Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake

In the event, The Boomer behaved pretty much according to pattern. He strode down upon Alleyn and seized his hands.

‘Ah!’ he roared. ‘You are here at last. I am glad. Now we shall get this affair settled.’

‘I’m afraid it’s far from being settled at the moment.’

‘Because of all these pettifogging coppers. And believe me, I do not include you in that category, my dear Rory.’

‘Very good of you, sir.’

‘“Sir, Sir. Sir” – what tommy-rot! Never mind. We shall not waste time over details. I have come to a decision and you shall be the first to hear what it is.’

‘Thank you, I’ll be glad to know.’

‘Good. Then listen. I understand perfectly that your funny colleague: what is his name?’

‘Gibson?’ Alleyn ventured.

‘Gibson, Gibson. I understand perfectly that the well-meaning Gibson and his band of bodyguards and so on were here at the invitation of my Ambassador. I am correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Again, good. But my Ambassador has, as we used to say at Davidson’s, kicked over the bucket and in any case the supreme authority is mine. Yes?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Of course it is,’ the Boomer repeated with immense satisfaction, ‘It is mine and I propose to exercise it. An attempt has been made upon my life. It has failed as all such attempts are bound to fail. That I made clear to you on the happy occasion of your visit.’

‘So you did.’

‘Nevertheless, an attempt has been made.’ The Boomer repeated. ‘My Ambassador has been killed and the matter must be cleared up.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘I therefore have called together the people of his household and will question them in accordance with our historically established democratic practice. In Ng’ombwana.’

As Alleyn was by no means certain what this practice might turn out to be, he said cautiously, ‘Do you feel that somebody in the household may be responsible?’

‘One may find that this is not so. In which case –’ The great voice rumbled into silence.

‘In which case?’ Alleyn hinted.

‘My dear man, in which case I hope for your and the well-meaning Gibson’s collaboration.’

So he’d got it all tidied up, Alleyn thought. The Boomer would handle the black elements and he and the CID could make what they liked of the white. Really it began to look like a sort of inverted form of apartheid.

‘I don’t have to tell you,’ he said, ‘that authorities at every level will be most deeply concerned that this should have happened. The Special Branch, in particular, is in a great taking-on about it.’

‘Hah! So much,’ said The Boomer with relish, ‘for all the large men in the shrubberies. What?’

‘All right. Touché.’

‘All the same, my dear Rory, if it was true that I was the intended victim, it might well be said that I owe my life to you.’

‘Rot.’

‘Not rot. It would follow logically. You pushed me down in my chair and there was this unhappy Ambassador waving his arms about and looking like me. So – blam! Yes, yes, yes. In that case, I would owe you my life. It is a debt I would not willingly incur with anyone but you – with you I would willingly acknowledge it.’

‘Not a bit,’ Alleyn said, in acute embarrassment, ‘It may turn out that my intervention was merely a piece of unnecessary bloody cheek.’ He hesitated and was inspired to add, ‘as we used to say at Davidson’s.’ And since this did the trick, he hurried on:

‘Following that line of thought,’ he said, ‘you might equally say that I was responsible for the Ambassador’s death.’

‘That,’ said The Boomer grandly, ‘is another pair of boots.’

‘Tell me,’ Alleyn asked, ‘have you any theories about the pistol shot?’

‘Ah!’ he said quickly. ‘Pistol! So you have found the weapon?’

‘No. I call it a pistol-shot, provisionally. Gun. Revolver. Automatic. What you will. With your permission we’ll search.’

‘Where?’

‘Well – in the garden. And the pond, for instance.’

‘The pond?’

Alleyn gave him a digest of Mrs Cockburn-Montfort’s narrative. The Boomer, it appeared, knew the Cockburn-Montforts quite well and indeed had actually been associated with the Colonel during the period when he helped organize the modern Ng’ombwanan army. ‘He was efficient,’ said The Boomer, ‘but unfortunately he took to the bottle. His wife is, as we used to say, hairy round the hocks.’

‘She says the man in the lavatory was black.’

There followed a longish pause, ‘If that is correct, I shall find him.’ he said at last.

‘He certainly didn’t leave these premises. All the exits have been closely watched.’

If The Boomer was tempted to be rude once more about Mr Gibson’s methods he restrained himself.

‘What is the truth,’ he asked, ‘about this marksman? Did he in fact fire at me and miss me? Is that proved?’

‘Nothing is proved. Tell me, do you trust – absolutely – the spear-carrier?’

‘Absolutely. But I shall question him as if I do not.’

‘Will you – and I’m diffident about asking this – will you allow me to be there? At the assembly?’

For a moment he fancied he saw signs of withdrawal but if so they vanished at once. The Boomer waved his paw.

‘Of course. Of course. But, my dear Rory, you will not understand a word of it.’

‘Do you know Sam Whipplestone? Of the FO and lately retired?’