‘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.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ he heard the butler say. ‘But Mr Washington is expecting someone else.’ Johnny could not catch the girl’s reply, but Winwood went on: ‘I’ll ask Mr Washington, but he’s very busy …’
The door opened and Winwood came into the room and crossed to where Johnny was standing by the window.
‘It’s the young lady I mentioned just now, sir,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Shall I tell her to wait until after the inspector has gone?’
Johnny frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then said quickly: ‘No, I’ll see what it is she wants right now. All right, Winwood, let her in.’
A voice from the doorway called out:
‘Don’t bother—I’m in already.’
For some seconds Johnny stood and appraised her from her trim chestnut curls down to her slim nylon-clad ankles.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured at last, ‘I guess you’re one of those girls who knows her way around.’
She smiled as if she really meant it and moved forward a couple of paces with an elegance he could not fail to note.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said frankly, ‘but it really is terribly important.’
‘If you’re going to tell me the old one about being flung out on to the hard pavements of Fleet Street unless you go back with a story, skip it!’ advised Johnny. ‘I used that one myself when I was a cub reporter first year out of college.’
‘You’ve given up reporting?’ she asked.
‘I guess I was flung out one day when I didn’t go back with a story,’ he admitted with a rueful grin. ‘But you’d better sit down now you’ve come all this way.’ He dismissed Winwood with a casual nod and indicated an arm-chair for the benefit of his visitor. He opened the silver cigarette box and indicated the English and American brands in their separate sections. He was slightly surprised when she chose the American.
‘Well, he’s certainly a throwback to the good old days,’ she smiled, indicating the departing butler. Johnny snapped his lighter and held the flame to her cigarette.
‘Yes, he kinda makes me feel good,’ he told her with an understanding nod. ‘Worth every cent I pay him.’
She settled back in her arm-chair and puffed out a stream of smoke very deliberately. Johnny admired the dark green dress she was wearing beneath her swagger coat. Not a day over twenty-five, he told himself; a girl who’d be exciting to take around or come home to. He found himself trying to get a glimpse of her left hand, and experienced a slight feeling of relief to note there was no ring on the slim, well-manicured fingers.
‘You’ll be Miss Verity Glyn?’ he inquired politely as he lit another cigarette for himself.
She nodded.
‘Well, this is an honour,’ went on Johnny in a suave tone. ‘Will you be wanting to write a piece about this fine old English manor with its Tudor chimneys and—’
She shook her head decisively.
‘No, Mr Washington, I’ve come to see you about something much more serious than that. I shouldn’t be here at all really; I should be at the office. I’m very conscientious about my job, so you can guess I wouldn’t come running down here without a very good reason.’
‘Then your visit has nothing to do with the Daily Messenger?’
‘Not a thing. I’m afraid I rather misled your butler—I used the paper’s name because I was so anxious to see you. I’m sorry if it upset you in any way.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Johnny with a lazy gesture. ‘There’s nothing I like better than being kept out of the Daily Messenger!’
She threw her head back against the chair and laughed. It was an infectious little laugh. But she became serious again almost immediately.
‘Well, I’m rather busy this morning,’ Johnny told her. ‘I had some thought of going fishing. I suppose that’s a bit outside your sort of column, Miss Glyn, though I shall be glad to show you—’
‘Mr Washington,’ she interrupted in an earnest tone, ‘do you think Superintendent Locksley committed suicide?’
Johnny paused in the act of flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette.
‘Really, Miss Glyn, that’s what your English lawyers call a leading question, isn’t it?’
But Verity Glyn was not to be diverted.
‘I’m serious about this, Mr Washington.’
He suddenly realized that there were tears in the grey eyes. Even so, he wasn’t particularly impressed. Johnny had met far too many women who switched on the tears as easily as they powdered their shapely noses. He particularly recalled a pretty little confidence trickster who ‘worked’ the trans-Atlantic luxury liners with just such a display of ready emotions which had relieved many a dollar millionaire of a nice little bunch of travellers’ cheques.
For all Johnny knew, the very personable young lady who sat opposite might be a tool of the gelignite gang, sent to pry into his affairs or plant some new evidence against him. For all he knew, she wasn’t even Verity Glyn. She might have simply picked on that name and called herself a newspaper woman …
The girl seemed to guess what was passing through his mind, for she suddenly opened her bag, fumbled in it for a moment and passed over a neat red card to him.
In some perplexity he looked at it. The card testified that Miss Verity Glyn of the Daily Messenger was a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists, and requested that she should be afforded full facilities available to members of the press. Still looking somewhat bewildered, Johnny passed back the card.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Have you turned crime reporter or what?’
Once again, she fumbled in her handbag, and this time produced a postcard photo.
‘I have a very strong personal interest in this case,’ she said. ‘Now, will you look at this … then take another look at me.’
He recognized the photo at once; it was one of Superintendent Locksley, taken some fifteen years ago he estimated. Locksley wore an open-necked shirt and a sun-helmet, and the buildings in the background looked rather like a South African farmhouse.
Johnny glanced across at the girl. The resemblance was obvious.
‘Gerald Locksley was my brother,’ she said simply. ‘Now do you believe me?’
With a sigh, Johnny passed back the photo.
‘I believe you,’ he said slowly.
‘Then will you answer my question? Did he really commit suicide?’
Johnny hesitated. At last he said: ‘Just between ourselves, I’m not at all satisfied about your brother’s death. When he came to see me he was certainly very worried about this gelignite gang, but he certainly wasn’t in the desperate sort of mood one associates with suicide.’
‘Then it was murder!’ she exclaimed emotionally. ‘I knew they’d get him. I knew it!’
Her hands trembled in nervous excitement as they fingered the clasp of her handbag. She was leaning forward and trying hard to fight back her tears.
‘I always warned Gerald … but he never took me seriously …’
Johnny went over to the sideboard, opened it and took out a decanter of Napoleon brandy, from which he carefully poured about a dessertspoonful into a liqueur glass, which he carried back to her.
‘Drink this first; then we’ll talk,’ he said briefly.
She took several sips and the colour which had drained from her face began to surge back again. Then she set the glass on a small table nearby and said quietly:
‘I need your help, Mr Washington, more than anything I’ve ever needed in my life before.’
Johnny slowly sat down and propped his feet on a footstool.
‘Then your real name is Locksley?’ he queried.
‘That’s right. Everybody knows me as Verity Glyn—it’s part of the paper’s publicity stunt to boost the column—I’m not supposed to give away my real identity.’
‘It’s a very nice name—Verity Glyn,’ decided Johnny, saying it slowly, a syllable at a time.
He lit fresh cigarettes for both of them, then said:
‘All right now, tell me what you meant when you said you knew they would get your brother.’
She hesitated a moment, then said: ‘It’s rather a long story. Will you answer me one question first?’
He nodded encouragingly, and she went on:
‘What did my brother come to see you about the night he died?’
Johnny blew out a ring of smoke and thoughtfully watched it rise.
‘I shouldn’t tell you this,’ he said, ‘but your brother had reason to believe I might be implicated in one of these gelignite gang jobs. He came down to ask me one or two questions. Unfortunately for the gang, I had rather a good alibi for the night the affair occurred.’
‘And he didn’t mention any of his theories about this gelignite gang?’ she inquired.
‘We didn’t get very much time. I rushed him off to the Kingfisher for an extra bottle of whisky, and I thought we’d probably have a good talk when we got back.’
‘You don’t know anything about my brother’s earlier experiences abroad?’
‘Not very much. He wasn’t a particularly talkative character; you know that as well as I do,’ he murmured, wondering vaguely when she would come to the point.
‘About eight years ago,’ she began, ‘Gerald was attached to Service B.Y.—a special branch of the Cape Town Constabulary, who were very busy at that time with a series of daring raids—mostly on jewellers and diamond warehouses. My brother and another officer were in charge of the investigation, and it was very tough going. After several months they discovered the leader of the organization was a man who went by the name of Max Fulton.’
‘I seem to remember reading about that affair,’ nodded Johnny. ‘Go on.’
‘This man Fulton was a very shrewd customer—well-educated and widely travelled. He knew the underworld in half a dozen countries, and he stopped at nothing. But the police pulled in several members of the gang; one of them told all he knew, and so they found out quite a lot about Max Fulton. But Fulton had provided for that emergency and when the police made a big round-up of the gang, he managed to escape.’
‘That’s right,’ put in Johnny, ‘I seem to remember hearing about him being in Chicago the following year.’
‘Not long after he had fooled the police,’ continued the girl, ‘the officer who had been working with my brother on the case was murdered. It wasn’t a very pleasant murder. Almost immediately after that, there were two attempts on my brother’s life.’
Johnny whistled softly. There was a strained look in her eyes as she recalled those distressing days with an obvious reluctance. ‘I suppose there was no evidence against Fulton?’ he queried.
‘Not a trace. The police officer’s body was found by a farmer lying in a roadside ditch. He had been terribly beaten up by someone who had apparently kidnapped him and dumped him out in the country.’
‘Looks to me as if this Fulton guy’s got a nasty kink in his imagination somewhere,’ mused Johnny. ‘What about the attacks on your brother?’
‘They might have been accidents. I don’t think he was taking any chances with Gerald, because the police were very much on his tail by that time. He tried to get Gerald just outside Cape Town one day—a large saloon car swerved and Gerald only just leapt clear in time. He couldn’t see the driver—and there was no back number plate. The other time, Gerald was walking along one of the main streets when a large wooden crate weighing about a ton crashed down on the pavement a few feet away. They swore the rope had slipped, and Gerald couldn’t prove otherwise, but I can still remember how suspicious he was about the whole business. He was terrified that Fulton would find out that he had a sister. I was living with relatives then, and he made me adopt an assumed name, and when things were very tense he wouldn’t even telephone me in case the line was tapped. He knew Fulton would stop at nothing. There was something quite devilish about the man; it was as if he rejoiced in evil for its own sake as well as for the money it brought him.’
Johnny leaned over and flicked the ash off his cigarette. There was no mistaking this girl’s sincerity, but he had a feeling that she might be a little overwrought, which was quite natural, of course, in view of her brother’s sudden death.
‘You said this Max Fulton got clear from the country just in time?’ he murmured quietly.
‘Yes. But Gerald had a letter from him soon after, saying that Fulton would get even one day, and ever since he’s received threatening letters at irregular intervals. The last was just before this gelignite gang started its activities, and right from the moment Gerald was put on the case he’s had a feeling that he was up against Max Fulton. He warned me weeks ago that I must lie low and use the name Verity Glyn on every possible occasion.’
It was Johnny’s turn to look worried.
‘What made him think it was Max Fulton?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t quite know. Just a sort of hunch he had. Maybe he found something similar between the way the gang worked and the old set-up in Cape Town. Gerald’s hunches in that line were usually pretty reliable, and he became more and more certain as time went on. It was he who finally convinced the Scotland Yard chiefs that they really were up against a big organization.’
Johnny reached out and rang a bell at the side of the fireplace, and when Winwood promptly appeared asked him to bring some coffee. As the butler closed the door silently behind him, Johnny said:
‘I could kick myself for letting your brother out of my sight that evening. I had a feeling he was going to spill something …’ He sighed. ‘Well, I guess we all make mistakes and pay for ’em. The question is—where do we go from here?’
‘Then you do believe me? You believe I’m telling you the truth?’ There was a note of relief in her voice.
‘I believe you, ma’am,’ replied Johnny evenly, ‘but I don’t know if that helps very much. We’ve got no proof that Fulton is behind this gang, or that he killed your brother. We don’t even know what he looks like. I suppose your brother never met him?’
She shook her head.
‘That’s just the awful part about it. Max Fulton has always escaped the police rec
ords in every country he’s visited. Some other poor devil has always taken the rap for his crimes, and the international police haven’t even as much as a photograph.’ There was a trace of bitterness in her tone. ‘Gerald used to tell me that Fulton built up a completely new identity for himself in every country; sometimes he’d spend more than a year doing it before he planned a new coup.’
‘Looks like this guy knows the answers even before he hears the questions,’ mused Johnny. ‘All the same, I wish I knew why he picked on me over that Gloucester job. I’ve never done him any harm … at least, none that I know of.’
‘But don’t you see,’ she urged. ‘He probably thinks you’re a friend of Gerald’s. He may have seen you two together—suspected you were working against him, and decided to get in the first blow.’
Johnny stubbed out his cigarette with a decisive gesture.
‘Young lady, this business is gettin’ a darn sight too complicated for my liking,’ he pronounced. ‘I’m a peace-loving guy—oh, I’ll admit I’ve had my hectic moments with the crooks and cops, but right now all I want to do is relaxin’ and fishin’. I’ve kinda got used to this pleasant country routine; it’s in my blood now. I don’t go for the big-time skulduggery any more.’ He paused with a far-away look in his eyes and added: ‘Why, if I could happen across a real nice girl I might even think of getting hitched up …’
She flung her cigarette end into the fireplace and leaned forward impulsively.
‘Mr Washington, you know as well as I do that Gerald was murdered, and you’ve got to help me.’
He sighed again. There was something very pleasant about the large grey eyes, the quivering lips.
At that moment, Winwood came in with a large pot of fresh coffee, a silver jug of milk and a plate of Johnny’s favourite biscuits. Verity Glyn’s expression was noticeably less strained now, and she drank her coffee with obvious enjoyment, complimenting her host on its quality. When he had refilled her cup, he suddenly returned to the subject they had been discussing.
‘D’you happen to know if your brother had any sort of a dossier on Max Fulton?’ he inquired.
Beware of Johnny Washington Page 6