“Where?”
“The Embassy.”
“Right. Stay put.”
“Urgent,” Alleyn said to Mr. Whipplestone. “See you later.”
He left the house as Fox got out of the car under the trees and came towards him.
“Bomb scare,” said Fox. “On the blower.”
“I know. Come on. The Embassy.”
They got into the car. On the way to the Embassy, which was more roundabout than the way through the hole in the wall, Fox said a disguised voice had rung the Yard. The Yard was ringing Troy and had alerted Gibson and all on duty in the area.
“The President’s on his way back,” Alleyn said. “Troy’s had the muffled voice, too.”
“The escort car will have got the message.”
“I hope so.”
“A hoax, do you reckon?”
“Considering the outlandish nature of the material we’re supposed to be handling, it’s impossible to guess. As usual we take it for real. But I tell you what, Br’er Fox, I’ve got a nasty feeling that if it is a hoax it’s a hoax with a purpose. Another name for it might be red-herring. We’ll see Fred and then get back to our own patch. That Royal Academician in the Mews had better be keeping his eyes open. Here we are.”
They had turned out of a main thoroughfare, with their siren blaring, into Palace Park Gardens, and there outside the Embassy, emerging from his police escort’s car, was the Boomer, closely followed by his mlinzi and the Afghan hound. Alleyn and Fox left their car and approached him. He hailed them vigorously.
“Hullo, hullo!” shouted the Boomer. “Here are turn-ups for the books! You have heard the latest, I suppose?”
“We have,” said Alleyn. “Where’s the Embassy car?”
“Where? Where? Half-way between here and there, ‘there’ being your own house, to be specific. The good Gibson and his henchmen are looking under the seats for bombs. Your wife required me no longer. I left a little early. Shall we go indoors?”
Alleyn excused himself and was glad to see them off. The driver of the official police car was talking into his radio. He said: “Mr. Alleyn’s here now, sir. Yes, sir.”
“All right,” Alleyn said and got into the car.
It was Gibson. “So you’ve heard?” he said. “Nothing so far but we haven’t finished.”
“Did you hear the call?”
“No. He or she rang the Yard. Info is that he probably spoke through a handkerchief.”
“He or she?”
“The voice was peculiar. A kind of squeaky whisper. They reckon it sounded frightened or excited or both. The exact words were: ‘Is that Scotland Yard? There’s a bomb in the Black Embassy car. Won’t be long now.’ Call not traced. They thought the car would be outside your place and a minute or so was lost ascertaining it was on the way back. All my chaps were alerted and came on the scene pronto. Oh, and they say he seemed to speak with a lisp.”
“Like hell they do! So would they with a mouthful of handkerchief. Who’s on the Capricorn ground?”
“A copper in a wig with coloured chalks.”
“I know all about him. That all?”
“Yes,” said Gibson. “The others were ordered round here,” and added with a show of resentment, “My job’s mounting security over this big, bloody black headache and a bloody gutty show it’s turned out to be.”
“All right, Fred. I know. It’s a stinker. I’ll get back there myself. What about you?”
“I’ll stick here with the suspect car. Look!” said Gibson with the nearest approach of shrillness that Alleyn would have thought possible, “it’s got to such a pitch that I’d welcome a straight case of bomb disposal and no nonsense. There you are! I’d welcome it.”
Alleyn was forming what conciliatory phrases he could offer when he was again called to the radio. It was the gifted Sergeant Jacks.
“Sir,” said the sergeant in some agitation. “I better report.”
“What?”
“This bomb scare, sir. Just before it broke the military gentleman, Colonel Whatsit, beg pardon, came walking very rigid and careful up to the pig-pottery and leant on the bell of the door into their flat. And then the scare broke, sir. Mr. Gibson’s chap, keeping obbo in a car near the entrance to Capricorn Passage, sir, came round and told me quick, through the driving window, that it was a general alert, sir. And while he was talking, a dirty great van pulled out of the garage and obscured my view of the pottery. Well, sir, I’d got my orders from you to stay where I am. And Mr. Gibson’s chap drove off. Meanwhile a traffic jam had built up in the Mews behind the van. I couldn’t get a sight of the pottery but I could hear the Colonel. He’d started up yelling. Something like: ‘Open the bloody door, damn you, and let me in.’ And then the drivers began sounding off on their horns. It was like that for at least five minutes, sir.”
“Could anybody — could two enormous people — have got out and away while this lasted?”
“I reckon not, because it sorted itself out, sir, and when it had cleared, there was the Colonel still at the piggery door and still leaning on the bell. And he’s leaning on it now. And yelling a bit but kind of fading out. I reckon he’s so drunk he’s had it. What’ll I do, sir?”
“Where are you?”
“Ducked down behind my easel. It’s a bit awkward but I thought I’d risk it. Could you hold on, sir?”
An interval of street noises. Alleyn held on and the voice returned. “I’m up the alleyway, sir. I had to duck. The gentleman from the basement of No. 1, the Walk, passed the end of the alleyway going toward the pottery.”
“Get back to your easel and watch.”
“Sir.”
“I’m on my way. Over and out. Capricorn Square,” Alleyn said to the driver. “Quick as you can make it but no siren.”
“What was all that, then?” asked Fox. When he was informed he remarked that the painter-chap seemed to be reasonably practical and active even if he did get himself up like a right Charlie. Mr. Fox had a prejudice against what he called “fancy-dress coppers.” His own sole gesture in that line was to put on an ancient Donegal tweed ulster and an out-of-date felt hat. It was surprising how effectively these lendings disguised his personality.
When they reached the Square, Alleyn said: “We’d better separate. This is tricky. Sheridan-Gomez is the only one of the gang that doesn’t know me. The others might remember you from your checking out activities after the party. Have you got your nighty with you?”
“If you mean my Donegal ulster, yes I have. It’s in the back.”
“And the head-gear?”
“Rolled up in the pocket.”
“When you’ve dolled yourself up in them you might stroll to the piggery by way of the Square and Capricorn Place. I’ll take the Walk and the Mews. We’ll no doubt encounter each other in the vicinity of the piggery.”
Fox went off looking like a North of Ireland corn chandler on holiday, and Alleyn turned into Capricorn Walk looking like himself.
Lucy Lockett, taking the sun on the steps of No. 1, rolled over at him as he passed.
No doubt, Alleyn reflected, Gibson’s men patrolling the Capricorns, who had been diverted to the Embassy on the bomb alarm, would soon return to their ground. At the moment there was no sign of them.
It was the busiest time of day in the Capricorns and a pretty constant two-way stream of traffic moved along the Walk. Alleyn used it to screen his approach to the house-decorator’s shop on the corner of the Mews. From here, looking sideways through the windows, he had a view down the Mews to the pottery at the far end. Intermittently he had glimpses of the gifted Sergeant Jacks at his easel, but commercial vehicles backing and filling outside the garage constantly shut him off. The pottery flashed in and out of view like the fractional revelations of commercial television. Now it was Colonel Cockburn-Montfort, still at the pottery flat door, with Gomez beside him. And then, as if by sleight-of-hand, Chubb was there with them in consultation. Now a van drove into the Mews, fetched up outside the Napoli and began to deliver cartons and crates, and there was no view at all.