Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

“If you don’t mind, Br’er Fox, we won’t use that word. It’s cropped up with monotonous regularity ever since I took my jaunt to Ng’ombwana.”

“Sorry, I’m sure.”

“Not at all. To continue. Here we were, in arrowhead formation with the President’s chair at the apex. There’s his chair and that’s Troy beside it. On his other side was the Ambassador. The spear-carrier, who is at present under surveillance in the gents’ cloaks, stood behind his master’s chair. At the rear are those trestle tables used for drinks, and a bit further forward an overturned, pretty solid wooden chair, the purpose of which escapes me. The entrance into the tent at the back was used by the servants. There were two of them, the larger being one of the household henchmen and the other a fresh-faced, chunky specimen in Costard’s livery. Both of them were in evidence when the lights went out.”

“And so,” said Fox, who liked to sort things out, “as soon as this Karbo artist appears, his spotlight picks him up and makes a splash on the screen behind him. And from the back of the tent where this spear expert is stationed, anybody who stands up between him and the light shows up like somebody coming in late at the cinema.”

“That’s it.”

“And after the shot was fired you stopped the President from standing up, but the Ambassador did stand up and Bob, in a manner of speaking, was your uncle.”

“In a maner of speaking, he was.”

“Now then,” Fox continued in his stately manner. “Yes. This shot. Fired, we’re told by the lady you mentioned, from the window of the female conveniences. No weapon’s been recovered, I take it?”

“Give us a chance.”

“And nobody’s corroborated the lady’s story about this dirty big black man who kicked her?”

“No.”

“And this chap hasn’t been picked up?”

“He is like an insubstantial pageant faded.”

“Just so. And do we assume, then, that having fired his shot and missed his man, an accomplice, spear-carrier or what have you, did the job for him?”

“That may be what we’re supposed to think. To my mind it stinks. Not to high Heaven, but slightly.”

“Then what—?”

“Don’t ask me, Br’er Fox. But designedly or not, the shot created a diversion.”

“And when the lights came on?”

“The President was in his chair where I’d shoved him and Troy was in hers. The other two ladies were in theirs. The body was three feet to the President’s left. The guests were milling about all over the shop. My big brother was ordering them in a shaky voice not to panic. The spear-carrier was on his knees nursing his carotid artery. The chair was overturned. No servants.”

“I get the picture.”

“Good, come on, then. The corroboree, pow-wow, conventicle or coven, call it what you will, is now in congress and we are stayed for.” He turned to Bailey and Thompson. “Not much joy for you chaps at present, but if you can pick up something that looks too big for a female print in the second on the left of the ladies’ loos it will be as balm in Gilead. Away we go, Fox.”

But as they approached the house they were met by Gibson, looking perturbed, with Mr. Whipplestone in polite attendance.

“What’s up, Fred?” Alleyn asked. “Have your race relations fractured?”

“You could put it like that,” Mr. Gibson conceded. “He’s making things difficult.”

“The President?”

“That’s right. He won’t collaborate with anyone but you.”

“Silly old chump.”

“He won’t come out of his library until you’ve gone in.”

“What’s bitten him, for the love of Mike?”

“I doubt if he knows.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Whipplestone ventured, “he doesn’t like the introduction of me into the proceedings?”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said Gibson unhappily.

“What a nuisance he contrives to be,” Alleyn said. “I’ll talk to him. Are the hosts of Ng’ombwana mustered in the ballroom?”

“Yes. Waiting for Master,” said Gibson.

“Any developments, Fred?”

“Nothing to rave about. I’ve had a piece of that sergeant in the cloakroom. It seems she acted promptly enough after she left her grandstand seat and attended to Mrs. C-M. She located the nearest of my men and gave him the info. A search for chummy was set up with no results and I was informed. The men on duty outside the house say nobody left it. If they say so, nobody did,” said Gibson, sticking his jaw out. “We’ve begun to search for the gun or whatever it was.”

“It sounded to me like a pistol,” said Alleyn. “I’d better beard the lion in his library, I suppose. We’ll meet here. I’m damned sorry to victimize you like this, Sam.”

“My dear fellow, you needn’t be. I’m afraid I’m rather enjoying myself,” said Mr. Whipplestone.

Alleyn scarcely knew what sort of reception he expected to get from the Boomer or what sort of tactics he himself should deploy to meet it.

In the event, the Boomer behaved pretty much according to pattern. He strode down upon Alleyn and seized his hands. “Ah!” he roared, “you are here at last. I am glad. Now we shall get this affair settled.”

“I’m afraid it’s far from being settled at the moment.”

“Because of all these pettifogging coppers. And believe me, I do not include you in that category, my dear Rory.”

“Very good of you, sir.”

“ ‘Sir. Sir. Sir.’—what tommy-rot. Never mind. We shall not waste time over details. I have come to a decision and you shall be the first to hear what it is.”

“Thank you, I’ll be glad to know.”

“Good. Then listen. I understand perfectly that your funny colleague — what is his name?”

“Gibson?” Alleyn ventured.

“Gibson, Gibson. I understand perfectly that the well-meaning Gibson and his band of bodyguards and so on were here at the invitation of my Ambassador. I am correct?”

“Yes.”

“Again, good. But my Ambassador has, as we used to say at Davidson’s, kicked over the bucket, and in any case the supreme authority is mine. Yes?”

“Of course it is.”

“Of course it is,” the Boomer repeated with immense satisfaction. “It is mine and I propose to exercise it. An attempt has been made upon my life. It has failed as all such attempts are bound to fail. That I made clear to you on the happy occasion of your visit.”

“So you did.”

“Nevertheless, an attempt has been made,” the Boomer repeated. “My Ambassador has been killed and the matter must be cleared up.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“I therefore have called together the people of his household and will question them in accordance with our historically established democratic practice. In Ng’ombwana.”

As Alleyn was by no means certain what this practice might turn out to be he said, cautiously, “Do you feel that somebody in the household may be responsible?”

“One may find that this is not so. In which case—” The great voice rumbled into silence.

“In which case?” Alleyn hinted.

“My dear man, in which case I hope for your and the well-meaning Gibson’s collaboration.”

So he’d got it all tidied up, Alleyn thought. The Boomer would handle the black elements and he and the C.I.D. could make what they liked of the white. Really, it began to look like a sort of inverted form of apartheid.

“I don’t have to tell you,” he said, “that authorities at every level will be most deeply concerned that this should have happened. The Special Branch, in particular, is in a great taking-on about it.”

“Hah! So much,” said the Boomer with relish, “For all the large men in the shrubberies. What?”

“All right. Touché .”