‘I’ll look into the matter, if that’s what you want?’
Carter nodded but his eyes remained uncertain.
‘Well, let’s start with a list of all those at the rehearsal yesterday who could have had access to your script.’
Carter reeled off the names with a brief description of each. There was his manager, Larry Milligan, producer Edward Simmons, scriptwriter Al Warren, cast members Evelyn Munro, Gilbert Manville, Arthur Keating, announcer Percy Goodall and special guest star Harry Mason.
‘And you don’t think that any of these characters has a particular grudge against you?’
‘No, I don’t …’ He paused awkwardly.
‘Who?’ I asked, picking up on his hesitation.
‘Well, Arthur Keating won’t be feeling too kindly towards me, I suppose.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve rowed in the past about his drinking and unprofessionalism. He’s known for some time that I’ve wanted him out of the show. In fact, I’ve now pushed for him to be dropped from the series. He is rather unreliable. Next week’s show will be his last.’
‘Do you think he’s capable of these threats?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, Mr Carter, in one sense it all looks cut and dried. If one of these people tampered with your script, we must assume that they are the voice of doom. Whether they are serious about the threats is another matter.’
‘I don’t want to wait to find out.’
‘Is there anyone on the list you think we can definitely rule out?’
‘Yes. Larry, my agent, was with me at home, when I received the first phone call, so it can’t be him. And … Evelyn … Miss Munro. She and I … We are seeing each other, if you know what I mean.’
I knew what he meant. However, in my book that didn’t automatically erase her from the list of suspects. In fact, that sort of relationship often places the partner up there at the top.
‘When’s the next rehearsal?’
‘Next Tuesday as usual.’
‘I need to be there. To meet this gang of suspects.’
‘I can arrange that.’
‘Good, but I need to have a role, another persona. I can’t be introduced as your private detective – that will certainly put our voice of doom merchant on the alert. I must be someone who can legitimately hang around with you without any suspicions being aroused. No one must know who I am. Not Miss Munro, or your manager.’
‘That will be difficult.’
‘It is essential. Couldn’t I be your nephew, the son of your elder brother visiting London?’
‘I don’t have an older brother.’
‘You do now.’
For a fleeting moment there was a flash of amusement in Carter’s eyes. ‘OK, if you think we can carry it off.’
‘We can. Keep the details simple. I’m your nephew, John Hawke, whom you haven’t seen for years and I’m down in London from … say Bristol, and I looked you up.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘Some sort of civil servant. I don’t talk about my job. We’ll keep that vague. I’ll call on you next Monday morning to act out the charade in case anyone is watching your place.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘I’ll do my own digging around. If you receive any more threats, contact me immediately with the details.’
Carter nodded gravely and rose to leave.
‘There is one other thing,’ I said sharply.
‘What’s that?’
‘The matter of my fee.’
After Raymond Carter had left, I made a cup of tea, treated myself to a digestive biscuit and had a big think. This was an unusual case but on the surface it seemed to be straightforward. There appeared to be a limited number of suspects and with a little investigation, I should be able to point the finger accurately. All I had to hope is that the phantom caller with the squeaky voice didn’t actually carry out his threat before he could be identified and carted away. Of course, it could all be a rather nasty hoax, something concocted simply to put the wind up Carter. Perhaps he was getting too big for his ventriloquist’s boots and someone wanted to knock him down a peg or two.
Or perhaps someone wanted to murder him.
I knew I had to treat this case with this latter option in mind.
What I needed to find out was the reason why anyone should want to kill Carter in the first place, especially if it was a colleague. Carter must have really got under this person’s skin to build up so much dark passion. It would seem that this wasn’t a spur of the moment decision; our mystery man was planning this in a cold and methodical fashion, which to me suggested deep hatred, hatred that had built up over a period of time. Would a boozy little actor like Arthur Keating really kill someone because he had been kicked off their show? It seemed unlikely, but then not impossible. He had to be my first concern. It would be good to tick him off my list of possible culprits.
I began to feel a little like Agatha Christie’s Poirot. He always ended up with a list of potential suspects and eliminated them one by one. The problem was I didn’t have quite the same supply of ‘little grey cells’ that Belgian poseur seemed to possess enabling him to point the finger of guilt with ease. But what I did have were contacts and if I wanted to know anything about the show-business world there was only one man to see: Limelight Lionel.
FOUR
* * *
I met Limelight Lionel as arranged in the Old Mitre Tavern, his favourite watering hole in Fleet Street. Lionel Dudley, to give him his proper name, was the entertainment gossip king of the Press world, who had a daily column in the Express. He had been around for ever, it seemed, and it was rumoured, jokingly, that Lionel’s first job as a journalist was with William Caxton. No one knew how old he was. He looked ancient, but then he had looked ancient for years. With his white hair and gaunt, ashen features, he appeared as though someone had dipped his head in a tub of whitewash.
I had first encountered Lionel when I’d been a raw constable on the force just before the war and in a strange way we had taken a liking to each other. Maybe it was because he was a fellow orphan. His encyclopaedic knowledge of the world of entertainment was phenomenal and over the years he had been very helpful to me on several occasions. I hoped that this would be the case with my current investigation.
The Old Mitre was dark and sepulchral and when I entered, just after noon, it was still reasonably quiet with only a few customers propping up the bar, journalists mainly moaning about deadlines and sub editors, while fuelling their creative urges. Lionel was in his regular spot, at the far end of the bar.
As usual a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth with at least an inch of ash on the end of it. He raised a hooded eye as I approached his favourite corner table on which stood two pints of dark ale.
‘I got the drinks in, anticipating your imminent arrival,’ he announced, in his croaky whisper of a voice. ‘I told Roger the barman that you’d be paying for these … and the next round.’ He waved a white skeletal hand at a jovial fellow behind the bar and pointed to me. Roger waved back and gave me the thumbs-up sign.
Lionel lowered his cigarette to the ashtray and raised a glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, before downing nearly a third of it in one gulp. I responded with ‘Cheers’ but sipped a more demure portion of my pint.
Lionel sat back, a contented gleam in his eye. ‘I never tire of communing with the ghosts of this place, Jonathan. You know Will Shakespeare and Ben Johnson were patrons of the Mitre. Their shades are still floating about the place. I just hope some of their glory rubs off.’
‘I am sure when you go, they’ll put up a plaque.’
‘More than likely – “Lionel Dudley got pickled here on a regular basis”.’ He gave a strangulated dry cough, amused at his own joke and then suddenly his face turned serious and his rheumy old eyes fixed me with a basilisk stare. ‘So, how can I help you, young Jonathan?’
‘Two names. Two careers. I wondered if you kn
ew anything about these fellows other than what I can glean by trawling through back issues of the Fleet Street rags.’
‘Try me.’
‘Raymond Carter.’
Lionel lit another cigarette and squinted his left eye as the smoke trailed past it.
‘The current cat who’s got the cream. In showbiz there’s always someone who is the passing fancy and he’s it at the moment. On film I reckon it’s a tussle between Will Hay and George Formby. On radio it’s Handley and Carter. Strange, isn’t it that a vent act could be so successful on the wireless where the audience can’t see the little doll and don’t care a bugger if the vent’s lips are moving or not?’
‘It’s the novelty maybe.’
Lionel nodded. ‘And the scripts. This new fellow, Al Warren, is good. He approaches his material like the American writers, quirky: fast-paced, adult and witty.’
‘So Carter is lucky.’
‘They’re all bloody lucky, my son. But, yes, Raymond Carter is luckier than most. He’s been around for years and he was rotten for years. I saw him in 1939 and he was virtually booed off the stage. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good vent. The dummy can be gabbing twenty to the dozen but his face is as stiff as a penis in a brothel. But his jokes. They were out of the ark. Since then he’s ditched that dummy – a kind of naughty schoolboy – and got this saucy Charlie Dokes….’
‘And a new joke writer.’
‘Indeed.’
‘What do you know of his private life?’
Lionel took another gulp of ale and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve before replying. ‘Not much. Started out as personal dogsbody for Cyril Sarony, old time vent. Learned the tricks of the trade from him no doubt. Cyril is long retired. Last time I heard of him, he was in an artiste’s home in Brighton. Don’t know if the old bugger’s still alive. Don’t think Carter has ever been married as far as I know. String of girl-friends, usually chorus tarts after a bit of the spotlight. No scandal if that’s what you’re after. There’s no dirt clinging to his coat tails. None that I’m aware of, anyway. Why do you want to know?’
‘Can’t say at the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘Please your bloody self.’ With an indignant growl, he downed the remainder of his beer and then indicated to Roger to bring another glass.
‘What about Arthur Keating?’
For a brief moment Lionel’s face lit up with a rare smile. ‘Hah! Arthur rubberlegs Keating!’
‘Rubberlegs?’
‘It’s a bloody wonder with all that alcohol inside him he can stand up.’ At this point Roger plonked a fresh pint of ale in front of Lionel whose eyes twinkled at the irony and raised the glass as though examining the contents. ‘Still, shouldn’t laugh. There for the grace of Him Upstairs …’ He took large gulp.
‘Keating …’ I prompted.
‘Keating … is a fool. He has the ability to be a great character comedian but the old demon drink is his master. I mean his little turn on Carter’s show, The Hot Chestnut Man, is a minor triumph of performance and delivery, but every so often the voice falters, the words slur slightly and those with a keen ear for these sort of things – like yours truly – can tell that he’s not completely in charge of his tongue. The alcohol is.’
‘Is there any dirt clinging to his coat tails?’
Lionel shook his head. ‘He’s never sober long enough to do anything naughty.’
‘He’s about to lose his job on Okey Dokes. That’s going to make him cross, isn’t it?’
‘Is he? Poor old bugger. Make him cross? Make him feel sorry for himself, more like. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’s been given the boot because of his drinking.’ Lionel took another gulp of beer. ‘Now tell me, young Jonathan, you wouldn’t be asking these questions out of casual interest, would you? What’s afoot? If Raymond Carter’s in a bit of bother, I want to be the first to know.’
‘You will be the first to know, I promise, but at the moment it’s all a bit tenuous.’
‘I can work with tenuous.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘OK, I won’t press you any further, but keep me informed. And buy me another pint before you go, there’s a good lad.’
As I walked out into the grey November daylight, I felt I was not a great deal wiser. It seemed that there were no skeletons in Raymond Carter’s cupboard and it appeared that Arthur Keating was a harmless old drunk and could be crossed off the list of suspects. However, not for the first time in my detective career, I was wrong.
FIVE
* * *
In his dressing-room at the Palladium, Raymond Carter was applying make-up in readiness for the evening performance when the telephone jangled shrilly. Charlie Dokes was propped up on a chair by the make-up bench.
‘Oooh, I’ve got that ringing in my ears again,’ the doll quipped.
Carter wiped his hands on his handkerchief and reached over for the phone. And then he hesitated. For a moment, his fingers hovered over the instrument and his body stiffened with apprehension. Since the second threatening message, he had become nervous about taking calls. Then a pang of annoyance at his own timidity struck him and with a swift, jerky movement he snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said briskly.
‘Raymond? It’s Edward, Edward Simmons here.’
Carter felt the knot in his stomach loosen. ‘Hello Edward. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you before your show, but I wanted to catch you tonight. I’ve a bit of news. You’ll not be pleased, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh?’
Simmons hesitated a moment before continuing, ‘Yes. It’s … it’s about Arthur Keating. I’m afraid he won’t be leaving the show, after all.’
‘Oh yes he is. I just won’t put up with that old soak any longer.’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to. There is no way I can fire him. I’m afraid it’s all laid down in his BBC contract. He has not transgressed any of the conditions. He could cause an awful stink if we tried to go ahead with his sacking. He said as much when I called him into the office today. He can be a cantankerous so and so if riled. However, to be fair, I have to admit he is quite within his rights. And he knows it. Quite honestly, Raymond, I have to tell you that the powers that be are not happy with your desire to get rid of him. They see his Chestnut Man routine as an asset to the show. They want him to stay. And, I’m afraid, stay he will.’
Raymond didn’t know what to say. For a moment anger robbed him of words.
Simmons continued, ‘I know this is not what you wanted to hear, Raymond, but I’ve had my orders. I fought your corner for you but in this instance I lost. You know that I always try to do my best for you when I can. After all, Okey Dokes is my baby. I was the one who came to you with the idea in the first place.’
Carter mumbled his acceptance of this fact.
‘Look, Raymond, the best advice I can give to you is to grin and bear it for now. There’s only another eight shows left to go this time around and I’ll personally guarantee Mr Keating will not be signed up for the next series.’
‘This is not the end of the matter, Edward.’
‘I’m afraid as far as the BBC is concerned, it is.’ The voice was relaxed and smug.
‘Thank you for letting me know.’ Carter replaced the receiver before Simmons had a chance to respond.
The ventriloquist gazed at his sour reflection in the make-up mirror. ‘Damn!’ he barked.
‘Temper, temper. You’ve a show to do tonight. People to amuse,’ piped up Charlie.
Carter shifted his chair and stared down at Charlie. ‘You’re the one who amuses the people, Charlie. I’m just your dummy.
Half an hour later, Raymond Carter walked on to the stage of the Palladium Theatre to a wave of enthusiastic applause from a packed house. Charlie’s head, garish and shiny in the spotlight, revolved from side to side as though surveying the audience, his eyes gyrating as his mouth opened and closed viciously in savage amusement.
‘Hey, Carter,’ he piped, when th
ey had reached the microphone at centre stage, ‘how did all these drunks get into my room?’
The first laugh of the evening. It was good to get that over with. Now Raymond could relax. He gazed down at the first few rows of seats, the only rows where he could make out the faces clearly. As he surveyed the array of smiling punters staring back at him, he saw one that he recognized. A crumpled ruin of a face with a large, bulbous, red nose and bright piggy eyes. It was Arthur Keating, sitting in the middle of the front row bearing a broad facile grin, his features bathed in the rosy glow of the footlights. When he saw that he had caught Carter’s eye, he raised a shiny metal hip flask in the gesture of a toast and then thrust it to his lips. The bastard, thought Carter, he’s come here to gloat. He thinks he’s got one over on me. And for a brief moment Charlie Dokes lost all his animation.
It was nearing midnight when Arthur Keating staggered up the three flights of stairs to his tiny flat in Hallam Street where he’d lived since his divorce some twenty-five years ago. He was in a good mood and it wasn’t solely down to all the alcohol that he had imbibed that evening. He was savouring his triumph over that jumped-up vent Raymond Carter. Like some bloody Roman emperor, he’d thought that all he had to do was thrust his thumb down and announce ‘Get rid of Keating’ and they would – they could. Well, they bloody well didn’t ’cause they couldn’t. He’d shown that pompous bastard a lesson. Keating grinned again as he searched for his key. Oh, he thought, I wish I had a picture of Carter when he clocked eyes on me lording it on the front row of the Palladium savouring my triumph. It really put the bastard off his stride. It took him at least a minute to regain his composure. There’s nothing worse than a vent who’s struck dumb. Keating laughed at the notion, causing him to stagger forward and slump against the door of his flat, which gave way easily against his weight. With a gargling cry of surprise, he fell across the threshold. For a moment he lay still and tried to steady the seesaw motion of the floor. After a while, he managed to clamber unsteadily to his feet. A thought came to him through the miasma of inebriation: why was the door open? He was sure he’d locked it on his way out earlier that evening. Hadn’t he?
Requiem for a Dummy Page 4