Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

“Good!”

“But of course behind those august personages is a host of embittered shareholders, executives and employees.”

“Among whom might be found the odd cloak-and-dagger merchant. And apart from all these more or less motivated persons,” Alleyn said, “there are the ones policemen like least: the fanatics. The haters of black pigmentation, the lonely woman who dreams about a black rapist, the man who builds Anti-Christ in a black image or who reads a threat to his livelihood in every black neighbour. Or for whom the common-place phrases — black outlook, black record, as black as it’s painted, black villainy, and all the rest of them — have an absolute reference. Black is bad. Finish.”

“And the Black Power lot,” Troy said, “are doing as much for white, aren’t they? The war of the images.”

Mr. Whipplestone made a not too uncomfortable little groaning noise and returned to his port.

“I wonder,” Alleyn said, “I do wonder how much of that absolute antagonism the old Boomer nurses in his sooty bosom.”

“None for you, anyway,” Troy said, and when he didn’t answer, “surely?”

“My dear Alleyn, I understood he professes the utmost camaraderie .”

“Oh, yes! Yes, he does. He lays it on with a trowel. Do you know, I’d be awfully sorry to think the trowel-work overlaid an inimical understructure. Silly, isn’t it?”

“It is the greatest mistake,” Mr. Whipplestone pronounccd, “to make assumptions about relationships that are not clearly defined.”

“And what relationship is ever that?”

“Well! Perhaps not. We do what we can with treaties and agreements but perhaps not.”

“He did try,” Alleyn said. “He did in the first instance try to set up some kind of multi-racial community. He thought it would work.”

“Did you discuss that?” Troy asked.

“Not a word. It wouldn’t have done. My job was too tricky. Do you know, I got the impression that at least part of his exuberant welcome was inspired by a — well, by a wish to compensate for the ongoings of the new regime.”

“It might be so,” Mr. Whipplestone conceded. “Who can say?”

Alleyn took a folded paper from his breast pocket. “The Special Branch has given me a list of commercial and professional firms and individuals to be kicked out of Ng’ombwana, with notes on anything in their history that might look at all suspicious.” He glanced at the paper. “Does the name Sanskrit mean anything at all to you?” he asked. “X. and K. Sanskrit to be exact. My dear man, what is the matter?”

Mr. Whipplestone had shouted inarticulately, laid down his glass, clapped his hands and slapped his forehead.

“Eureka!” he cried stylishly. “I have it! At last. At last!”

“Jolly for you,” said Alleyn. “I’m delighted to hear it. What had escaped you?”

“ Sanskrit, Importing and Trading Company, Ng’ombwana .”

“That’s it. Or was it.”

“In Edward VIIth Avenue.”

“Certainly. I saw it there, only they call it something else now. And Sanskrit has been kicked out. Why are you so excited?”

“Because I saw him last night.”

“ You did !”

“Well, it must have been. They are as like as two disgusting pins.”

“They?” Alleyn repeated, gazing at his wife, who briefly crossed her eyes at him.

“How could I have forgotten!” exclaimed Mr. Whipplestone rhetorically. “I passed those premises every day of my time in Ng’ombwana.”

“I clearly see that I mustn’t interrupt you.”

“My dear Mrs. Roderick, my dear Roderick, do please forgive me,” begged Mr. Whipplestone, turning pink. “I must explain myself: too gauche and peculiar. But you see—”

And explain himself he did, pig-pottery and all, with the precision that had eluded him at the first disclosure. “Admit!” he cried when he had finished. “It is a singular coincidence, now isn’t it?”

“It’s all of that,” Alleyn said. “Would you like to hear what the Special Branch have got to say about the man — K. Sanskrit?”

“Indeed I would.”

“Here goes, then. This information, by the way, is a digest one of Fred Gibson’s chaps got from the Criminal Record Office. ‘Sanskrit. Kenneth, for Heaven’s sake. Age: approx. fifty-eight Height: five foot ten. Weight: sixteen stone four. Very obese. Blond. Long hair. Dress: eccentric, ultra-modern. Bracelets. Anklet. Necklace. Wears makeup. Probably homosexual. One ring through pierced lobe. Origin: uncertain. Said to be Dutch. Name possibly assumed or corruption of a foreign name. Convicted of fraudulent practices involving the occult, fortune-telling, etc., London, 1940. Served three months’ sentence for connection with drug traffic, 1942. Since 1950 importer of ceramics, jewellery and fancy goods into Ng’ombwana. Large, profitable concern. Owned blocks of flats and offices now possessed by Ng’ombwanan interests. Strong supporter of apartheid. Known to associate with anti-black and African extremists. Only traceable relative: sister, with whom he is now in partnership, The Piggie Potterie, 12, Capricorn Mews, S.W.3.’ “

“There you are!” said Mr. Whipplestone, spreading out his hands.

“Yes. There we are and not very far on. There’s no specific reason to suppose Sanskrit constitutes a threat to the safety of the President And that goes for any of the other names on the list. Have a look at it. Does it ring any more bells? Any more coincidences?”

Mr. Whipplestone screwed in his eyeglass and had a look.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said drily. “One recognizes the disillusioned African element. And the dispossessed. I can add nothing. I’m afraid, my dear fellow, that apart from the odd circumstance of one of your remote possibilities being a neighbour of mine, I am of no use to you. And none in that respect, either, if one comes to think of it. A broken reed,” sighed Mr. Whipplestone, “I fear, a broken reed.”

“Oh,” Alleyn said lightly, “you never know, do you? By the way the Ng’ombwanan Embassy is in your part of the world, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed. I run into old Karumba sometimes. Their Ambassador. We take our constitutionals at the same hour. Nice old boy.”

“Worried?”

“Hideously, I should have thought.”

“You’d have been right. He’s in a flat spin and treating the S.B. to a hell of a work-out. And what’s more he’s switched over to me. Never mind about security not being my proper pigeon. He should worry! I know the Boomer and that’s enough. He wants me to teach the S.B. its own business. Imagine! If he had his wish there’d be total alarm devices in every ornamental urn and a security man under the Boomer’s bed. I must say I don’t blame him. He’s giving a reception. I suppose you’ve been invited?”

“I have, yes. And you?”

“In my reluctant role as the Boomer’s old school churn. And Troy, of course,” Alleyn said, putting his hand briefly on hers.

Then followed rather a long pause.

“Of course,” Mr. Whipplestone said, at last, “these things don’t happen in England. At receptions and so on. Madmen, at large in kitchens or wherever it was.”

“Or at upstairs windows in warehouses?”

“Quite.”

The telephone rang and Troy went out of the room to answer it.

“I ought to forbear,” Alleyn said, “from offering the maddening observation that there’s always a first time.”

“Oh nonsense!” flustered Mr. Whipplestone. “Nonsense, my dear fellow! Really! Nonsense! Well,” he added uneasily, “one says that.”

“Let’s hope one’s right.”

Troy came back. “The Ng’ombwanan Ambassa’dor,” she said, “would like a word with you, darling.”