Ngaio Marsh - Black As He Is Painted

He had begun to think he would get no response of any kind from her when her face wrinkled over and she broke into a passion of tears. At first it was almost impossible to catch the sense of what she tried to say. She sobbed out words piecemeal, as if they escaped by haphazard compulsion. But presently phrases emerged and a sort of congruence of ideas. She said what had happened five years ago might have happened yesterday for Chubb. She repeated several times that he “couldn’t get over it,” that he “never hardly said anything,” but she could “tell.” They never talked about it, she said, not even on the anniversary, which was always a terrible day for both of them. She said that for herself something “came over” her at the sight of a black man, but for Chubb, Alleyn gathered, the revulsion was savage and implacable. There had been incidents. There were times when he took queer turns and acted very funny with headaches. The doctor had given him something.

“Is that the prescription he’s getting made up now?”

She said it was. As for “that lot,” she added, she’d never fancied him getting in with them.

He had become secretive about the meetings, she said, and had shut her up when she tried to ask questions. She had known something was wrong. Something queer was going on.

“They was getting at him and the way he feels. On account of our Glyn. I could tell that. But I never knew what.”

Alleyn gathered that after the event Chubb had been a little more communicative in that he let out that he’d been “made a monkey of.” He’d acted according to orders, he said, and what had he got for it? Him with his experience? He was very angry and his neck hurt.

“Did he tell you what really happened? Everything?”

No, she said. There was something about him “getting in with the quick one according to plan” but being “clobbered” from behind and making a “boss shot of it.”

Alleyn caught back an exclamation.

It hadn’t made sense to Mrs. Chubb. Alleyn gathered that she’d felt, in a muddled way, that because a black man had been killed Chubb ought to have been pleased, but that he was angry because something had, in some fashion, been put across him. When Alleyn suggested that nothing she had told him contradicted the version he had given to her, she stared hopelessly at him out of blurred eyes and vaguely shook her head.

“I suppose not,” she said.

“From what you’ve told me, my suggestion that you persuade him to break with them was useless. You’ve tried. All the same, when he comes back from the chemist’s—”

She broke in: “He ought to be back,” she cried. “It wouldn’t take that long! He ought to’ve come in by now. Oh Gawd, where is he?”

“Now don’t you go getting yourself into a state before there’s need,” Alleyn said. “You stay put and count your blessings. Yes, that’s what I said, Mrs. Chubb. Blessings. If your man had brought off what he set out to do on the night of the party you would have had something to cry about. If he comes back, tell him what I’ve said. Tell him he’s being watched. Keep him indoors and in the meantime brew yourself a strong cuppa and pull yourself together, there’s a good soul. Good morning to you.”

He ran downstairs and was met at the drawing-room door by Mr. Whipplestone.

“Well, Sam,” he said. “Through no fault of his own your Chubb didn’t commit murder. That’s not to say—”

The telephone rang. Mr. Whipplestone made a little exasperated noise and answered it.

“Oh!” he said. “Oh, yes. He is. Yes, of course. Yes.”

“It’s for you,” he said. “It’s Mrs. Roderick.”

As soon as she heard Alleyn’s voice, Troy said: “Rory. Important. Someone with a muffled voice has just rung up to say there’s a bomb in the President’s car.”

Alleyn said: “Don’t—” but she cut in.

“No, listen! The thing is, he’s gone. Five minutes ago. In his car.”

“Where?”

“The Embassy.”

“Right. Stay put.”

“Urgent,” Alleyn said to Mr. Whipplestone. “See you later.”

He left the house as Fox got out of the car under the trees and came towards him.

“Bomb scare,” said Fox. “On the blower.”

“I know. Come on. The Embassy.”

They got into the car. On the way to the Embassy, which was more roundabout than the way through the hole in the wall, Fox said a disguised voice had rung the Yard. The Yard was ringing Troy and had alerted Gibson and all on duty in the area.

“The President’s on his way back,” Alleyn said. “Troy’s had the muffled voice, too.”

“The escort car will have got the message.”

“I hope so.”

“A hoax, do you reckon?”

“Considering the outlandish nature of the material we’re supposed to be handling, it’s impossible to guess. As usual we take it for real. But I tell you what, Br’er Fox, I’ve got a nasty feeling that if it is a hoax it’s a hoax with a purpose. Another name for it might be red-herring. We’ll see Fred and then get back to our own patch. That Royal Academician in the Mews had better be keeping his eyes open. Here we are.”

They had turned out of a main thoroughfare, with their siren blaring, into Palace Park Gardens, and there outside the Embassy, emerging from his police escort’s car, was the Boomer, closely followed by his mlinzi and the Afghan hound. Alleyn and Fox left their car and approached him. He hailed them vigorously.

“Hullo, hullo!” shouted the Boomer. “Here are turn-ups for the books! You have heard the latest, I suppose?”

“We have,” said Alleyn. “Where’s the Embassy car?”

“Where? Where? Half-way between here and there, ‘there’ being your own house, to be specific. The good Gibson and his henchmen are looking under the seats for bombs. Your wife required me no longer. I left a little early. Shall we go indoors?”

Alleyn excused himself and was glad to see them off. The driver of the official police car was talking into his radio. He said: “Mr. Alleyn’s here now, sir. Yes, sir.”

“All right,” Alleyn said and got into the car.

It was Gibson. “So you’ve heard?” he said. “Nothing so far but we haven’t finished.”

“Did you hear the call?”

“No. He or she rang the Yard. Info is that he probably spoke through a handkerchief.”

“He or she?”

“The voice was peculiar. A kind of squeaky whisper. They reckon it sounded frightened or excited or both. The exact words were: ‘ Is that Scotland Yard? There’s a bomb in the Black Embassy car. Won’t be long now. ’ Call not traced. They thought the car would be outside your place and a minute or so was lost ascertaining it was on the way back. All my chaps were alerted and came on the scene pronto. Oh, and they say he seemed to speak with a lisp.”

“Like hell they do! So would they with a mouthful of handkerchief. Who’s on the Capricorn ground?”

“A copper in a wig with coloured chalks.”

“I know all about him. That all?”

“Yes,” said Gibson. “The others were ordered round here,” and added with a show of resentment, “My job’s mounting security over this big, bloody black headache and a bloody gutty show it’s turned out to be.”

“All right, Fred. I know. It’s a stinker. I’ll get back there myself. What about you?”

“I’ll stick here with the suspect car. Look!” said Gibson with the nearest approach of shrillness that Alleyn would have thought possible, “it’s got to such a pitch that I’d welcome a straight case of bomb disposal and no nonsense. There you are! I’d welcome it.”

Alleyn was forming what conciliatory phrases he could offer when he was again called to the radio. It was the gifted Sergeant Jacks.