Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
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don’t ask me,’ Mr Whipplestone murmured, ‘why I took the action I did. Following you here.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I felt sure you had followed Sheridan because you thought, as I did, that probably there was to be a meeting of these people. Whether at the Cockburn-Montforts’ or at the Sanskrits’ flat. And I felt most unhappily sure that Chubb was going to join them. I had and have no idea whether you actually intended to break in upon the assembly but I thought it might well be that this intelligence would be of importance. I saw Chubb being admitted to that place. I followed, expecting you would be somewhere in the Mews and I made out your car. So here I am, you see,’ said Mr Whipplestone.
‘Here you are and the man without motive is now supplied with what might even turn out to be the prime motive.’
‘That,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ‘is what I rather thought.’
‘You may say,’ Fox ruminated, ‘that, as far as motives go, it’s now one apiece. Chubb: the daughter. The Sanskrits: losing their business. Sheridan – well, ask yourself. And the Colonel and Mrs C-M – what about them?’
‘The Boomer tells me the Colonel was livid at getting the sack. He’d seen himself rigged out as a Field Marshal or as near as dammit. Instead of which he went into retirement and the bottle.’
‘Would these motives apply,’ Fox asked, ‘equally to the Ambassador and the President? As victims, I mean.’
‘Not in Sheridan’s case, it would appear.’
‘No,’ Mr Whipplestone agreed. ‘Not in this case.’
They were silent for a space. At last Alleyn said: ‘I think this is what we do. We leave you here, Br’er Fox, keeping what I’m afraid may prove to be utterly fruitless observation. We don’t know what decision they’ll come to in the piggery-flat or indeed what exactly they’re there to decide. Another go at The Boomer? The liquidation of the Ku-Klux-Fish or whatever it is? It’s anybody’s guess. But it’s just possible you may pick up something. And, Sam, if you can stand up to another late night, I’d very much like to look at those records of yours.’
‘Of course. Only too glad.’
‘Shall we go, then?’
They had got out of the car when Alleyn put his head in at the window. ‘The Sanskrits don’t fit,’ he said.
‘No?’ said Fox. ‘No motive, d’you mean?’
‘That’s right. The Boomer told me that Sanskrit’s been reinstated in his emporium in Ng’ombwana. Remember?’
‘Now, that is peculiar,’ said Fox. ‘I’d overlooked that.’
‘Something for you to brood on,’ Alleyn said. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
He put his walkie-talkie in his pocket and he and Mr Whipplestone returned to No. 1, The Walk.
There was a card on the hall-table with the word OUT neatly printed on it. ‘We leave it there to let each other know,’ Mr Whipplestone explained. ‘On account of the door chain.’ He turned the card over to show ‘IN’, ushered Alleyn into the drawing-room, shut the door and turned on the lights.
‘Do let’s have a drink,’ he said. ‘Whisky and soda? I’ll just get the soda. Sit down, do. I won’t be a jiffy.’
He went out with something of his old sprightly air.
He had turned on the light above the picture over the fireplace. Troy had painted it quite a long time ago. It was a jubilant landscape half-way to being an abstract. Alleyn remembered it very well.
‘Ah!’ said Mr Whipplestone returning with a siphon in his hands and Lucy weaving in and out between his feet. ‘You’re looking at my treasure. I acquired it at one of the Group shows, not long after you married, I think. Look out, cat, for pity’s sake! Now: shall we go into the dining-room where I can lay out the exhibits on the table? But first, our drinks. You begin yours while I search.’
‘Steady with the scotch. I’m supposed to keep a clear head. Would you mind if I rang Troy up?’
‘Do, do, do. Over there on the desk. The box I want is upstairs. It’ll take a little digging out.’
Troy answered the telephone almost at once. ‘Hello, where are you?’ Alleyn asked.
‘In the studio.’
‘Broody?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m at Sam Whipplestone’s and will be, most probably, for the next hour or so. Have you got a pencil handy?’
‘Wait a bit.’
He had a picture of her feeling about in the pocket of her painting smock.
‘I’ve got a bit of charcoal,’ she said. ‘It’s only to write down the number.’
‘Hold on. Right.’
He gave it to her. ‘In case anyone wants me,’ he said. ‘You, for instance.’
‘Rory?’
‘What?’
‘Do you mind very much? About me painting The Boomer? Are you there?’
‘I’m here, all right. I delight in what you’re doing and I deplore the circumstances under which you’re doing it.’
‘Well,’ said Troy, ‘that’s a straight answer to a straight question. Good night, darling.’
‘Good night,’ he said, ‘darling.’
Mr Whipplestone was gone for some considerable time. At last he returned with a large, old-fashioned photograph album and an envelope full of press cuttings. He opened the connecting doors to the dining-room, laid his findings out on the table and displaced Lucy who affected a wayward interest in them.
‘I was a great hoarder in those days,’ he said. ‘Everything’s in order and dated. There should be no difficulty.’
There was none. Alleyn examined the album which had the faded melancholy aspect of all such collections while Mr Whipplestone looked through the cuttings. When the latter applied to items in the former, they had been carefully pasted beside the appropriate photographs. It was Alleyn who first struck oil.
‘Here we are,’ he said. And there, meticulously dated and annotated in Mr Whipplestone’s neat hand, were three photographs and a yellowing page from the Ng’ombwana Times with the headline: ‘Gomez trial. Verdict. Scene in Court.’
The photographs showed, respectively, a snapshot of a bewigged judge emerging from a dark interior, a crowd, mostly composed of black people, waiting outside a sunbaked court of justice, and an open car driven by a black chauffeur with two passengers in tropical kit, one of whom, a trim, decorous-looking person of about forty, was recognizable as Mr Whipplestone himself. ‘Going to the Trial.’ The press photographs were more explicit. There, unmistakably himself, in wig and gown, was the young Boomer. ‘Mr Bartholomew Opala, Counsel for the Prosecution.’ And there, already partially bald, dark, furious and snarling, a man handcuffed between two enormous black policemen and protected from a clearly menacing crowd of Ng’ombwanans. ‘After the Verdict. The Prisoner,’ said the caption, ‘Leaving the Court.’
The letterpress carried an account of the trial with full journalistic appreciation of its dramatic highlights. There was also an editorial.
‘And that,’ Alleyn said, ‘is the self-same Sheridan in your basement flat.’
‘You would recognize him at once?’
‘Yes. I thought I’d seen him for the first time – and that dimly – tonight, but it turns out that it was my second glimpse. He was sitting outside the pub this afternoon when The Boomer called on Troy.’
‘No