Requiem for a Dummy

by David Stuart Davies

  David frowned but did not reply.

  ‘One thing is certain, I don’t think it stops here,’ I continued. ‘Whoever our murderer is, he’s not done yet – not until he has destroyed our friend, Raymond Carter.’ Instinctively, I glanced over at Charlie Dokes. ‘Perhaps the dummy knows the answer,’ I said.

  By the time I had run these events through my mind, Benny had returned with my breakfast. ‘When Doris knew it was you, she scooped up an extra rasher,’ he said.

  ‘Give her a kiss from me.’

  ‘I will do nothing of the kind. She’ll think I’m some kind of flirty old man.’

  ‘I reckon she knows that already.’

  Benny laughed and flushed a little. Just then the door of the café opened as two customers entered, allowing a sharp draught of November chill to sneak in with them.

  ‘Busy, busy,’ beamed Benny, eyeing the couple. ‘See you later, Johnny,’ he said, moving swiftly to greet his new customers.

  Without further hesitation, I set about appeasing my hunger. After a long tiring night, this was just what I needed: warm bacon – brittle and lean just as I liked it – a runny fried egg mopped up with a couple of slices of toast lightly smeared with something approaching the colour and consistency of margarine but not quite reaching the taste. The whole glorious ensemble was washed down with scalding hot tea. Ah, the simple pleasures. A feeling of relaxed contentment swept over me and, for a brief interval, dead bodies, threatened clients and even the war seemed far away and irrelevant. Of course, such moments are fleeting and by the time I was indulging in a post-prandial cigarette, the cold, harsh fingers of reality were already beginning to squeeze the sense of cosy languor out of me. I had an investigation to carry out: people to see and if possible a murderer to find before the devious devil took it in to his head to kill again.

  As I left Benny’s café, with these thoughts in my mind, the sumptuous hot breakfast I’d enjoyed was lying like lead in my stomach.

  TEN

  * * *

  It was nearly noon when Raymond Carter returned home from Scotland Yard. They had kept him and Larry waiting around for ages in a damp and draughty room with the dimensions of a cupboard before Llewellyn had interviewed him and then he’d made his statement. On Larry’s advice he had not involved the services of a solicitor. ‘The fewer outsiders that are involved at this stage the better,’ Milligan had advised, unable to keep the growl out of his voice. The ventriloquist had been too tired to raise any disagreement.

  Carter was asked the same questions he’d been asked at the house and he had given the same answers. It was a weary and wearing process. He could understand why some people might confess in such a situation just so that it could all be over. It was like some kind of mind-numbing repetitive torture. Eventually they had let him go with the veiled understanding that, ‘No doubt we will need to speak to you again, Mr Carter.’

  Milligan and he parted company just beyond the gates of Scotland Yard. ‘Get some rest and put the whole business out of your mind,’ said Milligan.

  ‘Easy advice to give; not exactly easy to administer. Not after the night I’ve had.’

  ‘Work at it. At least you can be content in the knowledge that your desire to get Arthur Keating out of the show has come about. You won’t have to put up with his drunken antics any more.’

  Carter pulled a pained expression and went off in search of a cab.

  Once indoors, Carter slumped down on his sofa clutching a large glass of whisky. He took a long hard gulp, enjoying the feeling of fire in his throat. It was somewhat painful and therefore in a strange way rather pleasing. He took another mouthful and the whisky went down the wrong way. He began to splutter and cough, ejecting some of the alcohol in a fine spray.

  He slumped back with a grin at his own incompetence.

  ‘Steady as she goes, Cap’n,’ said Charlie Dokes, from the chair in the corner.

  ‘And you can shut up for a start.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you, of course. You’re the chatterbox … really. I’m just the one who gets all the laughs.’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  ‘And, of course, I don’t get arrested for murder.’

  ‘Just shut up, will you!’ Carter barked furiously.

  ‘You’ve got to shut up first,’ said the doll.

  Suddenly Carter gave a snarl of rage. He rushed across the room, snatched up the dummy and began shaking it.

  Charlie Dokes’s immobile face stared defiantly back at Carter. And then the mouth dropped open emitting what sounded like a faint giggle.

  A strange irrational fear took hold of Carter. What was happening to him? Did he make the blasted doll giggle … or did Charlie do it on his own? Was the creature taunting him?

  How could he consider such a thing? Charlie Dokes was an inanimate doll made of wood and papier maché.

  And yet the bastard had a mind of its own.

  It was time he was silenced.

  Fury seized Carter and he grabbed the doll by the neck as though he was trying to strangle it. So violent were his actions that the head came away from the doll’s body which slipped to the floor.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Charlie, as Carter staggered back on to the sofa still clutching the dismembered head.

  Tears sprang to his eyes and misted his view. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he sobbed in his own voice.

  Some thirty minutes later, more sober and much chastened, Carter reunited Charlie’s head with the rest of him and checked that there was no damage done. He refrained from apologizing for his actions because for the moment he couldn’t bear for the doll to speak back to him.

  Carter had just propped Charlie up in his usual chair when the doorbell rang. He groaned. Who is it now he thought? After the morning he’d had he just wanted to have some rest – a sleep. He had a show to do tonight. He had to go on a stage in front of hundreds of people and be funny while at the same time being suspected of murder. These thoughts pummelled his brain as he made his reluctant way to the door.

  It was Al Warren – bright and breezy as usual. ‘Hello, there. Mr Carter, sir. I’ve just called round for an autograph and a cheese sandwich and maybe a big gin and tonic and if you have one of those pretty showgirls to spare …’ Warren stopped his patter when he observed the tired, grey features of Carter gazing back at him.

  ‘Say, you look as though you’ve been up all night.’

  ‘That’s because I have.’

  ‘Those pretty showgirls, eh?’

  ‘It’s not a joke, Al. Arthur Keating has been murdered.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Come into the sitting-room. I’ll get you that drink and fill you in.’

  When Carter had recounted the events of the previous night to yet another audience, he sat back with a sigh. He had cut out all the information about the warning phone calls and the death threats. That, he reckoned, needed to be kept private for now. Only he, Larry, the police and Johnny Hawke knew about that side of the affair. And the bastard who was making the calls, of course.

  Even as he ran these names though his mind, Carter was shocked how the circle had grown so big in a matter of a few days. A few hours really.

  Al Warren said nothing for a while. He just sat clinking the ice against the side of his glass. ‘That’s rough,’ he said eventually, his expression registering an awareness that his response was somewhat inadequate. ‘Let’s hope they catch the devil who did it post haste.’

  Carter nodded. ‘And it wasn’t me!’

  ‘No, of course not. I know you didn’t care for the fellow, but I don’t see you as an axe-wielding murderer.’

  ‘He was strangled.’

  Al smiled. ‘There is that, too. Actually I came round to discuss next week’s show, but I reckon you’ve got other things on your mind at the moment. We can leave it for a day.’

  ‘Look, Al, I trust you with the show. Just for once let’s skip the discussion. You do what you like with Charlie….’


  Instinctively both men turned to the dummy in the corner.

  ‘I had some ideas about those pretty showgirls as well,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You’re far too young, my lad,’ said Al. ‘And, besides, your performance in the bedroom is somewhat wooden.’

  Carter laughed. For the first time in a long while it seemed.

  ‘I appreciate your trust …’ said Al, his expression suddenly darkening.

  ‘Al, without you I wouldn’t be here today. Remember when we first met? I was dying on my feet with material that Moses had gathered on his way to picking up the Ten Commandments. Your bright ideas and your clever scripts got me where I am.’

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’ Al appeared embarrassed and covered this by taking a large gulp of gin.

  ‘I mean it,’ continued Carter, recent events loosening his emotions. He was fully aware that this funny chap with the strange mid-Atlantic tones was the main reason he was the success that he was and he was conscious that perhaps he did not acknowledge it enough, especially to Al himself.

  ‘Well,’ said Al, in a brisk tone, appearing embarrassed and really wanting to get back to the matter in hand, ‘I intend to run with that idea I mentioned last week about you trying to raise some cash to take your girlfriend out for a meal in a swanky restaurant by checking Charlie into a pawn shop and then losing the claim ticket.’

  Carter grinned. ‘That seems fine.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll have to write some extra material to fill Arthur’s spot, but I’ll need to speak to Edward, our beloved producer, about that.’

  ‘Sure.’ Just at the moment Carter didn’t care and the tone of his voice clearly indicated as much.

  ‘Well, I reckon I’ll mosey along and let you get some rest.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Al rose, but before leaving the room, he went across to Charlie and ruffled his synthetic hair. ‘Bye, young man. Be good.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ said Charlie.

  After Al had gone, Carter decided that he would actually go to bed and try to grab a couple of hours’ sleep. As he slipped under the covers he found his mind wandering back to Al Warren. He not only admired the young man’s talent, he envied him, too. He was such a bright uncomplicated fellow. He was English, but had spent the first twenty years of his life in California, hence his strange drawl and easy attitude to life. Nothing seemed to ruffle his smooth feathers. As a youngster Warren had loved American radio and listening to all those quick-fire cross talk comedy shows; these had given him the grounding and inspiration to become a scriptwriter himself. After some minor success in the States, he’d travelled to Britain to try his luck. But, Carter mused, it was the fact that Al had lit upon a clapped-out vent act to try out his magic that made Carter really the lucky one. Whenever he contemplated his sudden rise to fame and success, a dark unnerving thought always crept into his mind: what if Al deserted him? What if his Svengali got a better offer or just grew tired of churning out gags for a wooden dummy? What would Raymond Carter do then? Oh, yes, there were other scriptwriters, but no one quite like Al Warren.

  He tried to brush away these unsettling worries and slipped further under the covers. In the end tiredness won the day and he found himself beginning to doze, his mind smoothing into a blank canvas. He was just surrendering to the realms of deep sleep when he was brought to full consciousness with a start. The phone bellowed at him from the bedside table. It was like the cry of a wounded animal demanding attention. Answering the telephone had now become a frightening ordeal for Carter. For some moments he let it ring, hoping, praying that it would stop. But it didn’t. The fierce jangling noise stabbed like a knife into his brain until he could take it no longer and in a sudden jerky movement he snatched the receiver from the cradle and held it to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest.

  ‘I know you’re there Raymond. I – can – hear – you – breathing.’ It was the voice of Charlie Dokes. He gave a little characteristic giggle before continuing. ‘I won’t keep you long, my friend. I just wanted you to know that I haven’t finished with you yet.’ Another giggle and the line went dead.

  Carter sat up in bed for some moments, still clutching the receiver, his knuckles white with the pressure of his grip. At length he put the phone down and slowly got out of bed. His mind was numb with a kind of frustrated despair and he walked zombie-like towards the door. He needed another drink. That’s all he could decide at the present.

  As he made his way across the sitting-room towards the kitchen, he automatically cast a glance to the chair where Charlie Dokes was sitting. But he wasn’t sitting there. The chair was empty. Carter felt his chest tighten and his legs grow weak. What on earth was happening? Where was Charlie? His head swung round, frantically surveying the room, his eyes finally lighting upon the dummy, those dark lifeless eyes were staring, Carter thought, straight at him in an accusing fashion. To the ventriloquist’s horror, he saw that Charlie was now sitting on a chair next to the telephone.

  ELEVEN

  * * *

  After leaving the womb-like warmth and comfort of Benny’s café I padded my way round to Broadcasting House. The walk and the sharp winter air were excellent stimulants to my thought processes, further enhanced by a good smoke. I reckoned that my field of suspects was a fairly narrow one. Whoever was playing nasty games with Raymond Carter must have been present at the rehearsal for his last radio show as they had scrawled the warning message on his script. Already one of those present had been eliminated from my enquiries – literally. If it was the killer’s intention to knock off the other members of the team one by one, he would rather obviously reveal himself eventually. This was highly unlikely and I didn’t really want to wait to see if this happened. It wouldn’t do my reputation as a keen-minded sleuth much good for a start. However, I knew this was an improbable scenario. Carter was the real target of hate and I felt sure it wouldn’t be long before the killer made an attempt on his life. Above all, I must prevent that from happening.

  What didn’t encourage me as I ran the names of the possible suspects through my head was the realization that I really didn’t have an inkling which one of them could be the murderer.

  Well, I had to start somewhere and so I thought I’d have a few words with Edward Simmons, the producer of the programme. He could fill me in with details of all the cast while, I hoped, revealing something of himself.

  As I strolled up Regent’s Street towards Langham Place, the imposing curved edifice of Broadcasting House hove into view, like some great landlocked vessel. Thank God, I thought that the Jerries had failed to destroy this valuable establishment. Not that they hadn’t tried and in 1940 they had scored a hit but thankfully the damage was minimal. The frontage still bore the blackened scars of the raid, but the building and its service survived. It was the lifeblood of the nation, providing news and information to the population as well as stress-relieving music and entertainment. Without the radio, the war, hell though it was, would have presented a far grimmer prospect.

  Spinning my fag end into the gutter, I passed between the portals of the great institution. The foyer of Broadcasting House is opulent: marble walls and pillars reaching high to the decorated ceiling. It has all the hushed glamour of the very best of hotels. I was stopped by a tall fellow with the chest of a buffalo dressed in a commissionaire’s uniform. He asked to see my papers and enquired what my business was at the BBC. He was polite but wary. I reckoned that one wrong word or gesture and he’d have had my arm up my back and out on the pavement before you could say Tommy Handley.

  On establishing that I was kosher – or as kosher as a shabby, one-eyed private detective in a cheap crumpled suit can be – he directed me to the enquiry desk. Here a plump-faced young woman with bulging cheeks and pursed bee-stung lips peered at me through a pair of thick bifocal spectacles. She looked like a bossy goldfish. I explained that I was a private detective investigating the murder of Arthur Keating and I wanted to speak with the producer of the
Okey Dokes show, Mr Edward Simmons. The girl’s cheeks bulged even more. ‘Mr Keating is dead?’ she said, her voice rising in pitch.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘How dreadful. He was such a gentleman. He always raised his hat to me when he passed.’

  I nodded in a sympathetic manner.

  ‘How… how did he … pass away?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to go into details, I’m afraid.’ I leaned further forward and lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. ‘It’s all rather hush hush.’

  Her fish eyes widened with excitement. ‘Really!’ she said, matching my scratchy croak. ‘How fascinating.’ I could see from the dreamy look on her face that the mixture of death of a radio performer and a private detective seemed to have tipped her over into the realms of fantasy.

  ‘Mr Simmons?’ I prompted, attempting to bring her back on track.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly, resuming her business-like pose. ‘I’ll ring him and see if he is free.’

  She turned round to the little switchboard behind her and plugged in a line. Before long she was holding a brief conversation with someone – Simmons no doubt – but her back was still towards me so that I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  Finally she swung round. Her face had resumed its officious immobility. ‘Mr Simmons says he’s very busy but if you’ll go up now he can give you five minutes.’

  Five minutes! We’d barely have got the formal introductions over with before he was showing me the door. Well, it was a situation I’d encountered many times before. Folk are reluctant to give me much of their time but very rarely do they refuse to see me at all in case their actions appear suspicious. But I had my methods of extending interviews to as long as I wanted.