Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
Fred Gibson, a vast, pale, muted man who was careful to point out that they were there at the express invitation of the Ng’ombwanan Ambassador and were, virtually, on Ng’ombwanan soil.
‘We’re here on sufferance if you like,’ Gibson said in his paddy voice. ‘Of course they’re still a Commonwealth nation, of sorts, but I reckon they could say “thanks a lot, goodbye for now” any time they fancied.’
‘I believe they could, Fred.’
‘Not that I want the job. Gawd, no! But as soon as His Nibs pokes his nose out of doors he’s our bit of trouble and no mistake.’
‘Tricky for you,’ said Alleyn. He and Gibson had been associates in their early days and knew each other pretty well.
They were at one end of a reception saloon or ballroom to which they had been shown by an enormous African flunkey, who had then withdrawn to the opposite end where he waited, motionless.
Alleyn was looking at a shallow recess which occupied almost the whole of their end. It was lined with a crimson and gold paper on which had been hung Ng’ombwanan artifacts – shields, masks, cloaks, spears – so assembled as to form a sort of giant African Trophy flanked with Heraldic Achievements. At the base of this display was a ceremonial drum. A spotlight had been set to cover the area. It was an impressive arrangement and in effect harked back to the days when the house was built and Nubian statues and little black turbaned pages were the rage in London. The Boomer, Alleyn thought, would not be displeased.
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 on account 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 WCs 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 sort 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 and 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 goings 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 his 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 9.30 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