Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
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Название: Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake
Автор: Ngaio Marsh
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Классическая проза
isbn: 9780007531448
isbn:
‘You mean,’ said Fox, ‘the idea that Mrs C-M and this little gang had something laid on and never got beyond the first move because the spearsman hopped in and beat them to it?’
‘Is that what I mean? Yes, of course it is, but blow me down flat if it sounds as silly as I expected it to.’
‘It sounds pretty silly to me.’
‘You can’t entertain the notion?’
‘It’d take a big effort.’
‘Well, God knows. You may have to make it. I tell you what, Foxkin. We’ll try and get a bit more on Sheridan if only for tidiness’s sake. And we’ll take a long shot and give ourselves the dreary task of finding out how a girl of sixteen was killed in London on the first of May, 1969. Name Glenys Chubb.’
‘Car accident?’
‘We don’t know. I get the impression that although the word accident was used, it was not used correctly. Lurking round the fringe of my rotten memory there’s something or another, and it may be so much nonsense, about the name Chubb in connection with an unsolved homicide. We weren’t involved. Not on our ground.’
‘Chubb,’ mused Fox. ‘Chubb, now. Yes. Yes, there was something. Now, what was it? Wait a bit, Mr Alleyn. Hold on.’
Mr Fox went into a glazed stare at nothing in particular from which he was roused by Alleyn bringing his palm down smartly on his desk.
‘Notting Hill Gate,’ Alleyn said. ‘May 1969. Raped and strangled. Man seen leaving the area but never knocked off. That’s it. We’ll have to dig it out, of course, but I bet you that’s it. Still open. He left a red scarf behind and it was identified.’
‘You’re dead right. The case blew out. They knew their man but they never got it tied up.”
‘No. Never.’
‘He was coloured,’ Fox said. ‘A coloured chap, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘He was. He was black. And what’s more – Here! We’ll get on to the Unsolved File for this one and we’ll do it now, by gum.’
It didn’t take long. The Unsolved Homicide file for May 1969 had a succinct account of the murder of Chubb, Glenys, aged sixteen, by a black person believed but never proved to be a native of Ng’ombwana.
When they had closed the file for unsolved homicide, subsection rape and asphyxiation, 1969, Fox remarked that if Chubb hadn’t seemed to have a motive before he certainly had one now. Of a far-fetched sort, Fox allowed, but a motive nevertheless. And in a sort of fashion he argued, this went some way to showing that the society – he was pleased to call it the ‘fishy society’ – had as its objective the confusion, subjection and downfall of The Black.
‘I begin to fancy Chubb,’ said Fox.
At this point Alleyn’s telephone rang. To his great surprise it was Troy who was never known to call him at the Yard. He said: ‘Troy! Anything wrong?’
‘Not really and I’m sorry about this,’ she said rapidly, ‘but I thought you’d better know at once. It’s your Boomer on the blower.’
‘Wanting me?’
‘Strangely enough, no. Wanting me.’
‘Oh?’ said Alleyn with an edge in his voice. ‘Well, he’ll have to wait. What for? No, don’t tell me. It’s about his portrait.’
‘He’s coming. Now. Here. In full fig to be painted. He says he can give me an hour and a half. I tried to demur but he just roared roughshod over my bleating. He said time was of the essence because his visit is to be cut short. He said the conversation can be continued in a few minutes when he arrives and with that he hung up and I think I hear him arriving.’
‘By God, he’s a daisy. I’ll be with you in half an hour or earlier.’
‘You needn’t. It’s not that I’m in the least flustered. It’s only I thought you should know.’
‘You couldn’t be more right. Stick him up in the studio and get cracking. I’ll be there in a jiffy.’
Alleyn clapped down his receiver and said to Fox: ‘Did you get the gist of that? Whistle me up a car, Fox, and see if you can get the word through to Fred Gibson. I suppose he’s on to this caper, but find out. And you stay here in case anything comes through and if it does, call me at home. I’m off.’
When he arrived at the pleasant cul-de-sac where he and Troy had their house, he found the Ng’ombwanan ceremonial car, its flag flying, drawn up at the kerb. A poker-faced black chauffeur sat at the wheel. Alleyn was not surprised to see, a little way along the street on the opposite side, a ‘nondescript’ which is the police term for a disguised vehicle, this time a delivery van. Two men with short haircuts sat in the driver’s compartment. He recognized another of Mr Gibson’s stalwarts sitting at a table outside the pub. A uniformed constable was on duty outside the house. When Alleyn got out of the police car this officer, looking self-conscious, saluted him.
‘How long have you lot been keeping obbo on my pad?’ Alleyn asked.
‘Half an hour, sir. Mr Gibson’s inside, sir. He’s only just arrived and asked me to inform you.’
‘I’ll bet he did,’ Alleyn said and let himself in.
Gibson was in the hall.
He showed something like animation on greeting Alleyn and appeared to be embarrassed. The first thing he had heard of the President’s latest caper, he said, was a radio message that the Ambassadorial Rolls with the Ng’ombwanan flag mounted, had drawn up to the front entrance of the Embassy. His sergeant had spoken to the driver who said the President had ordered it and was going out. The sergeant reached Mr Gibson on radio but before he got to the spot the President, followed by his bodyguard, came out, swept aside the wretched sergeant’s attempts to detain him and shouting out the address to his driver, had been driven away. Gibson and elements of the security forces outside the Embassy had then given chase and taken up the appropriate stations where Alleyn had seen them. When they arrived the President and his mlinzi were already in the house.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Mrs Alleyn,’ said Gibson, coughing slightly, ‘took him to the studio. She said I was to tell you. “The Studio”, she said. He was very sarcastic about me being here. Seemed to think it funny,’ said Gibson resentfully.
‘What about the prime suspect?’
‘Outside the studio door. I’m very, very sorry but without I took positive СКАЧАТЬ