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

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.