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

Not specific, perhaps, Alleyn conceded. But he pointed out that a black male person planning to fire the pistol, whether or not it was loaded with a blank, would have been much better advised to do so from the men’s lavatory, where his presence would not be noticed, than from the women’s where it extravagantly would. In the men’s he would be taken for an attendant if he was in livery and for a guest if he was not.

‘Really,’ Alleyn said, ‘it would be the height of dottiness for him to muscle-in to the female offices where he might – as indeed according to Mrs C-M he did – disturb a lady already in situ.’

‘True,’ said Mr Whipplestone moodily. ‘True. True. True.’

‘Moreover,’ Alleyn continued, ‘the sergeant, who, however naughty her lapse, displayed a certain expertise in the sequel, is persuaded that no rumpus, beyond the shot and subsequent screams of Mrs C-M, disturbed the seclusion of those premises.’

‘I see.’

‘As for the weapon, an examination of the barrel, made by an expert this morning, confirms that the solitary round was probably a blank. There are no finger-prints. This is negative evidence except that the sergeant, supported by the two orthodox attendants, says that Mrs C-M was wearing shoulder length gloves. The normal practice under these circumstances is for such gloves to be peeled off the hand from the wrist. The glove is then tucked back into the arm-piece which remains undisturbed. But the lady was fully gloved and buttoned and according to her own account certainly had no chance to effect this readjustment. She would hardly sit on the floor putting on gloves and yelling pen and ink.’

‘All very plausible,’ said Mr Whipplestone. Alleyn thought that he was hurriedly re-arranging his thoughts to accommodate this new development.

‘I fancy,’ Alleyn said, ‘it’s better than that. I can’t for the life of me think of any other explanation that will accommodate all the discrepancies in the lady’s tarra-diddle. And what’s more she was taking dirty great sniffs at her own smelling-salts to make herself cry. At any rate I’m going to call upon her.’

‘When!’ quite shouted Mr Whipplestone.

‘When I leave you. Why? What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ he said in a hurry, ‘nothing really. Except that you’ll probably be admitted by Chubb.’

‘By Chubb!’

‘He, ah, he “does for” the Cockburn-Montforts on Friday afternoons. There’s nothing in that, you know, Alleyn. The Chubbs have one or two, as it were, casual jobs about the neighbourhood. They baby-sit every other Sunday at No. 17 for instance. It’s an arrangement.’

‘And Mrs Chubb obliges your tenant in the basement, doesn’t she?’

‘An hour, every other day. She will give us tea, by the way.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Any second now. I asked for it very early, hoping you would join me. Mrs Alleyn said something about you not having had time for luncheon.’

‘How very kind, I shall enjoy it.’

Lucy, after some preparatory clawing at the foot of the door, succeeded in opening it widely enough to make an exit which she effected with her tail up and an ambiguous remark.

‘Sometimes,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ‘I’ve felt almost inclined to pump the Chubbs.’

‘About Sheridan and the Cockburn-Montforts?’

‘Discreetly. Yes. But of course, one doesn’t do that sort of thing. Or,’ Mr Whipplestone said with a self-deprecatory lift of his hand, ‘I don’t.’

‘No,’ Alleyn said, ‘I don’t suppose you do. Do you mind, though, if I have a word with Mrs Chubb?’

‘Here? Now?’ he said, evidently dismayed by the suggestion.

‘Well – later if you’d rather.’

‘She’s awfully upset. About Chubb being man-handled by that black waiter and interviewed afterwards.’

‘I’ll try not to add to her woes. It really is just routine, Sam as far as I know.’

‘Well, I do hope it doesn’t turn out to be – anything else. Sh!’

He held up his finger. From somewhere outside the room came a series of intermittent bumps or taps. They grew louder.

Alleyn went to the door into the hall, left ajar by Lucy Lockett, and looked out.

To see Lucy herself backing down the stairs crab-wise and dragging some small object by a chain. It bumped from step to wooden step. When she arrived at the bottom she contrived with some difficulty to take the object up in her mouth. Giving out distorted mews she passed Alleyn, reentered the drawing-room and dropped her trophy at Mr Whipplestone’s feet.

‘Oh no, oh no!’ he cried out. ‘Not again. For pity’s sake, not again!’

But it was, in fact, a white pottery fish.

While he still gazed at it with the liveliest dismay a clink of china sounded in the passage. With extraordinary swiftness Alleyn scooped up the fish and dropped it in his pocket.

‘Not a word,’ he said.

Mrs Chubb came in with a tea-tray.

Alleyn gave her good afternoon and brought forward a small table to Mr Whipplestone’s chair, ‘Is this the right drill?’ he asked and she thanked him nervously and set down her tray. When she had left and he had heard her go upstairs he said: ‘It’s not Sheridan’s fish. She brought it from above.’

Mr Whipplestone’s jaw dropped. He stared at Alleyn as if he had never seen him before. ‘Show me,’ he said at last.

Alleyn produced the object and dangled it by its chain in front of Mr Whipplestone who said: ‘Yes. It is. I’ve remembered.’

‘What have you remembered?’

‘I think I told you. The first time she stole it. Or rather one like it. From down below. I had the curious feeling I’d seen it before. And then again, that evening when I returned it to Sheridan. Round that ghastly fellow Sanskrit’s fat neck. The same feeling. Now I’ve remembered: it was on the day I inspected the premises. The fish was in the Chubbs’ room upstairs. Hanging from a photograph of a girl with black ribbon attached to the frame. Rather morbid. And this,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ramming home his point, ‘is it.’ He actually covered his face with his hands. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is very uncomfortable news.’

‘It may turn out to be of no great matter, after all. I wouldn’t get too uptight about it, if I were you. This may simply be the outward and visible sign of some harmlessly potty little cult they all belong to.’

‘Yes, but Chubb? And those dubious – those more than dubious Cockburn-Montforts and those frankly appalling Sanskrits. No, I don’t like it,’ said Mr Whipplestone. ‘I don’t like it at all.’ His distracted gaze fell upon Lucy who was posed tidily couchant with her paws tucked under her chest. ‘And the cat!’ he remembered. ‘The cat, of whose reprehensible habits I say nothing, took fright at the very sight of that ghastly pair. She bolted. And the Pirellis at the Napoli think she belonged to the Sanskrit woman. And they seem to think she was ill-treated.’

‘I don’t quite see …’

‘Very well. Very well. Let it pass. Have some tea.’ Mr Whipplestone distractedly invited, ‘and tell me what you propose to do about that thing: that medallion, that – fish.’

Alleyn took it from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. A trade-mark like a wavy X had been fired into the reverse side.

‘Roughish little job,’ he said. ‘Lucky she didn’t break it. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go upstairs and return it to its owner. It gives me the entrée, doesn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. Yes. Well. If you must.’

‘It’ll save you a rather tricky confrontation, Sam.’

‘Yes. Thank you. Very good. Yes.’

‘I’ll nip up before she has time to return to her kitchen. Which is their sitting-room?’

‘First door on the landing.’