“What a very grand party,” he said.
“Disproportionate, would you say?” Alleyn hinted.
“Well, coming it rather strong, perhaps. I keep thinking of Martin Chuzzlewit.”
“ ‘Todgers were going it’?”
“Yes.” Mr. Whipplestone looked very directly at Alleyn. “All going well in your part of the picture?” he asked.
“Not mine, you know.”
“But you’ve been consulted.”
“Oh,” said Alleyn, “that! Vaguely. Quite unofficial. I was invited to view. Brother Gibson’s laid on a maximum job.”
“Good.”
“By the way, did you know your man was on the strength tonight? Chubb?”
“Oh, yes. He and Mrs. Chubb have been on the caterer’s supplementary list for many years, he tells me. They’re often called upon.”
“Yes.”
“Another of our coincidences, did you think?”
“Well — hardly that, perhaps.”
“How’s Lucy Lockett?” Troy asked.
Mr. Whipplestone made the little grimace that allowed his glass to dangle. “Behaving herself with decorum,” he said, primly.
“No more thieving sorties?”
“Thank God, no,” he said with some fervour. “You must meet her, both of you,” he added, “and try Mrs. Chubb’s cooking. Do say you will.”
“We’d like that very much,” said Troy warmly.
“I’ll telephone tomorrow and we’ll arrange a time.”
“By the way,” Alleyn said, “talking of Lucy Lockett reminds me of your Mr. Sheridan. Have you any idea what he does?”
“Something in the City, I think. Why?”
“It’s just that the link with the Sanskrit couple gives him a certain interest. There’s no connection with Ng’ombwana?”
“Not that I know.”
“He’s not here tonight,” Alleyn said.
One of the A.D.C.s was making his way through the thickening crowd. Alleyn recognized him as his escort in Ng’ombwana. He saw Alleyn and came straight to him, all eyes and teeth.
“Mr. Alleyn, His Excellency the Ambassador wishes me to say that the President will be very pleased if you and Mrs. Alleyn will join the official party for the entertainment in the garden. I will escort you when the time comes. Perhaps we could meet here.”
“That’s very kind,” Alleyn said. “We shall be honoured.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Whipplestone when the A.D.C. had gone, “Todgers are going it and no mistake.”
“It’s the Boomer at it again. I wish he wouldn’t.”
Troy said: “What do you suppose he meant when he said he had a favour to ask.”
“He said it to you, darling. Not me.”
“I’ve got one I’d like to ask him, all right.”
“No prize offered for guessing the answer. She wants,” Alleyn explained to Mr. Whipplestone, “to paint him.”
“Surely,” he rejoined with his little bow, “that wish has only to be made known — Good God!”
He had broken off to stare at the entrance into the saloon where the last arrivals were coming in. Among them, larger, taller, immeasurably more conspicuous than anyone else in their neighbourhood, were Mr. Whipplestone’s bugbears: the Sanskrits, brother and sister.
They were, by and large, appropriately attired. That is to say, they wore full evening dress. The man’s shirt, to Mr. Whipplestone’s utterly conventional taste, was unspeakable, being heavily frilled and lacy with a sequin or two winking in its depths. He wore many rings on his dimpled fingers. His fair hair was cut in a fringe and concealed his ears. He was skilfully but unmistakably en maquillage, as Mr. Whipplestone shudderingly put it to himself. The sister, vast in green fringed satin, also wore her hair, which was purple, in a fringe and side-pieces. These in effect squared her enormous face. They moved slowly, like two huge vessels shoved from behind by tugs.
“I thought you’d be surprised,” Alleyn said. He bent his head and shoulders, being so tall, in order that he and Mr. Whipplestone could converse without shouting. The conglomerate roar of voices now almost drowned the orchestra, which pursuing its course through the century had now reached the heyday of Cochran’s Revues.
“You knew they were invited?” Mr. Whipplestone said, referring to the Sanskrits. “Well, really!”
“Not very delicious, I agree. By the way, somewhere here there’s another brace of birds from your Capricorn preserves.”
“Not—”
“The Montforts.”
“That is less upsetting.”
“The Colonel had a big hand, it appears, in setting up their army.”
Mr. Whipplestone looked steadily at him. “Are you talking about Cockburn-Monfort?” he said at last.
“That’s right.”
“Then why the devil couldn’t his wife say so,” he crossly exclaimed. “Silly creature! Why leave out the Cockburn? Too tiresome. Yes, well, naturally he’d be asked. I never met him. He hadn’t appeared on the scene in my early days and he’d gone when I returned.” He thought for a moment. “Sadly run to seed,” he said. “And his wife, too, I’m afraid.”
“The bottle?”
“I should imagine the bottle. I did tell you, didn’t I, that they were there in Sheridan’s basement that evening when I called. And that she dodged down?”
“You did, indeed.”
“And that she had — um—?”
“Accosted you in the pet-shop? Yes.”
“Quite so.”
“Well, I daresay she’ll have another fling if she spots you tonight. You might introduce us, if she does.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
And after about ten minutes Mr. Whipplestone said that there the Cockburn-Montforts, in fact, were, some thirty feet away and drifting in their direction. Alleyn suggested that they move casually towards them.
“Well, my dear fellow, if you insist.”
So it was done. Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort spotted Mr. Whipplestone and bowed. They saw her speak to her husband, obviously suggesting they should effect an encounter.
“Good evening!” she cried as they approached. “What odd places we meet in, don’t we? Animal shops and embassies.” And when they were actually face-to-face: “I’ve told my husband about you and your piteous little pusscat. Darling, this is Mr. Whipplestone, our new boy at No. 1, the Walk. Remember?”
“Hiyar,” said Colonel Cockburn-Montfort.
Mr. Whipplestone, following what he conceived to be Alleyn’s wishes, modestly deployed his social expertise. “How do you do,” he said, and to the lady: “Do you know, I feel quite ashamed of myself. I didn’t realize, when we encountered, that your husband was the Cockburn-Montfort. Of Ng’ombwana,” he added, seeing that she looked nonplussed.
“Oh. Didn’t you? We rather tend to let people forget the Cockburn half. So often and so shy-makingly mispronounced,” said Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort, gazing up first at Alleyn and then at Mr. Whipplestone, who thought, “At least they both seem to be sober,” and he reflected that very likely they were never entirely drunk. He introduced Alleyn, and at once she switched all her attention to him, occasionally throwing a haggard, comradely glance at Troy, upon whom, after a long, glazed look, the Colonel settled his attention.
In comparison with the Sanskrits they were, Mr. Whipplestone thought, really not so awful, or perhaps more accurately, they were awful in a more acceptable way. The Colonel, whose voice was hoarse, told Troy that he and his wife had been hard on the Alleyn’s heels when they were greeted by the President. He was evidently curious about the cordiality of their reception and began, without much subtlety, to fish. Had she been to Ng’ombwana? If so, why had they never met? He would certainly have not forgotten if they had, he added, and performed the gesture of brushing up his moustache at the corners while allowing his eyes to goggle slightly. He became quite persistent in his gallantries, and Troy thought the best way to cut them short was to say that her husband had been at school with the President.