Black As He Is Painted ra-28

by Ngaio Marsh

  “That I can believe,” said the Boomer. For the first time he looked disconcerted.

  Alleyn said: “He watched this house from over the way while you sat to Troy yesterday morning. It’s odds on he’s out there again, now. He’s being very closely observed. Would you say he’s capable of going it alone and lobbing a bomb into your car or through my windows?”

  “If he’s maintained the head of steam he worked up against me at his trial—” the Boomer began and checked himself. He appeared to take thought and then, most unconvincingly, let out one of his great laughs. “Whatever he does,” he said, “if he does anything, it will be a fiasco. Bombs! No, really, it’s too absurd!”

  For an alarming second or two Alleyn felt himself to be at explosion point. With difficulty he controlled his voice and suggested, fairly mildly, that if any attempts made upon the Boomer turned out to be fiascos it would be entirely due to the vigilance and efficiency of the despised Gibson and his men.

  “Why don’t you arrest this person?” the Boomer asked casually.

  “Because, as you very well know, we can’t make arrests on what would appear to be groundless suspicion. He has done nothing to warrant an arrest.”

  The Boomer scarcely seemed to listen to him, a non-reaction that didn’t exactly improve his temper.

  “There is one more member of this coterie,” Alleyn said. “A servant called Chubb. Is he known to you?”

  “Chubb? Chubb? Ah! Yes, by the way! I believe I have heard of Chubb. Isn’t he Mr. Samuel Whipplestone’s man? He came up with drinks while I was having a word with his master, who happened to mention it. You’re not suggesting—!”

  “That Sam Whipplestone’s involved? Indeed I’m not. But we’ve discovered that the man is.”

  The Boomer seemed scarcely to take this in. The enormous creature suddenly leapt to his feet. For all his great size he was on them, like an animal, in one co-ordinated movement.

  “What am I thinking of!” he exclaimed. “To bring myself here! To force my attention upon your wife with this silly dangerous person who, bombs or no bombs, is liable to make an exhibition of himself and kick up dirt in the street. I will take myself off at once. Perhaps I may see her for a moment to apologize and then I vanish.”

  “She won’t take much joy of that,” Alleyn said. “She has gone a miraculously long way in an unbelievably short time with what promises to be the best portrait of her career. It’s quite appalling to think of it remaining unfinished.”

  The Boomer gazed anxiously at him and then, with great simplicity, said: “I get everything wrong.”

  He had made this observation as a solitary black schoolboy in his first desolate term and it had marked the beginning of their friendship. Alleyn stopped himself from saying: “Don’t look like that,” and instead picked up the great bouquet of roses, put them in his hands, and said: “Come and see her.”

  “Shall I?” he said, doubtful but greatly cheered. “Really? Good!”

  He strode to the door and flung it open. “Where is my mlinzi?” he loudly demanded.

  Fox, who was in the hall, said blandly: “He’s outside Mrs. Alleyn’s studio, Your Excellency.. He seemed to think that was where he was wanted.”

  “We may congratulate ourselves,” Alleyn said, “that he hasn’t brought his spear with him.”

  Alleyn had escorted the Boomer to the studio and seen him established on his throne. Troy, tingling though she was with impatience, had praised the roses and put them in a suitable pot. She had also exultantly pounced upon the Afghan hound, who, with an apparent instinct for aesthetic values, had mounted the throne and posed himself with killing effect against the Boomer’s left leg and was in process of being committed to canvas.

  Alleyn, possessed by a medley of disconnected anxieties and attachments, quitted the unlikely scene and joined Fox in the hall.

  “Is it all right?” Fox asked, jerking his head in the direction of the studio. “All that?”

  “If you can call it all right for my wife to be settled cosily in there painting a big black dictator with a suspected murderer outside the door and the victim’s dog posing for its portrait, it’s fine. Fine!”

  “Well, it’s unusual,” Fox conceded. “What are you doing about it?”

  “I’m putting one of those coppers on my doorstep outside the studio where he can keep the mlinzi company. Excuse me for a moment, Fox.”

  He fetched the constable, a powerful man, from the pavement and gave him his directions.

  “The man doesn’t speak much English, if any,” he said, “and I don’t for a moment suppose he’ll do anything but squat in the sun and stare. He’s not armed and normally he’s harmless. Your job’s to keep close obbo on him till he’s back in the car with Master.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the officer, and proceeded massively in the required direction.

  Alleyn rejoined Fox.

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler,” Fox ventured, “under the circumstances, I mean, to cancel the sittings?”

  “Look here, Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said. “I’ve done my bloody best to keep my job out of sight of my wife and by and large I’ve made a hash of it. But I’ll tell you what: if ever my job looks like so much as coming between one dab of her brush and the surface of her canvas, I’ll chuck it and set up a prep school for detectives.”

  After a considerable pause Mr. Fox said judicially: “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “Not she,” said Alleyn. “It’s entirely the other way round. In the meantime, what’s cooking? Where’s Fred?”

  “Outside. He’s hoping for a word with you. Just routine, far as I know.”

  Mr. Gibson sat in a panda a little way down the cul-de-sac and not far from the pub. Uniform men were distributed along the street and householders looked out of upstairs windows. The crowd at the entrance had thinned considerably.

  Alleyn and Fox got into the panda.

  “What’s horrible?” they asked each other. Gibson reported that to the best of his belief the various members of the group were closetted in their respective houses. Mrs. Chubb had been out-of-doors shopping but had returned home. He’d left a couple of men with radio equipment to patrol the area.

  He was droning on along these lines when the door of Alleyn’s house opened and the large officer spoke briefly to his colleague in the street. The latter was pointing towards the panda.

  “This is for me,” Alleyn said. “I’ll be back.”

  It was Mr. Whipplestone on the telephone, composed but great with tidings. He had paid his plumbing call on Mr. Sheridan and found him in a most extraordinary state.

  “White to the lips, shaking, scarcely able to pull himself together and give me a civil hearing. I had the impression that he was about to leave the flat. At first I thought he wasn’t going to let me in, but he shot a quick look up and down the street and suddenly stepped back and motioned with his head for me to enter. We stood in the lobby. I really don’t think he took in a word about the plumbers, but he nodded and — not so much grinned as bared his teeth from time to time.”

  “Pretty!”

  “Not very delicious, I assure you. Do you know, I was transported back all those years, into that court of justice in Ng’ombwana. He might have been standing in the dock again.”

  “That’s not an over-fanciful conceit, either. Did you say anything about the Sanskrits?”

  “Yes. I did. I ventured. As I was leaving. I think I may say I was sufficiently casual. I asked him if he knew whether the pottery in the Mews undertook china repairs. He looked at me as if I was mad and shook his head.”

  “Has he gone out?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. You may be sure I was prepared to watch. I had settled to do so, but Mrs. Chubb met me in the hall. She said Chubb was not well and would I mind if she attended to my luncheon — served it and so on. She said it was what she called a ‘turn’ that he’s subject to and he had run out of whatever he takes for it and would like to go to the chemist’s. I,
of course, said I could look after myself and she could go to the chemist’s. I said I would lunch out if it would help. In any case it was only ten o’clock. But she was distressed, poor creature, and I couldn’t quite brush her aside and go into the drawing-room, so I can’t positively swear Sheridan-Gomez-didn’t leave. It’s quite possible that he did. As soon as I’d got rid of Mrs. Chubb I went to the drawing-room window. The area gate was open and I’m certain I shut it.”

  “I see. What about Chubb?”

  “What, indeed! He did go out. Quite openly. I asked Mrs. Chubb about it and she said he’d insisted. She said the prescription took some time to make up and he would have to wait.”

  “Has he returned?”

  “Not yet. Nor has Sheridan. If, in fact, he went out.”

  “Will you keep watch, Sam?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I think I’ll be coming your way.”

  Alleyn returned to the car. He passed Mr. Whipplestone’s information on to Fox and Gibson and they held a brief review of the situation.

  “What’s important as I see it,” Alleyn said, “is the way these conspirators are thinking and feeling. If I’m right in my guesses, they got a hell of a shock on the night of the party. Everything was set up. The shot fired. The lights went out. The expected commotion ensued. The anticipated sounds were heard. But when the lights went on again it was the wrong body killed by the right weapon wielded by they didn’t know who. Very off-putting for all concerned. How did they react? The next night they held a meeting at the Sanskrits’. They’d had time to do a bit of simple addition and the answer had to be a rat in the wainscotting.”

  “Pardon?” said Gibson.

  “A traitor in their ranks. A snout.”

  “Oh. Ah.”

  “They must at the very least have suspected it. I’d give a hell of a lot to know what happened at that meeting while you and I, Fox, sat outside in the Mews. Who did they suspect? Why? What did they plan? To have another go at the President? It seems unlikely that Sheridan-Gomez would have given up. Did any of them get wind of Sanskrit’s visit to the Embassy last night? And who the devil was the shadow we saw sprinting round the alley-corner?”

  “Come on, Mr. Alleyn. What’s the theory? Who do you reckon?”

  “Oh, I’ll tell you that, Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said. And did.

  “And if either of you lot,” he ended, “so much as mumbles the word ‘conjecture’ I’ll put you both on dab for improper conduct.”

  “It boils down to this, then,” said Fox. “They may be contemplating a second attempt on the President or they may be setting their sights on the snout whoever they reckon him to be, or they may be split on their line of action. Or,” he added as an afterthought, “they may have decided to call it a day, wind up the Klu-Klux-Fish and fade out in all directions.”

  “How true. With which thought we, too, part company. We must be all-ways away, Br’er Fox. Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds—”

  “What’s all that about?” Gibson asked glumly.

  “Quotations,” Fox said.

  “Yes, Fred,” said Allen, “and you can go and catch a red-hipped bumble-bee on the lip of a thistle while Fox and I war with reremice for their leathern wings.”

  “Who said all the bumph anyway?”

  “Fairies. We’ll keep in touch. Come on, Fox.”

  They returned to their own anonymous car and were driven to the Capricorns. Here a discreet prowl brought them into touch with one of Gibson’s men, a plain-clothes sergeant, who had quite a lot to say for himself. The fishy brotherhood had not been idle. Over the last half-hour the Cockburn-Montforts had been glimpsed through their drawing-room window engaged in drinking and — or so it seemed — quarrelling in a desultory way between libations. Chubb had been followed, by a plain-clothes sergeant carrying artist’s impedimenta, to a chemist’s shop in Baronsgate, where he handed in a prescription and sat down, presumably waiting for it to be made up. Seeing him settle there, the sergeant returned to Capricorn Mews, where, having an aptitude in that direction, he followed a well-worn routine by sitting on a canvas stool and making a pencil sketch of the pig-pottery. He had quite a collection of sketches at home, some finished and prettily tinted and aquarelles, others of a rudimentary kind, having been cut short by an arrest or by an obligation to shift the area of investigation. For these occasions he wore jeans, a dirty jacket, and an excellent wig of the Little Lord Fauntleroy type. His name was Sergeant Jacks.

  Mr. Sheridan, the Cockburn-Montforts and the Sanskrits had not appeared.

  Fox parked the car in its overnight position under the plane trees in Capricorn Square, from where he could keep observation on No. 1, the Walk, and Alleyn took a stroll down the Mews. He paused behind the gifted sergeant and, after the manner of the idle snooper, watched him tinker with a tricky bit of perspective. He wondered what opulent magic Troy at that moment might be weaving, over in Chelsea.

  “Anything doing?” he asked.

  “Premises shut up, sir. But there’s movement. In the back of the shop. There’s a bit of a gap in the curtains and you can just get a squint. Not to see anything really. Nobody been in or out of the flat entrance.”

  “I’ll be within range. No. 1, Capricorn Walk. Give me a shout if there’s anything. You could nip into that entry to call me up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two youths from the garage strolled along and stared.

  Alleyn said: “I wouldn’t have the patience, myself. Don’t put me in it,” he added. These were the remarks by bystanders that Troy said were most frequently heard. “Is it for sale?” he asked.

  “Er,” said the disconcerted sergeant.

  “I might come back and have another look,” Alleyn remarked, and left the two youths to gape.

  He pulled his hat over his left eye, walked very quickly indeed across the end of Capricorn Place and on into the Walk. He had a word with Fox in the car under the plane trees and then crossed the street to No. 1, where Mr. Whipplestone, who had seen him coming, let him in.

  “Sam,” Alleyn said. “Chubb did go to the chemist.”

  “I’m extremely glad to hear it.”

  “But it doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t call at the piggery, you know.”

  “You think not?”

  “If he suffers from migraine the stresses of the past forty-eight hours might well have brought it on.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Is his wife in?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Whipplestone, looking extremely apprehensive.

  “I want to speak to her.”

  “Do you? That’s — that’s rather disturbing.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you going to press for information about her husband?”

  “Probably.”

  “How very — distasteful.”

  “Police work is, at times, precisely that.”

  “I know. I’ve often wondered how you can.”

  “Have you?”

  “You strike me, always, as an exceptionally fastidious man.”

  “I’m sorry to disenchant you.”

  “And I’m sorry to have been tactless.”

  “Sam,” Alleyn said gently, “one of the differences between police work and that of other and grander services is that we do our own dirty washing instead of farming it out at two or three removes.”

  Mr. Whipplestone turned pink. “I deserved that,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t. It was pompous and out of place.”

  Lucy Lockett, who had been washing herself with the zeal of an occupational therapist, made one of her ambiguous remarks, placed her forepaw on Alleyn’s knee, and leapt neatly into his lap.

  “Now then, baggage,” Alleyn said, scratching her head, “that sort of stuff never got a girl anywhere.”

  “You don’t know,” Mr. Whipplestone said, “how flattered you ought to feel. The demonstration is unique.”

 
Alleyn handed his cat to him and stood up. “I’ll get it over,” he said. “Is she upstairs, do you know?”

  “I think so.”

  “It won’t take long, I hope.”

  “If I — if I can help in any way—?”

  “I’ll let you know,” said Alleyn.

  He climbed the stairs and tapped on the door. When Mrs. Chubb opened it and saw him, she reacted precisely as she had on his former visit. There she stood, speechless with her fingers on her lips. When he asked to come in she moved aside with the predictable air of terrified reluctance. He went in and there was the enlarged photograph of the fresh-faced girl. The medallion, even, was, as before, missing from its place. He wondered if Chubb was wearing it.

  “Mrs. Chubb,” he said, “I’m not going to keep you long and I hope I’m not going to frighten you. Yes, please, do sit down.”

  Just as she did last time, she dropped into her chair and stared at him. He drew his up and leant forward.

  “Since I saw you yesterday,” he said, “we have learnt a great deal more about the catastrophe at the Embassy and about the people closely and remotely concerned in it. I’m going to tell you what I believe to be your husband’s part.”

  She moved her lips as if to say: “He never—” but was voiceless.

  “All I want you to do is listen and then tell me if I’m right, partly right or wholly mistaken. I can’t force you to answer, as I expect you know, but I very much hope that you will.”

  He waited for a moment and then said: “Well. Here it is. I believe that your husband, being a member of the group we talked about yesterday, agreed to act with them in an attack upon the President of Ng’ombwana. I think he agreed because of his hatred of blacks and of Ng’ombwanans in particular.” Alleyn looked for a moment at the smiling photograph. “It’s a hatred born of tragedy,” he said, “and it has rankled and deepened, I daresay, during the last five years.

  “When it was known that your husband was to be one of the waiters in the pavilion, the plan was laid. He had been given detailed instructions about his duties by his employers. The group was given even more detailed information from an agent inside the Embassy. And Chubb’s orders were based on this information. He had been a commando and was very well suited indeed for the work in hand. Which was this. When the lights in the pavilion and the garden went out and after a shot was fixed in the house, he was to disarm and disable the spearman who was on guard behind the President, jump on a chair, and kill the President with the spear.”