Beware of Johnny Washington

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I came to see Washington. His man said he was up at the Kingfisher and—’ He broke off, as he saw more detectives. ‘What is all this? A raid of some sort?’

  ‘Never mind, now, Dovey. Did you want to see Washington urgently?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m glad you’re here … it’s bad news.’

  Sir Robert turned to Kennard.

  ‘All right, take the men upstairs and let me know when you’re through.’

  After they had gone, Sir Robert closed both the doors.

  ‘Is this news something to do with me, too?’ he asked.

  ‘It certainly is, Sir Robert. I came down to see Washington because it concerns his friend, Eric Trevelyan. He telephoned this evening just after you left to say that his shop had been burgled. The shop was closed this afternoon and … and—’

  ‘Not the Brailsham Diamond?’ queried Sir Robert quickly.

  ‘No, sir. That went back to the safe deposit as soon as we knew the decoy plan had failed. But they got over twelve thousand pounds’ worth of other stuff.’

  ‘Twelve thousand …’ The assistant commissioner whistled softly under his breath.

  Johnny leaned his elbows on the bar and blew out a stream of cigarette smoke.

  ‘That was certainly a masterstroke, Sir Robert,’ he declared. ‘Trevelyans was just about the last place in London we would expect them to choose. What time did it happen? Dovey?’

  ‘About six o’clock. They used gelignite to blow the safe, but there was hardly a soul about to hear the explosion. All the shops were closed, and they made a getaway without any trouble at all. Young Trevelyan actually saw them drive away without realizing quite what had happened. He calls round about six every Saturday, just to make sure everything’s safely locked up for the weekend.’

  ‘What about the burglar alarms?’ inquired Sir Robert.

  ‘They’re electric, and the gang took care of them simply by cutting off the current at the main. Taken all round, it was a very neat job.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Johnny, stubbing out his cigarette on a large china ash-tray, ‘they must have got wind of this raid, switched their meeting to last night, and planned that little coup there and then. Grey Moose can certainly pull off a neat little job of organization in an emergency.’

  ‘But how the devil could news of this raid have leaked out?’ queried Hargreaves. ‘Only the people immediately concerned were notified—I didn’t even tell Dovey …’

  ‘That’s so,’ said Dovey. ‘Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come barging in like this.’

  ‘It beats me,’ muttered Hargreaves, rubbing his chin.

  They eyed each other a trifle dubiously, as if they all dreaded that one would produce a coup d’etat at any moment. They could hear heavy footsteps moving about overhead, but downstairs there was still no sign of life.

  ‘I suppose I’d better tell Chambers the whole affair’s a wash-out,’ said Sir Robert gloomily.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted Johnny. ‘I think I can hear someone coming downstairs.’

  It was Kennard returning to report.

  ‘There was the landlord’s wife in her room, sir. She was fast asleep. She hasn’t seen her husband all evening, and went to bed soon after closing time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sir Robert. ‘Who else was up there?’

  ‘An old gentleman was sitting up reading in bed. When I told him you were here, he insisted on seeing you. He’s coming down now.’

  He turned to indicate the gentleman in question, clad in a most unsuitable dressing-gown of deep purple. Mr Horatio Quince came in smiling, holding out his hand.

  ‘Sir Robert—Mr Washington,’—he beamed, ‘how very nice to see you again.’

  CHAPTER XXI

  MR QUINCE HAD A CLUE

  SIR ROBERT looked more bewildered than ever.

  ‘Mr Quince!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  The little man smiled again, as imperturbable as ever.

  ‘You remember, Sir Robert. I told you last Sunday that I am staying here for the time being, to investigate a Roman villa over at Chevening. I can assure you that the excavation has reached a most interesting stage. There’s a fine mosaic—’

  ‘Mr Quince,’ interrupted the assistant commissioner in an irritable voice: ‘I am not in the least interested in Roman villas at the moment.’

  Johnny shot a warning glance at Sir Robert.

  ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Mr Quince, sir,’ he said quietly, and turned to the grotesque little figure in the dressing-gown.

  ‘Mr Quince, I’ve a pretty good idea of the real reason why you are staying here,’ he said softly. ‘What’s more I know who you are—and what you are.’

  ‘Indeed?’ replied Mr Quince with a certain dignity. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Mr Washington.’

  ‘I guess we won’t go into that now,’ replied Johnny inscrutably. ‘All I want is the answer to the question—where is Verity Glyn?’

  ‘Verity Glyn?’ repeated the little man in some surprise. ‘The name is vaguely familiar. You mean the lady who writes in the Daily Messenger?’

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Johnny. ‘Her real name is Locksley, and she’s the sister of the superintendent who was murdered.’

  Mr Quince was quite plainly taken aback.

  ‘L—Locksley!’ he stammered. ‘Did Locksley really have a sister?’

  ‘He certainly did,’ replied Johnny briefly. ‘And what’s more, she has disappeared.’

  There came an exclamation of surprise from Dovey, who was standing just behind Johnny.

  ‘When did this happen?’ queried Kennard, in a tone which seemed to imply a measure of doubt.

  ‘Her housekeeper telephoned me half an hour ago,’ Johnny informed him.

  ‘Mr Quince,’ interposed Sir Robert. ‘Have you seen anyone come here tonight?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Sir Robert. I have been reading in my room for the greater part of the evening. In fact, I haven’t been out of the house since tea time.’

  Hargreaves was obviously becoming more and more irritated by the turn events had taken. He had wasted his time and that of a dozen men. It had been a wild-goose chase, and he was feeling tired and frustrated. And on top of it all, there was this news that the gang had pulled off another job right under their noses. This would mean more trouble; more awkward questions from politicians, sarcastic memoranda and talk of calling in ‘new blood’. Maybe they were right; perhaps he was too old and ought to hand the job over to a more active mind …

  ‘You’d better take your party back to White Lodge, Kennard,’ he said wearily, ‘and pick up your car there and go straight back to Town.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Kennard, marshalling his men and returning to the club-room.

  ‘And if there’s anyone returned when you get back to White Lodge, question them closely about their movements this evening and make a full report.’

  ‘I quite understand, sir.’

  In a minute, the little party had disappeared. Realizing that Johnny was anxious to see Mr Quince alone, Sir Robert turned to Dovey and said:

  ‘Come along, Dovey; we’ll have a word with Chambers. I’ll be waiting in the car, Washington.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Robert,’ said Johnny gratefully. When the door had closed behind them, Johnny motioned Mr Quince to a chair, then sat down himself.

  Mr Quince watched the two Scotland Yard men rather quizzically as they went out, then turned to Johnny and asked:

  ‘Who was that with Sir Robert?’

  ‘Inspector Dovey. You’ve probably seen him around here. He was watching the place for a couple of days after the murder.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I thought his face was familiar.’

  Mr Quince leaned back in his chair and eyed Johnny thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m rather intrigued by that remark you made some time ago, Mr Washington. In fact, I might say I am most intrigued. Perhaps you can tell me a little more about myself?’
/>   There was a whimsical note in his voice.

  ‘I know for one thing,’ said Johnny, looking at him steadily, ‘that you have been known to do a deal in diamonds every now and then.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘Never mind that, Mr Quince. I’ve got a lot of contacts in unexpected places.’

  Mr Quince folded his pudgy hands across his slightly protuberant stomach and said pleasantly:

  ‘It’s quite true that I have a small stock of diamonds, and sell one from time to time.’

  ‘It’s also true that you were never a schoolmaster, that for the past ten years, since you came from South Africa, you have made a living from buying and selling.’

  ‘Always within the law, Mr Washington. Always within the law.’

  ‘I am not disputing that,’ said Johnny. ‘But why go to all this trouble to pose as an ex-schoolmaster dabbling in Roman remains?’

  The little man looked round the room, then said in a low voice that could not possibly have been heard more than three or four feet away:

  ‘For precisely the same reason that Miss Verity Glyn adopted an alias. We are up against a very unscrupulous man, Mr Washington, who has a knack of penetrating into strange places. I have suffered from his diabolical methods in the past, and I have no intention of being caught again if I can help it.’

  Johnny offered him a cigarette and lit one himself.

  ‘You knew Max Fulton in South Africa?’ he inquired casually.

  Horatio Quince nodded his head slowly several times. There was a far-away look in his eyes.

  ‘I think I was one of Mr Fulton’s earliest victims,’ he murmured, and there was a note of sadness in his voice. ‘He robbed me of a small fortune nearly twenty years ago now. I’d staked everything I had to go prospecting for diamonds, and after two years’ bad luck, I struck a nice little pocket. But Mr Fulton relieved me of most of them, and left me for dead with a knife wound in the back. I am very lucky indeed to be here to tell the tale.’

  ‘What happened to the diamonds?’

  ‘He sold them and lost the money gambling.’

  ‘You think he’d know you again?’

  The little man shook his head.

  ‘I very much doubt it. My hair has turned white … and my beard is new to him … and I have become much stouter. In any case, he only saw me for a couple of minutes when he rifled my tent—he’d never remember.’

  ‘And would you know him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ was the wistful reply. ‘You see Mr Washington, he attacked me in the dark …’

  ‘Then how do you know it was Max Fulton?’

  ‘That’s rather a long story, I’m afraid. Let’s say I made it my business to find out, just as I’ve made it my mission to help put an end to the career of this unscrupulous murderer. But he must not get a hint of my identity, Mr Washington. That’s most important. And I trust no one; not even the police.’

  ‘Not even me?’ queried Johnny.

  ‘Not altogether. I’ve had to tell you this because you’ve discovered a certain amount, and also because I think I may be able to help you to find Verity Glyn before it’s too late.’

  That ominous phrase sounded a jarring note on Johnny’s ears. Even now, at this very minute, he realized it might be too late. Mr Quince said:

  ‘I have no wish to be associated with the police, Mr Washington, in this affair, and I realize that it’s more than possible that Sir Robert is planning to detain me on suspicion of being implicated in these gang robberies. If you can persuade him to hold his hand, then I think we stand an excellent chance of discovering the lady.’

  Johnny surveyed him thoughtfully, from the tiny Arnold Bennett coif to the tips of his brown, pointed shoes. It was taking a chance; he suspected that Mr Quince had several other matters he wished to conceal from the police. But things were desperate now.

  ‘O.K., Mr Quince,’ he said deliberately. ‘I guess that little thing can be arranged.’

  With a little sigh of satisfaction, Mr Quince held out his pudgy hand.

  ‘Well, that’s all fine and dandy,’ said Johnny, ‘but where do we go from here?’

  ‘We go,’ declared Mr Quince precisely, ‘to a place called Mincing Lane.’

  ‘Where on earth—’

  ‘It’s in the heart of the City of London,’ Mr Quince informed him. ‘At least, it was …’

  ‘Here, what goes on?’ protested Johnny.

  ‘There was a meeting held in the club-room here last night,’ continued Mr Quince. ‘I had taken the precaution of boring a hole in the floor, and as soon as I realized what was afoot, I did my best to overhear the conversation. Unfortunately, the hole was not in a very favourable position, and I could only catch an odd phrase. It wasn’t until the end of the meeting that they moved in my direction, and I overheard them refer to a hide-out in some cellars opposite Plantation House in Mincing Lane. You may remember that this street was almost entirely blitzed during the air raids, but Plantation House is a concrete building, and withstood the attack. It seems that the entrance to the cellar is through an old courtyard and … Why, what’s the matter?’

  Johnny Washington was on his feet and impatiently urging Mr Quince to follow his example.

  ‘Get dressed as quickly as you can, Mr Quince.’

  The little man seemed a trifle surprised.

  ‘You mean you’ll take me with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘You think there might be a—er—rough house?’ queried Mr Quince a little wistfully.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of everything,’ Johnny assured him.

  ‘But I think I should come prepared …’

  ‘I leave that to you,’ shrugged Johnny.

  The little man brightened perceptibly.

  ‘That’s splendid. I purchased an ancient knuckle-duster only last week. Quite a formidable weapon, Mr Washington.’

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE ENEMY CAMP

  IN a telephone box in Great Tower Street, Shelagh Hamilton stood talking in low, husky tones. From time to time, she looked round to see if there was anyone outside who might possibly overhear, but there were very few people about in the City on a Saturday evening.

  ‘Is that you, Max? Yes, it’s me … no, no trouble as far as we know. It all went off like clockwork. Not so much stuff as we thought … about eleven or twelve thousand … yes … the stuff will go at dawn tomorrow … Who? Oh, yes, we’ve got her safe enough in the cellars. All right, Max, leave it to me. ’Bye.’

  A cool evening breeze was blowing up tiny whirls of dust as she came out of the telephone box and approached the vast emptiness that was once the busy thoroughfare of Mincing Lane: in the past tea and coffee brokers had surged over the pavements selling the contents of their bulging warehouses and cellars. Nowadays, Mincing Lane might almost have been a country thoroughfare, enclosed by fences one usually saw surrounding rural pastures. It was quite deserted now, and Shelagh walked on until she was almost level with Plantation House, scene of many a hectic auction. She looked round quickly and slipped behind a high board fence, to descend a flight of steps which led to the area of one of the former homes of a rich tea broker. The home was now reduced to a pile of rubble.

  But the ancient builders had laid solid foundations, and the cellar she now entered was almost untouched by bomb damage. She went through the cellar, along a passage and turned sharply to the left, where two doors were immediately facing her. She chose the left-hand one, and went into a half-furnished room, where she switched on the light and flung herself on to the worn settee.

  From time to time she glanced at the door as if she were expecting someone. She picked up a late edition of the evening paper and regarded it listlessly, re-reading the brief report of the jewel robbery in the stop press. She lighted a cigarette and stubbed it out before it was half smoked. Then she went to a small cupboard, took out a bottle of gin and poured herself a generous measure.

&
nbsp; She had not agreed with the chief’s decision that they should move into this hide-out, but he had seemed very emphatic about it, and he did not always tell her the full details behind his moves. But she had to admit that it was an unusual retreat which was very unlikely to attract attention, for few people were seen nowadays in this deserted part of the City, particularly after dark. The chief had been emphatic that they must not be seen either entering or leaving the cellars in broad daylight.

  Shelagh was about to pour herself another drink when there was a sound of footsteps outside and the door opened. Doctor Randall came in and carefully closed the door behind him.

  ‘Where the devil have you been?’ she snapped. ‘I told the chief the stuff was waiting to be sent off ages ago.’

  Randall pushed his hat back from his forehead with a weary gesture and began to unbutton his coat.

  ‘We had a hell of a job with my car—had to change the back tyre,’ he replied, going to the cupboard and pouring himself a stiff whisky.

  ‘Where’s Cosh and the others?’ she inquired.

  ‘Lew went to stow my car away. Cosh and Bache are in the other car.’

  ‘You got the stuff through all right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s all in order. By the way, what’s happened about that girl?’

  ‘Verity Glyn? She’s here.’

  ‘Here?’ he echoed dubiously. ‘That’s taking a hell of a risk, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was the chief’s orders,’ she replied shortly. ‘That’s all I know.’

  ‘Did she give any trouble?’

  ‘She certainly did,’ replied Shelagh grimly. ‘Fought like hell before I could get that cloth over her face. I think I kept it there a bit too long; she was a devil of a time before she came round.’

  Randall poured himself another liberal helping of whisky. He sat on the not very comfortable straight-backed chair opposite Shelagh, and sipped his drink in silence. Shelagh said:

  ‘I want to have a talk with you, Doc, before the rest of the boys get here.’

  ‘That suits me,’ he agreed. ‘In fact, I sent them to park the car so that I could have a word with you.’