Black As He Is Painted ra-28

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I know it’s asking a lot. Damn cheek in fact. But it would take us some time to raise a neutral interpreter. It wouldn’t do for one of the Ng’ombwanans.”

  “No, no, no, no, quite. Be quiet, Lucy. Yes. Very well, I’ll come.”

  “I’m uncommonly grateful. You’ll find a car at your door. ’Bye.”

  “Coming?” Gibson said.

  “Yes. Sergeant, go and ask Mr. Fox to meet him and bring him here, will you? Pale. About sixty. Eyeglass. V.I.P. treatment.”

  “Sir.”

  And in a few minutes Mr. Whipplestone, stepping discreetly and having exchanged his tailcoat for a well-used smoking jacket, was shown into the room by Inspector Fox, whom Alleyn motioned to stay.

  Gibson made a morose fuss of Mr. Whipplestone.

  “You’ll appreciate how it is, sir. The President insists on addressing his household staff and—”

  “Yes, yes. I quite understand, Mr. Gibson. Difficult for you. I wonder, could I know what happened? It doesn’t really affect the interpreter’s role, of course, but — briefly?”

  “Of course you could,” Alleyn said. “Briefly then: Somebody fired a shot that you must have heard, apparently taking aim from the ladies’ loo. It hit nobody, but when the lights went up the Ambassador was lying dead in the pavilion, spitted by the ceremonial Ng’ombwanan spear that was borne behind the President. The spear-carrier was crouched a few paces back, and as far as we can make out — he speaks no English — maintains that in the dark, when everybody was milling about in a hell of a stink over the shot, he was given a chop on the neck and his spear snatched from him.”

  “Do you believe this?”

  “I don’t know. I was there, in the pavilion, with Troy. She was sitting next to the President and I was beside her. When the shot rang out I told her to stay put and at the same time saw the shape of the Boomer half rise and make as if to go. His figure was momentarily silhouetted against Karbo’s spotlight on the screen at the other end of the lake. I shoved him back in his chair, told him to pipe down, and moved in front of him. A split second later something crashed down at my feet. Some ass called out that the President had been shot. The Boomer and a number of others yelled for lights. They came up and — there was the Ambassador, literally pinned to the ground.”

  “A mistake then?”

  “That seems to be the general idea — a mistake. They were of almost equal height and similar build. Their uniforms, in silhouette, would look alike. He was speared from behind and, from behind, would show up against the spotlight screen. There’s one other point. My colleague here tells me he had two security men posted near the rear entrance to the pavilion. After the shot they say the black waiter came plunging out. They grabbed him but say he appeared to be just plain scared. That’s right, isn’t it, Fred?”

  “That’s the case,” Gibson said. “The point being that while they were finding out what they’d caught, you’ve got to admit that it’s just possible in that bloody blackout, if you’ll excuse me, sir, somebody might have slipped into the pavilion.”

  “Somebody?” said Mr. Whipplestone.”

  “Well, anybody,” Alleyn said. “Guest, waiter, what-have-you. It’s unlikely but it’s just possible.”

  “And got away again? After the — event?”

  “Again — just remotely possible. And now, Sam, if you don’t mind—”

  “Of course.”

  “Where do they hold this tribal gathering, Fred? The President said the ballroom. O.K.?”

  “O.K.”

  “Could you check with him and lay that on — I’ll see how things are going in the pavilion and then join you. All right? Would that suit you?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Fox, will you come with me?”

  On the way he gave Fox a succinct account of Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort’s story and of the pistol shot, if pistol shot it was, in its relation to the climactic scene in the garden.

  “Quite a little puzzle,” said Fox cosily.

  In the pavilion they found two uniform policemen, a photographic and a fingerprint expert — Detective Sergeants Thompson and Bailey-together with Sir James Curtis, never mentioned by the press without the additional gloss of “the celebrated pathologist.” Sir James had completed his superficial examination. The spear, horridly incongruous, still stuck up at an angle from its quarry and was being photographed in a close-up by Thompson. Not far from the body lay an overturned chair.

  “This is a pretty kettle of fish you’ve got here, Rory,” said Sir James.

  “Is it through the heart?”

  “Plumb through and well into the turf underneath, I think we’ll find. Otherwise it wouldn’t be so rigid. It looks as though the assailant followed through the initial thrust and, with a forward lunge, literally pinned him down.”

  “Ferocious.”

  “Very.”

  “Finished?” Alleyn asked Thompson as he straightened up. “Complete coverage? All angles? The lot?”

  “Yes, Mr. Alleyn.”

  “Bailey? What about dabs?”

  Bailey, a mulishly inclined officer, said he’d gone over the spear and could find evidence of only one set of prints and that they were smeared. He added that the camera might bring up something latent but he didn’t hold out many hopes. The angle of the spear to the body had been measured. Sir James said it had been a downward thrust. “Which would indicate a tall man,” he said.

  “Or a middle-sized man on a chair?” Alleyn suggested.

  “Yes. A possibility.”

  “All right,” Alleyn said. “We’d better withdraw that thing.”

  “You’ll have a job,” Sir James offered.

  They did have a job and the process was unpleasant. In the end the body had to be held down and the spear extracted by a violent jerk, producing a sickening noise and an extrusion of blood.

  “Turn him over,” Alleyn said.

  The eyes were open and the jaw collapsed, turning the Ambassador’s face into a grotesque mask of astonishment. The wound of entry was larger than that of exit. The closely cropped turf was wet.

  “Horrible,” Alleyn said shortly.

  “I suppose we can take him away?” Sir James suggested. “I’ll do the P.M. at once.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. We’re on Ng’ombwanan ground. We’re on sufferance. The mortuary van’s outside all right, but I don’t think we can do anything about the body unless they say so.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “There may be all sorts of taboos, observances and what-have-you.”

  “Well,” said Sir James, not best pleased, “in that case I’ll take myself off. You might let me know if I’m wanted.”

  “Of course. We’re all walking about like a gaggle of Agags, it’s so tricky. Here’s Fred Gibson.”

  He had come to say that the President wished the body to be conveyed to the ballroom.

  “What for?” Alleyn demanded.

  “This assembly or what-have-you. Then it’s to be put upstairs. He wants it flown back to Ng’ombwana.”

  “Good evening to you,” said Sir James and left.

  Alleyn nodded to one of the constables, who fetched two men, a stretcher and a canvas. And so his country’s representative re-entered his Embassy, finally relieved of the responsibility that had lain so heavily on his mind.

  Alleyn said to the constables: “We’ll keep this tent exactly as it is. One of you remains on guard.” And to Fox: “D’you get the picture, Br’er Fox? Here we all were, a round dozen of us, including, you’ll be surprised to hear, my brother.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Alleyn? Quite a coincidence.”

  “If you don’t mind, Br’er Fox, we won’t use that word. It’s cropped up with monotonous regularity ever since I took my jaunt to Ng’ombwana.”

  “Sorry, I’m sure.”

  “Not at all. To continue. Here we were, in arrowhead formation with the President’s chair at the apex. There’s his chair and that’s Troy beside it. On his othe
r side was the Ambassador. The spear-carrier, who is at present under surveillance in the gents’ cloaks, stood behind his master’s chair. At the rear are those trestle tables used for drinks, and a bit further forward an overturned, pretty solid wooden chair, the purpose of which escapes me. The entrance into the tent at the back was used by the servants. There were two of them, the larger being one of the household henchmen and the other a fresh-faced, chunky specimen in Costard’s livery. Both of them were in evidence when the lights went out.”

  “And so,” said Fox, who liked to sort things out, “as soon as this Karbo artist appears, his spotlight picks him up and makes a splash on the screen behind him. And from the back of the tent where this spear expert is stationed, anybody who stands up between him and the light shows up like somebody coming in late at the cinema.”

  “That’s it.”

  “And after the shot was fired you stopped the President from standing up, but the Ambassador did stand up and Bob, in a manner of speaking, was your uncle.”

  “In a maner of speaking, he was.”

  “Now then,” Fox continued in his stately manner. “Yes. This shot. Fired, we’re told by the lady you mentioned, from the window of the female conveniences. No weapon’s been recovered, I take it?”

  “Give us a chance.”

  “And nobody’s corroborated the lady’s story about this dirty big black man who kicked her?”

  “No.”

  “And this chap hasn’t been picked up?”

  “He is like an insubstantial pageant faded.”

  “Just so. And do we assume, then, that having fired his shot and missed his man, an accomplice, spear-carrier or what have you, did the job for him?”

  “That may be what we’re supposed to think. To my mind it stinks. Not to high Heaven, but slightly.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Don’t ask me, Br’er Fox. But designedly or not, the shot created a diversion.”

  “And when the lights came on?”

  “The President was in his chair where I’d shoved him and Troy was in hers. The other two ladies were in theirs. The body was three feet to the President’s left. The guests were milling about all over the shop. My big brother was ordering them in a shaky voice not to panic. The spear-carrier was on his knees nursing his carotid artery. The chair was overturned. No servants.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Good, come on, then. The corroboree, pow-wow, conventicle or coven, call it what you will, is now in congress and we are stayed for.” He turned to Bailey and Thompson. “Not much joy for you chaps at present, but if you can pick up something that looks too big for a female print in the second on the left of the ladies’ loos it will be as balm in Gilead. Away we go, Fox.”

  But as they approached the house they were met by Gibson, looking perturbed, with Mr. Whipplestone in polite attendance.

  “What’s up, Fred?” Alleyn asked. “Have your race relations fractured?”

  “You could put it like that,” Mr. Gibson conceded. “He’s making things difficult.”

  “The President?”

  “That’s right. He won’t collaborate with anyone but you.”

  “Silly old chump.”

  “He won’t come out of his library until you’ve gone in.”

  “What’s bitten him, for the love of Mike?”

  “I doubt if he knows.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Whipplestone ventured, “he doesn’t like the introduction of me into the proceedings?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said Gibson unhappily.

  “What a nuisance he contrives to be,” Alleyn said. “I’ll talk to him. Are the hosts of Ng’ombwana mustered in the ballroom?”

  “Yes. Waiting for Master,” said Gibson.

  “Any developments, Fred?”

  “Nothing to rave about. I’ve had a piece of that sergeant in the cloakroom. It seems she acted promptly enough after she left her grandstand seat and attended to Mrs. C-M. She located the nearest of my men and gave him the info. A search for chummy was set up with no results and I was informed. The men on duty outside the house say nobody left it. If they say so, nobody did,” said Gibson, sticking his jaw out. “We’ve begun to search for the gun or whatever it was.”

  “It sounded to me like a pistol,” said Alleyn. “I’d better beard the lion in his library, I suppose. We’ll meet here. I’m damned sorry to victimize you like this, Sam.”

  “My dear fellow, you needn’t be. I’m afraid I’m rather enjoying myself,” said Mr. Whipplestone.

  Alleyn scarcely knew what sort of reception he expected to get from the Boomer or what sort of tactics he himself should deploy to meet it.

  In the event, the Boomer behaved pretty much according to pattern. He strode down upon Alleyn and seized his hands. “Ah!” he roared, “you are here at last. I am glad. Now we shall get this affair settled.”

  “I’m afraid it’s far from being settled at the moment.”

  “Because of all these pettifogging coppers. And believe me, I do not include you in that category, my dear Rory.”

  “Very good of you, sir.”

  “ ‘Sir. Sir. Sir.’—what tommy-rot. Never mind. We shall not waste time over details. I have come to a decision and you shall be the first to hear what it is.”

  “Thank you, I’ll be glad to know.”

  “Good. Then listen. I understand perfectly that your funny colleague — what is his name?”

  “Gibson?” Alleyn ventured.

  “Gibson, Gibson. I understand perfectly that the well-meaning Gibson and his band of bodyguards and so on were here at the invitation of my Ambassador. I am correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Again, good. But my Ambassador has, as we used to say at Davidson’s, kicked over the bucket, and in any case the supreme authority is mine. Yes?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Of course it is,” the Boomer repeated with immense satisfaction. “It is mine and I propose to exercise it. An attempt has been made upon my life. It has failed as all such attempts are bound to fail. That I made clear to you on the happy occasion of your visit.”

  “So you did.”

  “Nevertheless, an attempt has been made,” the Boomer repeated. “My Ambassador has been killed and the matter must be cleared up.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “I therefore have called together the people of his household and will question them in accordance with our historically established democratic practice. In Ng’ombwana.”

  As Alleyn was by no means certain what this practice might turn out to be he said, cautiously, “Do you feel that somebody in the household may be responsible?”

  “One may find that this is not so. In which case—” The great voice rumbled into silence.

  “In which case?” Alleyn hinted.

  “My dear man, in which case I hope for your and the well-meaning Gibson’s collaboration.”

  So he’d got it all tidied up, Alleyn thought. The Boomer would handle the black elements and he and the C.I.D. could make what they liked of the white. Really, it began to look like a sort of inverted form of apartheid.

  “I don’t have to tell you,” he said, “that authorities at every level will be most deeply concerned that this should have happened. The Special Branch, in particular, is in a great taking-on about it.”

  “Hah! So much,” said the Boomer with relish, “For all the large men in the shrubberies. What?”

  “All right. Touché.”

  “All the same, my dear Rory, if it is true that I was the intended victim, it might well be said that I owe my life to you.”

  “Rot.”

  “Not rot. It would follow logically. You pushed me down in my chair, and there was this unhappy Ambassador waving his arms about and looking like me. So — blam! Yes, yes, yes. In that case, I would owe you my life. It is a debt I would not willingly incur with anyone but you — with you I would willingly acknowledge it.”

  �
��Not a bit,” Alleyn said, in acute embarrassment. “It may turn out that my intervention was merely a piece of unnecessary bloody cheek—” He hesitated and was inspired to add, “as we used to say at Davidson’s.” And since this did the trick, he hurried on. “Following that line of thought,” he said, “you might equally say that I was responsible for the Ambassador’s death.”

  “That,” said the Boomer grandly, “is another pair of boots.”

  “Tell me,” Alleyn asked, “have you any theories about the pistol shot?”

  “Ah!” he said quickly. “Pistol! So you have found the weapon?”

  “No. I call it a pistol shot provisionally. Gun. Revolver. Automatic. What you will. With your permission, we’ll search.”

  “Where?”

  “Well — in the garden. And the pond, for instance.”

  “The pond?”

  Alleyn gave him a digest of Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort’s narrative. The Boomer, it appeared, knew the Cockburn-Montforts quite well and indeed had actually been associated with the Colonel during the period when he helped organize the modern Ng’ombwanan army. “He was efficient,” said the Boomer, “but unfortunately he took to the bottle. His wife is, as we used to say, hairy round the hocks.”

  “She says the man in the lavatory was black.”

  There followed a longish pause. “If that is correct, I shall find him,” he said at last.

  “He certainly didn’t leave these premises. All the exits have been closely watched.”

  If the Boomer was tempted to be rude once more about Mr. Gibson’s methods he restrained himself. “What is the truth,” he asked, “about this marksman? Did he, in fact, fire at me and miss me? Is that proved?”

  “Nothing is proved. Tell me, do you trust — absolutely — the spear-carrier?”

  “Absolutely. But I shall question him as if I do not.”

  “Will you — and I’m diffident about asking this — will you allow me to be there? At the assembly?”

  For a moment he fancied he saw signs of withdrawal, but if so they vanished at once. The Boomer waved his paw.

  “Of course. Of course. But my dear Rory, you will not understand a word of it.”

  “Do you know Sam Whipplestone? Of the F.O. and lately retired?”