Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
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said this request was very reasonable he was sure, and he was sorry to have put them all to so much trouble and he could assure the ladies that he wouldn’t be keeping them much longer. There were no two ways about it, he added, this was quite a serious affair, wasn’t it?
‘Well, then –’ said Sir John and there was a general stir.
At this juncture Alleyn came in.
In some curious and indefinable fashion he brought a feeling of refreshment with him rather like that achieved by a star whose delayed entry, however quietly executed, lifts the scene and quickens the attention of his audience.
‘We are so sorry,’ he said, ‘to have kept you waiting like this. I’m sure Mr Fox will have explained. This is a very muddling, tragic and strange affair and it isn’t made any simpler for me, at any rate, by finding myself an unsatisfactory witness and an investigating copper at one and the same time.’
He gave Lady Smythe an apologetic grin and she said – and may have been astonished to hear herself – ‘You poor man.’
‘Well, there it is and I can only hope one of you has come up with something more useful than anything I’ve been able to produce.’
His brother said: ‘Done our best. What!’
‘Good for you,’ Alleyn said. He was reading the sergeant’s notes.
‘We’re hoping,’ said Sir John, ‘to be released. The ladies –’
‘Yes, of course. It’s been a beastly experience and you must all be exhausted.’
‘What about yourself?’ asked Lady Smythe. She appeared to be a lady of spirit.
Alleyn looked up from the notes. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you can’t slap me back. These notes seem splendidly exhaustive and there’s only one question I’d like to put to you. I know the whole incident was extremely confused, but I would like to learn if you all, for whatever reason or for no reason, are persuaded of the identity of the killer?’
‘Good God!’ Sir George shouted. ‘Really, my dear Rory! Who else could it be but the man your fellows marched off. And I must compliment you on their promptitude, by the way.’
‘You mean –?’
‘Good God, I mean the great hulking brute with the spear. I beg your pardon,’ he said to the black plenipotentiary and himself turned scarlet. ‘Afraid I spoke out of turn. Sure you understand.’
‘George,’ said his brother with exquisite courtesy, ‘would you like to go home?’
‘I? We all would. Mustn’t desert the post, though. No preferential treatment.’
‘Not a morsel, I assure you. I take it, then,’ Alleyn said, turning to the others, ‘that you all believe the spear-carrier was the assailant?’
‘Well – yes,’ said Sir John Smythe. ‘I mean – there he was. Who else? And, my God, there was the spear!’
The black plenipotentiary’s wife said something rather loudly in their native tongue.
Alleyn looked a question at her husband, who cleared his throat, ‘My wife,’ he said, ‘has made an observation.’
‘Yes?’
‘My wife has said that because the body was lying beside her, she heard.’
‘Yes? She heard?’
‘The sound of the strike and the death noise.’ He held a brief consultation with his wife. ‘Also a word. In Ng’ombwanan. Spoken very low by a man. By the Ambassador himself, she thinks.’
‘And the word – in English?’
‘“Traitor”,’ said the plenipotentiary. After a brief pause he added: ‘My wife would like to go now. There is blood on her dress.’
III
The Boomer had changed into a dressing-gown and looked like Othello in the last act. It was a black and gold gown and underneath it crimson pyjamas could be detected. He had left orders that if Alleyn wished to see him he was to be roused and he now received Alleyn, Fox and an attenuated but still alert Mr Whipplestone, in the library. For a moment or two Alleyn thought he was going to jib at Mr Whipplestone’s presence. He fetched up short when he saw him, seemed about to say something but instead decided to be gracious. Mr Whipplestone, after all, managed well with The Boomer. His diplomacy was of an acceptable tinge: deferential without being fulsome, composed but not consequential.
When Alleyn said he would like to talk to the Ng’ombwanan servant who waited on them in the pavilion The Boomer made no comment but spoke briefly on the house telephone.
‘I wouldn’t have troubled you with this,’ Alleyn said, ‘but I couldn’t find anybody who was prepared to accept the responsibility of producing the man without your authority.’
‘They are all in a silly state,’ generalized The Boomer. ‘Why do you want this fellow?’
‘The English waiter in the pavilion will have it that the man attacked him.’
The Boomer lowered his eyelids. ‘How very rococo,’ he said and there was no need for him to add: ‘as we used to say at Davidson’s.’ It had been a catchphrase in their last term and worn to death in the usage. With startling precision, it again returned Alleyn to that dark room smelling of anchovy toast and a coal-fire and to the group mannerisms of his and The Boomer’s circle so many years ago.
When the man appeared he cut an unimpressive figure, being attired in white trousers, a singlet and a wrongly buttoned tunic. He appeared to be in a state of perturbation and in deep awe of his President.
‘I will speak to him,’ The Boomer announced.
He did so, and judging by the tone of his voice, pretty sharply. The man, fixing his white-eyeballed gaze on the far wall of the library, answered with, or so it seemed to Alleyn, the clockwork precision of a soldier on parade.
‘He says no,’ said The Boomer.
‘Could you press a little?’
‘It will make no difference. But I will press.’
This time the reply was lengthier. ‘He says he ran into someone in the dark and stumbled and for a moment clung to this person. It is ridiculous, he says, to speak of it as an attack. He had forgotten the incident. Perhaps it was this servant.’
‘Where did he go after this encounter?’
Out of the pavilion, it appeared, finding himself near the rear door, and frightened by the general rumpus. He had been rounded up by security men and drafted with the rest of the household staff to one end of the ballroom.
‘Do you believe him?’
‘He would not dare to lie,’ said The Boomer calmly,
‘In that case I suppose we let him go back to bed, don’t we?’
This move having been effected, The Boomer rose and so, of course, did Alleyn, Mr Whipplestone and Fox.
‘My dear Rory,’ said The Boomer, ‘there is a matter which should be settled at once. The body. It will be returned to our country and buried according to our custom.’
‘I can promise you that every assistance will be offered. Perhaps the Deputy Commissioner has already given you that assurance.’
‘Oh, yes. He was very forthcoming. A nice chap. I hear your pathologist spoke of an autopsy. There can be no autopsy.’
‘I see.’
‘A thorough enquiry will be held in Ng’ombwana.’
‘Good.’
‘And I think, since you have completed your investigations, have you not, it would be as well to find out if the good Gibson is in a similar case. If so I would suggest that the police,