Black As He Is Painted ra-28

by Ngaio Marsh

  “That’s right. The Boomer told me that Sanskrit’s been reinstated in his emporium in Ng’ombwana. Remember?”

  “Now, that is peculiar,” said Fox. “I’d overlooked that.”

  “Something for you to brood on,” Alleyn said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  He put his walkie-talkie in his pocket, and he and Mr. Whipplestone returned to No. 1, the Walk.

  There was a card on the hall table with the word out neatly printed on it. “We leave it there to let each other know,” Mr. Whipplestone explained. “On account of the door chain.” He turned the card over to show in, ushered Alleyn into the drawing-room, shut the door and turned on the lights.

  “Do let’s have a drink,” he said. “Whisky and soda? I’ll just get the soda. Sit down, do. I won’t be a jiffy.”

  He went out with something of his old sprightly air.

  He had turned on the light above the picture over the fireplace. Troy had painted it quite a long time ago. It was a jubilant landscape half-way to being an abstract. Alleyn remembered it well.

  “Ah!” said Mr. Whipplestone, returning with a syphon in his hands and Lucy weaving in and out between his feet. “You’re looking at my treasure. I acquired it at one of the Group shows, not long after you married, I think. Look out, cat, for pity’s sake! Now: shall we go into the dining-room, where I can lay out the exhibits on the table? But first, our drinks. You begin yours while I search.”

  “Steady with the Scotch. I’m supposed to keep a clear head. Would you mind if I rang Troy up?”

  “Do, do, do. Over there on the desk. The box I want is upstairs. It’ll take a little digging out.”

  Troy answered the telephone almost at once. “Hello, where are you?” Alleyn asked.

  “In the studio.”

  “Broody?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m at Sam Whipplestone’s and will be most probably for the next hour or so. Have you got a pencil handy?”

  “Wait a bit.”

  He had a picture of her feeling about in the pocket of her painting smock.

  “I’ve got a bit of charcoal,” she said.

  “It’s only to write down the number.”

  “Hold on. Right.”

  He gave it to her. “In case anyone wants me,” he said. “You, for instance.”

  “Rory?”

  “What?”

  “Do you mind very much? About me painting the Boomer? Are you there?”

  “I’m here all right. I delight in what you’re doing and I deplore the circumstances under which you’re doing it.”

  “Well,” said Troy, “that’s a straight answer to a straight question. Good night, darling.”

  “Good night,” he said, “darling.”

  Mr. Whipplestone was gone for some considerable time. At last he returned with a large old-fashioned photograph album and an envelope full of press cuttings. He opened the connecting doors to the dining-room, laid his findings out on the table, and displaced Lucy, who affected a wayward interest in them.

  “I was a great hoarder in those days,” he said. “Everything’s in order and dated. There should be no difficulty.”

  There was none. Alleyn examined the album, which had the faded melancholy aspect of all such collections, while Mr. Whipplestone looked through the cuttings. When the latter applied to items in the former, they had been carefully pasted beside the appropriate photographs. It was Alleyn who first struck oil.

  “Here we are,” he said. And there, meticulously dated and annotated in Mr. Whipplestone’s neat hand, were three photographs and a yellowing page from the Ng’ombwana Times with the headline: Gomez Trial, Verdict, Scene in Court.

  The photographs showed, respectively, a snapshot of a bewigged judge emerging from a dark interior; a crowd, mostly composed of black people, waiting outside a sun-baked court of justice; and an open car driven by a black chauffeur with two passengers in tropical kit, one of whom, a trim, decorous-looking person of about forty, was recognizable as Mr. Whipplestone himself. “Going to the Trial.” The press photographs were more explicit. There, unmistakably himself, in wig and gown, was the young Boomer. “Mr. Bartholomew Opala, Counsel for the Prosecution.” And there, already partially bald, dark, furious and snarling, a man handcuffed between two enormous black policemen and protected from a clearly menacing crowd of Ng’ombwanans. “After the Verdict. The Prisoner,” said the caption. “Leaving the Court.”

  The letter-press carried an account of the trial with full journalistic appreciation of its dramatic highlights. There was also an editorial.

  “And that,” Alleyn said, “is the self-same Sheridan in your basement flat.”

  “You would recognize him at once?”

  “Yes. I thought I’d seen him for the first time — and that dimly — tonight, but it turns out that it was my second glimpse. He was sitting outside the pub this afternoon when the Boomer called on Troy.”

  “No doubt,” said Mr. Whipplestone drily, “you will be seeing quite a lot more of him. I don’t like this, Alleyn.”

  “How do you think I enjoy it!” said Alleyn, who was reading the press cutting. “The vows of vengeance,” he said, “are quite Marlovian in their inventiveness, aren’t they?”

  “You should have heard them! And every one directed at your Boomer,” said Mr. Whipplestone. He bent over the album. “I don’t suppose I’ve looked at this,” he said, “for over a decade. It was stowed away in a trunk with a lot of others in my old flat. Even so, I might have remembered, one would have thought.”

  “I expect he’s changed. After all — twenty years!”

  “He hasn’t changed all that much in looks and I can’t believe he’s changed at all in temperament.”

  “And you’ve no notion what became of him when he got out?”

  “None. Portuguese East, perhaps. Or South America. Or a change of name. Ultimately, by fair means or foul, a British passport.”

  “And finally whatever he does in the City?”

  “Imports coffee perhaps,” sniffed Mr. Whipplestone.

  “His English is non-committal?”

  “Oh, yes. No accent, unless you count a lisp, which I suppose is a hangover. Let me give you a drink.”

  “Not another, thank you, Sam. I must keep my wits about me, such as they are.” He hesitated for a moment and then said: “There’s one thing I think perhaps you should know. It’s about the Chubbs. But before I go any further I’m going to ask you, very seriously indeed, to give an undertaking not to let what I tell you make any difference — any difference at all — to your normal manner with the Chubbs. If you’d rather not make a blind commitment like this, then I’ll keep my big mouth shut and no bones broken.”

  Mr. Whipplestone said quietly: “Is it to their discredit?”

  “No,” Alleyn said slowly, “not directly. Not specifically. No.”

  “I have been trained in discretion.”

  “I know.”

  “You may depend upon me.”

  “I’m sure I can,” Alleyn said, and told Mr. Whipplestone about the girl in the photograph. For quite a long time after Alleyn had finished he made no reply, and then he took a turn about the room and said, more to himself than to Alleyn: “That is a dreadful thing. I am very sorry. My poor Chubbs.” And after another pause: “Of course, you see this as a motive.”

  “A possible one. No more than that.”

  “Yes. Thank you for telling me. It will make no difference.”

  “Good. And now I mustn’t keep you up any longer. It’s almost midnight. I’ll just give Fox a shout.”

  Fox came through loud, clear and patient on the radio.

  “Dead on cue, Mr. Alleyn,” he said. “Nothing till now but I think they’re breaking up. A light in a staircase window. Keep with me.”

  “Right you are,” said Alleyn, and waited. He said to Mr. Whipplestone: “The party’s over. We’ll have Sheridan-Gomez and Chubb back in a minute.”

  “Hullo,” said Fox. />
  “Yes?”

  “Here they come. The Cockburn-Montforts. Far side of the street from me. Not talking. Chubb, this side, walking fast. Hold on. Wait for it, Mr. Alleyn.”

  “All right.”

  Alleyn could hear the advancing and retreating steps.

  “There he goes,” Fox said. “He’ll be with you in a minute, and now here comes Mr. Sheridan, on his own. Far side of the street. The C.-M.’s have turned their corner. I caught a bit of one remark. From her. She said: ‘I was a fool. I knew at the time,’ and he seemed to shut her up. That’s all. Over and — hold on. Hold on, Mr. Alleyn.”

  “What?”

  “The door into the Sanskrit premises. Opening a crack. No light beyond, but it’s opening all right. They’re being watched off.”

  “Keep with it, Fox. Give me a shout if there’s anything more. Otherwise, I’ll join you in a few minutes. Over and out.”

  Alleyn waited with Mr. Whipplestone for about three minutes before they heard Chubb’s rapid step, followed by the sound of his key in the lock.

  “Do you want to see him?” Mr. Whipplestone murmured. Alleyn shook his head. They heard the chain rattle. Chubb paused for a moment in the hall and then went upstairs.

  Another minute and the area gate clicked. Mr. Sheridan could be heard to descend and enter.

  “There he goes,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “and there he’ll be, rather like a bomb in my basement. I can’t say I relish the thought.”

  “Nor should I, particularly. If it’s any consolation, I don’t imagine he’ll be there for long.”

  “No?”

  “Well, I hope not. Before I leave you I’m going to try, if I may, to get on to Gibson. We’ll have a round-the-clock watch on Gomez-cum-Sheridan until further notice.”

  He roused Gibson, with apologies, from his beauty sleep and told him what he’d done, what he proposed to do, and what he would like Gibson to do for him.

  “And now,” he said to Mr. Whipplestone, “I’ll get back to my patient old Fox. Goodnight. And thank you. Keep the scrapbook handy, if you will.”

  “Of course. I’ll let you out.”

  He did so, being, Alleyn noticed, careful to make no noise with the chain and to shut the door softly behind him.

  As he walked down Capricorn Mews, which he did firmly and openly, Alleyn saw that there were a few more cars parked in it and that most of the little houses and the flats were dark, now, including the flat over the pottery. When he reached the car and slipped into the passenger’s seat, Fox said: “The door was on the chink for about ten seconds and then he shut it. You could just make it out. Light catching the brass knocker. Nothing in it, I daresay. But it looked a bit funny. Do we call off the obbo, then?”

  “You’d better hear this bit first.”

  And he told Fox about the scrapbook and Mr. Sheridan’s past.

  “Get away!” Fox said cosily. “Fancy that now! So we’ve got a couple of right villains in the club. Him and Sanskrit. It’s getting interesting, Mr. Alleyn, isn’t it?”

  “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Br’er Fox. For my part I—” He broke off. “Look at this!” he whispered.

  The street door of the Sanskrits’ flat had opened and through it came, unmistakably, the elephantine bulk of Sanskrit himself, wearing a longish overcoat and a soft hat.

  “Now what’s he think he’s doing!” breathed Mr. Fox.

  The door was locked, the figure turned outwards, and for a moment the great bladder-like face caught the light. Then he came along the Mews, walking lightly as fat people so often do, and disappeared down Capricorn Place.

  “That’s where the C.-M.’s hang out,” said Fox.

  “It’s also the way to Palace Park Gardens, where the Boomer hangs out. How long is it since you tailed your man, Fox?”

  “Well—”

  “We’re off on a refresher course. Come on.”

  VIII

  Keeping Obbo

  Fox drove slowly across the opening into Capricorn Place.

  “There he goes. Not into the C.-M.’s, though, I’m sure,” said Alleyn. “Their lights are out and he’s walking on the opposite side in deep shadow. Stop for a moment, Fox. Yes. He’s not risking going past the house. Or is he? Look at that, Fox.”

  A belated taxi drove slowly towards them up Capricorn Place. The driver seemed to be looking for a number. It stopped. The huge bulk of Sanskrit, scarcely perceptible in the shadows, light as a fairy, flitted on, the taxi screening it from the house.

  “On you go, Fox. He’s heading for the brick wall at the far end. We go left, left again into the Square, then right, and left again. Stop before you get back to Capricorn Place.”

  Fox executed this flanking manoeuvre. They passed by No. 1, the Walk, where Mr. Whipplestone’s bedroom light glowed behind his curtains, and by the Sun in Splendour, now in eclipse. They drove along the far end of the Square, turned left, continued a little way farther and parked.

  “That’s Capricorn Place ahead,” said Alleyn. “It ends in a brick wall with an opening into a narrow walk. That walk goes behind the Basilica and leads by an alleyway into Palace Park Gardens. It’s my bet this is where he’s heading, but I freely admit it’s a pretty chancy shot. Here he comes.”

  He crossed the intersection rather like a walking tent with his buoyant fat-man’s stride. They gave him a few seconds and then left the car and followed.

  There was no sign of him when they turned the corner, but his light footfall could be heard on the far side of the wall. Alleyn jerked his head at the gateway. They passed through it and were just in time to see him disappear round a distant corner.

  “This is it,” Alleyn said. “Quick, Fox, and on your toes.”

  They sprinted down the walk, checked, turned quietly into the alleyway, and had a pretty clear view of Sanskrit at the far end of it. Beyond him, vaguely declaring itself, was a thoroughfare and the façade of an impressive house from the second-floor balcony of which protruded a flag-pole. Two policemen stood by the entrance.

  They moved into a dark doorway and watched.

  “He’s walking up as cool as you like!” Fox whispered.

  “So he is.”

  “Going to hand something in, is he?”

  “He’s showing something to the coppers. Gibson cooked up a pass system with the Embassy. Issued to their staff and immediate associates with the President’s cachet. Quite an elaborate job. It may be, he’s showing it.”

  “Why would he qualify?”

  “Well may you ask. Look at this, will you?”

  Sanskrit had produced something that appeared to be an envelope. One of the policemen turned on his torch. It flashed from Sanskrit’s face to his hands. The policeman bent his head and the light shone briefly up into his face. A pause. The officer nodded to his mate, who rang the doorbell. It was opened by a Ng’ombwanan in livery; presumably a night porter. Sanskrit appeared to speak briefly to the man, who listened, took the envelope if that was what it was, stepped back and shut the door after him.

  “That was quick!” Fox remarked.

  “Now he’s chatting to the coppers.”

  They caught a faint high-pitched voice and the two policemen’s “Goodnight, sir.”

  “Boldly does it, Br’er Fox,” said Alleyn. They set off down the alleyway.

  There was a narrow footpath on their side. As the enormous tented figure, grotesque in the uncertain darkness, flounced towards them it moved into the centre of the passage.

  Alleyn said to Fox, as they passed it: “As such affairs go I suppose it was all right. I hope you weren’t too bored.”

  “Oh, no,” said Fox. “I’m thinking of joining.”

  “Are you? Good.”

  They walked on until they came to the Embassy. Sanskrit’s light footfalls died away in the distance. He had, presumably, gone back through the hole in the wall.

  Alleyn and Fox went up to the two constables.

  Alleyn said: “Superintendent Alleyn, C. Department.”


  “Sir,” they said.

  “I want as accurate and full an account of that incident as you can give me. Did you get the man’s name? You?” he said to the constable who had seemed to be the more involved.

  “No, sir. He carried the special pass, sir.”

  “You took a good look at it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you didn’t read the name?”

  “I–I don’t — I didn’t quite get it, sir. It began with S and there was a K in it. ‘San’ something, sir. It was all in order, sir, with his photograph on it, like a passport. You couldn’t miss it being him. He didn’t want to be admitted, sir. Only for the door to be answered. If he’d asked for admittance I’d have noted the name.”

  “You should have noted it in any case.”

  “Sir.”

  “What precisely did he say?”

  “He said he had a message to deliver, sir. It was for the First Secretary. He produced it and I examined it, sir. It was addressed to the First Secretary and had ‘For His Excellency the President’s attention’ written in the corner. It was a fairly stout manilla envelope, sir, but the contents appeared to me to be slight, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “I said it was an unusual sort of time to deliver it. I said he could hand it over to me and I’d attend to it, sir, but he said he’d promised to deliver it personally. It was a photograph, he said, that the President had wanted developed and printed very particular and urgent and a special effort had been made to get it done and it was only processed half an hour ago. He said he’d been instructed to hand it to the night porter for the First Secretary.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. Well, I took it and put it over my torch, sir, and that showed up the shape of some rigid object like a cardboard folder inside it. There wasn’t any chance of it being one of those funny ones, sir, and he had got a special pass and so we allowed it and — well, sir, that’s all, really.”

  “And you,” Alleyn said to the other man, “rang the bell?”

  “Sir.”

  “Anything said when the night porter answered it?”

  “I don’t think he speaks English, sir. Him and the bearer had a word or two in the native language, I suppose it was. And then he just took delivery and shut the door and the bearer gave us a goodnight and left.”