Black As He Is Painted ra-28

by Ngaio Marsh

  Mr. Fox, throughout this interview, had gazed immovably, and to their obvious discomfort, at whichever of the constables was speaking. When they had finished he said in a sepulchral voice to nobody in particular that he wouldn’t be surprised if this matter wasn’t Taken Further, upon which their demeanour became utterly wooden.

  Alleyn said: “You should have reported this at once. You’re bloody lucky Mr. Gibson doesn’t know about it”

  They said in unison: “Thank you very much, sir.”

  “For what?” Alleyn said.

  “Will you pass it on to Fred Gibson?” Fox asked as they walked back the way they had come.

  “The incident? Yes. But I won’t bear down on the handling of it. I ought to. Although it was tricky, that situation. He’s got the Embassy go-ahead with his special pass. The copper had been told that anybody carrying one was persona grata. He’d have been taking quite a chance if he’d refused.” Alleyn put his hand on Fox’s arm. “Look at that,” he said. “Where did that come from?”

  At the far end of the long alleyway, in deep shadow, someone moved away from them. Even as they glimpsed it, the figure slipped round the corner and out of sight. They could hear the soft thud of hurrying feet. They sprinted down the alley and turned the corner, but there was no-one to be seen.

  “Could have come out of one of these houses and be chasing after a cab,” Fox said.

  “They’re all dark.”

  “Yes.”

  “And no sound of a cab. Did you get an impression?”

  “No. Hat. Overcoat. Rubber soles. Trousers. I wouldn’t even swear to the sex. It was too quick.”

  “Damn,” Alleyn said, and they walked on in silence.

  “It would be nice to know what was in the envelope,” Fox said at last.

  “That’s the understatement of a lifetime.”

  “Will you ask?”

  “You bet I will.”

  “The President?”

  “Who else? And at the crack of dawn, I daresay, like it or lump it. Fox,” Alleyn said, “I’ve been visited by a very disturbing notion.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Alleyn?” Fox placidly rejoined.

  “And I’ll be obliged if you’ll just listen while I run through all the disjointed bits of information we have about this horrid fat man and see if some kind of pattern comes through in the end.”

  “Be pleased to,” said Fox.

  He listened with calm approval as they walked back into the now deserted Capricorns to pick up their car. When they were seated in it Alleyn said: “There you are, Br’er Fox. Now then. By and large: what emerges?”

  Fox laid his broad palm across his short moustache and then looked at it as if he expected it to have picked up an impression.

  “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “I think.”

  “What I’m getting at,” Alleyn said, “is— fairly simply — this—”

  Alleyn’s threat to talk to the Boomer at the crack of dawn was not intended to be, nor was it, taken literally. In the event, he himself was roused by Mr. Gibson, wanting to know if it really was true that the President was giving Troy another sitting at half-past nine. When Alleyn confirmed this, Gibson’s windy sighs whistled in the receiver. He said he supposed Alleyn had seen the morning’s popular press, and on Alleyn’s saying not yet, informed him that in each instance the front page carried a by-lined three-column spread with photographs of yesterday’s visit by the Boomer. Gibson in a dreary voice began to quote some of the more offensive pieces of journalese. “Rum Proceedings? Handsome Super’s Famous Wife and African Dictator.” Alleyn, grinding his teeth, begged him to desist and he did so, merely observing that all things considered he wondered why Alleyn fancied the portrait proposition.

  Alleyn felt it would be inappropriate to say that stopping the portrait would in itself be a form of homicide. He switched to the Sanskrit incident and learnt that it had been reported to Gibson. Alleyn outlined his and Fox’s investigations and the conculsions he had drawn from them.

  “It seems to look,” Mr. Gibson mumbled, “as if things might be coming to a head.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed. I’m getting a search warrant. On the off-chance.”

  “Always looks ‘active,’ applying for a warrant. By the way, the body’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “The deceased. Just before first light. It was kept very quiet. Back entrance. ‘Nondescript’ van. Special plane. All passed off nice and smooth. One drop of grief the less,” said Mr. Gibson.

  “You may have to keep obbo at the airport, Fred. Outgoing planes for Ng’ombwana.”

  “Any time. You name it,” he said dismally.

  “From now. We’ll be in touch,” Alleyn said, and they rang off.

  Troy was in the studio making statements on the background. He told her that yesterday’s protective measures would be repeated and that if possible he himself would be back before the Boomer arrived.

  “That’ll be fine,” she said. “Sit where you did before, Rory, would you, darling? He’s marvellous when he focusses on you.”

  “You’ve got the cheek of the devil. Do you know that everybody but you thinks I’m out of my senses to let you go on with this?”

  “Yes, but then you’re you, aren’t you, and you know how things are. And truly — it is — isn’t it? — going — you know? Don’t say it, but — isn’t it?”

  He said: “It is. Strange as it may sound, I hardly dare look. It’s leapt out of the end of your brush.”

  She gave him a kiss. “I am grateful,” she said. “You know, don’t you?”

  He went to the Yard in a pleasant if apprehensive state of mind and found a message from Mr. Whipplestone asking him to ring without delay. He put through the call and was answered at once.

  “I thought you should know,” Mr. Whipplestone began, and the phrase had become familiar. He hurried on to say that, confronted by a leaking water-pipe, he had called at his land agents, Messrs. Able and Virtue, at ten past nine o’clock that morning to ask if they could recommend a plumber. He found Sanskrit already there and talking to the young man with Pre-Raphaelite hair. When he saw Mr. Whipplestone, Sanskrit had stopped short and then said in a counter-tenor voice that he would leave everything to them and they were to do the best they could for him.

  The young man had said there would be no difficulty as there was always a demand in the Capricorns. Sanskrit said something indistinguishable and rather hurriedly left the offices.

  “I asked, casually,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “if the pottery premises were by any chance to let. I said I had friends who were flat-hunting. This produced a curious awkwardness on the part of the lady attendant and the young man. The lady said something about the place not being officially on the market as yet and in any case if it did come up it would be for sale rather than to let. The present occupant, she said, didn’t want it made known for the time being. This, as you may imagine, intrigued me. When I left the agents I walked down Capricorn Mews to the piggery. It had a notice on the door: Closed for stocktaking. There are some very ramshackle curtains drawn across the shop window but they don’t quite meet. I peered in. It was very ill-lit but I got the impression of some large person moving about among packing cases.”

  “Did you, by George!”

  “Yes. And on my way home I called in at the Napoli for some of their pâté. While I was there the Cockburn-Montforts came in. He was, I thought, rather more than three sheets in the wind but, as usual, holding it. She looked awful.”

  Mr. Whipplestone paused for so long that Alleyn said: “Are you there, Sam?”

  “Yes,” he said, “yes, I am. To be frank, I’m wondering what you’re going to think of my next move. Be quiet, cat. I don’t habitually act on impulse. Far from it.”

  “Very far, I’d have thought.”

  “Although lately — However, I did act impulsively on this occasion. Very. I wanted to get a reaction. I gave them good-morning, of course, and then, quite casually,
you know, as I took my pâté from Mrs. Pirelli, I said: ‘I believe you’re losing some neighbours, Mrs. Pirelli?’ She looked nonplussed. I said: ‘Yes. The people at the pig-pottery. They’re leaving, almost at once, I hear.’ This was not, of course, strictly true.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “No? Well, I turned and was face-to-face with Cockburn-Montfort. I find it difficult to describe his look, or rather his succession of looks. Shock. Incredulity. Succeeded by fury. He turned even more purple in the process. Mrs. Montfort quite gasped out ‘I don’t believe it!’ and then gave a little scream. He had her by the arm and he hurt her. And without another word he turned her about and marched her out of the shop. I saw him wheel her round in the direction of the piggery. She pulled back and seemed to plead with him. In the upshot they turned again and went off presumably to their own house. Mrs. Pirelli said something in Italian and then: ‘If they go I am pleased.’ I left. As I passed the top of Capricorn Place, I saw the C.-M.’s going up their steps. He still held her arm and I think she was crying. That’s all.”

  “And this was — what? — half an hour ago?”

  “About that.”

  “We’ll discuss it later. Thank you, Sam.”

  “Have I blundered?”

  “I hope not. I think you may have precipitated something.”

  “I’ve got to have a word with Sheridan about the plumbing — a genuine word. He’s at home. Should I—?”

  “I think you might, but it’s odds on the C.-M.’s will have got in first. Try.”

  “Very well.”

  “And the Chubbs?” Alleyn asked.

  “Yes. Oh dear. If you wish.”

  “Don’t elaborate. Just the news, casually, as before.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be at home in about a quarter of an hour if you want me. If I don’t hear from you I’ll get in touch myself as soon as I can,” Alleyn said.

  He checked with the man keeping observation and learned that Sanskrit had returned to the pottery after his visit to the land agents and had not emerged. The pottery was closed and the windows still curtained.

  Five minutes later Alleyn and Fox found the entrance to the cul-de-sac, as on the former visit, cordoned off by police and thronged by an even larger crowd and quite a galaxy of photographers, who were pestering Superintendent Gibson with loud cries against constabular arrogance. Alleyn had a word with Gibson, entered his own house, left Fox in the study, and went straight to Troy in her studio. She had done quite a lot of work on the background.

  “Troy,” he said, “when he comes, I’ve got to have a word with him. Alone. I don’t think it will take long and I don’t know how much it will upset him.”

  “Damn,” said Troy.

  “Well, I know. But this is where it gets different. I’ve no choice.”

  “I see. O.K.”

  “It’s hell but there it is.”

  “Never mind — I know. Here he is. You’d better meet him.”

  “I’ll be back. Much more to the point, I hope he will.”

  “So do I. Good luck to whatever it is.”

  “Amen to that, sweet powers,” Alleyn said, and arrived at the front door at the same time as the Boomer, who had his mlinzi in attendance, the latter carrying a great bouquet of red roses and, most unexpectedly, holding the white Afghan hound on a scarlet leash. The Boomer explained that the dog seemed to be at a loose end. “Missing his master,” said the Boomer.

  He greeted Alleyn with all his usual buoyancy, and then after a quick look at him said: “Something is wrong, I think.”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said. “We must speak together, sir.”

  “Very well, Rory. Where?”

  “In here, if you will.”

  They went into the study. When the Boomer saw Fox, who had been joined by Gibson, he fetched up short.

  “We speak together,” he said, “but not, it seems, in private?”

  “It’s a police matter and my colleagues are involved.”

  “Indeed? Good morning, gentlemen.”

  He said something to the mlinzi, who handed him the roses, went out with the dog, and shut the door.

  “Will you sit down, sir?” Alleyn said.

  This time the Boomer made no protest at the formalities. He said: “By all means,” and sat in a white hide armchair. He wore the ceremonial dress of the portrait and looked superb. The red roses lent an extraordinarily surrealist touch.

  “Perhaps you will put them down somewhere?” he said, and Alleyn laid them on his desk. “Are they for Troy?” he asked. “She’ll be delighted.”

  “What are we to speak about?”

  “About Sanskrit. Will you tell me what was in the envelope he delivered at the Embassy soon after midnight this morning? It was addressed to the First Secretary. With a note to the effect that it was for your attention.”

  “Your men are zealous in their performance of their tasks, Mr. Gibson,” said the Boomer without looking at him.

  Gibson cleared his throat.

  “The special pass issued under my personal cachet evidently carried no weight with these policemen,” the Boomer added. ”

  “Without it,” Alleyn said, “the envelope would probably have been opened. I hope you will tell us what it contained. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was of great importance.”

  The Boomer, who from the time he had sat down had not removed his gaze from Alleyn, said, “It was opened by my secretary.”

  “But he told you what it was?”

  “It was a request. For a favour.”

  “And the favour?”

  “It was in connection with this person’s return to Ng’ombwana. I think I told you that he has been reinstated.”

  “Was it, perhaps, that he wants to return at once and asked for an immediate clearance — visas, permits, whatever is necessary? Procedures that normally, I think, take several days to complete?”

  “Yes,” said the Boomer. “That was it.”

  “Why do you suppose he told the police officers that the envelope contained a photograph, one that you had ordered urgently, for yourself?”

  For a second or two he looked very angry indeed. Then he said: “I have no idea. It was a ridiculous statement. I have ordered no photographs.”

  Alleyn said: “Mr. Gibson, I wonder if you and Mr. Fox will excuse us?”

  They went out with a solemn preoccupied air and shut the door after them.

  “Well, Rory?” said the Boomer.

  “He was an informer,” Alleyn said, “wasn’t he? He was what Mr. Gibson would call, so unprettily but so appropriately, a snout.”

  The Boomer had always, in spite of all his natural exuberance, commanded a talent for unexpected silences. He now displayed it. He neither moved nor spoke during a long enough pause for the clock in the study to clear its throat and strike ten. He then clasped his white gloved hands, rested his chin on them and spoke.

  “In the old days,” he said, and his inordinately resonant voice, taking on a timbre of a recitative, lent the phrase huge overtones of nostalgia, “at Davidson’s, I remember one wet evening when we talked together, as youths of that age will, of everything under the sun. We talked, finally, of government and the exercise of power and suddenly, without warning, we found ourselves on opposite sides of a great gap — a ravine. There was no bridge. We were completely cut off from each other. Do you remember?”

  “I remember, yes.”

  “I think we were both surprised and disturbed to find ourselves in this situation. And I remember I said something like this: that we had stumbled against a natural barrier that was as old as our separate evolutionary processes — we used big words in those days. And you said there were plenty of territories we could explore without meeting such barriers and we’d better stick to them. And so, from that rainy evening onwards, we did. Until now. Until this moment.”

  Alleyn said: “I mustn’t follow you along these reminiscent byways. If you think for a mom
ent, you’ll understand why. I’m a policeman on duty. One of the first things we are taught is the necessity for non-involvement. I’d have asked to be relieved of this job if I had known what shape it would take.”

  “What shape has it taken? What have you — uncovered?”

  “I’ll tell you. I think that the night before last a group of people, some fanatical, each in his or her own degree a bit demented and each with a festering motive of sorts, planned to have you assassinated in such a way that it would appear to have been done by your spear-carrier — your mlinzi: it’s about these people that I’d like to talk to you. First of all, Sanskrit. Am I right or wrong in my conjecture about Sanskrit? Is he an informer?”

  “There, my dear Rory, I must plead privilege.”

  “I thought you might. All right. The Cockburn-Montforts. His hopes of military glory under the new regime came unstuck. He is said to have been infuriated. Has he to thank you, personally, for his compulsory retirement?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Boomer coolly. “I got rid of him. He had become an alcoholic and quite unreliable. Besides, my policy was to appoint Ng’ombwanans to the senior ranks. We have been through all this.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “Not to my face. He was abusive at a personal interview I granted. I have been told that in his cups he uttered threats. It was all very silly and long forgotten.”

  “Not on his part, perhaps. You knew he had been invited to the reception?”

  “At my suggestion. He did good service in the past. We gave him a medal for it.”

  “I see. Do you remember the Gomez case?”

  For a moment, he looked surprised. “Of course I remember it,” he said. “He was a very bad man. A savage. A murderer. I had the pleasure of procuring him a fifteen-year stretch. It should have been a capital charge. He—” The Boomer pulled up short. “What of him?” he asked.

  “A bit of information your sources didn’t pass on to you, it seems. Perhaps they didn’t know. Gomez has changed his name to Sheridan and lives five minutes away from your Embassy. He was not at your party but he is a member of this group, and from what I have heard of him he’s not going to let one setback defeat him. He’ll try again.”