‘Well at least you’ll let me give you a drink— Winwood, a whisky for Mr Locksley.’
Winwood took the drink over to Locksley, then crossed to Johnny and murmured discreetly:
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are almost out of whisky. The doctor was—ahem—a trifle heavy on our last bottle.’
‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Johnny. ‘Is it as bad as that? I must nip down and see Harry Bache at the Kingfisher.’ He turned to Locksley. ‘Perhaps you’d like to run down to the local with me. The landlord there lets me have the odd bottle of my favourite brand now and then. We can have a quick one while we’re there—it’s not a bad old pub, and there’s a stuffed pike in the “snug” that will interest you …’
Locksley smiled and nodded. Winwood withdrew and closed the door silently behind him. Johnny carefully placed his feet on his favourite fireside stool and grinned at the superintendent.
‘Well, Locksley, is somebody still trying to put the smear on me?’
Locksley took an appreciative gulp at his whisky and leaned back in his chair.
‘It’s still the same smear,’ he replied. ‘The chief isn’t altogether happy about your alibi.’
‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ murmured Johnny, rubbing his chin with his long sensitive fingers. He reached for a package of Chesterfields and flicked one over to Locksley. ‘You tell your boss he’s darn lucky to find me with such a good alibi. It isn’t once in a blue moon I stay the night in Town; I wouldn’t have done this time if I hadn’t taken my girl friend on to a night spot.’
‘She could corroborate all that, I suppose, if necessary?’
Johnny frowned.
‘Say, what’s going on now?’
‘You didn’t take her home, I suppose?’
‘I put her into a taxi in Piccadilly just on midnight—we’d have stayed on later but she’d had a hectic day and wanted some sleep. Then I went straight back to the hotel, just as I told you. You don’t think I’m pulling a fast one, do you?’
‘No, no, of course not, Johnny,’ said Locksley with a worried expression. ‘But these gelignite robberies have got us all a bit rattled. Close on one hundred thousand pounds’ worth in a few months.’
Johnny pursed his lips thoughtfully.
‘Chee, somebody’s thinking big for once in a while,’ he commented. ‘Looks like they’re trying to nationalize the crime racket.’
‘So you see, Johnny, the D.C. is out to follow up every clue like grim death. He’s convinced—and so am I, for that matter—that this is a large organization under the direction of a master mind. And if we can take a short cut to the master mind, the sooner we’ll clear up the business.’
Johnny blew out a large cloud of smoke.
‘Are you trying to tell me that your boss suspects that I’m the big black chief?’
‘He wants to make absolutely certain that you’re not,’ said Locksley earnestly. ‘After all, he knows you’re pretty cute, and you’ve been around quite a bit on both sides of the Atlantic. You’re the sort of unknown quantity that might well be in charge of a gang of this sort—not that I think for a moment—’ he added hastily.
‘I appreciate that!’ grinned Johnny.
‘But you see,’ went on Locksley, ‘he’s got to eliminate as many possibilities as he can. Also, he thought you might be able to give him some inkling as to who would be likely to want to plant the Gloucester job on to you.’
Johnny shrugged.
‘It might be any of the boys and girls—Princess Vaniscourt, Skeff Larabie, Billy Sorrell; they’d murder their own mother if they thought they could frame me.’
Locksley took another gulp of whisky and looked round the room for a minute without speaking. Then he said somewhat cautiously:
‘This is a very nice place you’ve got here. You’ve done nicely for yourself, Johnny.’
Johnny grinned again.
‘Meaning where did I get the doh-ray-me? Do we have to go into all that? Maybe you’d like to see a signed statement from my accountants.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Locksley looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny, but we’re all a bit nervy about this business. There hasn’t been anything this big for some years now, and I dare say one or two of us will be out of a job by the time it’s over.’ He leaned forward in his chair and looked directly at his host.
‘Are you quite sure you haven’t any ideas about it, Johnny?’
Johnny Washington flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette.
‘To tell you the honest truth, old man, I’ve hardly given it a thought. I’ve been concentrating on rusticating these past few months.’
Locksley took out his wallet and passed over the visiting card, with the copperplate inscription.
‘Can’t you think whose work that’s likely to be?’ he demanded seriously.
Johnny flicked the card with his fingernail.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he said.
‘You’ve never had any cards like that yourself?’
Johnny shook his head.
‘I’ve never bothered about visiting cards—always thought they were kinda old-fashioned.’
‘You haven’t sent anyone a present with a card like that enclosed?’
‘No; in that case I’d use my own handwriting.’ He paused for a moment, then asked: ‘If you’ve come here to collect my fingerprints to see if they tally with those on the card, go right ahead, brother.’
Locksley gloomily shook his head, and took another drink. ‘There aren’t any “smudges” on the card; at least there weren’t when I found it,’ he said. ‘That’s what made me suspicious. If you’d wanted to advertise the job as your work, you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to bother about fingerprints.’
‘Nor would I have bothered to tear up that card,’ ruminated Johnny. ‘And if I had really wanted to get rid of the card I wouldn’t have been such a mug as to leave it lying around in a trash basket.’
‘It might have led us on a pretty involved false trail if you hadn’t happened to have that alibi,’ said the superintendent. ‘I’d have had to set a couple of men on to tail you night and day.’
Johnny laughed and passed the card back to Locksley, who replaced it in his wallet.
‘This gelignite gang interests me,’ said Johnny Washington, wriggling his toes inside his slippers. ‘I always like meeting people with new ideas. Tell me more about the set-up, that’s if it isn’t top secret.’
Locksley filled in the details of the chain of robberies very rapidly, but there was little that was new to Johnny, who had read most of the accounts in the newspapers. When Locksley had finished, Johnny poured the remainder of the whisky into his guest’s glass.
‘About this night watchman at Gloucester,’ he murmured. ‘Did you see him before he passed out?’
‘Yes,’ said Locksley. ‘He was an old lag named Hiller, and he’d had a heavy dose of chloroform; too much for his heart.’
‘Then he didn’t say anything?’
‘Well, he did come round just before the end, and he whispered two words quite distinctly—“Grey Moose”. For a minute I thought perhaps he might be talking nonsense, then I remembered.’
‘What did you remember?’
‘Just after the gang pulled the Oldham job, we picked up a man named Smokey Pearce, run over by a lorry on the Preston road. Just before he died, he said the same two words.’
‘Grey Moose,’ repeated Johnny thoughtfully. ‘It might mean anything … some sort of password maybe …’
‘It doesn’t suggest anything to you?’ queried Locksley, eyeing him closely.
‘Not a thing—except that I seem to have seen the words somewhere—can’t call it to mind right now. It might be some sort of trade name.’
‘We’ve been into all that,’ nodded Locksley. ‘But you’ll agree that when two dying men say the same thing it must have some sort of significance, specially as they were both suspected of being linked with the gelignite gang.’<
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‘You got something there,’ agreed Johnny thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could help you, brother, but I guess I’ve had enough of the crime racket to last me for a while. All I want to do is mooch around, a little fishing, a trip to Town once in a way, a lot of relaxing and a drink at the local … and that reminds me; we better get going if we don’t want to be shut out.’
He fumbled for his shoes and put them on with a certain amount of effort.
‘How far is this pub?’ asked Locksley.
‘It won’t take us five minutes in the car,’ Johnny told him. ‘I think you’ll like the Kingfisher—it’s a fairly old inn—oak beams and all that—dates back quite a way. We Americans are always suckers for tradition.’
‘You’re also suckers for Scotch whisky,’ said Locksley with a faint smile as they went out.
Johnny’s car was an enormous American roadster, but the engine seemed to be cold, and missed on two of its cylinders all the way to the inn.
‘I guess the plugs are getting clogged up,’ frowned Johnny as they drew up in front of the Kingfisher Inn. ‘I’d better run her round to the back and take a quick look at ’em. It won’t take a minute; you go in and order the drinks—be sure to tell Bache they’re on me.’
Locksley got out and Johnny ran the car into the little car park at the back of the inn, where he manœuvred it until the bonnet was exactly under the solitary electric light. Then he took out the offending plugs and carefully cleaned and replaced them. He was a little longer than he had anticipated because an elusive blob of grease on one of the plugs was more than usually obstinate.
He had replaced the bonnet and was just about to switch off all the lights, when there was a shout from inside the Kingfisher. Then a door opened and there was a sound of running feet. Washington immediately recognized the diminutive figure of Harry Bache, the landlord of the inn.
‘I thought it was your car, Mr Washington,’ he gasped breathlessly.
‘Anything wrong, Harry?’ asked Johnny noting his obvious distress.
‘Was that feller with you—the bloke what just come in?’
‘Yes, of course. Didn’t he tell you to put the drinks down to me?’
‘That’s right—but I was a bit suspicious like, as I’d never seen him before. And then, while my back was turned, it happened … My God, it’s awful!’
‘What happened?’
‘Why he … shot himself!’ The little innkeeper’s eyes seemed to bulge right out of his head, and he clutched at the mascot on the front of Washington’s car as if he were about to faint.
CHAPTER III
GREY MOOSE
WASHINGTON reached inside the car and took out a silver flask from one of the side pockets. He unscrewed the top and passed it to Harry.
‘Drink this,’ he ordered. The innkeeper took the flask in a shaking right hand, gulped down a mouthful of brandy and passed it back. Johnny slipped it into his pocket ready for further emergencies.
‘All right, Mr Washington,’ the landlord said hoarsely. ‘We’d better go in now and see if there’s anything we can do.’
‘O.K. then, come on. No time to be lost.’
They went in through the back door, along a short passage and into the saloon bar.
‘I’ve locked the front door, sir,’ breathed Harry Bache’s hoarse voice behind him as Johnny went into the room. He stood for a moment on the threshold as if to establish a clear impression of his surroundings.
The body of Superintendent Locksley was almost the first thing he saw, for his attention was directed to it by an overturned table and stool in a far corner of the saloon. The body lay nearby, with a trickle of blood flowing from the head and a revolver clasped in the left hand.
On Washington’s left was the small service room, which was connected to the saloon by a small enclosed counter, and opened out into the bar which was usually patronized by local farmworkers. Apparently the house had been empty of customers at the time, for it seemed quite deserted now. Washington was not altogether surprised at this, for Harry Bache was always grumbling about the lack of custom, although the brewery had spent a considerable sum upon refurnishing the saloon with small tables, imitation antique settles and small stools.
Washington went over to Locksley, placed a finger on the neck artery, then turned to Bache.
‘Anyone else around?’
‘I told the missus to stay in the kitchen. And there’s a Mr Quince upstairs …’
Washington took in the room—the little service counter with its rows of bottles on their shelves, the new chromium-plated beer engine, the cash register, the advertisements for cigarettes and soft drinks, the recently built brick fireplace, the reproduction oak settles, the heavy china ash-trays, the solitary siphon at one end of the counter …
Harry Bache shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Can’t think what made ’im do it, Mr Washington,’ he burst forth at last. ‘Never known such a thing in all me born days—’e comes in and orders two double whiskies and the moment I turn my back—’
‘Can I use your telephone?’ asked Johnny somewhat abruptly.
Harry Bache nodded in the direction of the passage, where Johnny found the instrument in a small alcove. He was connected with the police station and spoke to the sergeant in charge. The police surgeon was not available. Washington suggested that the sergeant should get Doctor Randall, who was comparatively near at hand.
Harry Bache was still standing nervously in the doorway of the saloon bar; he had obviously overheard the telephone conversation.
‘What did you mean, Mr Washington, when you said as ’ow it might be suicide?’ he demanded with an aggressive note in his voice. Washington ignored him and went over to the body of Locksley, stooped and examined the revolver for a minute, then turned to Harry Bache.
‘What were you doing when this man came in?’ he asked.
‘A crossword,’ was the prompt reply. ‘The place was as quiet as the grave—I ’ave to do something or I’d go barmy.’
‘You were standing behind the bar?’ asked Johnny.
‘That’s right. He come in and ordered the whiskies—said they was to be charged up to you—and just as I was going to pour ’em ’e asked me if I could change a pound note. So I went off into the sitting-room to get the money, and when I gets back ’e’s lying there just like ’e is now, with that gun in ’is ’and. Give me a proper turn it did—thought for a minute I was goin’ to pass out. I ’ollers to the missis to stop where she is, and comes out to see if you was ’ere like ’e said.’
‘How long were you out there?’ inquired Johnny.
‘About three or four minutes I dare say. I ’ad a bit of an argument with the missis about ’arf a dollar she’d borrowed from the petty cash.’
Johnny thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and sat down on one of the stools.
‘I suppose someone could have come in here while you were in the sitting-room,’ he suggested.
Harry Bache rubbed the back of his head with his rather dirty hand. ‘I reckon they might,’ he conceded. ‘They could ’ave come from upstairs or through the front door.’
‘What about that door yonder?’
Johnny indicated a door to the right of the bar.
‘That’s the club room—only used one night a week by club members. I always keep it locked, on account of the stuff in there.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Oh, you know—robes and chains of office and all that tomfoolery.’
Johnny Washington walked over to the door and tried the knob. The door was locked. Johnny paced back to the bar and picked up one of the two empty glasses, which were standing side by side, and poured into it a generous measure of brandy from his flask. Then he glanced inquiringly at the landlord, who shook his head.
‘No more for me, Mr Washington.’
Johnny sipped the brandy thoughtfully. A solitary car went past outside. They could hear the clock ticking in the public bar. Sudd
enly, Harry Bache said:
‘Funny I never ’eard that gun go off. Nor the missus neither or she’d soon ’ave—’
‘Not much mystery about that,’ replied Johnny absently. ‘If you look at the gun you’ll see it’s fitted with a silencer—that cylindrical gadget fastened to the end of the barrel. There’d only be a sort of quiet pop.’
‘Cor, ’e didn’t ’arf make a job of it, and no error!’ ejaculated the innkeeper. ‘But it beats me what ’e wants to come ’ere for—never set eyes on ’im in me life before.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’ said Johnny quietly.
‘Course I’m sure. Who is ’e, anyway?’
‘Oh, just a friend of mine. By the way, did you say there was someone upstairs?’
‘That’s right. An old gent, name of Quince. Bit of a queer bird if you ask me. Got ’ere yesterday afternoon—says ’e’s on a tour of the county—asked me all sorts of questions about this ’ere place. There wasn’t much I could tell ’im, I’ve only bin ’ere six months myself.’
‘I think you’d better ask Mr Quince to come down here,’ decided Johnny.
Harry Bache seemed surprised.
‘What do we want the old geezer nosin’ about for?’ he asked.
‘The police sergeant will be sure to want to see him when he gets here, so we might as well break it to him gently.’
Harry Bache shrugged.
‘O.K. with me if you say so, Mr Washington!’
Johnny watched him go out muttering towards the stairs in the passage. He had always felt a vague dislike for this little man, but had tried to be friendly, as he had been with most of the folk round about. But there always seemed to be something lacking about the atmosphere at the Kingfisher Inn; there was none of that warm bonhomie one associated with the typical British country pub. Which was, no doubt, the reason why most of the locals patronized the other inn which was in the centre of the village.
When he heard the landlord’s footsteps at the top of the stairs, Johnny swiftly crossed over to the till, cautiously rang up ‘No Sale’, opened the drawer, examined the contents and closed it again. Before doing so, he stood apparently lost in thought for quite a couple of minutes, until he could hear distant voices from the stairhead.
Beware of Johnny Washington Page 3