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

‘Oh,’ she said, without turning.

‘You were with your brother, I think. And I believe I saw your brother a few weeks ago when I was in Ng’ombwana.’

No reply.

‘Quite a coincidence,’ said Alleyn. ‘Good afternoon.’

As he walked away and turned the corner into Capricorn Place he thought: Now, I wonder if that was a good idea. She’s undoubtedly rattled, as far as one can think of blubber rattling. She’ll tell Big Brother and what will they cook up between them? That I’m fishing after membership? In which case, will they get in touch with the other fish to see what they know? Or will she suspect the worst of me and start at once, on her own account, ringing round the circle to warn them all? In which case she’ll hear I’m a cop in as short a time as it takes Mrs Cockburn-Montfort to throw a temperament. And in that case we’ll have to take damn good care she and Big Brother don’t shoot the moon. I don’t mind betting, he thought as he approached No. 19, The Place, that those dubious premises accommodate more than pottery pigs. Has Brother quite given up the drug connection? A nice point. Here we go again.

No. 19, Capricorn Place, although larger, was built in much the same style as Mr Whipplestone’s little house. The window-boxes, however, were more commonplace, being given over to geraniums. As Alleyn crossed the street he saw, behind the geraniums, Mrs Cockburn-Montfort’s bizarre face looking much the worse for wear and regarding him with an expression of horror. It dodged away.

He had to ring three times before the Colonel opened the door on a wave of gin. For a moment Alleyn thought, as he had with Chubb, that it might be slammed in his face. Inside the house someone was speaking on the telephone.

The Colonel said: ‘Yes?’

‘If it’s not inconvenient I’d like to have two words with Mrs Cockburn-Montfort,’ Alleyn said.

‘Out of the question I’m ’fraid. She’s unwell. She’s in bed.’

‘I’m sorry. In that case, with you, if you’ll be so good as to put up with me.’

‘It doesn’t suit at the moment. I’m sorry. Any case we’ve nothing to add to what we said last night.’

‘Perhaps, Colonel, you’d rather come down to the Yard. We won’t keep you long.’

He glared, red-eyed, at nothing in particular and then said. ‘Damn! All right. You’d better come in.’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Alleyn and did so, pretty smartly, passing the Colonel into a hall with a flight of stairs and two doors, the first of which stood ajar.

Inside the room a voice, hushed but unmistakably Mrs Cockburn-Montfort’s was speaking. ‘Xenny,’ she was saying, ‘It’s true. Here! Now! I’m ringing off.’

‘Not that door. The next,’ shouted the Colonel, but Alleyn had already gone in.

She was dressed in a contemporary version of a garment that Alleyn had heard his mother refer to as a tea-gown: an elaborate confection worn, he rather thought, over pyjamas and held together by ribbons. Her hair had been arranged but insecurely so that it almost looked more dishevelled than it would have done if it had been left to itself. The same appraisement might have been made of her face. She was smoking.

When she saw Alleyn she gestured with both hands rather as if something fluttered near her nose. She took a step backwards and saw her husband in the doorway.

‘Why’ve you come down, Chrissie?’ he said. ‘You’re meant to stay in bed.’

‘I – I’d run out of cigarettes.’ She pointed a shaky finger at Alleyn. ‘You again!’ she said with a pretty awful attempt at playfulness.

‘Me again, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry to pounce like this but one or two things have cropped up.’

Her hands were at her hair, ‘I’m in no state – Too shaming!’ she cried. ‘What will you think!’

‘You’d better go back to bed,’ her husband said brutally. ‘Here! I’ll take you.’

She’s signalled, Alleyn thought. I can’t prevent this.

‘I’ll just tidy up a bit,’ she said. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’

They went out, he holding her arm above the elbow.

And now, Alleyn thought, she’ll tell him she’s telephoned the Sanskrit. If it was the Sanskrit and I’ll lay my shirt on it. They’re cooking up what they’re going to say to me.

He heard a door slam upstairs.

He looked round the drawing-room. Half conventional, half ‘contemporary’. Different coloured walls, ‘with-it’ ornaments and one or two collages and a mobile mingled disconsolately with pouffes, simpering water-colours and martial photographs of the Colonel, one of which showed him in shorts and helmet with a Ng’ombwanan regiment forming a background. A ladylike desk upon which the telephone now gave out a click.

Alleyn was beside it. He lifted the receiver and heard someone dialling. The ringing sound set in. After a longish pause a muffled voice said ‘Yes?’

‘That you, Zenoclea?’ The Colonel said, ‘Chrissie rang you a moment ago, didn’t she? All right. He’s here.’

‘Be careful.’ (The Sanskrit, sure enough.)

‘Of course. This is only to warn you.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘My dear Xenny! Look! He may call on you.’

‘Why?’

‘God knows. I’ll come round later, or ring. ’Bye.’

A click and then the dialling tone.

Alleyn hung up and walked over to the window.

He was gazing at the distant prospect of the Basilica when the Colonel re-entered the room. Alleyn saw at once that he had decided on a change of manner. He came in jauntily.

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘There we are! Chrissie’s insisting on making herself presentable. She’ll be down in a moment. Says she feels quite equal to it. Come and take a pew. I think a drink while we wait is indicated, don’t you? What shall it be?’

‘Very civil of you,’ Alleyn said, speaking the language, ‘but it’s not on for me, I’m afraid. Please don’t let me stop you, though.’

‘Not when you’re on guard duty, what? Bad luck! Well, just to show there’s no ill-feeling,’ said the Colonel, ‘I think I will.’

He opened a door at the far end of the room and went into what evidently was his study. Alleyn saw a martial collection of sword, service automatic and a massive hunting rifle hung on the wall. The Colonel returned with a bottle in one hand and a very large gin in the other.

‘Your very good health,’ he said and drank half of it.

Fortified and refreshed, it seemed, he talked away easily about the assassination. He took it for granted, or appeared to do so, that the spearsman had killed the Ambassador in mistake for the President. He said that you never could tell with blacks, that he knew them, that he’d had more experience of them, he ventured to claim, than most. ‘Bloody good fighting men, mind you, but you can’t trust them beyond a certain point.’ He thought you could depend upon it that when the President and his entourage had got back to Ng’ombwana the whole thing would be dealt with in their way and very little would be heard of it. ‘There’ll be a new mlinzi on duty and no questions asked, I wouldn’t wonder. On the other hand, he may decide to make a public example.’

‘By that do you mean a public execution?’

‘Don’t take me up on that, old man,’ said the Colonel, who was helping himself to another double gin. ‘He hasn’t gone in for that particular exercise, so far. Not like the late lamented, f’instance.’

‘The Ambassador?’