Death on the Air by Ngaio Marsh Page A

abnormally sensitive and he didn’t think he’d ever really get over the awful shock this had been to him. What, he wondered, could be at the bottom of it? Why had poor old Cann decided to end it all?
    â€˜Miss Bourne’s theory,’ Alleyn began. Mr George laughed. ‘Coralie?’ he said. ‘So she’s got a theory! Oh, well. Never mind.’
    â€˜Her theory is this. Cumberland saw a man whom he mistook for her husband and, having a morbid dread of his return, drank the greater part of a bottle of whisky and gassed himself. The clothes and beard that deceived him had, I understand, been ordered by you for Mr Anthony Gill.’
    This statement produced startling results. Barry George broke into a spate of expostulation and apology. There had been no thought in his mind of resurrecting poor old Ben, who was no doubt dead but had been, mind you, in many ways one of the best. They were all to go to the Ball as exaggerated characters from melodrama. Not for the world – he gesticulated and protested. A line of sweat broke out along the margin of his hair. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ he shouted. ‘What are you suggesting?’
    â€˜I’m suggesting, among other things, that Cumberland was murdered.’
    â€˜You’re mad! He’d locked himself in. They had to break down the door. There’s no window. You’re crazy!’
    â€˜Don’t,’ Alleyn said wearily, ‘let us have any nonsense about sealed rooms. Now, Mr George, you knew Benjamin Vlasnoff pretty well. Are you going to tell us that when you suggested Mr Gill should wear a coat with a fur collar, a blacksombrero, black gloves and a red beard, it never occurred to you that his appearance might be a shock to Miss Bourne and to Cumberland?’
    â€˜I wasn’t the only one,’ he blustered. ‘HJ knew. And if it had scared him off,
she
wouldn’t have been so sorry. She’d had about enough of him. Anyway if this is murder, the costume’s got nothing to do with it.’
    â€˜That,’ Alleyn said, getting up, ‘is what we hope to find out.’
    In Barry George’s room, Detective Sergeant Bailey, a fingerprint expert, stood by the gas heater. Sergeant Gibson, a police photographer, and a uniformed constable were near the door. In the centre of the room stood Barry George, looking from one man to another and picking at his lips.
    â€˜I don’t know why he wants me to watch all this,’ he said. ‘I’m exhausted. I’m emotionally used up. What’s he doing? Where is he?’
    Alleyn was next door in Cumberland’s dressing room, with HJ, Mike and Sergeant Thompson. It was pretty clear now of fumes and the gas fire was burning comfortably. Sergeant Thompson sprawled in the armchair near the heater, his head sunk and his eyes shut.
    â€˜This is the theory, Mr Bannington,’. Alleyn said. ‘You and Cumberland have made your final exits; Miss Bourne and Mr George and Miss Gay are all on the stage. Lord Michael is standing just outside the entrance to the passage. The dressers and stage staff are watching the play from the side. Cumberland has locked himself in this room. There he is, dead drunk and sound asleep. The gas fire is burning, full pressure. Earlier in the evening he powdered himself and a thick layer of the powder lies undisturbed on the tap. Now.’
    He tapped on the wall.
    The fire blew out with a sharp explosion. This was followed by the hiss of escaping gas. Alleyn turned the taps off. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I’ve left an excellent print on the powdered surface. Now, come next door.’
    Next door, Barry George appealed to him stammering: ‘But I didn’t know. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t
know
.’
    â€˜Just show Mr Bannington, will you, Bailey?’
    Bailey knelt down. The lead-in was disconnected from the tap on the heater. He turned on