Black As He Is Painted ra-28

by Ngaio Marsh

  She was shaking her head to and fro and making inexplicit movements with her hands.

  “No?” Alleyn said. “Is that wrong? You didn’t know about it? Not beforehand? Not afterwards? But you knew something was planned, didn’t you? And you were frightened? And afterwards you knew it had gone wrong? Yes?”

  She whispered. “He never. He never done it.”

  “No. He was lucky. He was hoist — he got the treatment he was supposed to hand out. The other waiter put him out of action. And what happened after that was no business of Chubb’s.”

  “You can’t hurt him. You can’t touch him.”

  “That’s why I’ve come to see you, Mrs. Chubb. It may well be that we could, in fact, charge your husband with conspiracy. That means, with joining in a plan to do bodily harm. But our real concern is with the murder itself. If Chubb cuts loose from this group — and they’re a bad lot, Mrs. Chubb, a really bad lot — and gives me a straight answer to questions based on the account I’ve just given you, I think the police will be less inclined to press home attempted murder or charges of conspiracy. I don’t know if you’ll believe this, but I do beg you, very seriously indeed, if you have any influence over him, to get him to make a complete break, not to go to any more meetings, above all, not to take part in any further action against anybody — Ng’ombwanan, white or what-have-you. Tell him to cut loose, Mrs. Chubb. You tell him to cut loose. And at the same time not to do anything silly like making a bolt for it. That’d be about the worst thing he could do.”

  He had begun to think he would get no response of any kind from her when her face wrinkled over and she broke into a passion of tears. At first it was almost impossible to catch the sense of what she tried to say. She sobbed out words piecemeal, as if they escaped by haphazard compulsion. But presently phrases emerged and a sort of congruence of ideas. She said what had happened five years ago might have happened yesterday for Chubb. She repeated several times that he “couldn’t get over it,” that he “never hardly said anything,” but she could “tell.” They never talked about it, she said, not even on the anniversary, which was always a terrible day for both of them. She said that for herself something “came over” her at the sight of a black man, but for Chubb, Alleyn gathered, the revulsion was savage and implacable. There had been incidents. There were times when he took queer turns and acted very funny with headaches. The doctor had given him something.

  “Is that the prescription he’s getting made up now?”

  She said it was. As for “that lot,” she added, she’d never fancied him getting in with them.

  He had become secretive about the meetings, she said, and had shut her up when she tried to ask questions. She had known something was wrong. Something queer was going on.

  “They was getting at him and the way he feels. On account of our Glyn. I could tell that. But I never knew what.”

  Alleyn gathered that after the event Chubb had been a little more communicative in that he let out that he’d been “made a monkey of.” He’d acted according to orders, he said, and what had he got for it? Him with his experience? He was very angry and his neck hurt.

  “Did he tell you what really happened? Everything?”

  No, she said. There was something about him “getting in with the quick one according to plan” but being “clobbered” from behind and making a “boss shot of it.”

  Alleyn caught back an exclamation.

  It hadn’t made sense to Mrs. Chubb. Alleyn gathered that she’d felt, in a muddled way, that because a black man had been killed Chubb ought to have been pleased, but that he was angry because something had, in some fashion, been put across him. When Alleyn suggested that nothing she had told him contradicted the version he had given to her, she stared hopelessly at him out of blurred eyes and vaguely shook her head.

  “I suppose not,” she said.

  “From what you’ve told me, my suggestion that you persuade him to break with them was useless. You’ve tried. All the same, when he comes back from the chemist’s—”

  She broke in: “He ought to be back,” she cried. “It wouldn’t take that long! He ought to’ve come in by now. Oh Gawd, where is he?”

  “Now don’t you go getting yourself into a state before there’s need,” Alleyn said. “You stay put and count your blessings. Yes, that’s what I said, Mrs. Chubb. Blessings. If your man had brought off what he set out to do on the night of the party you would have had something to cry about. If he comes back, tell him what I’ve said. Tell him he’s being watched. Keep him indoors and in the meantime brew yourself a strong cuppa and pull yourself together, there’s a good soul. Good morning to you.”

  He ran downstairs and was met at the drawing-room door by Mr. Whipplestone.

  “Well, Sam,” he said. “Through no fault of his own your Chubb didn’t commit murder. That’s not to say—”

  The telephone rang. Mr. Whipplestone made a little exasperated noise and answered it.

  “Oh!” he said. “Oh, yes. He is. Yes, of course. Yes.”

  “It’s for you,” he said. “It’s Mrs. Roderick.”

  As soon as she heard Alleyn’s voice, Troy said: “Rory. Important. Someone with a muffled voice has just rung up to say there’s a bomb in the President’s car.”

  IX

  Climax

  Alleyn said: “Don’t—” but she cut in.

  “No, listen! The thing is, he’s gone. Five minutes ago. In his car.”

  “Where?”

  “The Embassy.”

  “Right. Stay put.”

  “Urgent,” Alleyn said to Mr. Whipplestone. “See you later.”

  He left the house as Fox got out of the car under the trees and came towards him.

  “Bomb scare,” said Fox. “On the blower.”

  “I know. Come on. The Embassy.”

  They got into the car. On the way to the Embassy, which was more roundabout than the way through the hole in the wall, Fox said a disguised voice had rung the Yard. The Yard was ringing Troy and had alerted Gibson and all on duty in the area.

  “The President’s on his way back,” Alleyn said. “Troy’s had the muffled voice, too.”

  “The escort car will have got the message.”

  “I hope so.”

  “A hoax, do you reckon?”

  “Considering the outlandish nature of the material we’re supposed to be handling, it’s impossible to guess. As usual we take it for real. But I tell you what, Br’er Fox, I’ve got a nasty feeling that if it is a hoax it’s a hoax with a purpose. Another name for it might be red-herring. We’ll see Fred and then get back to our own patch. That Royal Academician in the Mews had better be keeping his eyes open. Here we are.”

  They had turned out of a main thoroughfare, with their siren blaring, into Palace Park Gardens, and there outside the Embassy, emerging from his police escort’s car, was the Boomer, closely followed by his mlinzi and the Afghan hound. Alleyn and Fox left their car and approached him. He hailed them vigorously.

  “Hullo, hullo!” shouted the Boomer. “Here are turn-ups for the books! You have heard the latest, I suppose?”

  “We have,” said Alleyn. “Where’s the Embassy car?”

  “Where? Where? Half-way between here and there, ‘there’ being your own house, to be specific. The good Gibson and his henchmen are looking under the seats for bombs. Your wife required me no longer. I left a little early. Shall we go indoors?”

  Alleyn excused himself and was glad to see them off. The driver of the official police car was talking into his radio. He said: “Mr. Alleyn’s here now, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “All right,” Alleyn said and got into the car.

  It was Gibson. “So you’ve heard?” he said. “Nothing so far but we haven’t finished.”

  “Did you hear the call?”

  “No. He or she rang the Yard. Info is that he probably spoke through a handkerchief.”

  “He or she?”

  “The voice was peculiar. A kind of squeaky whi
sper. They reckon it sounded frightened or excited or both. The exact words were: ‘Is that Scotland Yard? There’s a bomb in the Black Embassy car. Won’t be long now.’ Call not traced. They thought the car would be outside your place and a minute or so was lost ascertaining it was on the way back. All my chaps were alerted and came on the scene pronto. Oh, and they say he seemed to speak with a lisp.”

  “Like hell they do! So would they with a mouthful of handkerchief. Who’s on the Capricorn ground?”

  “A copper in a wig with coloured chalks.”

  “I know all about him. That all?”

  “Yes,” said Gibson. “The others were ordered round here,” and added with a show of resentment, “My job’s mounting security over this big, bloody black headache and a bloody gutty show it’s turned out to be.”

  “All right, Fred. I know. It’s a stinker. I’ll get back there myself. What about you?”

  “I’ll stick here with the suspect car. Look!” said Gibson with the nearest approach of shrillness that Alleyn would have thought possible, “it’s got to such a pitch that I’d welcome a straight case of bomb disposal and no nonsense. There you are! I’d welcome it.”

  Alleyn was forming what conciliatory phrases he could offer when he was again called to the radio. It was the gifted Sergeant Jacks.

  “Sir,” said the sergeant in some agitation. “I better report.”

  “What?”

  “This bomb scare, sir. Just before it broke the military gentleman, Colonel Whatsit, beg pardon, came walking very rigid and careful up to the pig-pottery and leant on the bell of the door into their flat. And then the scare broke, sir. Mr. Gibson’s chap, keeping obbo in a car near the entrance to Capricorn Passage, sir, came round and told me quick, through the driving window, that it was a general alert, sir. And while he was talking, a dirty great van pulled out of the garage and obscured my view of the pottery. Well, sir, I’d got my orders from you to stay where I am. And Mr. Gibson’s chap drove off. Meanwhile a traffic jam had built up in the Mews behind the van. I couldn’t get a sight of the pottery but I could hear the Colonel. He’d started up yelling. Something like: ‘Open the bloody door, damn you, and let me in.’ And then the drivers began sounding off on their horns. It was like that for at least five minutes, sir.”

  “Could anybody — could two enormous people — have got out and away while this lasted?”

  “I reckon not, because it sorted itself out, sir, and when it had cleared, there was the Colonel still at the piggery door and still leaning on the bell. And he’s leaning on it now. And yelling a bit but kind of fading out. I reckon he’s so drunk he’s had it. What’ll I do, sir?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Ducked down behind my easel. It’s a bit awkward but I thought I’d risk it. Could you hold on, sir?”

  An interval of street noises. Alleyn held on and the voice returned. “I’m up the alleyway, sir. I had to duck. The gentleman from the basement of No. 1, the Walk, passed the end of the alleyway going toward the pottery.”

  “Get back to your easel and watch.”

  “Sir.”

  “I’m on my way. Over and out. Capricorn Square,” Alleyn said to the driver. “Quick as you can make it but no siren.”

  “What was all that, then?” asked Fox. When he was informed he remarked that the painter-chap seemed to be reasonably practical and active even if he did get himself up like a right Charlie. Mr. Fox had a prejudice against what he called “fancy-dress coppers.” His own sole gesture in that line was to put on an ancient Donegal tweed ulster and an out-of-date felt hat. It was surprising how effectively these lendings disguised his personality.

  When they reached the Square, Alleyn said: “We’d better separate. This is tricky. Sheridan-Gomez is the only one of the gang that doesn’t know me. The others might remember you from your checking out activities after the party. Have you got your nighty with you?”

  “If you mean my Donegal ulster, yes I have. It’s in the back.”

  “And the head-gear?”

  “Rolled up in the pocket.”

  “When you’ve dolled yourself up in them you might stroll to the piggery by way of the Square and Capricorn Place. I’ll take the Walk and the Mews. We’ll no doubt encounter each other in the vicinity of the piggery.”

  Fox went off looking like a North of Ireland corn chandler on holiday, and Alleyn turned into Capricorn Walk looking like himself.

  Lucy Lockett, taking the sun on the steps of No. 1, rolled over at him as he passed.

  No doubt, Alleyn reflected, Gibson’s men patrolling the Capricorns, who had been diverted to the Embassy on the bomb alarm, would soon return to their ground. At the moment there was no sign of them.

  It was the busiest time of day in the Capricorns and a pretty constant two-way stream of traffic moved along the Walk. Alleyn used it to screen his approach to the house-decorator’s shop on the corner of the Mews. From here, looking sideways through the windows, he had a view down the Mews to the pottery at the far end. Intermittently he had glimpses of the gifted Sergeant Jacks at his easel, but commercial vehicles backing and filling outside the garage constantly shut him off. The pottery flashed in and out of view like the fractional revelations of commercial television. Now it was Colonel Cockburn-Montfort, still at the pottery flat door, with Gomez beside him. And then, as if by sleight-of-hand, Chubb was there with them in consultation. Now a van drove into the Mews, fetched up outside the Napoli and began to deliver cartons and crates, and there was no view at all.

  Between the Napoli and the garage, and next door to the flower shop, there was a tiny bistro, calling itself the Bijou. On fine days it put four tables out on the pavement and served coffee and patisseries. One of the tables was unoccupied. Alleyn walked past the van and flower shop, sat at the table, ordered coffee and lit his pipe. He had his back to the pottery but got a fair reflection of it in the flower shop window.

  Gomez and Chubb were near the flat door. The Colonel still leant against it, looking dreadfully groggy. Chubb stood back a little way with his fingers to his mouth. Gomez seemed to be peering in at the curtained shop window.

  He was joined there by Inspector Fox, who had arrived via Capricorn Place. He appeared to search for an address and find it in the pottery. He approached the shop door, took out his spectacles, read the notice Closed for stocktaking and evidently spoke to Gomez, who shrugged and turned his back.

  Fox continued down the Mews. He paused by the talented Sergeant Jacks, again assumed his spectacles and bent massively towards the drawing. Alleyn watched with relish as his colleague straightened up, tilted his head appreciatively to one side, fell back a step or two, apologized to a passer-by and continued on his way. When he reached the table he said: “Excuse me, is that chair taken?” and Alleyn said: “No. Please.”

  Fox took it, ordered coffee, and when he had been served asked Alleyn the time.

  “Come off it,” Alleyn said. “Nobody’s looking at you.”

  But they both kept up the show of casual conversation between strangers.

  Fox said: “It’s a funny set-up back there. They act as if they don’t know each other. The Colonel seems to be on the blink. If you poked a finger at him, he’d fall flat.”

  “What about the premises?”

  “You can’t see anything in the shop. There’s curtains almost closed across the window and no light inside.”

  He blew on his coffee and took a sip.

  “They’re in a funny sort of shape,” he said. “The Gomez man’s shaking. Very pale. Gives the impression he might cut up violent. Think they’ve skedaddled, Mr. Alleyn? The Sanskrits?”

  “It would have to be after nine-ten this morning, when Sanskrit was seen to go home.”

  “That copper with the crayons reckons they couldn’t have made it since he’s been on the job.”

  “He dodged up the garage alley to talk to me, he might remember. Of course that damn bomb scare drew Fred Gibson’s men off. But, no. I don’t think
they’ve flitted. I don’t think so. I think they’re lying doggo.”

  “What’s the drill, then?” Fox asked his coffee.

  “I’ve got a search-warrant. Blow me down flat, Br’er Fox, if I don’t take a chance and execute it. Look,” Alleyn said, drawing on his pipe and gazing contentedly at the sky. “We may be in a bloody awkward patch. You get back to the car and whistle up support. Fred’s lot ought to be available again now. We’ll move in as soon as they’re on tap. Call us up on the artist’s buzzer. Then we close in.”

  “What about Gomez and the Colonel? And Chubb?”

  “We keep it nice and easy but we hold them. See you on the doorstep.”

  Fox put down his empty cup, looked about him, rose, nodded to Alleyn, and strolled away in the direction of Capricorn Walk. Alleyn waited until he had disappeared round the corner, finished his coffee, and at a leisurely pace rejoined Sergeant Jacks, who was touching up his architectural details.

  “Pack up,” Alleyn said, “and leave your stuff up the alley there. You’ll get a shout from Mr. Fox in a matter of seconds.”

  “Is it a knock-off, sir?”

  “It may be. If that lot, there, start to move, we hold them. Nice and quiet, though. All right. Make it quick. And when you get the office from Mr. Fox, come out here again where I can see you and we’ll move in. Right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  The delivery van from the Napoli lurched noisily down the Mews, did a complicated turn-about in front of the pottery, and went back the way it had come. Alleyn moved towards the pottery.

  A police-car siren, braying in Baronsgate, was coming nearer. Another, closer at hand, approached from somewhere on the outer borders of the Capricorns.