“Where is he, for God’s sake? You put him somewhere,” Mr. Gibson said, as if the President were a mislaid household utensil.
“In the library. He’s undertaken to stay there until I go back. We’ve got coppers keeping obbo in the passage.”
“I should hope so. If this was a case of the wrong victim, chummy may well be gunning for the right one.”
The sergeant was speaking on the telephone. “Superintendent Alleyn would like a word with you, sir.”
Alleyn detected in Mr. Whipplestone’s voice an overtone of occupational cool. “My dear Alleyn,” he said, “this is a most disturbing occurrence. I understand the Ambassador has been — assassinated.”
“Yes.”
“How very dreadful. Nothing could have been worse.”
“Except the intended target taking the knock.”
“Oh — I see. The President.”
“Listen,” Alleyn said and made his request.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Whipplestone.
“I know it’s asking a lot. Damn cheek in fact. But it would take us some time to raise a neutral interpreter. It wouldn’t do for one of the Ng’ombwanans.”
“No, no, no, no, quite. Be quiet, Lucy. Yes. Very well, I’ll come.”
“I’m uncommonly grateful. You’ll find a car at your door. ’Bye.”
“Coming?” Gibson said.
“Yes. Sergeant, go and ask Mr. Fox to meet him and bring him here, will you? Pale. About sixty. Eyeglass. V.I.P. treatment.”
“Sir.”
And in a few minutes Mr. Whipplestone, stepping discreetly and having exchanged his tailcoat for a well-used smoking jacket, was shown into the room by Inspector Fox, whom Alleyn motioned to stay.
Gibson made a morose fuss of Mr. Whipplestone.
“You’ll appreciate how it is, sir. The President insists on addressing his household staff and—”
“Yes, yes. I quite understand, Mr. Gibson. Difficult for you. I wonder, could I know what happened? It doesn’t really affect the interpreter’s role, of course, but — briefly?”
“Of course you could,” Alleyn said. “Briefly then: Somebody fired a shot that you must have heard, apparently taking aim from the ladies’ loo. It hit nobody, but when the lights went up the Ambassador was lying dead in the pavilion, spitted by the ceremonial Ng’ombwanan spear that was borne behind the President. The spear-carrier was crouched a few paces back, and as far as we can make out — he speaks no English — maintains that in the dark, when everybody was milling about in a hell of a stink over the shot, he was given a chop on the neck and his spear snatched from him.”
“Do you believe this?”
“I don’t know. I was there, in the pavilion, with Troy. She was sitting next to the President and I was beside her. When the shot rang out I told her to stay put and at the same time saw the shape of the Boomer half rise and make as if to go. His figure was momentarily silhouetted against Karbo’s spotlight on the screen at the other end of the lake. I shoved him back in his chair, told him to pipe down, and moved in front of him. A split second later something crashed down at my feet. Some ass called out that the President had been shot. The Boomer and a number of others yelled for lights. They came up and — there was the Ambassador, literally pinned to the ground.”
“A mistake then?”
“That seems to be the general idea — a mistake. They were of almost equal height and similar build. Their uniforms, in silhouette, would look alike. He was speared from behind and, from behind, would show up against the spotlight screen. There’s one other point. My colleague here tells me he had two security men posted near the rear entrance to the pavilion. After the shot they say the black waiter came plunging out. They grabbed him but say he appeared to be just plain scared. That’s right, isn’t it, Fred?”
“That’s the case,” Gibson said. “The point being that while they were finding out what they’d caught, you’ve got to admit that it’s just possible in that bloody blackout, if you’ll excuse me, sir, somebody might have slipped into the pavilion.”
“Somebody?” said Mr. Whipplestone.”
“Well, anybody,” Alleyn said. “Guest, waiter, what-have-you. It’s unlikely but it’s just possible.”
“And got away again? After the — event?”
“Again — just remotely possible. And now, Sam, if you don’t mind—”
“Of course.”
“Where do they hold this tribal gathering, Fred? The President said the ballroom. O.K.?”
“O.K.”
“Could you check with him and lay that on — I’ll see how things are going in the pavilion and then join you. All right? Would that suit you?”
“Fair enough.”
“Fox, will you come with me?”
On the way he gave Fox a succinct account of Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort’s story and of the pistol shot, if pistol shot it was, in its relation to the climactic scene in the garden.
“Quite a little puzzle,” said Fox cosily.
In the pavilion they found two uniform policemen, a photographic and a fingerprint expert — Detective Sergeants Thompson and Bailey-together with Sir James Curtis, never mentioned by the press without the additional gloss of “the celebrated pathologist.” Sir James had completed his superficial examination. The spear, horridly incongruous, still stuck up at an angle from its quarry and was being photographed in a close-up by Thompson. Not far from the body lay an overturned chair.
“This is a pretty kettle of fish you’ve got here, Rory,” said Sir James.
“Is it through the heart?”
“Plumb through and well into the turf underneath, I think we’ll find. Otherwise it wouldn’t be so rigid. It looks as though the assailant followed through the initial thrust and, with a forward lunge, literally pinned him down.”
“Ferocious.”
“Very.”
“Finished?” Alleyn asked Thompson as he straightened up. “Complete coverage? All angles? The lot?”
“Yes, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Bailey? What about dabs?”
Bailey, a mulishly inclined officer, said he’d gone over the spear and could find evidence of only one set of prints and that they were smeared. He added that the camera might bring up something latent but he didn’t hold out many hopes. The angle of the spear to the body had been measured. Sir James said it had been a downward thrust. “Which would indicate a tall man,” he said.
“Or a middle-sized man on a chair?” Alleyn suggested.
“Yes. A possibility.”
“All right,” Alleyn said. “We’d better withdraw that thing.”
“You’ll have a job,” Sir James offered.
They did have a job and the process was unpleasant. In the end the body had to be held down and the spear extracted by a violent jerk, producing a sickening noise and an extrusion of blood.
“Turn him over,” Alleyn said.
The eyes were open and the jaw collapsed, turning the Ambassador’s face into a grotesque mask of astonishment. The wound of entry was larger than that of exit. The closely cropped turf was wet.
“Horrible,” Alleyn said shortly.
“I suppose we can take him away?” Sir James suggested. “I’ll do the P.M. at once.”
“I’m not so sure about that. We’re on Ng’ombwanan ground. We’re on sufferance. The mortuary van’s outside all right, but I don’t think we can do anything about the body unless they say so.”
“Good Lord!”
“There may be all sorts of taboos, observances and what-have-you.”
“Well,” said Sir James, not best pleased, “in that case I’ll take myself off. You might let me know if I’m wanted.”
“Of course. We’re all walking about like a gaggle of Agags, it’s so tricky. Here’s Fred Gibson.”
He had come to say that the President wished the body to be conveyed to the ballroom.