Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

“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. Drag peddling, for which he did bird. 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 his 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 R.S.P.C.A. cruelty to cat, 1967. Charged and convicted. Fined with costs.’ Fred Gibson’s henchman 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 sizable 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 the 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 that?” asked Gibson.

“Never mind. Go on.”

“My sergeant, on duty at the entrance, tries to reason with him. I’m doing a cruise round in a job car and they give me a shout and I come in and try to reason with him. He’s very la-de-da, making out we’re fussy. It’s awkward,” said Mr. Gibson drearily.

“How did you handle it, Fred?”

“I’m stuck with it, aren’t I? So I say we’ll keep with it, and he says if it’s a bodyguard I’m worried about he’s got the dog and his own personal protection, and with that the door opens and guess who appears?” invited Mr. Gibson without animation.

“The spearman of last night?”

“That’s correct. The number one suspect in my book who we’d’ve borrowed last night, there and then, if we’d had a fair go. There he was, large as life.”

“You don’t surprise me. What was the upshot?”

“Ask yourself. In flocks the media, telly, press, the lot. He says ‘No comment’ and off he goes to his constitutional with the dog and the prime sus. and five of my chaps and a pandadoing their best in the way of protection. So they all go and look at Peter Pan,” said Mr. Gibson bitterly, “and nobody shoots anybody or lobs in a bomb and they come home again. Tonight it’s the Palace caper.”

“That’s been scaled down considerably, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. Nondescript transport. Changed route. Small party.”

“At least he’s not taking the spearman with him.”

“Not according to my info. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Poor Fred!”

“Well, it’s not what you’d pick in the way of a job,” said Gibson. “Oh, yes, and there’s another thing. He wants to see you. Or talk to you.”

“Why? Did you gather?”

“No. He just chucks it over his shoulder when he walks away. He’s awkward.”

“The visit may be cut short.”

“Can’t be too short for me,” said Gibson, and they took leave of each other.

“It’s a case,” Alleyn said when he’d replaced the receiver, “of ‘Where do we go for honey?’ I dunno, Br’er Fox. Press on, press on, but in what direction?”