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

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      ‘I know, I know,’ Mr Whipplestone had returned. ‘Of course. It’s just that, however illogically and stupidly, I would prefer Chubb not to have been on duty in that wretched pavilion. Just as I would prefer him not to have odd-time jobs with Sheridan and those beastly Montforts. And it would be rather odd for me to be there, wouldn’t it? Very foolish of me no doubt. Let it go at that.’

      So Alleyn and an anonymous sergeant had Chubb to themselves in the Controller’s office.

      Alleyn said: ‘I want to be quite sure I’ve got this right. You were in and out of the pavilion with champagne which you fetched from an ice box that had been set up outside the pavilion. You did this in conjunction with one of the Embassy servants. He waited on the President and the people immediately surrounding him, didn’t he? I remember that he came to my wife and me soon after we had settled there.’

      ‘Sir,’ said Chubb.

      ‘And you looked after the rest of the party.’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘Yes. Well now, Chubb, we’ve kept you hanging about all this time in the hope that you can give us some help about what happened in the pavilion.’

      ‘Not much chance of that, sir. I never noticed anything, sir.’

      ‘That makes two of us, I’m afraid,’ Alleyn said, ‘It happened like a bolt from the blue, didn’t it? Were you actually in the pavilion? When the lights went out?’

      Yes, it appeared. At the back. He had put his tray down on a trestle table, in preparation for the near blackout about which the servants had all been warned. He had remained there through the first item.

      ‘And were you still there when the singer, Karbo, appeared?’ Yes, he said. Still there. He had had an uninterrupted view of Karbo, standing in his spotlight with his shadow thrown up behind him on the white screen.

      ‘Did you notice where the guard with the spear was standing?’ Yes. At the rear. Behind the President’s chair.

      ‘On your left, would that be?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And your fellow-waiter?’

      ‘The nigger?’ said Chubb, and after a glance at Alleyn, ‘Beg pardon, sir. The native.’

      ‘The African, yes.’

      ‘He was somewhere there. At the rear, I never took no notice,’ said Chubb stonily.

      ‘You didn’t speak to either of them, at all?’

      ‘No, thanks. I wouldn’t think they knew how.’

      ‘You don’t like black people?’ Alleyn said lightly.

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Well. To come to the moment when the shot was fired. I’m getting as many accounts as possible from the people who were in the pavilion and I’d like yours too, if you will. You remember that the performer had given out one note, if that’s the way to put it. A long-drawn-out sound. And then – as you recall it – what?’

      ‘The shot, sir.’

      ‘Did you get an impression about where the sound came from?’

      ‘The house, sir.’

      ‘Yes. Well, now, Chubb. Could you just, as best as you are able, tell me your own impression of what followed the shot. In the pavilion, I mean.’

      Nothing clear-cut emerged. People had stood up. A lady had screamed. A gentleman had shouted out not to panic. (George, Alleyn thought.)

      ‘Yes. But as to what you actually saw from where you were, at the back of the pavilion?’

      Hard to say, exactly Chubb said in his wooden voice. People moving about a bit but not much. Alleyn said that they had appeared, hadn’t they? ‘Like black silhouettes against the spotlight screen.’ Chubb agreed.

      ‘The guard – the man with the spear? He was on your left. Quite close to you. Wasn’t he?’

      ‘At the start, sir, he was. Before the pavilion lights went out.’

      ‘And afterwards?’

      There was a considerable pause: ‘I couldn’t say, exactly, sir. Not straightaway, like.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      Chubb suddenly erupted, ‘I was grabbed,’ he said. ‘He sprung on me. Me! From behind. Me!’

      ‘Grabbed? Do you mean by the spearsman?’

      ‘Not him. The other black bastard.’

      ‘The waiter?’

      ‘Yes. Sprung it on me. From behind. Me!’

      ‘What did he spring on you? A half-Nelson?’

      ‘Head-lock! I couldn’t speak. And he put in the knee.’

      ‘How did you know it was the waiter?’

      ‘I knew all right. I knew and no error.’

      ‘But how?’

      ‘Bare arm for one thing. And the smell: like salad oil or something. I knew.’

      ‘How long did this last?’

      ‘Long enough,’ said Chubb, fingering his neck. ‘Long enough for his mate to put in the spear, I reckon.’

      ‘Did he hold you until the lights went up?’

      ‘No, sir. Only while it was being done. So I couldn’t see it. The stabbing. I was doubled up. Me!’ Chubb reiterated with, if possible, an access of venom. ‘But I heard. The sound. You can’t miss it. And the fall.’

      The sergeant cleared his throat.

      Alleyn said: ‘This is enormously important, Chubb. I’m sure you realize that, don’t you? You’re saying that the Ng’ombwanan waiter attacked and restrained you while the guard speared the Ambassador.’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘All right. Why, do you suppose? I mean, why you, in particular?’

      ‘I was nearest, sir, wasn’t I? I might of got in the way or done something quick, mightn’t I?’

      ‘Was the small, hard chair overturned during this attack?’

      ‘It might of been,’ Chubb said after a pause.

      ‘How old are you, Chubb?’

      ‘Me, sir? Fifty-two, sir.’

      ‘What did you do in World War II?’

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