Certainly, the door was not shut in his face, but the moment he turned his back it was shut very quickly.

As he reached the top of the iron steps he was treated to yet another repetitive occurrence. The Sanskrits, brother and sister, were crossing the street towards him. At the same moment his cat, who had come out of hiding, barged against his leg and bolted like black lightning down the street.

The second or two that elapsed while he let himself out by the area gate brought the Sanskrits quite close. Obviously they were again visiting down below. They waited for him to come out. He smelt them and was instantly back in Ng’ombwana. What was it? Sandarac? They made incense of it and burnt it in the markets. The man was as outlandish as ever. Even fatter. And painted. Bedizened. And as Mr. Whipplestone turned quickly away, what had he seen, dangling from that unspeakable neck? A medallion? A white fish? He was further disturbed by the disappearance so precipitately of Lucy, and greatly dismayed by the notion that she might get lost. He was in two minds whether to go after her or call to her and make a fool of himself in so doing.

While he still hestitated he saw a small shadow moving towards him. He did call, and suddenly she came tearing back and, in her familiar fashion, launched herself at him. He carried her up his own steps.

“That’s right,” he said. “You come indoors. Come straight indoors. Where we both belong.”

But when they had reached their haven, Mr. Whipplestone gave himself a drink. He had been disturbed by too many almost simultaneous occurrences, the most troublesome of which was his brief exchange with Mr. Sheridan. “I’ve seen him before,” he said to himself, “and I don’t mean here, when I took the house. I mean in the past. Somewhere. Somewhere. And the impression is not agreeable.”

But his memory was disobliging, and after teasing himself with unprofitable speculation he finished his drink and in a state of well-disciplined excitement telephoned his friend Superintendent Alleyn.

III

Catastrophe

The Ng’ombwanan Embassy had been built for a Georgian merchant prince and was really far too grand, Alleyn saw, for an emergent African republic. It had come upon the market at the expiration of a long lease and had been snatched up by the Boomer’s representatives in London. It would not have ill become a major power.

He saw a splendid house, beautifully proportioned and conveying by its very moderation a sense of calm and spaciousness. The reception rooms, covering almost the whole of the ground floor, gave at the rear on to an extensive garden with, among other felicities, a small lake. This garden had fallen into disrepair but had been most elegantly restored by Vistas of Baronsgate. Their associated firm, Décor and Design, also of Baronsgate, had been responsible for the interior.

“They must have got more than they bargained for,” Alleyn said, “when the occupants brought in their bits and pieces.”

He was casing the premises in the company, and at the invitation, of his opposite number in the Special Branch, Superintendent Fred Gibson, a vast, pale, muted man, who was careful to point out that they were there at the express invitation of the Ng’ombwanan Ambassador and were, virtually, on Ng’ombwanan soil.

“We’re here on sufferance if you like,” Gibson said in his paddy voice. “Of course they’re still a Commonwealth nation of sorts, but I reckon they could say ‘Thanks a lot, goodbye for now’ any time they fancied.”

“I believe they could, Fred.”

“Not that I want the job. Gawd, no! But as soon as His Nibs pokes his nose out-of-doors he’s our bit of trouble and no mistake.”

“Tricky for you,” said Alleyn. He and Gibson had been associates in their early days and knew each other pretty well.

They were at one end of a reception saloon or ballroom to which they had been shown by an enormous African flunkey who had then withdrawn to the opposite end, where he waited, motionless.

Alleyn was looking at a shallow recess which occupied almost the whole of their end. It was lined with a crimson and gold paper on which had been hung Ng’ombwanan artifacts — shields, masks, cloaks, spears — so assembled as to form a sort of giant African Trophy flanked with Heraldic Achievements. At the base of this display was a ceremonial drum. A spotlight had been set to cover the area. It was an impressive arrangement and in effect harked back to the days when the house was built and Nubian statues and little black turbaned pages were the rage in London. The Boomer, Alleyn thought, would not be displeased.

A minstrels’ gallery ran round three sides of the saloon, and Gibson explained that four of his men as well as the orchestra would be stationed up there.

Six pairs of French windows opened on the garden. Vistas had achieved a false perspective by planting on either side of the long pond — yew trees, tall in the foreground, diminishing in size until they ended in miniatures. The pond itself had been correspondingly shaped. It was wide where the trees were tall and narrowed throughout its length. The trompe l’oeil was startling. Alleyn had read somewhere or another of Henry Irving’s production of The Corsican Brothers with six-foot guardsmen nearest the audience and midgets in the background. The effect here, he thought, would be the reverse of Irving’s, for at the far end of the little lake a pavilion had been set up where the Boomer, the Ambassador and a small assortment of distinguished guests would assemble for an al fresco entertainment. From the saloon they would look like Gullivers in Lilliput. Which again, Alleyn reflected, would not displease the Boomer.

He and Gibson spoke in undertones because of the flunkey.

“You see how the land lies,” said Gibson. “I’ll show you the plan in a sec. The whole show — this evening party — takes place on the ground floor. And later in the bloody garden. Nobody goes upstairs except the regular house staff and we look after that one. Someone at every stairhead, don’t you worry. Now. As you see, the entrance hall’s behind us at a lower level and the garden through the windows in front. On your left are the other reception rooms: a smaller drawing-room, the dining-room — you could call it a banqueting hall without going too far — and the kitchens and offices. On our right, opening off the entrance hall behind us, is a sort of ladies’ sitting-room, and off that, on the other side of the alcove with all the hardware,” said Gibson, indicating the Ng’ombwanan trophies, “is the ladies’ cloakroom. Very choice. You know. Ankle-deep carpets. Armchairs, dressing-tables. Face-stuff provided and two attendants. The W.C.’s themselves, four of them, have louvre windows opening on the garden. You could barely get a fair shot at the pavilion through any of them because of intervening trees. Still. We’re putting in a reliable female sergeant.”

“Tarted up as an attendant?”

“Naturally.”

“Fair enough. Where’s the men’s cloakroom?”

“On the other side of the entrance hall. It opens off a sort of smoking-room or what-have-you that’s going to be set up with a bar. The lavatory windows in their case would give a better line on the pavilion and we’re making arrangements accordingly.”

“What about the grounds?”

“The grounds are one hell of a problem. Greenery all over the shop,” grumbled Mr. Gibson.

“High brick wall, though?”

“Oh, yes. And iron spikes, but what of that? We’ll do a complete final search — number one job — at the last moment. House, garden, the lot. And a complete muster of personnel. The catering’s being handled by Costard et Cie of Mayfair. Very high class. Hand-picked staff. All their people are what they call maximum-trusted, long-service employees.”

“They take on extra labour for these sorts of jobs though, don’t they?”