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But years of waiting did not agree with Ca
Anthony Gill said: “This play—was it—?”
“Yes. There was an extraordinary similarity between your play and his. I saw at once that Ben’s central scene would enormously strengthen your piece. Ca
“What did Cumberland do when he saw you?” Alleyn asked Mike.
“He made a queer movement with his hands as if—well, as if he expected me to go for him. Then he just bolted into his room.”
“He thought Ben had come back,” she said.
“Were you alone at any time after you fainted?” Alleyn asked.
“I? No. No, I wasn’t. Katie took me into my dressing‘ room and stayed with me until I went on for the last scene.”
“One other question. Can you, by any chance, remember if the heater in your room behaved at all oddly?”
She looked wearily at him. “Yes, it did give a sort of plop, I think. It made me jump. I was nervy.”
“You went straight from your room to the stage?”
“Yes. With Katie. I wanted to go to Ca
“I heard Miss Bourne,” Mike said.
“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.
“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?”
“May I take Katie home with me?”
“Certainly. Thompson will find her. Is there anyone else we can get?”
“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. Ba
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 Ca
H. J. Ba
Alleyn uttered placatory phrases and got him to sit down. He checked over H.J.’s movements after Cumberland left the stage and found that his account tallied with Mike’s. He asked if H.J. had visited any of the other dressing-rooms and was told acidly that H.J. knew his place in the company. “I remained in my unheated and squalid ke
“Do you know if Mr. Barry George followed your example?”
“Couldn’t say, old boy. He didn’t come near me.”
“Have you any theories at all about this unhappy business, Mr. Ba
“Do you mean, why did Ca
“It was not suicide.”
The glass dropped from H.J.’s eye. “God,” he said. “God. I told Bob Reynolds! I told him the whole plant wanted overhauling.”
“The gas plant, you mean?”
“Certainly. I was in the gas business years ago. Might say I’m in it still with a difference, ha-ha!”
“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.”
“Well, old boy, I was rather pining for a spot of shut-eye. But, of course— ”
“I shan’t keep you very long.”
“God, I hope not!” said H.J. earnestly.
Barry George had been made up pale for the last act. Colorless lips and shadows under his cheek bones and eyes had skilfully 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 Ca
“Miss Bourne’s theory,” Alleyn began. Mr. George laughed. “Coralie?” he said. “So she’s got a theory! Oh, well. Never mind.”
“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 whiskey 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?”
“I’m suggesting, among other things, that Cumberland was murdered.”
“You’re mad! He’d locked himself in. They had to break down the door. There’s no window. You’re crazy!”
“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 black sombrero, black gloves and a red beard, it never occurred to you that his appearance might be a shock to Miss Bourne and to Cumberland?”
“I wasn’t the only one,” he blustered. “H.J. 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.”
“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.
“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 H.J., 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.