Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

Alleyn, possessed by a medley of disconnected anxieties and attachments, quitted the unlikely scene and joined Fox in the hall.

“Is it all right?” Fox asked, jerking his head in the direction of the studio. “All that?”

“If you can call it all right for my wife to be settled cosily in there painting a big black dictator with a suspected murderer outside the door and the victim’s dog posing for its portrait, it’s fine. Fine!”

“Well, it’s unusual,” Fox conceded. “What are you doing about it?”

“I’m putting one of those coppers on my doorstep outside the studio where he can keep the mlinzi company. Excuse me for a moment, Fox.”

He fetched the constable, a powerful man, from the pavement and gave him his directions.

“The man doesn’t speak much English, if any,” he said, “and I don’t for a moment suppose he’ll do anything but squat in the sun and stare. He’s not armed and normally he’s harmless. Your job’s to keep close obbo on him till he’s back in the car with Master.”

“Very good, sir,” said the officer, and proceeded massively in the required direction.

Alleyn rejoined Fox.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler,” Fox ventured, “under the circumstances, I mean, to cancel the sittings?”

“Look here, Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said. “I’ve done my bloody best to keep my job out of sight of my wife and by and large I’ve made a hash of it. But I’ll tell you what: if ever my job looks like so much as coming between one dab of her brush and the surface of her canvas, I’ll chuck it and set up a prep school for detectives.”

After a considerable pause Mr. Fox said judicially: “She’s lucky to have you.”

“Not she,” said Alleyn. “It’s entirely the other way round. In the meantime, what’s cooking? Where’s Fred?”

“Outside. He’s hoping for a word with you. Just routine, far as I know.”

Mr. Gibson sat in a pandaa little way down the cul-de-sac and not far from the pub. Uniform men were distributed along the street and householders looked out of upstairs windows. The crowd at the entrance had thinned considerably.

Alleyn and Fox got into the panda.

“What’s horrible?” they asked each other. Gibson reported that to the best of his belief the various members of the group were closetted in their respective houses. Mrs. Chubb had been out-of-doors shopping but had returned home. He’d left a couple of men with radio equipment to patrol the area.

He was droning on along these lines when the door of Alleyn’s house opened and the large officer spoke briefly to his colleague in the street. The latter was pointing towards the panda.

“This is for me,” Alleyn said. “I’ll be back.”

It was Mr. Whipplestone on the telephone, composed but great with tidings. He had paid his plumbing call on Mr. Sheridan and found him in a most extraordinary state.

“White to the lips, shaking, scarcely able to pull himself together and give me a civil hearing. I had the impression that he was about to leave the flat. At first I thought he wasn’t going to let me in, but he shot a quick look up and down the street and suddenly stepped back and motioned with his head for me to enter. We stood in the lobby. I really don’t think he took in a word about the plumbers, but he nodded and — not so much grinned as bared his teeth from time to time.”

“Pretty!”

“Not very delicious, I assure you. Do you know, I was transported back all those years, into that court of justice in Ng’ombwana. He might have been standing in the dock again.”

“That’s not an over-fanciful conceit, either. Did you say anything about the Sanskrits?”

“Yes. I did. I ventured. As I was leaving. I think I may say I was sufficiently casual. I asked him if he knew whether the pottery in the Mews undertook china repairs. He looked at me as if I was mad and shook his head.”

“Has he gone out?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. You may be sure I was prepared to watch. I had settled to do so, but Mrs. Chubb met me in the hall. She said Chubb was not well and would I mind if she attended to my luncheon — served it and so on. She said it was what she called a ‘turn’ that he’s subject to and he had run out of whatever he takes for it and would like to go to the chemist’s. I, of course, said I could look after myself and she could go to the chemist’s. I said I would lunch out if it would help. In any case it was only ten o’clock. But she was distressed, poor creature, and I couldn’t quite brush her aside and go into the drawing-room, so I can’t positively swear Sheridan-Gomez-didn’t leave. It’s quite possible that he did. As soon as I’d got rid of Mrs. Chubb I went to the drawing-room window. The area gate was open and I’m certain I shut it.”

“I see. What about Chubb?”

“What, indeed! He did go out. Quite openly. I asked Mrs. Chubb about it and she said he’d insisted. She said the prescription took some time to make up and he would have to wait.”

“Has he returned?”

“Not yet. Nor has Sheridan. If, in fact, he went out.”

“Will you keep watch, Sam?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I think I’ll be coming your way.”

Alleyn returned to the car. He passed Mr. Whipplestone’s information on to Fox and Gibson and they held a brief review of the situation.

“What’s important as I see it,” Alleyn said, “is the way these conspirators are thinking and feeling. If I’m right in my guesses, they got a hell of a shock on the night of the party. Everything was set up. The shot fired. The lights went out. The expected commotion ensued. The anticipated sounds were heard. But when the lights went on again it was the wrong body killed by the right weapon wielded by they didn’t know who. Very off-putting for all concerned. How did they react? The next night they held a meeting at the Sanskrits’. They’d had time to do a bit of simple addition and the answer had to be a rat in the wainscotting.”

“Pardon?” said Gibson.

“A traitor in their ranks. A snout.”

“Oh. Ah.”

“They must at the very least have suspected it. I’d give a hell of a lot to know what happened at that meeting while you and I, Fox, sat outside in the Mews. Who did they suspect? Why? What did they plan? To have another go at the President? It seems unlikely that Sheridan-Gomez would have given up. Did any of them get wind of Sanskrit’s visit to the Embassy last night? And who the devil was the shadow we saw sprinting round the alley-corner?”

“Come on, Mr. Alleyn. What’s the theory? Who do you reckon?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you that , Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said. And did.

“And if either of you lot,” he ended, “so much as mumbles the word ‘conjecture’ I’ll put you both on dab for improper conduct.”

“It boils down to this, then,” said Fox. “They may be contemplating a second attempt on the President or they may be setting their sights on the snout whoever they reckon him to be, or they may be split on their line of action. Or,” he added as an afterthought, “they may have decided to call it a day, wind up the Klu-Klux-Fish and fade out in all directions.”

“How true. With which thought we, too, part company. We must be all-ways away, Br’er Fox. Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds—”

“What’s all that about?” Gibson asked glumly.

“Quotations,” Fox said.

“Yes, Fred,” said Allen, “and you can go and catch a red-hipped bumble-bee on the lip of a thistle while Fox and I war with reremice for their leathern wings.”

“Who said all the bumph anyway?”

“Fairies. We’ll keep in touch. Come on, Fox.”