So Jacko was alone in the tortured scene he had himself designed.

‘What do we talk about?’ he asked and began to roll himself a cigarette.

‘First of all,’ Alleyn said, ‘I must tell you that I am asking for a general search through the clothes that have been worn in the theatre. We have no warrant at this stage but so far no one has objected.’

‘Then who am I to do so?’

Fox went through his pockets and found a number of curious objects—chalk, pencils, a rubber, a surgeon’s scalpel which Jacko said he used for wood carving, and which was protected by a sheath, a pocket-book with money, a photograph of Helena Hamilton, various scraps of paper with drawings on them, pieces of cotton-wool and an empty bottle smelling strongly of ether. This, he told Alleyn, had contained a fluid used for cleaning purposes. ‘Always they are messing themselves and always I am removing the mess. My overcoat is in the junk room. It contains merely a filthy handkerchief, I believe.’

Alleyn thanked him and returned the scalpel, the pocket-book and drawing-materials. Fox laid the other things aside, sat down and opened his note-book.

‘Next,’ Alleyn said, ‘I think I’d better ask you what your official job is in this theatre. I see by the programme—’

‘The programme,’ Jacko said, ‘is euphemistic. “Assistant to Adam Poole” is it not? Let us rather say: Dogsbody in Ordinary to the Vulcan Theatre. Henchman Extraordinary to Mr Adam Poole. At the moment, dresser to Miss Helena Hamilton. Confidant to all and sundry. Johannes Factotum and not without bells on. Le Vulcan, c’est moi, in a shabby manner of speaking. Also: j’y suis, j’y reste. I hope.’

‘Judging by this scenery,’ Alleyn rejoined, ‘and by an enchanting necklace which I think is your work, there shouldn’t be much doubt about that. But your association with the management goes further back than the Vulcan, doesn’t it?’

‘Twenty years,’ Jacko said, licking his cigarette paper, ‘for twenty years I improvise my role of Pantaloon for them. Foolishness, but such is my deplorable type. The eternal doormat. What can I do for you?’

Alleyn said: ‘You can tell me if you still think Bennington committed suicide?’

Jacko lit his cigarette. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘You are wasting your time.’

‘Was he a vain man?’

‘Immensely. And he knew he was artistically sunk.’

‘Vain of his looks?’

‘But yes, yes!’ Jacko said with great emphasis, and then looked very sharply at Alleyn. ‘Why, of his looks?’

‘Did he object to his make-up in this play? It seemed to me a particularly repulsive one.’

‘He disliked it, yes. He exhibited the vanity of the failing actor in this. Always, always he must be sympathetic. Fortunately Adam insisted on the make-up.’

‘I think you told me that you noticed his face was shiny with sweat before he went for the last time to his room?’

‘I did.’