Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
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‘I wouldn’t mind going over the headings,’ Fox confessed.
‘Plough ahead and much good may it do you.’
‘A.’ said Fox, massively checking it off with finger and thumb. ‘A. The occurrence. Ambassador killed by spear. Spearsman stationed at rear in handy position. Says he was clobbered and his spear taken off him. Says he’s innocent. B. Chubb. Ex-commando. Also at rear. Member of this secret society or whatever it is. Suggestion that he’s a black-hater. Says he was clobbered by black waiter. C. Mrs C-M. Fires shot, probably blank, from ladies’ conveniences. Why? To draw attention? To get the President on his feet, so’s he could be speared? By whom? This is the nitty-gritty one.’ said Fox. ‘If the club’s an anti-black show would they collaborate with the spearsman or the waiter? The answer is: unlikely. Very unlikely. Where does this take us?’
‘Hold on to your hats, boys.’
‘To Chubb,’ said Fox. ‘It takes us to Chubb. Well, doesn’t it? Chubb, set up by the club, clobbers the spearsman, and does the job on the Ambassador and afterwards says the waiter clobbered him and held him down.’
‘But the waiter maintains that he stumbled in the dark and accidentally grabbed Chubb. If Chubb was the spearsman, what are we to make of this?’
‘Mightn’t it be the case, though? Mightn’t he have stumbled and momentarily clung to Chubb?’
‘Before or after Chubb clobbered the spearsman and grabbed the spear?’
Fox began to look disconcerted, ‘I don’t like it much,’ he confessed. ‘Still, after a fashion it fits. After a fashion it does.’
‘It’s a brave show, Br’er Fox, and does you credit. Carry on.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve all that much more to offer. This Sanskrit couple, now. At least there’s a CRO on him. Fraud, fortune-telling and hard drugs, I think you mentioned. Big importer into Ng’ombwana until the present government turned him out. They’re members of this club, if Mr Whipplestone’s right when he says he saw them wearing the medallion.’
‘Not only that,’ Alleyn said. He opened a drawer in his desk and produced his black pottery cat. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said and exhibited the base. It bore, as a trademark, a wavy X. ‘That’s on the reverse of the medallions, too,’ he said. ‘X for Xenoclea, I suppose. Xenny not only wears a medallion, she makes ’em in her little kiln, fat witch that she is.’
‘You’re building up quite a case, Mr Alleyn, aren’t you? But against whom? And for what?’
‘You tell me. But whatever turns up in the ambassadorial department, I’ll kick myself all round the Capricorns if I don’t get something on the Sanskrits. What rot they talk when they teach us we should never get involved. Of course we get involved: we merely learn not to show it.’
‘Oh, come now! You never do, Mr Alleyn.’
‘Don’t I? All right, Foxkin, I’m talking through my hat. But I’ve taken a scunner on la belle Xenny and Big Brother and I’ll have to watch it. Look, let’s get the CRO file and have a look for ourselves. Fred Gibson wasn’t all that interested at that stage. One of his henchmen looked it up for him. There was nothing there that directly concerned security and he may not have given me all the details.’
So they called on the Criminal Records Office for the entry under Sanskrit.
Alleyn said, ‘Just as Fred quoted it. Fraudulent practices. Fortune-telling. Suspected drug peddling. All in the past before he made his pile as an importer of fancy goods in Ng’ombwana. And he did, apparently, make a tidy pile before he was forced to sell out to a Ng’ombwanan interest.’
‘That was recently?’
‘Quite recently. I actually happened to catch sight of him standing outside the erstwhile premises when I was over there. He doesn’t seem to have lost face – and God knows he’s got plenty to lose – or he wouldn’t have been asked to the party.’
‘Wouldn’t you say it was a bit funny their being invited, anyway?’
‘Yes,’ Alleyn agreed thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I think I would.’
‘Would you reckon this pottery business of the sister’s was a money-spinner?’
‘Not on a big scale.’
‘Was she involved in any of the former charges?’
‘She hasn’t got a CRO. Wait a bit though. There’s a cross reference. “See McGuigan, O.” Fetch us down the Macs.’ The sergeant on duty obliged.
‘Here you are,’ said Mr Fox presently. ‘Take a look,’ and without waiting for Alleyn to do so he continued in the slightly catarrhal voice he kept for reading aloud: ‘“McGuigan, Olive, supposed widow of Sean McGuigan of whom nothing known. Sister of Kenneth Sanskrit q.v. Later assumed as first name, Xenoclea. Sus. drug traffic with brother. Charged with fortune-telling for which, fined, June 1953. Reported to RSPCA cruelty to cat, 1967. Charged and convicted. Fined with costs.” Fred Gibson’s henchmen left this out. He’ll be getting some “advice” on this one,’ said Fox.
‘Ah. And Sam Whipplestone thinks she ill-treated his cat. Pretty little picture we’re building up, aren’t we? I must say I thought the “Xenoclea” bit was too good to be true,’ Alleyn grunted.
‘Is it a made-up job, then, that name?’
‘Not by her, at least. Xenoclea was a mythical prophetess who wouldn’t do her stuff for Hercules because he hadn’t had a bath. After his Augean stables job, perhaps. I bet la belle Xenny re-christened herself and reverted to her maiden name when she took to her fortune-telling lay.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Above the pottery pigs. There seems to be a flat up there: quite a sizeable one, by the look of it.’
‘Does the brother live there with her – wait a bit,’ said Fox interrupting himself. ‘Where’s the guest list we made last night?’
‘In my office but you needn’t worry. I looked it up. That’s their joint address. While we’re at it, Br’er Fox, let’s see, for the hell of it, whether there’s anything on Sheridan, A. R. G., 1a, Capricorn Walk.’
But Mr Sheridan had no criminal record.
‘All the same,’ Alleyn said, ‘we’ll have to get him sorted out. Even if it comes to asking the President if there’s a Ng’ombwanan link. He wasn’t asked to the reception, of course. Oh well, press on.’
They left the CRO and returned to Alleyn’s rooms, where he managed to reach Superintendent Gibson on the telephone.
‘What’s horrible, Fred?’
‘Nothing to report,’ said that colourless man. ‘All quiet inside the premises, seemingly. We’ve stopped the demolition. Routine precaution.’
‘Demolition?’
‘Clearing up after the party. The Vistas people and the electrics. It’s silly really, seeing we can’t go in. If nothing develops they may as well get on with it.’
‘Any ingoings or outcomings of interest?’
‘Post. Tradesmen. We looked over all deliveries which wasn’t very popular. Callers offering condolences and leaving cards. The media of course. One incident.’
‘What?’
‘His Nibs, believe it or not.’
‘The President?’
‘That’s right. Suddenly comes out by the front entrance with a dirty great dog on a leash and says he’s taking it for a walk in the Park.’
Alleyn swore vigorously.
‘What’s