Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
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case together. But Alleyn knew the situation could well become a very tricky one.
‘Apparently,’ Gibson said, ‘we carry on until somebody stops us. Those are my instructions, anyway. Yours too, on three counts: your AC, your division, and the personal request of the President.’
‘Who at the moment wants to summon the entire household including the spear-carrier and harangue them in their own language.’
‘Bloody farce,’ Gibson mumbled.
‘Yes, but if he insists – Look,’ Alleyn said, ‘it mightn’t be such a bad idea for them to go ahead if we could understand what they were talking about.’
‘Well –’
‘Fred, suppose we put out a personal call for Mr Samuel Whipplestone to come at once – you know: “be kind enough” and all that. Not sound as if we’re breathing down his neck.’
‘What about it –?’ asked Gibson unenthusiastically.
‘He speaks Ng’ombwanan. He lives five minutes away and will be at home by now. No. 1, Capricorn Walk. We can ring up. Not in the book yet, I dare say, but get through,’ said Alleyn to an attendant sergeant, and as he went to the telephone, ‘Samuel Whipplestone. Send a car round. I’ll speak to him.’
‘The idea being?’ Mr Gibson asked woodenly.
‘We let the President address the troops – indeed, come to that, we can’t stop him, but at least we’ll know what’s being said.’
‘Where is he, for God’s sake? You put him somewhere,’ Mr Gibson said as if the President was a mislaid household utensil.
‘In the library. He’s undertaken to stay there until I go back. We’ve got coppers keeping obbo in the passage.’
‘I should hope so. If this was a case of the wrong victim, chummy may well be gunning for the right one.’
The sergeant was speaking on the telephone.
‘Superintendent Alleyn would like a word with you, sir.’
Alleyn detected in Mr Whipplestone’s voice an overtone of occupational cool. ‘My dear Alleyn,’ he said, ‘this is a most disturbing occurrence. I understand the Ambassador has been – assassinated.’
‘Yes.’
‘How very dreadful. Nothing could have been worse.’
‘Except the intended target taking the knock.’
‘Oh … I see. The President.’
‘Listen,’ Alleyn said and made his request.
‘Dear me,’ said Mr Whipplestone.
‘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, cat. 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. VIP 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 spotlit 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, Whipplestone, if you don’t mind –’
‘Of course.’
‘Where do they hold this tribal gathering, Fred? The President said the ballroom. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘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 uniformed policemen, a photographic and fingerprint expert – Detective-Sergeants Bailey and Thompson – 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 close-up by Thompson. Not far from the body lay an over-turned 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.’