors slammed, gears changed and the sound of the car slowly receded into the night.

      What seemed to be an oppressive silence fell upon the house. The constable went over to the body, pulled the sheet further over the head, and perched on a stool.

      A minute or two went by, then Harry Bache suddenly said: ‘Why don’t we go into the back room? There’s still a good fire—looks more cheerful.’

      ‘Good idea!’ approved the doctor, getting to his feet.

      ‘What about you, Mr Pearman?’ asked the landlord.

      The policeman shook his head.

      ‘I think I’d better stop in here if you don’t mind.’

      ‘Please yourself. We’ll be out there if you want us.’

      Harry Bache and the doctor went out along the short passage to the little back sitting-room, where a small but lively fire was burning between the two old-fashioned hobs. The doctor set his glass, still half-full, on the table, and made himself comfortable in a well-worn rocking chair, while Harry Bache closed the door with some care.

      ‘Where’s your wife?’ asked the doctor, as soon as he was settled. Harry Bache made an upward gesture with a grimy thumb.

      ‘Packed ’er off to bed out of the way,’ he answered. They began to talk in low voices.

      ‘I don’t like this business, Doc,’ said Harry Bache, in a hoarse, apprehensive voice. ‘I ain’t never been mixed up with anything like this before.’ His Cockney origin became more apparent than ever in his agitation.

      ‘Don’t be a damned fool!’ snapped Randall in low tones. ‘Everything’s turned out all right. You’ve only got to keep your wits about you.’ His face was redder than usual, possibly because of the quantity of whisky he had drunk that evening. Harry Bache leaned against the mantelpiece and looked into the fire.

      ‘It’s tricky, Doc. I can’t think what the devil brought ’im ’ere—of all places. D’you think ’e’d found out anything?’

      ‘Well, nobody’ll know the answer to that now,’ replied Randall grimly.

      ‘It’s a nasty business,’ repeated Bache. ‘I don’t like the looks of that Mr Washington. E’s a queer bird, if you ask me.’

      ‘Yes,’ nodded the doctor. ‘I’ve read one or two things about him in the papers; we’ll have to keep an eye on him.’

      ‘What’s ’e want to come and live in these parts for?’ demanded Bache curiously.

      ‘He’s very fond of fishing.’

      ‘That’s what he says. But I don’t trust ’im. I’ve got a feeling ’e’s up to something.’

      ‘Pull yourself together,’ said Randall, taking a gulp at his whisky. ‘It’s quite simple. Locksley came down to see him because of that card left behind on the Gloucester job.’

      ‘Card? What card? I don’t know anything about—’

      ‘Skip it, and give me another drink. You don’t have to worry about Johnny Washington. We’ll look after him.’

      The landlord opened a cupboard, took out a bottle and filled two glasses.

      ‘I thought for a minute ’e’d got wise about the club-room—’e asked to go inside—and found a damp patch on the floor, where I wiped up the—’

      ‘You damn fool! What did you want to let him go in for!’ The doctor was on his feet now, towering above the little innkeeper.

      ‘I ’ad to let ’im in. ’E said the police would want to go and ’ave a look round … it’d ’ave looked fishy if I’d tried to keep ’im out.’

      The doctor sat down again.

      ‘He never mentioned anything about the club-room,’ he reflected. ‘Maybe he didn’t attach any importance to whatever he saw there.’

      ‘Anyhow, ’e can’t prove nothing,’ nodded the innkeeper. ‘I’m the only witness, and I got my story.’

      ‘Of course you have,’ rallied the doctor. ‘There’ll be no trouble.’ For a minute or two they drank in silence. Then Bache said suddenly:

      ‘’Eard anything about the next job?’

      ‘Yes,’ nodded the doctor. ‘Brighton.’

      ‘Ah …’ Harry Bache nodded several times. ‘Plenty of stuff down there if you know where to lay ’ands on it.’

      ‘It’s practically settled,’ Randall told him. ‘We’ll be meeting on Thursday.’

      ‘Not here?’ queried the landlord in some alarm.

      ‘Why not? This business will be all over by then. It’ll be safe as anywhere.’ The doctor drained his glass for the ninth time that evening.

      ‘This is a big job at Brighton,’ he went on. ‘One of the biggest we’ve taken on yet, and we’ve got to leave nothing to chance.’ He got up and went over to the door, opened it a few inches and closed it again before adding in a low tone:

      ‘I had the tip this morning that Grey Moose may be coming down here himself.’

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