Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

Alleyn said: “He is an honourable person and a very loyal friend. I believe it’d go deeply against the grain for him to lie to me. Yes, I did think he was uncomfortable. I think he may suspect somebody. I think he is withholding something.”

“Have you any idea what?”

Alleyn shoved his hands down in his trouser pockets and walked about the room. In his white tie and tails, with miniatures on his coat and with his general air of uncontrived elegance, he presented an odd contrast to Mr. Fox in his work-a-day suit, to the sergeant in uniform, and even to Mr. Whipplestone in his elderly smoking-jacket and scarf.

“I’ve nothing,” he said at last, “that will bear the light of day. Let’s leave it for the moment and stick to facts, shall we? Sam, could you, before we go, give us a résumé of what was said at that showdown in the ballroom? I know you’ve written a report and I’m damn’ grateful and will go over every word of it very carefully indeed. But just to go on with. And also exactly what the waiter said, which sounds like a sequel to What the Butler Saw, doesn’t it? When he came into the library?”

“I’ll try,” said Mr. Whipplestone. “Very well. The waiter. At the outset the President told him to give an account of himself during the crucial minutes before and after the murder took place. His reply as far as I can translate it literally was, ‘I will say what I must say.’ ”

“Meaning, in effect, ‘I must speak the truth’?”

“Precisely. But he could equally have meant: ‘I will say what I am forced to say.’ ”

“Suggesting that he had been intimidated?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. He then said that he’d collided with the other waiter in the dark.”

“Chubb?”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Whipplestone uneasily.

“And Chubb says the man attacked him.”

“Exactly. So you have told me.”

“Do you think the man was lying?”

“I think he might have merely left out mention of the attack.”

“Yes, I see. And the man himself: the spearman— mlinzi or whatever? Was he at all equivocal?”

Mr. Whipplestone hesitated. “No,” he said at last. “No, with him it was different. He said — and I think I remember it exactly — that he had taken a terrible — in the sense of awe-inspiring, terrifying if you like — oath of loyalty to the President and therefore could never, if he were guilty, declare his innocence to the President on the body of his victim.”

“That’s almost exactly how the President translated him to me.”

“Yes. And I think it is a true statement. But — well, my dear Alleyn, I hope you won’t think I’ve got an awful cheek if I suggest to you that the President is on the whole a naïve person and that he is not going to heed, not even perhaps notice, any vague ambiguities that might cast doubt upon his men. But of course you know him very well and I don’t.”

“Do I?” said Alleyn. “Perhaps. There are times when I wonder. It’s not a simple story: I can assure you of that.”

“There’s something very likeable about him. You were quite close friends, I think you said, at school.”

“He’s always roaring out that I was his best friend. He was certainly one of mine. He’s got a very good brain, you know. He sailed through his law like nobody’s business. But you’re right,” Alleyn said thoughtfully, “he cuts dead anything he doesn’t want to believe.”

“And of course he doesn’t want to believe that one of his own people committed a crime?” Mr. Whipplestone urged.

Fox made a noise of agreement.

Alleyn said: “No. Perhaps he doesn’t— want to,” and vexedly rubbed his nose. “All the same,” he said, “I think we may be fishing in the wrong pond. In very muddy waters, at all events.”

“Do you mind,” Mr. Whipplestone asked, “if I put a very direct question to you?”

“How can I tell till I hear it?”

“Quite. Here goes then. Do you think an attempt was made upon the President?”

“Yes.”

“And do you think it will be repeated?”

“I think it’s only too likely that something else may be tried. Only too likely,” said Alleyn.

There was a long silence.

“What happens now, Mr. Alleyn?” asked Fox, at last.

“I’m damned if I know. Call it a night, I suppose. We’ve been given our marching orders and no mistake. Come on. We’d better tell Fred Gibson, hadn’t we?”

Mr. Gibson was not sorry to get the sack from the Embassy. It relieved him of an untenable and undefinable task and left him free to supervise the orthodox business of mounting security measures outside the premises and wherever the President might take it into his head to go during the remainder of his visit. He expressed muffled but profound satisfaction when Alleyn pointed out that the public appearances would probably be curtailed when not cancelled.

“You could say,” he mumbled presently, “that after a fashion we’ve picked up a bit of joy in this show.” And he divulged that they had found the shell of the shot fired from the Luger. It was on the ground outside the lavatory window. They’d had no luck with a bullet.

“But,” said Gibson with a kind of huffy satisfaction, “I don’t reckon we need to shed tears over that one. Take a look at this.”

He opened his large pale hand. Alleyn and Fox bent over it.

“Wad?” Fox said. “Here! Wait a sec. I wonder now.”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “Fred. I wonder if you’ve drawn a blank.”

They left the Embassy.

Troy was awake when Alleyn got home. She called out to him to save him the trouble of trying not to disturb her. When he came in she was sitting up in bed with her arms round her knees.

“Not a nice party, after all,” he said. “I’m sorry, my darling.”

“Have you—?”

“No. Troy, I had to let you go off without a word. I couldn’t look after you. Were you very much shocked?”

“I didn’t really see. Well — yes — I did see but in a funny sort of way it didn’t look — real. And it was only for a flash — not more than a second or two. In a way, I didn’t believe it.”

“Good.”

“Everybody sort of milling around.”

“That’s right.”

“And you got us all out of the way so very expeditiously.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. But—” she bit her lip and said very quickly—“it was the spear, wasn’t it? He was speared?”

He nodded, and put her irregular dark locks of hair out of her eyes.

“Then,” Troy said, “haven’t you arrested that superb-looking being?”

“The Boomer says the superb-looking being didn’t do it. And anyway we haven’t the authority inside the Embassy. It’s a rum go and no mistake. Do you want to hear?”

“Not now. You’d better get some sleep.”

“Same to you. I shall have a bath. Good morning, my love. Oh — I forgot. I have a present for you from the Boomer!”

“For me? What can you mean?”

“He wants you to paint him. His suggestion, not mine.”

Troy was immovable for several seconds. She then gave Alleyn a quick exultant look and suddenly burrowed into her pillow.

He stared down at her and reflected on things one was supposed to remember about the artistic temperament. He touched her hair and went off to his bath with the dawn light paling the window.

When, in response to a telephone call taken by Troy, Alleyn called on the following afternoon at No. 1, Capricorn Walk, he was received on the front steps by Lucy Lockett, the cat. She sat with a proprietory air on the top step and had a good look at him.

“I know who you are,” said Alleyn. “Good afternoon, my dear.” He extended his forefinger. Lucy rose, stretched elaborately, yawned, and advanced her whiskers to within an inch of the fingertip. Mr. Whipplestone looked out of his open bow window.