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

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      ‘How ever did I get on without you, Winwood?’ lazily demanded Johnny Washington, levering himself into a slightly more comfortable position in his arm-chair. His butler smiled politely without vouchsafing any reply.

      It was just after nine on the Thursday morning after the death of Superintendent Locksley, on whom the coroner had returned an open verdict. There had been plenty of sensational headlines during the past few days, but the police did not seem to be much nearer establishing the exact cause of their colleague’s death. Crime reporters with varying degrees of imagination speculated upon the case from a number of angles, and two or three ‘played up’ Johnny Washington’s connection with it. They would not readily forget the young American’s comparatively recent exploits amongst the strange characters in and around the London underworld, and as it was known that Locksley had been investigating the gelignite robberies, the natural inference was that Johnny Washington was in some way linked up with that gang. With the result that a number of brisk young men, usually wearing shabby raincoats, had been seen in the district of Caldicott Manor during the past two days. Most of them had called at the house, but had been duly repulsed by the faithful Winwood, who, having performed just such an operation some forty times in a wide assortment of film productions, was able to command a variety of techniques suitable for any emergency.

      Johnny gazed out of his french windows across a vista of Kent orchards, while Winwood methodically read reports from all the morning newspapers of the inquest on Superintendent Locksley. His own evidence was detailed quite fully, but gave no clue as to the reason the superintendent had visited him on that fatal evening. As he had caught sight of Inspector Dovey from the Yard in close consultation with the coroner just before the inquest, Johnny guessed that this omission had been carefully arranged.

      All the reports of the inquest so far had proved reasonably discreet, until Winwood turned to the melodramatic pages of the Daily Reflector, with its lively display of two-inch headlines and bathing beauties on each alternate sheet.

      ‘This is a little more sensational, sir,’ began Winwood with a slight apologetic cough, deferentially inclining his head exactly as he had done in some long-since forgotten epic. He started to read a report with the by-line, ‘By Our Crime Correspondent’.

      ‘Playboy Johnny Washington was a guest of New Scotland Yard chiefs last night, when he discussed with Chief Inspector Kennard the incidents leading to the tragic death of Superintendent Locksley at the Kingfisher Inn, near Sevenoaks, which was the subject of today’s inquest. Further sensational disclosures may be expected in the near future.’

      Johnny wriggled his toes inside his very comfortable slippers and asked Winwood to pour him some more coffee.

      As the butler passed the cup to Johnny, he said quietly:

      ‘I forgot to tell you, sir, that a gentleman called to see you when you were in London yesterday.’

      ‘Really?’ said Johnny with some interest. ‘Did he leave his name?’

      ‘Yes, sir. It was a Mr Quince.’

      ‘Quince?’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘Now I wonder what he wanted?’

      ‘He didn’t say, sir. He seemed quite a pleasant gentleman, but he wouldn’t leave any message. He said he might call again if you didn’t get in touch with him. He’s staying at the Kingfisher.’

      Johnny nodded absently and deftly extracted a cigarette from the silver box on the small table beside him. As he lit it, Winwood asked:

      ‘Shall I go on reading the reports, sir?’

      ‘No, that’ll do for now, Winwood. You’d better run along and see cook about lunch—or whatever you do at this time of morning.’

      The butler hesitated.

      ‘I’m afraid several of those reporters are likely to call again this morning, sir. You won’t be making any statement to the press?’

      Johnny unlatched the french window and opened it to admit the cool morning breeze.

      ‘No, Winwood, I guess we won’t be making any statements just yet awhile. As far as the press boys are concerned, I’ve always found it pays to say as little as possible.’

      Winwood nodded approvingly. He rather enjoyed rebuffing the gentlemen of the press.

      Johnny perched on the top stone step, which was already quite warm from the early morning sunshine, and gazed out across the orchards. A tractor was chugging away busily somewhere nearby, and there was something vaguely reassuring about the neatly shaven lawns and trim, well-kept borders.

      ‘This is the life, Winwood,’ he murmured. ‘Folks are crazy to stifle themselves in towns … what is it some poet fellow says about a flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thou …?’

      ‘Yes, sir, that reminds me,’ said Winwood, who was still hovering near the window. ‘One of the reporters who called yesterday was a young lady—a most attractive young lady.’

      Johnny wagged an indolent finger.

      ‘Now, Winwood, take it easy.’

      ‘She was most insistent, sir. In fact, she refused to take “No” for an answer.’

      ‘That’s too bad,’ murmured Johnny. ‘Blonde or brunette?’

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

      ‘I said was she dark or fair?’

      ‘A sort of chestnut I think would describe her colouring, sir.’

      ‘Very nice, too. Did she leave a name?’

      ‘Yes, sir. She was a Miss Verity Glyn.’

      ‘Verity Glyn,’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘I’ve seen that name some place.’ He went over to the pile of newspapers and found a copy of the Daily Messenger. Folding back the pages, he turned to a column headed: “Feminine Fancies”, and there at the foot of the column was the name he sought.

      Johnny chuckled.

      ‘I’ve been in some queer places in my time, Winwood, but I’ve never been in a heart-throb column before. Well, I guess it’s all experience, as the chorus girl said when she stepped into the crinoline.’

      ‘Quite so, sir. And if Miss Glyn calls again, am I to tell her to—’ He was interrupted by the peal of the front door bell.

      ‘That’s probably Inspector Kennard,’ said Johnny, as Winwood went off to open the door. ‘Better show him in here, Winwood.’

      Johnny wandered back to the french windows. The morning sunshine was very tempting. He stepped out and stretched himself, yawned mightily, felt for the inevitable package of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, and was about to extract one when he was distracted by the sound of raised voices inside the house. Winwood seemed to be expostulating with a girl who was displaying some signs of persistence.

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