Death on the Air by Ngaio Marsh Page B

the tap in the pipe and blew down the tube.
    â€˜An air lock, you see. It works perfectly.’
    HJ was staring at Barry George. ‘But I don’t know about gas, HJ, HJ, tell them—’
    â€˜One moment.’ Alleyn removed the towels that had been spread over the dressing shelf, revealing a sheet of clean paper on which lay the rubber push-on connection.
    â€˜Will you take this lens, Bannington, and look at it. You’ll see that it’s stained a florid red. It’s a very slight stain but it’s unmistakably greasepaint. And just above the stain you’ll see a wiry hair. Rather like some sort of packing material, but it’s not that. It’s crepe hair, isn’t it?’
    The lens wavered above the paper.
    â€˜Let me hold it for you,’ Alleyn said. He put his hand over HJ’s shoulder and, with a swift movement, plucked a tuft from his false moustache and dropped it on the paper. ‘Identical, you see, ginger. It seems to be stuck to the connection with spirit gum.’
    The lens fell. HJ twisted round, faced Alleyn for a second, and then struck him full in the face. He was a small man but it took three of them to hold him.
    â€˜In a way, sir, it’s handy when they have a smack at you,’ said Detective Sergeant Thompson half an hour later. ‘You can pull them in nice and straightforward without any “will you come to the station and make a statement” business.’
    â€˜Quite,’ said Alleyn, nursing his jaw.
    Mike said: ‘He must have gone to the room after Barry George and Miss Bourne were called.’
    â€˜That’s it. He had to be quick. The call boy would be round in a minute and he had to be back in his own room.’
    â€˜But look here – what about motive?’
    â€˜That, my good Mike, is precisely why, at half past one in the morning, we’re still in this miserable theatre. You’re getting a view of the duller aspect of homicide. Want to go home?’
    â€˜No. Give me another job.’
    â€˜Very well. About ten feet from the prompt entrance, there’s a sort of garbage tin. Go through it.’
    At seventeen minutes to two, when the dressing rooms and passage had been combed clean and Alleyn had called a spell, Mike came to him with filthy hands. ‘
Eureka
,’ he said, ‘I hope.’
    They all went into Bannington’s room. Alleyn spread out on the dressing table the fragments of paper that Mike had given him.
    â€˜They’d been pushed down to the bottom of the tin,’ Mike said.
    Alleyn moved the fragments about. Thompson whistled through his teeth. Bailey and Gibson mumbled together.
    â€˜There you are,’ Alleyn said at last.
    They collected round him. The letter that HJ Bannington had opened at this same table six hours and forty five minutes earlier, was pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle.
    Dear HJ,
    Having seen the monthly statement of my account, I called at my bank this morning and was shown a cheque that is undoubtedly a forgery. Your histrionic versatility, my dear HJ, is only equalled by your audacity as a calligraphist. But fame has its disadvantages. The teller has recognized you. I propose to take action
.
    â€˜Unsigned,’ said Bailey.
    â€˜Look at the card on the red roses in Miss Bourne’s room signed CC. It’s a very distinctive hand.’ Alleyn turned to Mike. ‘Do you still want to be a policeman?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Lord help you. Come and talk to me at the office tomorrow.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir.’
    They went out, leaving a constable on duty. It was a cold morning. Mike looked up at the façade of the Jupiter. He could just make out the shape of the neon sign: I CAN FIND MY WAY OUT
by Anthony Gill
.

CHAPTER AND VERSE: THE LITTLE COPPLESTONE MYSTERY

    Chapter and Verse
was first published in
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
(USA) in 1973
    W hen the telephone rang, Troy came in, sun-dazzled, from the