Black As He Is Painted ra-28 Read online

  In the downstairs room Alleyn, not having a warrant for his arrest, asked Colonel Cockburn-Montfort to come to the Yard, where he would be formally charged with the murder of the Sanskrits.

  “And I should warn you that—”

  X

  Epilogue

  “It was clear from the moment we saw the bodies,” Alleyn said, “that Montfort was the man. The pig-pottery had been under strict surveillance from the time Sanskrit returned to it from the house-agents. The only gap came after Gibson’s men had been drawn off by the bomb scare. The traffic in the Mews piled up between Sergeant Jacks and the flat entrance where Montfort leant against the doorbell, and for at least five minutes, probably longer, the façade was completely hidden by a van. During that time Montfort, who was beginning to make a scene in the street, had been admitted by one or other of the Sanskrits with the object, one supposes, of shutting him up.

  “They were in a hurry. They had to get to the airport. They had planned to make their getaway within the next quarter of an hour and were packing up the last lot of pigs and writing a note for the agents. Leaving the drunken Colonel to grind to a halt, they returned to their jobs. Sanskrit put the penultimate pig in the case, his sister sat down to write the note. Montfort followed them up, found himself between the two of them, heaved up the last pig doorstop on the bench and in a drunken fury crashed it down left and right. The shock of what he’d done may have partly sobered him. His gloves were bloodied. He shoved them in the kiln, walked out, and had the sense or the necessity to lean against the doorbell again. The van still blocked the view, and when it removed itself there he stilt was.”

  “Who raised the false alarm about the bomb?” asked Troy.

  “Oh, one of the Sanskrits, don’t you think? To draw. Gibson’s men off while the two of them did a bunk to Ng’ombwana. They were in a blue funk over the outcome of the assassination and an even bluer one at the thought of the Klu-Klux-Fish. They realized, as they were bound to do, that they’d been rumbled.”

  “It would seem,” Mr. Whipplestone said drily, “that they did not over-estimate the potential.”

  “It would indeed.”

  “Rory — how drunk was the wretched man?” Troy asked.

  “Can one talk about degrees of drunkeness in an alcoholic? I suppose one can. According to his wife, and there’s no reason to doubt her, he was plug-ugly drunk and breathing murder when he left the house.”

  “And the whole thing, you believe, was completely unpremeditated?” Mr. Whipplestone asked.

  “I think so. No coherent plan when he leant on the doorbell. Nothing beyond a blind alcoholic rage to get at them. There was the pig on the work table and there were their heads. Bang, bang and he walked out again. The traffic block was just drunkard’s luck. I don’t for a moment suppose he was aware of it and I think he’d have behaved in exactly the same way if it hadn’t occurred.”

  “He had the sense to put his gloves in the kiln,” Mr. Whipplestone pointed out.

  “It’s the only bit of hard evidence we’ve got. I wouldn’t venture a guess as to how far the shock of what he’d done sobered him. Or as to how far he may have exaggerated his condition for our benefit. He’s been given a blood test and the alcoholic level was astronomical.”

  “No doubt he’ll plead drunkenness,” said Mr. Whipplestone.

  “You may depend upon it. And to some purpose, I don’t mind betting.”

  “What about my poor silly Chubb?”

  “Sam, in the ordinary course of things he’d face a charge of conspiracy. If it does come to that, the past history — his daughter — and the dominance of the others will tell enormously in his favour. With a first-class counsel—”

  “I’ll look after that. And his bail. I’ve told him so.”

  “I’m not sure we’ve got a case. Apart from the mlinzi’s collarbone there’s no hard evidence. What we would greatly prefer would be for Chubb to make a clean breast about the conspiracy in return for his own immunity.”

  Mr. Whipplestone and Troy looked uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I know,” Alleyn said. “But just you think for a bit about Gomez. He’s the only one apart from Montfort himself who’d be involved, and believe me, if ever there was a specimen who deserved what’s coming to him, it’s that one. We’ve got him on a forged passport charge which will do to go on with, and a search of his pseudo coffee importing premises in the City has brought to light some very dubious transactions in uncut diamonds. And in the background is his Ng’ombwanan conviction for manslaughter of a particularly revolting nature.”

  “What about the Embassy angle?” Troy asked.

  “What indeed! What happened within those opéra bouffe walls is, as we keep telling ourselves, their affair, although it will figure obliquely as motive in the case against Montfort. But for the other show — the slaughter of the Ambassador by the mlinzi — that’s over to the Boomer and I wish the old so-and-so joy of it.”

  “He leaves tomorrow, I’m told.”

  “Yes. At two-thirty. After giving Troy a final sitting.”

  “Really!” Mr. Whipplestone exclaimed, gazing in polite awe at Troy. She burst out laughing.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” she said, and to her own, Alleyn’s and Mr. Whipplestone’s astonishment dropped a kiss on the top of his head. She saw the pink scalp under the neat strands of hair turn crimson and said: “Pay no attention. I’m excited about my work.”

  “Don’t ruin everything!” said Mr. Whipplestone with tremendous dash. “I’d hoped it was about me.”

  “By all the rules, if there were any valid ones,” Troy said at half-past eleven the following morning, “it’s an unfinished portrait. But even if you could give me another sitting I don’t think I’d take it.”

  The Boomer stood beside her looking at her work. At no stage of the sittings had he exhibited any of the usual shyness of the sitter who doesn’t want to utter banalities and at no stage had he uttered any.

  “There is something African in the way you have gone about this picture,” he said. “We have not portraitists of distinction at present, but if we had they would try to do very much as you have done, I think. I find it hard to remember that the painter is not one of my people.”

  “You couldn’t have said anything to please me more,” said Troy.

  “No? I am glad. And so I must go. Rory and I have one or two things to settle and I have to change. So it is goodbye, my dear Mrs. Rory, and thank you.”

  “Goodbye,” Troy said, “my dear President Boomer, and thank you.”

  She gave him her painty hand and saw him into the house, where Alleyn waited for him. This time he had come without his mlinzi, who, he said, was involved with final arrangements at the Embassy.

  He and Alleyn had a drink together.

  “This has been in some ways an unusual visit,” the Boomer remarked.

  “A little unusual,” Alleyn agreed.

  “On your part, my dear Rory, it has been characterized by the tactful avoidance of difficult corners.”

  “I’ve done my best. With the assistance, if that’s the right word, of diplomatic immunity.”

  The Boomer gave him a tentative smile. Alleyn reflected that this was a rare occurrence. The Boomer’s habit was to bellow with laughter, beam like a lighthouse, or remain entirely solemn.

  “So those unpleasant persons,” he said, “have been murdered by Colonel Cockburn-Montfort.”

  “It lookes like it.”

  “They were unpleasant,” the Boomer said thoughtfully. “We were sorry to employ them but needs must. You find the same sort of situation in your own service of course.”

  This being perfectly true, there was little to be said in reply.

  “We regretted the necessity,” the Boomer said, “to reinstate them in Ng’ombwana.”

  “In the event,” Alleyn said drily, “you don’t have to.”

  “No!” he cried gaily. “So it’s an ill wind as the saying goes. We are spared the Sanskrits.
What a good thing.”

  Alleyn gazed at him, speechless.

  “Is anything the matter, old boy?” the Boomer asked.

  Alleyn shook his head.

  “Ah!” said the Boomer. “I think I know. We have come within sight of that ravine, again.”

  “And again we can arrange to meet elsewhere.”

  “That is why you have not asked me certain questions. Such as how far was I aware of the successful counterplot against my traitor-Ambassador. Or whether I myself dealt personally with the odious Sanskrits who served us so usefully. Or whether it was I, of my own design, who led our poor Gibson so far down the Embassy garden path.”

  “Not only Gibson.”

  And expression of extreme distress came over the large black face. His hands gripped Alleyn’s shoulders and his enormous, slightly bloodshot eyes filled with tears.

  “Try to understand,” he said. “Justice has been done in accordance with our need, our grass-roots, our absolute selves. With time we shall evolve a change and adapt and gradually such elements may die out in us. At the present, my very dear friend, you must think of us — of me if you like — as—”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then with a smile and a change in his huge voice: “—as an unfinished portrait,” said the Boomer.

  Coda

  On a very warm morning in mid-summer, Lucy Lockett, wearing the ornamental collar in which she seemed to fancy herself, sat on the front steps of No. 1, Capricorn Walk, contemplating the scene and keeping an ear open on proceedings in the basement flat.

  Mr. Whipplestone had found a suitable tenant and the Chubbs were turning out the premises. A vacuum cleaner whined, there were sundry bumps. The windows were open and voices were heard.

  Mr. Whipplestone had gone to the Napoli to buy his Camembert, and Lucy, who never accompanied him into the Mews, awaited his return.

  The cleaner was switched off. The Chubbs interchanged peaceful remarks and Lucy, suddenly moved by the legendary curiosity of her species and sex, leapt neatly into the garden and thence through the basement window.

  The chattels of the late tenant had been removed but a certain amount of litter still obtained. Lucy pretended to kill a crumpled sheet of newspaper and then fossicked about in odd corners. The Chubbs paid little attention to her.

  When Mr. Whipplestone returned he found his cat on the top step, couchant, with something between her forepaws. She gazed up at him and made one of her fetching little remarks.

  “What have you got there?” he asked. He inserted his eyeglass and bent down to see.

  It was a white pottery fish.

  The End

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