He suddenly realized that Quince was talking to him.
‘May I ask if you have any information about the history of these ancient orders?’ he was asking. Johnny came back to earth with a start.
‘Me, sir? Why not very much I guess. I went to one or two Elks’ dinners when I was in the States, but I can’t say I ever really belonged.’
‘What exactly is the purpose behind these organizations?’
Johnny shook his head.
‘You have me there, brother. I had some good times with the Elks, but I don’t remember anyone performing any good deeds.’
A fleeting expression of annoyance flitted across Quince’s features, but he obviously had no intention of abandoning the idea.
‘There must be some source where one can obtain such information,’ he mused. ‘After all, secret societies are against the law … at least I think they are … Or would that be one of those Defence Regulations?’
Johnny broke open a new package of Chesterfields and offered Quince one. The old man refused, and Johnny lit one for himself. He didn’t know what to make of this old boy, but he was hardly a sinister type. All the same, the strangest people got mixed up in murder, folks who looked as if the sight of the merest scratch would send them into a dead faint.
Johnny was suddenly conscious of a car approaching in the distance; its engine came nearer, roared for a few seconds then stopped. Two doors opened and slammed and there were footsteps outside. Harry Bache hurried off to open the front door, and Johnny and Mr Quince returned to the saloon, closing the club-room door behind them.
Almost at once, they heard voices, the suave tones of Doctor Randall mingling with the richer country dialects of Sergeant Hubble and the constable with him. It seemed that the doctor had picked them up in his car, and there had been a slight delay in locating the constable. Johnny knew them both by sight, but had never done more than pass the time of day with them.
While Doctor Randall examined the body, the sergeant questioned Harry Bache, the constable slowly taking down his replies in long-hand. The sergeant had already been acquainted with the dead man’s identity, and fairly bristled with self-importance. Year after year he had patiently awaited the call to Scotland Yard, the big assignment, the congratulatory pat on the shoulder from the Commissioner. Now his probation was over. Scotland Yard had come to him!
Sergeant Hubble was out to show his superiors just how a job like this should be handled; all the evidence very much to the point, nothing overlooked, and no nonsense from any of the witnesses! This case was going to be run exactly as Sergeant Hubble wanted it.
While the constable took down one or two minor details from Harry Bache, the sergeant strolled across to where Doctor Randall was kneeling beside the body.
‘Ah, revolver in the left hand,’ noted Hubble at a quick glance, making a mental note of the fact. The doctor had pulled away the sheet and began his examination, first asking for as much light as possible. Harry Bache went out into the passage and pressed down two more switches. Having made certain that there were no other visible signs of violence upon the body, Randall turned his attention to the head wound which was undoubtedly the cause of the death.
Sergeant Hubble began to take a few notes on his own account, concerning the position of the body in relation to the rest of the furniture, a description of the Luger clasped in the dead man’s left hand, and the exact position of the wound in the head.
Apparently, he did not leap to the conclusion that Locksley had committed suicide, for he sent his constable to make a thorough investigation of the other rooms for trace of a possible intruder.
Meanwhile Johnny Washington and Quince sat patiently at the far corner of the bar, awaiting their turn to be questioned. For some reason best known to himself, the sergeant had apparently decided to defer this until the doctor had completed his examination. From time to time Quince went on prattling, half to himself, about the history of friendly societies, craftsmen’s guilds and similar institutions, while Johnny puffed moodily at his cigarette and said very little.
At length, Doctor Randall replaced his instruments in his worn attaché case and rose somewhat painfully to his feet.
‘The man has been dead nearly half an hour I should say,’ he announced. ‘He must have died almost instantaneously. The bullet penetrated the brain.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘Would you like me to make a full written report?’
‘If you’d be so good,’ nodded Hubble. ‘The police surgeon won’t be back for a few days; it was lucky you were available, or I’d have had to telephone Sevenoaks.’
The doctor signalled to Harry Bache and asked for a strong whisky, which was very quickly poured out. With a keen sense of his responsibilities, the sergeant refused a drink. However, Johnny accepted one, and while he was sipping it the sergeant came over to him.
‘I understand that the deceased was a friend of yours, Mr Washington,’ he began respectfully.
‘Not exactly a friend,’ returned Johnny with equal politeness. ‘Let’s say a close acquaintance. He’d come down to see me on a matter of business.’
The sergeant’s bushy eyebrows were raised at that.
‘You mean Scotland Yard business, Mr Washington?’
‘That is so.’
Hubble bit his pencil, hesitating how to frame his next question.
‘Could that business have had any connection with this unfortunate affair?’ he asked, with a certain deliberation.
‘It could have,’ replied Johnny, his tone remaining as non-committal as before. ‘That is, if this turns out to be a case of murder.’
‘Then you don’t think it might be suicide?’ persisted Hubble somewhat portentously.
Johnny shook his head.
‘The superintendent seemed like the last man in the world to commit suicide.’
‘You don’t happen to know if he’s been suffering from ill health?’
‘Not to my knowledge. They’ll tell you more about that at the Yard, I dare say.’
The sergeant paused to make several notes, and Johnny sipped his whisky. Quince sat with an air of polite attention, as if he were listening to a lecture.
‘Did you come here for any particular reason tonight?’ continued the sergeant.
‘The usual reason,’ answered Johnny with a faint grin. ‘I’d run out of whisky at home, and we wanted a nightcap before closing time. I stayed to clean up the plugs in my car and the superintendent came in ahead of me to order the drinks. Mr Bache here has told you the rest.’
‘All this happened just before ten o’clock, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Johnny. ‘About five to, I should think.’
The sergeant jotted down some further notes, then turned to Harry Bache.
‘I’d like you to go over your statement again, Mr Bache,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Just to make
