Black As He Is Painted ra-28 Page 7

  A minstrels’ gallery ran round three sides of the saloon, and Gibson explained that four of his men as well as the orchestra would be stationed up there.

  Six pairs of French windows opened on the garden. Vistas had achieved a false perspective by planting on either side of the long pond — yew trees, tall in the foreground, diminishing in size until they ended in miniatures. The pond itself had been correspondingly shaped. It was wide where the trees were tall and narrowed throughout its length. The trompe l’oeil was startling. Alleyn had read somewhere or another of Henry Irving’s production of The Corsican Brothers with six-foot guardsmen nearest the audience and midgets in the background. The effect here, he thought, would be the reverse of Irving’s, for at the far end of the little lake a pavilion had been set up where the Boomer, the Ambassador and a small assortment of distinguished guests would assemble for an al fresco entertainment. From the saloon they would look like Gullivers in Lilliput. Which again, Alleyn reflected, would not displease the Boomer.

  He and Gibson spoke in undertones because of the flunkey.

  “You see how the land lies,” said Gibson. “I’ll show you the plan in a sec. The whole show — this evening party — takes place on the ground floor. And later in the bloody garden. Nobody goes upstairs except the regular house staff and we look after that one. Someone at every stairhead, don’t you worry. Now. As you see, the entrance hall’s behind us at a lower level and the garden through the windows in front. On your left are the other reception rooms: a smaller drawing-room, the dining-room — you could call it a banqueting hall without going too far — and the kitchens and offices. On our right, opening off the entrance hall behind us, is a sort of ladies’ sitting-room, and off that, on the other side of the alcove with all the hardware,” said Gibson, indicating the Ng’ombwanan trophies, “is the ladies’ cloakroom. Very choice. You know. Ankle-deep carpets. Armchairs, dressing-tables. Face-stuff provided and two attendants. The W.C.’s themselves, four of them, have louvre windows opening on the garden. You could barely get a fair shot at the pavilion through any of them because of intervening trees. Still. We’re putting in a reliable female sergeant.”

  “Tarted up as an attendant?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Fair enough. Where’s the men’s cloakroom?”

  “On the other side of the entrance hall. It opens off a sort of smoking-room or what-have-you that’s going to be set up with a bar. The lavatory windows in their case would give a better line on the pavilion and we’re making arrangements accordingly.”

  “What about the grounds?”

  “The grounds are one hell of a problem. Greenery all over the shop,” grumbled Mr. Gibson.

  “High brick wall, though?”

  “Oh, yes. And iron spikes, but what of that? We’ll do a complete final search — number one job — at the last moment. House, garden, the lot. And a complete muster of personnel. The catering’s being handled by Costard et Cie of Mayfair. Very high class. Hand-picked staff. All their people are what they call maximum-trusted, long-service employees.”

  “They take on extra labour for these sorts of jobs though, don’t they?”

  “I know, but they say, nobody they can’t vouch for.”

  “What about—” Alleyn moved his head very slightly in the direction of the man in livery, who was gazing out of the window.

  “The Ng’ombwanan lot? Well. The household’s run by one of them. Educated in England trained at a first-class hotel in Paris. Top credentials. The Embassy staff was hand-picked in Ng’ombwana, they tell me. I don’t know what that’s worth, the way things are in those countries. All told, there are thirty of them, but some of the President’s household are coming over for the event. The Ng’ombwanans, far as I can make out, will more or less stand round looking pretty. That chap there,” Mr. Gibson continued, slurring his words and talking out of the corner of his mouth, “is sort of special: you might say a ceremonial bodyguard to the President. He hangs round on formal occasions dressed up like a cannibal and carrying a dirty big symbolic spear. Like a mace-bearer, sort of, or a sword-of-state. You name it. He came in advance with several of the President’s personal staff. The Presidential plane, as you probably know, touches down at eleven tomorrow morning.”

  “How’s the Ambassador shaping up?”

  “Having kittens.”

  “Poor man.”

  “One moment all worked up about the party and the next in a muck sweat over security. It was at his urgent invitation we came in.”

  “He rings me up incessantly on the strength of my knowing the great panjandrum.”

  “Well,” Gibson said, “that’s why I’ve roped you in, isn’t it? And seeing you’re going to be here as a guest — excuse me if my manner’s too familiar — the situation becomes what you might call provocative. Don’t misunderstand me.”

  “What do you want me to do, for pity’s sake? Fling myself in a protective frenzy on the Boomer’s bosom every time down in the shrubbery something stirs?”

  “Not,” said Gibson pursuing his own line of thought, “that I think we’re going to have real trouble. Not really. Not at this reception affair. It’s his comings and going that are the real headache. D’you reckon he’s going to co-operate? You know. Keep to his undertaking with you and not go drifting off on unscheduled jaunts?”

  “One can but hope. What’s the order of events? At the reception?”

  “For a kick-off, he stands in the entrance hall on the short flight of steps leading up to this room, with this spear-carrying character behind him and the Ambassador on his right. His aides will be back a few paces on his left. His personal bodyguard will form a lane from the entrance right up to him. They carry sidearms as part of their full-dress issue. I’ve got eight chaps outside covering the walk from the cars to the entrance and a dozen more in and about the hall. They’re in livery. Good men. I’ve fixed it with the Costard people that they’ll give them enough to do, handing champagne round and that, to keep them in the picture.”

  “What’s the drill, then?”

  “As the guests arrive from nine-thirty onwards, they get their names bawled out by the major-domo at the entrance. They walk up the lane between the guards, the Ambassador presents them to the President, and they shake hands and pass in here. There’s a band (Louis Francini’s lot, I’ve checked them) up in the minstrels’ gallery and chairs for the official party on the dais in front of the hardware. Other chairs round the walls.”

  “And we all mill about in here for a spell, do we?”

  “That’s right. Quaffing your bubbly,” said Gibson tonelessly. “Until ten o’clock, when the French windows will all be opened and the staff, including my lot, will set about asking you to move into the garden.”

  “And that’s when your headache really sets in, is it, Fred?”

  “My oath! Well, take a look at it.”

  They moved out through the French windows into the garden. A narrow terrace separated the house from the wide end of the pond, which was flanked on each converging side by paved walks. And there, at the narrow end, was the pavilion: an elegant affair of striped material caught up by giant spears topped with plumes. Chairs for the guests were set out on each side of that end of the lake, and the whole assembly was backed by Mr. Gibson’s hated trees.

  “Of course,” he said gloomily, “there will be all these perishing fairy-lights. You notice even they get smaller as they go back. To carry out the effect, like. You’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve been thorough.”

  “At least they’ll shed a bit of light on the scene.”

  “Not for long, don’t you worry. There are going to be musical items and a film. Screen wheeled out against the house here, and the projector on a perch at the far end. And while that’s on, out go the lights except in the pavilion, if you please, where they’re putting an ornamental god-almighty lamp which will show His Nibs up like a sitting duck.”

  “How long docs that last?”

  “Twent
y minutes all told. There’s some kind of dance. Followed by a native turn-out with drums and one or two other items including a singer. The whole thing covers about an hour. At the expiration of which you all come back for supper in the banqueting room. And then, please God, you all go home.”

  “You couldn’t persuade them to modify their plans at all?”

  “Not a chance. It’s been laid on by headquarters.”

  “Do you mean in Ng’ombwana, Fred?”

  “That’s right. Two chaps from Vistas and Décor and Design were flown out with plans and photographs of this pad at which the President took a long hard look and then dreamt up the whole treatment. He sent one of his henchmen over to see it was laid on according to specifications. I reckon it’s as much as the Ambassador’s job’s worth to change it. And how do you like this?” Gibson asked with a poignant note of outrage in his normally colourless voice. “The Ambassador’s given us definite instruction to keep well away from this bloody pavilion. President’s orders and no excuse-me’s about it.”

  “He’s a darling man is the Boomer!”

  “He’s making a monkey out of us. I set up a security measure only to be told the President won’t stand for it. Look — I’d turn the whole exercise in if I could get someone to listen to me. Pavilion and all.”

  “What if it rains?”

  “The whole shooting match moves indoors and why the hell do I say ‘shooting match’?” asked Mr. Gibson moodily.

  “So we pray for a wet night?”

  “Say that again.”

  “Let’s take a look indoors.”

  They explored the magnificence of the upper floors, still attended by the Ng’ombwanan spear-carrier, who always removed himself to the greatest possible distance but never left them completely alone. Alleyn tried a remark or two, but the man seemed to have little or no English. His manner was stately and utterly inexpressive.

  Gibson re-rehearsed his plan of action for the morrow and Alleyn could find no fault in it. The Special Branch is a bit of a loner in the Service. It does not gossip about its proceedings, and except when they overlap those of another arm, nobody asks it anything. Alleyn, however, was on such terms with Gibson and the circumstances were so unusual as to allow them to relax these austerities. They retired to their car and lit their pipes. Gibson began to talk about subversive elements from emergent independencies known to be based on London and with what he called “violence in their CRO.”

  “Some are all on their own,” he said, “and some kind of coagulate like blood. Small-time secret societies. Mostly they don’t get anywhere but there are what you might call malignant areas. And of course you can’t discount the pro.”

  “The professional gun?”

  “They’re still available. There’s Hinny Packmann. He’s out after doing bird in a Swedish stir. He’d be available if the money was right. He doesn’t operate under three thousand.”

  “Hinny’s in Denmark.”

  “That’s right, according to Interpol. But he could be imported: I don’t know anything about the political angle,” Gibson said. “Not my scene. Who’d take over if this man was knocked off?”

  “I’m told there’d be a revolution of sorts, that mercenaries would be sent in, a puppet government set up, and that in the upshot the big interests would return and take over.”

  “Yes. Well, there’s that aspect and then again you might get the solitary fanatic. He’s the type I really do not like,” Gibson said, indignantly drawing a nice distinction between potential assassins. “No record, as likely as not. You don’t know where to look for him.”

  “You’ve got the guest list of course.”

  “Of course. I’ll show it to you. Wait a sec.”

  He fished it out of an inner pocket and they conned it over. Gibson had put a tick beside some five dozen names.

  “They’ve all been on the Ng’ombwanan scene in one capacity or another,” he said. “From the oil barons at the top to ex-business men at the bottom, and nearly all of them have been or are in process of being kicked out. The big idea behind this reception seems to be a sort of ‘nothing personal intended’ slant. ‘Everybody loves everybody’ and please come to my party!”

  “It hurts me more than it does you?”

  “That’s right. And they’ve all accepted, what’s more.”

  “Hullo!” Alleyn exclaimed, pointing to the list. “They’ve asked him!”

  “Which is that? Ah. Yes. Him. Now, he has got a record.”

  “See the list your people kindly supplied to me,” Alleyn said, and produced it.

  “That’s right. Not for violence, of course, but a murky background and no error. Nasty bit of work. I don’t much fancy him.”

  “His sister makes pottery pigs about one minute away from the Embassy,” said Alleyn.

  “I know that. Very umpty little dump. You’d wonder why, wouldn’t you, with all the money he must have made in Ng’ombwana.”

  “Has he still got it, though? Mightn’t he be broke?”

  “Hard to say. Question of whether he laid off his bets before the troubles began.”

  “Do you know about this one?” Alleyn asked, pointing to the name Whipplestone on the guest list.

  Gibson instantly reeled off a thumbnail sketch of Mr. Whipplestone.

  “That’s the man,” Alleyn said. “Well now, Fred, this may be a matter of no importance, but you may as well lay back your ears and listen.” And he related Mr. Whipplestone’s story of his cat and the pottery fish. “Whipplestone’s a bit perturbed about it,” he said in the end, “but it may be entirely beside the point as far as we’re concerned. This man in the basement, Sheridan, and the odious Sanskrit may simply meet to play bridge. Or they might belong to some potty little esoteric circle: fortune-telling or spiritism or what have you.”

  “That’s what Sanskrit first got borrowed for. Fortune-telling and false pretences. He did his bird for drugs. It was after he came out of stir that he set himself up as a merchant in Ng’ombwana. He’s one of the dispossessed,” said Gibson.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “I think I saw him outside his erstwhile premises when I was there three weeks ago.”

  “Fancy that.”

  “About the ones that get together to belly-ache in exile — you don’t, I suppose, know of a fish medallion lot?”

  “Nah!” said Gibson disgustedly.

  “And Mr. Sheridan doesn’t appear on the guest list.

  What about a Colonel and Mrs. Montfort? They were in Sheridan’s flat that evening.”

  “Here. Let’s see.”

  “No,” Alleyn said, consulting the list. “No Montforts under the M’s.”

  “Wait a sec. I knew there was something. Look here. Under C. ‘Lt. Col. Cockburn-Montfort, Barset Light Infantry (retd).’ What a name. Cockburn.”

  “Isn’t it usually pronounced Coburn?” Alleyn mildly suggested. “Anything about him?”

  “ ‘Info.’ Here we are. ‘Organized Ng’ombwanan army. Stationed there from 1960 until Independence in 1971 when present government assumed complete control!’ ”

  “Well,” Alleyn said after a longish pause, “it still doesn’t have to amount to anything. No doubt ex-Ng’ombwanan colonials tend to flock together like ex-Anglo-Indians. There may be a little clutch of them in the Capricorns all belly-aching cosily together. What about the staff? The non-Ng’ombwanans, I mean.”

  “We’re nothing if not thorough. Every last one’s been accounted for. Want to look?”

  He produced a second list. “It shows the Costard employees together. Regulars first, extras afterwards. Clean as whistles, the lot of them.”

  “This one?”

  Gibson followed Alleyn’s long index finger and read under his breath, “ ‘Employed by Costards as extra waiter over period of ten years. In regular employment as domestic servant. Recent position: eight years. Excellent references. Present employment—’ Hullo, ’ullo.”

  “Yes?” />
  “ ‘Present employment at 1, Capricorn Walk, S.W.3.’ ”

  “We seem,” Alleyn said, “to be amassing quite a little clutch of coincidences, don’t we?”

  “It’s not often,” Alleyn said to his wife, “that we set ourselves up in this rig, is it?”

  “You look as if you did it as a matter of course every night. Like the jokes about Empire builders in the jungle. When there was an Empire. Orders and decorations to boot.”

  “What does one mean exactly, by ‘to boot’?”

  “You tell me, darling, you’re the purist.”

  “I was when I courted my wife.”

  Troy, in her green gown, sat on her bed and pulled on her long gloves. “It’s worked out all right,” she said. “Us. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would say.”

  “What a bit of luck for us.”

  “All of that.”

  He buttoned up her gloves for her. “You look marvellous,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  “Is our svelte hired limousine at the door?”

  “It is.”

  “Whoops, then, hark chivvy away.”

  Palace Park Gardens had been closed to general traffic by the police, so the usual crowd of onlookers was not outside the Ng’ombwanan Embassy. The steps were red-carpeted, a flood of light and strains of blameless and dated melodies streamed through the great open doorway. A galaxy of liveried men, black and white, opened car doors and slammed them again.

  “Oh Lord, I’ve forgotten the damn’ card!” Troy exclaimed.

  “I’ve got it. Here we go.”

  The cards, Alleyn saw, were being given a pretty hard look by the men who received them and were handed on to other men seated unobtrusively at tables. He was amused to see, hovering in the background, Superintendent Gibson in tails and a white tie looking a little as if he might be an Old Dominion Plenipotentiary.

  Those guests wishing for the cloakrooms turned off to the right and left and on re-entering the hall were martialled back to the end of the double file of Ng’ombwanan guards, where they gave their names to a superb black major-domo who roared them out with all the resonant assurance of a war drum.