Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

The young man had said there would be no difficulty as there was always a demand in the Capricorns. Sanskrit said something indistinguishable and rather hurriedly left the offices.

“I asked, casually,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “if the pottery premises were by any chance to let. I said I had friends who were flat-hunting. This produced a curious awkwardness on the part of the lady attendant and the young man. The lady said something about the place not being officially on the market as yet and in any case if it did come up it would be for sale rather than to let. The present occupant, she said, didn’t want it made known for the time being. This, as you may imagine, intrigued me. When I left the agents I walked down Capricorn Mews to the piggery. It had a notice on the door: Closed for stocktaking. There are some very ramshackle curtains drawn across the shop window but they don’t quite meet. I peered in. It was very ill-lit but I got the impression of some large person moving about among packing cases.”

“Did you, by George!”

“Yes. And on my way home I called in at the Napoli for some of their pâté. While I was there the Cockburn-Montforts came in. He was, I thought, rather more than three sheets in the wind but, as usual, holding it. She looked awful.”

Mr. Whipplestone paused for so long that Alleyn said: “Are you there, Sam?”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I am. To be frank, I’m wondering what you’re going to think of my next move. Be quiet, cat. I don’t habitually act on impulse. Far from it.”

“Very far, I’d have thought.”

“Although lately — However, I did act impulsively on this occasion. Very. I wanted to get a reaction. I gave them good-morning, of course, and then, quite casually, you know, as I took my pâté from Mrs. Pirelli, I said: ‘I believe you’re losing some neighbours, Mrs. Pirelli?’ She looked nonplussed. I said: ‘Yes. The people at the pig-pottery. They’re leaving, almost at once, I hear.’ This was not, of course, strictly true.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“No? Well, I turned and was face-to-face with Cockburn-Montfort. I find it difficult to describe his look, or rather his succession of looks. Shock. Incredulity. Succeeded by fury. He turned even more purple in the process. Mrs. Montfort quite gasped out ‘I don’t believe it!’ and then gave a little scream. He had her by the arm and he hurt her. And without another word he turned her about and marched her out of the shop. I saw him wheel her round in the direction of the piggery. She pulled back and seemed to plead with him. In the upshot they turned again and went off presumably to their own house. Mrs. Pirelli said something in Italian and then: ‘If they go I am pleased.’ I left. As I passed the top of Capricorn Place, I saw the C.-M.’s going up their steps. He still held her arm and I think she was crying. That’s all.”

“And this was — what? — half an hour ago?”

“About that.”

“We’ll discuss it later. Thank you, Sam.”

“Have I blundered?”

“I hope not. I think you may have precipitated something.”

“I’ve got to have a word with Sheridan about the plumbing — a genuine word. He’s at home. Should I—?”

“I think you might, but it’s odds on the C.-M.’s will have got in first. Try.”

“Very well.”

“And the Chubbs?” Alleyn asked.

“Yes. Oh dear. If you wish.”

“Don’t elaborate. Just the news, casually, as before.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be at home in about a quarter of an hour if you want me. If I don’t hear from you I’ll get in touch myself as soon as I can,” Alleyn said.

He checked with the man keeping observation and learned that Sanskrit had returned to the pottery after his visit to the land agents and had not emerged. The pottery was closed and the windows still curtained.

Five minutes later Alleyn and Fox found the entrance to the cul-de-sac, as on the former visit, cordoned off by police and thronged by an even larger crowd and quite a galaxy of photographers, who were pestering Superintendent Gibson with loud cries against constabular arrogance. Alleyn had a word with Gibson, entered his own house, left Fox in the study, and went straight to Troy in her studio. She had done quite a lot of work on the background.

“Troy,” he said, “when he comes, I’ve got to have a word with him. Alone. I don’t think it will take long and I don’t know how much it will upset him.”

“Damn,” said Troy.

“Well, I know. But this is where it gets different. I’ve no choice.”

“I see. O.K.”

“It’s hell but there it is.”

“Never mind — I know. Here he is. You’d better meet him.”

“I’ll be back. Much more to the point, I hope he will.”

“So do I. Good luck to whatever it is.”

“Amen to that, sweet powers,” Alleyn said, and arrived at the front door at the same time as the Boomer, who had his mlinzi in attendance, the latter carrying a great bouquet of red roses and, most unexpectedly, holding the white Afghan hound on a scarlet leash. The Boomer explained that the dog seemed to be at a loose end. “Missing his master,” said the Boomer.

He greeted Alleyn with all his usual buoyancy, and then after a quick look at him said: “Something is wrong, I think.”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “We must speak together, sir.”

“Very well, Rory. Where?”

“In here, if you will.”

They went into the study. When the Boomer saw Fox, who had been joined by Gibson, he fetched up short.

“We speak together,” he said, “but not, it seems, in private?”

“It’s a police matter and my colleagues are involved.”

“Indeed? Good morning, gentlemen.”

He said something to the mlinzi , who handed him the roses, went out with the dog, and shut the door.

“Will you sit down, sir?” Alleyn said.

This time the Boomer made no protest at the formalities. He said: “By all means,” and sat in a white hide armchair. He wore the ceremonial dress of the portrait and looked superb. The red roses lent an extraordinarily surrealist touch.

“Perhaps you will put them down somewhere?” he said, and Alleyn laid them on his desk. “Are they for Troy?” he asked. “She’ll be delighted.”

“What are we to speak about?”

“About Sanskrit. Will you tell me what was in the envelope he delivered at the Embassy soon after midnight this morning? It was addressed to the First Secretary. With a note to the effect that it was for your attention.”

“Your men are zealous in their performance of their tasks, Mr. Gibson,” said the Boomer without looking at him.

Gibson cleared his throat.

“The special pass issued under my personal cachet evidently carried no weight with these policemen,” the Boomer added. ”

“Without it,” Alleyn said, “the envelope would probably have been opened. I hope you will tell us what it contained. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was of great importance.”

The Boomer, who from the time he had sat down had not removed his gaze from Alleyn, said, “It was opened by my secretary.”

“But he told you what it was?”

“It was a request. For a favour.”

“And the favour?”

“It was in connection with this person’s return to Ng’ombwana. I think I told you that he has been reinstated.”

“Was it, perhaps, that he wants to return at once and asked for an immediate clearance — visas, permits, whatever is necessary? Procedures that normally, I think, take several days to complete?”

“Yes,” said the Boomer. “That was it.”

“Why do you suppose he told the police officers that the envelope contained a photograph, one that you had ordered urgently, for yourself?”