Free Death on the Air by Ngaio Marsh

and left of the passage, nearest the stage end, were two doors, each with its star in tarnished paint. The door on the left was open. HJ looked in and was greeted with the smell of greasepaint, powder, wet white, and flowers. A gas fire droned comfortably. Coralie Bourne’s dresser was spreading out towels. ‘Good evening, Katie, my jewel,’ said HJ. ‘La Belle not down yet?’
    â€˜We’re on our way,’ she said.
    HJ hummed stylishly: ‘
Bella filia del amore
,’ and returned to the passage. The star room on the right was closed but he could hear Cumberland’s dresser moving about inside. He went on to the next door, paused, read the card, ‘Mr Barry George,’ warbled a high derisive note, turned in at the third door and switched on the light.
    Definitely not a second lead’s room. No fire. A washbasin, however, and opposite mirrors. A stack of telegrams had been placed on the dressing table. Still singing he reached for them,disclosing a number of bills that had been tactfully laid underneath and a letter, addressed in a flamboyant script.
    His voice might have been mechanically produced and arbitrarily switched off, so abruptly did his song end in the middle of a roulade. He let the telegrams fall on the table, took up the letter and tore it open. His face, wretchedly pale, was reflected and endlessly re-reflected in the mirrors.
    At nine o’clock the telephone rang. Roderick Alleyn answered it. ‘This is Sloane 84405. No, you’re on the wrong number.
No
.’ He hung up and returned to his wife and guest. ‘That’s the fifth time in two hours.’
    â€˜Do let’s ask for a new number.’
    â€˜We might get next door to something worse.’
    The telephone rang again. ‘This is not 84406,’ Alleyn warned it. ‘No, I cannot take three large trunks to Victoria Station. No, I am not the Instant All Night Delivery. No.’
    â€˜They’re 84406,’ Mrs Alleyn explained to Lord Michael Lamprey. ‘I suppose it’s just faulty dialling, but you can’t imagine how angry everyone gets. Why do you want to be a policeman?’
    â€˜It’s a dull hard job, you know—’ Alleyn began.
    â€˜Oh,’ Lord Mike said, stretching his legs and looking critically at his shoes, ‘I don’t for a moment imagine I’ll leap immediately into false whiskers and plainclothes. No, no. But I’m revoltingly healthy, sir. Strong as a horse. And I don’t think I’m as stupid as you might feel inclined to imagine—’
    The telephone rang.
    â€˜I say, do let me answer it,’ Mike suggested and did so.
    â€˜Hullo?’ he said winningly. He listened, smiling at his hostess. ‘I’m afraid—’ he began. ‘Here, wait a bit – Yes, but—’ His expression became blank and complacent. ‘May I,’ he said presently, ‘repeat your order, sir? Can’t be too sure, can we? Call at 11 Harrow Gardens, Sloane Square, for one suitcase to be delivered immediately at the Jupiter Theatre to Mr Anthony Gill. Very good, sir. Thank you, sir. Collect. Quite.’
    He replaced the receiver and beamed at the Alleyns.
    â€˜What the devil have you been up to?’ Alleyn said.
    â€˜He just simply wouldn’t listen to reason. I tried to tell him.’
    â€˜But it may be urgent,’ Mrs Alleyn ejaculated.
    â€˜It couldn’t be more urgent, really. It’s a suitcase for Tony Gill at the Jupiter.’
    â€˜Well, then—’
    â€˜I was at Eton with the chap,’ said Mike reminiscently. ‘He’s four years older than I am so of course he was madly important while I was less than the dust. This’ll larn him.’
    â€˜I think you’d better put that order through at once,’ said Alleyn firmly.
    â€˜I rather thought of executing it myself, do you know, sir. It’d be a frightfully neat way of gate-crashing the show,