Beware of Johnny Washington

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t trouble Dovey or anyone at the Yard,’ said Johnny. ‘Can’t you get through direct to the inspector at Sevenoaks?’

  ‘Well, of course, if you say so,’ said Sir Robert a trifle doubtfully. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer a Squad car?’

  ‘No, no, just a couple or three reliable men from the local station. I shall want them down at my place fairly early—not later than five.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ inquired Sir Robert curiously.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that one just yet, Sir Robert. I’m simply acting on a hunch.’

  ‘It all sounds very mysterious,’ said the assistant commissioner.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Johnny. ‘Anyway, I guess it’s about my last chance of getting my hands on the stuff from Trevelyans and the man who organized the job. And I’d take it as a favour, Sir Robert, if you didn’t mention this to a soul except the inspector at Sevenoaks—and tell him as little as possible.’

  ‘Are you sure that three men will be enough?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ replied Johnny. ‘Harry Bache won’t be fit for much, and from what Verity tells me, Randall and the girl bumped off Wilcox and Paskin before we got there tonight. I guess we’re coming mighty close to the final curtain.’

  ‘All right, Washington, you shall have your men. They’ll report to you at five sharp.’

  ‘Thanks, Sir Robert,’ said Johnny, then added as an afterthought: ‘By the way, I almost forgot to mention that Grey Moose stole my car—it’s a red saloon—a three and a half litre Columbia. I guess he’s abandoned it by now, but I’d like to get it back as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ promised Sir Robert. ‘And Washington—’

  ‘Yes, Sir Robert?’

  ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you? This man is sure to be armed and desperate.’

  ‘I can still hit the ace of hearts at ten yards,’ chuckled Johnny. ‘Good night, Sir Robert, I’ll phone you first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Good night, Washington—and good luck.’

  Johnny came out of the telephone box, and Verity, who had been standing in the shadows, rejoined him. They looked round for a taxi, but the City on a Saturday night is as deserted as a country lane, and they set out to walk briskly in a westerly direction.

  ‘Are you sure we oughtn’t to go back to—that place, to make a statement to the police and see that everything is all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Sir Robert will look after all that. He’ll send a Squad car to pick up Randall and the girl; there’s already a warrant out for them. We’ll make a full statement tomorrow.’

  ‘Then what do we do now?’

  ‘You go to bed and get a good night’s sleep and try to forget everything,’ he advised. ‘I’m going to do the same, because I must be up long before the crack of dawn tomorrow.’

  As the dome of St Paul’s loomed towards them, they caught sight of an empty bus going towards Ludgate Hill, and managed to race it to the nearest stop. It happened to be a number eleven, which would take Verity almost to her door. They climbed the stairs and sat in the two seats at the back on the top deck, where they both lighted cigarettes. For some minutes they sat without speaking, drawing in and expelling long streams of tobacco smoke.

  ‘Well, I guess this is one day of my life I wouldn’t like to live over again,’ said Johnny presently.

  ‘Me, too,’ she nodded. ‘How ever did you manage to find me in that awful place, Johnny?’

  ‘It was old Quince who put me on the track, or I wouldn’t have had an idea,’ he said.

  ‘Poor old Quince. It’s dreadful to think it cost him his life.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Johnny, ‘that’s one more good reason why I’ve got to level scores with Grey Moose.’

  She sighed.

  ‘He’s always a move ahead of us, Johnny. It almost seems like thought-reading or some strange sort of trick.’

  ‘It won’t always come off,’ he assured her. ‘Even tonight he had a pretty near squeak. Maybe next time …’

  She shivered slightly at the prospect. Presently, she asked: ‘Why do you think he disappeared tonight, after he’d stabbed Mr Quince? He must have known Randall and Miss Hamilton were somewhere in the cellars.’

  Johnny flicked the ash off his cigarette.

  ‘I think Grey Moose made a pretty shrewd guess at what had happened,’ he hazarded. ‘The fact that Quince was guarding that stuff would have given him a tip that there was something unpleasant going on.’

  ‘Yes, but surely he would have tried to help Randall and the girl.’

  ‘Oh, no! Not Grey Moose!’ said Johnny decisively. ‘He must have backed out of more awkward situations and left more suckers to face the music than any man alive.’

  ‘But I thought this girl was in love with him.’

  ‘So what?’ shrugged Johnny. ‘I guess there isn’t much room for that stuff in Max Fulton’s life. But there was another thing to consider—he had to get that jewellery out of the country pronto. Just now, it’s white hot and sizzling! His pals had fallen down on the job, so it was up to him.’

  ‘It’s tough on the girl,’ said Verity.

  Johnny stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘Anybody who associates with Max Fulton is asking for trouble, and she probably realizes it better than most people. From what I hear, she’s had a pretty good run with him. They’ve been around together for over five years.’

  The bus moved briskly along Fleet Street, where the traffic had dropped to a trickle. A few sub-editors were leaving their offices, with the last edition of their Sunday paper safely put to bed, and looking down they could see the lights in the basements of some of the large newspaper buildings. Verity imagined the throbbing of the presses sending a steady vibration through the entire structure. No doubt some of the stop press columns would contain a brief flash of that night’s happenings in Mincing Lane.

  ‘You seem to have found out quite a bit about Max Fulton,’ she said presently.

  ‘I have my spies,’ he grinned. ‘But it hasn’t been any too easy. There’s a lot of folk know something about Max, but they’re scared to hell to open their mouths.’

  ‘You never managed to get a photo of him?’

  Johnny shook his head.

  ‘Max Fulton is one of the few guys in this world who has never had his picture taken—not even on a bearskin rug.’

  ‘I wonder how he gets from one country to another without a passport,’ she speculated.

  He half turned and grinned at her.

  ‘Have you ever recognized anyone from their passport photograph?’ he asked.

  ‘But surely if he’s as high up as you seem to suspect, he’s had to have a photograph taken at some time or other.’

  ‘If he has, then the photographer didn’t know he was taking Max Fulton, and that name isn’t attached to the picture.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Verity. ‘It sounds terribly involved.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, when you take it a step at a time. A career like Max Fulton’s isn’t built in a day, you know.’

  The bus rounded the corner of Trafalgar Square and sailed into Whitehall amidst the stragglers of the late theatre traffic. Under the passing glare of the overhead lights, Verity looked much paler than usual, and she had obviously by no means recovered from her experience. Suddenly she said:

  ‘I wonder what Max Fulton was going to do with me.’

  To take her mind off that aspect of the business, Johnny quickly interposed, ‘I can’t think how the Yard man lost you. He said you went into the office and he never saw you come out.’

  She wrinkled her forehead for a moment, then said:

  ‘I remember now … I went down to the comps to correct some stuff on the stone, and I came out by the printers’ entrance on the Embankment, instead of the main hall. That’s how he’d miss me.’

  ‘What happened then?’ inquired Johnny.

  ‘I had just stepped out of the doorway when a man i
n a chauffeur’s uniform came up and asked me if I was Verity Glyn. He said that you had sent him to fetch me on an urgent matter. Of course, I got in the car almost without thinking—and there was Randall pointing a revolver at me …’

  ‘I see,’ said Johnny slowly. ‘They’d figured all that out quite nicely.’

  ‘Maybe I should have taken a chance and screamed for help,’ mused Verity.

  ‘It would have been a pretty slim chance,’ Johnny told her. ‘I’ve no reason to doubt that Randall wouldn’t have been as good as his word. He’s a tough customer. Still, his chief had ordered ’em to bring you back alive, so maybe he’d only have hit you with the butt of the gun.’

  Verity shuddered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Johnny, ‘you’ve had to put up with more than most girls could stand in one day. Let’s forget it.’

  ‘But I’m still curious about why he wanted me “brought back alive”,’ persisted Verity with a faint smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that now,’ replied Johnny. ‘Maybe, he simply wanted to use you as a trump card in case he needed one. Or he may have thought chasing after you would keep me from under his feet. Oh boy, he certainly made one mistake if he thought that!’ added Johnny reflectively.

  She smiled.

  ‘I was never so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see you walk into that horrid cellar,’ she confessed.

  ‘I certainly hope you’ll go on being glad to see me,’ he said quietly, as the bus jerked to a standstill outside of Victoria station. They peered down into a snack bar crowded with a strange assortment of humanity. Then the bus lurched on once more and rounded the corner past the Grosvenor Hotel.

  ‘All the time I was in that car,’ went on Verity with a slight shiver, ‘I kept thinking: “Things like this don’t happen to people in broad daylight.” We passed several policemen, and once I caught my breath to cry out. But he guessed what was in my mind, and poked the gun right up against me …’

  ‘You poor kid,’ sympathized Johnny. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t pass right out.’

  ‘I thought I was going to. But I dug my nails into my palms to stop myself. I thought there might be a chance of making a getaway when the car stopped. At least, I imagined I might scream and attract somebody’s attention. But there was hardly a soul to be seen—it was Saturday lunch time, and that part of the world was practically deserted.’

  ‘So they got you into the cellars without any trouble.’

  ‘I did manage to work the gag from my mouth and scream when I had been tied up there for several hours,’ she said, ‘but that girl came in and replaced the gag.’

  She rubbed her tender jawbone at the recollection of the incident. The bus swayed over Ebury Bridge and swung round to the right through the purlieus of Pimlico. A small group of revellers came out of a public house, singing discordantly.

  ‘Well, I hand it to you,’ said Johnny admiringly. ‘You’re pretty tough in that quiet way of yours. But I hope you won’t have to face anything like that experience again.’

  They were silent for a minute or two as the bus wound its way into Sloane Square, where a brilliantly lighted coffee stall was doing a brisk trade.

  ‘Johnny,’ said Verity at length, ‘have you any idea who Grey Moose is?’

  ‘I could make a near guess,’ he said, ‘but I won’t. Tomorrow, I expect to know for certain.’

  ‘Then you think you know his next move?’

  ‘He has only two main interests at the moment,’ explained Johnny. ‘First, to get that stuff out of the country, and second to get out himself. He can’t risk making it a combined operation, in case he should be searched, for Sir Robert is having all the ports carefully watched. So, as I see it, he’ll try to get the stuff out by the same method as they’ve been using right from the start.’

  Noticing the gleam in his eyes and the eager set of his mouth, she caught his elbow for a moment and murmured:

  ‘Johnny, don’t stick your chin out too far.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Leave it to me, honey. By the way,’ he added as a new thought struck him. ‘I thought you told me you carried a neat little .22 around. Have you got it with you today?’

  She shook her head, and looked down in her confusion.

  ‘I—I changed my handbag, and I must have forgotten it.’ she confessed. The bus lurched to a standstill outside Chelsea Town Hall, and they climbed down the stairs and dismounted.

  ‘There’s no need to come any farther. I’ll be perfectly all right now,’ she assured him, but he strode along beside her and insisted on accompanying her to her front door.

  ‘But how on earth will you get back to Sevenoaks at this time of night?’ she asked in a worried tone.

  ‘Quite simple. I’ll hire a car from a fellow I know who runs a hire service,’ he told her.

  ‘Will he be open at this time?’

  ‘It’s an all-night service, so there’ll be no trouble.’

  ‘I could give you a shakedown on the settee in the lounge,’ she suggested, as they turned out of the King’s Road into the street where she lived.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Johnny. ‘I must get back home tonight. It’s very important.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re not going to get much sleep,’ she said.

  ‘I guess an hour or two less beauty sleep can’t make much difference to my ugly mug,’ he grinned. At that moment they turned the corner as the road twisted at a fairly sharp angle, and Johnny suddenly stopped dead. Less than twenty yards away was a large American saloon car drawn up to the kerb. The tail lamp was still on and he could see the rear number plate quite clearly. It was undoubtedly his Columbia.

  ‘Well, what d’you know about that?’ he whistled.

  ‘Is—is it—?’ began Verity.

  ‘I’ll say it is! And it’s right outside your flat.’

  For a few moments they did not move.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she whispered.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and take a look.’ His hand closed over the Colt in his jacket pocket, as he moved softly towards the car. Suddenly, he crossed the road and approached it cautiously on the opposite side. When he came level with it he could see no one inside, so he turned and slowly walked back. Then he re-crossed and came up to the car so that he could look inside. A gas lamp a few yards away lit the interior sufficiently for him to see that it was quite obviously empty. He beckoned to Verity, who joined him.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asked, in a low tone.

  ‘That’s what I want to find out.’

  ‘D’you think there’s someone inside the flat?’

  ‘Have you got your key?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m afraid I left that in my other handbag, too.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll have to ring. You stay down here—I’ll do it.’

  He mounted the four steps from the pavement and rang the bell of Verity’s flat. There was a long silence, and he rang again. Presently, a light appeared in the hall, and he could hear someone descending the stairs. He motioned to Verity to keep out of line with the door as the person inside fumbled with the catch. A moment later, the door was carefully opened, and Mrs Todd stood there, wearing a heavy woollen dressing-gown over a long nightdress. She recognized him almost at once.

  ‘Mr Washington! Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Sorry to drag you out of bed, Mrs Todd. I’ve brought Miss Glyn back.’

  ‘Thank God she’s safe! But where is she?’ cried the housekeeper.

  ‘Just a minute, Mrs Todd,’ said Johnny quietly. ‘Have you had any visitors this evening?’

  ‘Not a soul, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t see this car out here arrive?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve been in my kitchen at the back all the evening.’

  Johnny signalled to Verity who came up the steps. They went inside and shut the door.

  ‘Stay here while I go up and take a look round,’ he said
to the two women, who were talking rapidly in loud whispers. He left Verity explaining the events of the day to an open-mouthed Mrs Todd, and went cautiously into the lounge, quickly switching on the light as soon as he was through the door. The room was empty and just as he had seen it on his previous visit. Methodically, he went through the other rooms, but they were all quite deserted, and he called to the women below to join him. When Mrs Todd suggested getting them a cup of coffee, he found himself agreeing, though he rarely drank coffee except under his own roof. But he was feeling a sudden reaction to the events of the day, and decided that a hot drink would lift his spirits for the journey home.

  He and Verity went into the lounge and switched on the electric fire. It was just after midnight by the electric clock on the mantelpiece.

  While they waited for the coffee, Johnny paced restlessly up and down.

  ‘I can’t think why he should dump my car outside your door, of all places,’ he said, with a worried frown.

  ‘It does seem strange,’ she had to admit. ‘Johnny, you don’t think he’s somewhere around here now?’

  ‘I’m fairly certain he isn’t,’ he reassured her. ‘I’ve got reasons for saying so that we won’t go into now—it’s so darn late …’ He stifled a yawn.

  When Mrs Todd came in with the coffee, he drained his cup almost at a gulp and announced that he must be going. He promised to telephone Verity in the morning as soon as he had any news, and made his way out to the car.

  But he was still vaguely worried. He walked round the car and examined it carefully. It seemed exactly as he had left it in Mincing Lane. Finally, he opened the door somewhat gingerly, climbed in and switched on the dashboard light. As he looked at the instruments, he suddenly recalled that he had not checked his oil lately, and wondered if he would be all right for the return journey. Maybe Max Fulton had driven the car quite a way, and in that case the oil would be low. He got out and lifted the bonnet and searched for the dipstick. The gas lamp was only a few yards away, so he could see fairly well. He found the dipstick and was unscrewing the cap of the oil tank when he noticed an unfamiliar length of thin rubber-covered wire. Johnny pulled out his pocket torch and warily traced the wire to the back of the dashboard. It was connected to the self-starter button. The other end went to the car battery, then disappeared somewhere beneath the floorboards. For a minute or two, Johnny ferreted around, and presently discovered a neat little oblong canister, with what was obviously a tiny detonator wired in series with the starter and battery.