Death on the Air by Ngaio Marsh

door when we came out. It was locked. He said: “Don’t come in.” I said: “It’s all right. It wasn’t Ben,” and went on to the stage.’
    â€˜I heard Miss Bourne,’ Mike said.
    â€˜He must have made up his mind by then. He was terribly drunk when he played his last scene.’ She pushed her hair back from her forehead. ‘May I go?’ she asked Alleyn.
    â€˜I’ve sent for a taxi. Mr Gill, will you see if it’s there? In the meantime, Miss Bourne, would you like to wait in the foyer?’
    â€˜May I take Katie home with me?’
    â€˜Certainly. Thompson will find her. Is there anyone else we can get?’
    â€˜No, thank you. Just old Katie.’
    Alleyn opened the door for her and watched her walk into the foyer. ‘Check up with the dresser, Thompson,’ he murmured, ‘and get Mr H J Bannington.’
    He saw Coralie Bourne sit on the lower step of the dress circle stairway and lean her head against the wall. Nearby, on a gilt easel, a huge photograph of Canning Cumberland smiled handsomely at her.
    H J Bannington looked pretty ghastly. He had rubbed his hand across his face and smeared his makeup. Florid red paint from his lips had stained the crepe hair that had been gummed on and shaped into a beard. His monocle was still in his left eye and gave him an extraordinarily rakish look. ‘See here,’ he complained, ‘I’ve about
had
this party. When do we go home?’
    Alleyn uttered placatory phrases and got him to sit down.He checked over HJ’s movements after Cumberland left the stage and found that his account tallied with Mike’s. He asked if HJ had visited any of the other dressing rooms and was told acidly that HJ knew his place in the company. ‘I remained in my unheated and squalid kennel, thank you very much.’
    â€˜Do you know if Mr Barry George followed your example?’
    â€˜Couldn’t say, old boy. He didn’t come near
me.’
    â€˜Have you any theories at all about this unhappy business, Mr Bannington?’
    â€˜Do you mean, why did Cann do it? Well, speak no ill of the dead, but I’d have thought it was pretty obvious he was morbid-drunk. Tight as an owl when we finished the second act. Ask the great Mr Barry George. Cann took the big scene away from Barry with both hands and left him looking pathetic. All wrong artistically, but that’s how Cann was in his cups.’ HJ’s wicked little eyes narrowed. ‘The great Mr George,’ he said, ‘must be feeling very unpleasant by now. You might say he’d got a suicide on his mind, mightn’t you? Or don’t you know about that?’
    â€˜It was not suicide.’
    The glass dropped from HJ’s eye. ‘God,’ he said. ‘God. I told Bob Reynolds! I told him the whole plant wanted overhauling.’
    â€˜The gas plant, you mean?’
    â€˜Certainly. I was in the gas business years ago. Might say I’m in it still with a difference, ha-ha!’
    â€˜Ha-ha!’ Alleyn agreed politely. He leaned forward. ‘Look here,’ he said: ‘We can’t dig up a gas man at this time of night and may very likely need an expert opinion. You can help us.’
    â€˜Well, old boy, I was rather pining for a spot of shut-eye. But, of course—’
    â€˜I shan’t keep you very long.’
    â€˜God, I hope not!’ said HJ earnestly.
    Barry George had been made up pale for the last act. Colourless lips and shadows under his cheek bones and eyes hadskilfully underlined his character as a repatriated but broken prisoner-of-war. Now, in the glare of the office lamp, he looked like a grossly exaggerated figure of mourning. He began at once to tell Alleyn how grieved and horrified he was. Everybody, he said, had their faults, and poor old Gann was no exception but wasn’t it terrible to think what could happen to a man who let himself go downhill? He, Barry George, was