“Of course,” he said gloomily, “there will be all these perishing fairy-lights. You notice even they get smaller as they go back. To carry out the effect, like. You’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve been thorough.”
“At least they’ll shed a bit of light on the scene.”
“Not for long, don’t you worry. There are going to be musical items and a film. Screen wheeled out against the house here, and the projector on a perch at the far end. And while that’s on, out go the lights except in the pavilion, if you please, where they’re putting an ornamental god-almighty lamp which will show His Nibs up like a sitting duck.”
“How long docs that last?”
“Twenty minutes all told. There’s some kind of dance. Followed by a native turn-out with drums and one or two other items including a singer. The whole thing covers about an hour. At the expiration of which you all come back for supper in the banqueting room. And then, please God, you all go home.”
“You couldn’t persuade them to modify their plans at all?”
“Not a chance. It’s been laid on by headquarters.”
“Do you mean in Ng’ombwana, Fred?”
“That’s right. Two chaps from Vistas and Décor and Design were flown out with plans and photographs of this pad at which the President took a long hard look and then dreamt up the whole treatment. He sent one of his henchmen over to see it was laid on according to specifications. I reckon it’s as much as the Ambassador’s job’s worth to change it. And how do you like this?” Gibson asked with a poignant note of outrage in his normally colourless voice. “The Ambassador’s given us definite instruction to keep well away from this bloody pavilion. President’s orders and no excuse-me’s about it.”
“He’s a darling man is the Boomer!”
“He’s making a monkey out of us. I set up a security measure only to be told the President won’t stand for it. Look — I’d turn the whole exercise in if I could get someone to listen to me. Pavilion and all.”
“What if it rains?”
“The whole shooting match moves indoors and why the hell do I say ‘shooting match’?” asked Mr. Gibson moodily.
“So we pray for a wet night?”
“Say that again.”
“Let’s take a look indoors.”
They explored the magnificence of the upper floors, still attended by the Ng’ombwanan spear-carrier, who always removed himself to the greatest possible distance but never left them completely alone. Alleyn tried a remark or two, but the man seemed to have little or no English. His manner was stately and utterly inexpressive.
Gibson re-rehearsed his plan of action for the morrow and Alleyn could find no fault in it. The Special Branch is a bit of a loner in the Service. It does not gossip about its proceedings, and except when they overlap those of another arm, nobody asks it anything. Alleyn, however, was on such terms with Gibson and the circumstances were so unusual as to allow them to relax these austerities. They retired to their car and lit their pipes. Gibson began to talk about subversive elements from emergent independencies known to be based on London and with what he called “violence in their CRO.”
“Some are all on their own,” he said, “and some kind of coagulate like blood. Small-time secret societies. Mostly they don’t get anywhere but there are what you might call malignant areas. And of course you can’t discount the pro.”
“The professional gun?”
“They’re still available. There’s Hinny Packmann. He’s out after doing bird in a Swedish stir. He’d be available if the money was right. He doesn’t operate under three thousand.”
“Hinny’s in Denmark.”
“That’s right, according to Interpol. But he could be imported: I don’t know anything about the political angle,” Gibson said. “Not my scene. Who’d take over if this man was knocked off?”
“I’m told there’d be a revolution of sorts, that mercenaries would be sent in, a puppet government set up, and that in the upshot the big interests would return and take over.”
“Yes. Well, there’s that aspect and then again you might get the solitary fanatic. He’s the type I really do not like,” Gibson said, indignantly drawing a nice distinction between potential assassins. “No record, as likely as not. You don’t know where to look for him.”
“You’ve got the guest list of course.”
“Of course. I’ll show it to you. Wait a sec.”
He fished it out of an inner pocket and they conned it over. Gibson had put a tick beside some five dozen names.
“They’ve all been on the Ng’ombwanan scene in one capacity or another,” he said. “From the oil barons at the top to ex-business men at the bottom, and nearly all of them have been or are in process of being kicked out. The big idea behind this reception seems to be a sort of ‘nothing personal intended’ slant. ‘Everybody loves everybody’ and please come to my party!”
“It hurts me more than it does you?”
“That’s right. And they’ve all accepted, what’s more.”
“Hullo!” Alleyn exclaimed, pointing to the list. “They’ve asked him!”
“Which is that? Ah. Yes. Him. Now, he has got a record.”
“See the list your people kindly supplied to me,” Alleyn said, and produced it.
“That’s right. Not for violence, of course, but a murky background and no error. Nasty bit of work. I don’t much fancy him.”
“His sister makes pottery pigs about one minute away from the Embassy,” said Alleyn.
“I know that. Very umpty little dump. You’d wonder why, wouldn’t you, with all the money he must have made in Ng’ombwana.”
“Has he still got it, though? Mightn’t he be broke?”
“Hard to say. Question of whether he laid off his bets before the troubles began.”
“Do you know about this one?” Alleyn asked, pointing to the name Whipplestone on the guest list.
Gibson instantly reeled off a thumbnail sketch of Mr. Whipplestone.
“That’s the man,” Alleyn said. “Well now, Fred, this may be a matter of no importance, but you may as well lay back your ears and listen.” And he related Mr. Whipplestone’s story of his cat and the pottery fish. “Whipplestone’s a bit perturbed about it,” he said in the end, “but it may be entirely beside the point as far as we’re concerned. This man in the basement, Sheridan, and the odious Sanskrit may simply meet to play bridge. Or they might belong to some potty little esoteric circle: fortune-telling or spiritism or what have you.”
“That’s what Sanskrit first got borrowed for. Fortune-telling and false pretences. He did his bird for drugs. It was after he came out of stir that he set himself up as a merchant in Ng’ombwana. He’s one of the dispossessed,” said Gibson.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I think I saw him outside his erstwhile premises when I was there three weeks ago.”
“Fancy that.”
“About the ones that get together to belly-ache in exile — you don’t, I suppose, know of a fish medallion lot?”
“Nah!” said Gibson disgustedly.
“And Mr. Sheridan doesn’t appear on the guest list.
What about a Colonel and Mrs. Montfort? They were in Sheridan’s flat that evening.”
“Here. Let’s see.”
“No,” Alleyn said, consulting the list. “No Montforts under the M’s.”
“Wait a sec. I knew there was something. Look here. Under C. ‘Lt. Col. Cockburn-Montfort, Barset Light Infantry (retd).’ What a name. Cockburn.”