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

Чтение книги онлайн.

       CHAPTER 3

       Catastrophe

      The Ng’ombwanan Embassy had been built for a Georgian merchant prince and was really far too grand, Alleyn saw, for an emergent African republic. It had come upon the market at the expiration of a long lease and had been snatched up by The Boomer’s representatives in London. It would not have ill-become a major power.

      He saw a splendid house, beautifully proportioned and conveying, by its very moderation, a sense of calm and spaciousness. The reception rooms, covering almost the whole of the ground floor, gave at the rear on to an extensive garden with, among other felicities, a small lake. The garden had fallen into disrepair but had been most elegantly restored by Vistas of Baronsgate. Their associated firm, Decor and Design, also of Baronsgate, had been responsible for the interior.

      ‘They must have got more than they bargained for,’ Alleyn said, ‘when the occupants brought in their bits and pieces.’

      He was casing the premises in the company, and at the invitation, of his opposite number in the Special Branch, Superintendent 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at one end of a reception saloon or ballroom to which they had been shown by an enormous African flunkey, who had then withdrawn to the opposite end where he waited, motionless.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 СКАЧАТЬ