Requiem for a Dummy

by David Stuart Davies

I grinned back at Miss Goldfish. ‘Five minutes will be fine. Where do I go?’

  Her eyes rolled erratically. ‘Oh, this place is a warren. I’ll get Gareth to take you to Mr Simmons’s office.’

  I expected Gareth to be a fresh-faced errand boy just out of short trousers. Instead he was the oldest man on the planet. His body had curved with age into the shape of a question mark. It would be wrong to say he moved at a snail’s pace; that would be insulting to snails.

  ‘You got some snout?’ asked Gareth, in a wheezy Cockney drawl as we made our way towards the lift.

  I passed him a cigarette. ‘Ta, mate. They pay me peanuts here, y’know. I make some of it up by cadging fags and stuff. You ain’t got any spare food coupons as well, ’ave you?’

  I grinned surreptitiously. ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Pity that. Another fag then,’ he said, ushering me into the lift.

  I obliged.

  ‘Mr Simmons was it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s third floor, corridor seven, room 6a. You’d never find it on yer own.’ He emitted a chesty chuckle. ‘We’ve had folk in walking around this building for days trying to find their way out. It’s like the Hampton Court maze.’ His laughter increased, shaking his fail frame so much I feared that he would fall over.

  The lift whirred to a stop and we got out. Slowly but not all that surely Gareth led me down a series of dimly lighted corridors until we reached a door marked ‘6a’.

  ‘This is Mr Simmons’s office. I’ll wait here until you finished and then take you back.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not really necessary,’ I said.

  ‘Look, mate, you’re my responsibility. We don’t want you wandering around ’til the war’s over looking for the exit, do we?’ His ancient face split open with a hoarse roar of laughter. ‘Let me out, let me out,’ he mimicked.

  I could not help but chuckle.

  ‘I’ll have your fag while I wait,’ he added.

  I knocked on the door and a high-pitched cry followed seconds later. ‘Come in.’

  It was a tiny room with several metal filing cabinets on which were piled reams of paper which at a casual glance looked liked scripts. There was a tiny desk behind which sat a young man with unruly nut-brown hair and the inquisitive peer of a benevolent short-sighted owl. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and wore a brightly coloured bow tie which I feared may light up and whiz round at any second. Despite his rather flamboyant appearance and hesitant manner, I guessed that Mr Simmons was no one’s fool. I assumed you needed talent and a steely determination to become the producer of the most popular comedy show on radio at such a young age.

  As I neared his desk he rose and thrust out his hand in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Ed Simmons,’ he said. ‘You must be Hawke, the private ’tec helping to look after our boy.’

  ‘John Hawke,’ I nodded, shaking his hand.

  ‘Do take a seat. I will help all I can, of course, but we’ll have to be brief. One of our cast members … oh, well, of course you know. That’s why you’re here, I suppose. I’ve already had the chaps round from Scotland Yard this morning asking questions.’

  David didn’t waste much time.

  ‘About Arthur Keating’s murder, yes.’

  Simmons winced at the word ‘murder’.

  ‘I’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Mr Simmons, but of course we both want to help Mr Carter and get to the bottom of this unpleasant business.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ He nodded his head nervously and his mop of hair flapped backwards and forwards as though it had been caught in a stiff breeze. ‘I’m not sure I can help you that much. I only have what you might call a professional relationship with Mr Carter. We don’t meet socially or anything like that. I’ve only known him for about six months, since I started work on the Okey Dokes show.’

  ‘I gather he came to see you privately yesterday about Arthur Keating.’

  Simmons twisted his mouth awkwardly. ‘Yes. In the light of events that’s rather unfortunate. They had never really hit it off, those two. I don’t think it was personal just professional rivalry. Raymond thought that Arthur was unreliable because he drank more than was good for him or his performance and was mugging too much on the show and … well …’

  ‘Getting too many laughs.’

  The eyes narrowed behind the glasses. ‘I suppose you could put it like that. Raymond is very nervous about his career. He has been around a long time and spent many years in the wilderness and then at the age of forty-something he suddenly becomes what you might call a star overnight. I think he’s terrified that it all may, equally, disappear overnight as well. If he sees any threat to his position, he must do something about it.’

  ‘And he saw Arthur Keating as a threat.’

  Simmons pursed his lips in a sudden movement and his bow tie stood to attention. ‘In a way. It has happened many times before in this business: a supporting player stealing the thunder from the star. I think Raymond saw Arthur as getting too popular in his spot for comfort. Keating was an old soak, of course, but he never disgraced himself on air, which is the important thing.’

  ‘So Raymond asked you to sack him.’

  ‘He insisted.’

  ‘And you agreed.’

  Simmons shook his head. ‘I produce the show. I make those decisions.’ Suddenly, for a moment, the amiable, soft-faced young man disappeared to be replaced by a hard-faced bully. And then Simmons grinned awkwardly as though he realized he had unwisely let the mask slip. ‘Besides I couldn’t,’ he said casually. ‘I work for the BBC and have to abide by their contracts. Arthur was signed up for the full series. There was no way I could drop him now … not without the most terrible legal kerfuffle. No, Arthur Keating had to stay.’

  I got the impression that if Simmons had wanted Keating out, he’d have been out, despite his BBC contract.

  ‘So Raymond Carter killed Keating in frustration to ensure that he wouldn’t appear again on his radio show.’

  ‘My God, is that what you think?’

  I permitted myself a thin smile. ‘No, that is not what I think, but I suspect that is what the murderer wants us, and the police in particular, to think. Tell me, is Raymond Carter well liked by the cast and crew?’

  Simmons hesitated for a moment before replying. It was as though the question had completely foxed him. His face had lost its animation and his brow furrowed, putting a good five years on him. ‘I honestly believe that they have no strong feelings either way. Raymond is a fairly quiet and private man. It’s that rather nasty dummy of his that does all the talking.’

  ‘But the dummy is Raymond.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he is, but he really seems to have a different personality from Raymond.’ He shook his head as though puzzled at this strange confession and then cast an embarrassed smile in my direction. ‘However,’ he said after a pause, ‘if you are asking me if anyone disliked Raymond enough to set him up for a murder charge then I would have to say no. To be honest the man is rather a blank.’

  ‘But you dislike Charlie Dokes …’

  ‘I detest him. I simply do not see the appeal of the blasted doll. He’s rude, objectionable and has no saving graces.’

  ‘You talk about him as though he were real. As though he has an independent personality.’

  ‘I’m aware it’s crazy, but yes, that’s how I think of him. Oh, I know he is fuelled by the clever scripts that Al gives him – Al Warren our script writer – but there is something about Charlie that is eerily self sufficient. I suppose it is as though Raymond Carter had a split personality.’

  Oh, oh, I thought, this is uncharted psychological territory and I don’t have a map or a compass. I don’t even have an inkling. But the worrying thought suddenly struck me that all I had to go on in this whole business was Raymond Carter’s word about the phone calls. He could have made the whole thing up as a smokescreen for murder. Of course I had seen the script with the warning message scribbled on i
t, but Carter could quite easily have written that himself. What if it really was Charlie Dokes who was making these phone calls? What if Carter was really speaking to himself – one half of a split personality threatening the other? I had witnessed for myself how master and dummy had engaged in banter. And now here was Simmons making the point that he saw Carter and Charlie Dokes as two separate entities – two separate individuals. It would be a neat case for Dr Freud rather than Johnny Hawke. But there was the certain matter of a dead man. Charlie couldn’t have been responsible for that also … could he?

  I felt a headache coming on. Nevertheless, I had to probe further.

  ‘What is Carter’s relationship with Charlie Dokes like?’ I felt rather stupid in asking the question but now we had wandered into surreal-land, I might as well.

  The answer was equally bizarre. ‘They get on well enough. Of course Charlie’s character was essentially created by Al. Before Charlie came on the scene, Raymond had been touring the halls for years with a dummy called Tommy Trumble. He was a completely different kettle of fish from Charlie. Tommy was a simpleton who always got the wrong end of the stick, misused words and never really understood what Raymond was talking about.’

  ‘Whereas now Charlie is the smart one.’

  Simmons nodded. ‘Très smart.’

  ‘Where is Tommy now?’

  ‘Who knows? In a dustbin somewhere. I’m sure that Raymond hasn’t got him. He wouldn’t want to be reminded of his years of failure. And I suspect Charlie wouldn’t allow his rival to be around.’

  I lit a cigarette to give me a moment to contemplate the nature of this weird conversation in which we were discussing two ventriloquist’s dolls as though they were real, as though they had motivations of their own, as though they were human. It was time to direct things back to the mundane.

  ‘What about friends? Does Raymond have many?’

  ‘Friends? Not really. Not that I know of anyway. There are his associates, of course. He spends a fair bit of time with Larry Milligan, his manager and Al. It’s strange, but despite his youth, Al has been a mentor to Raymond. With his scripts he’s guided him up that fickle ladder to stardom.’

  ‘What about girlfriends?’

  Simmons stroked his chin and his eyes twinkled. ‘I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling that he’s “seeing” our soubrette in the show.’

  The word soubrette was a new one on me. It sounded nice. I assumed this to be the pretty singer, Evelyn Munro.

  When I mentioned her name, Simmons gave me a vague nod.

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Oh, I doubt it. There’s nearly twenty years’ difference in their ages. I would think our Evie is hitching a ride on a star wagon for the time being – but then I’m rather a cynical bastard. That sort of thing helps at the BBC.’ He glanced at his watch in a theatrical fashion, almost as if he was following a stage direction. ‘I think that’s about as much as I can tell you … and I really have rather a lot on.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said stubbing out my cigarette in an enormous glass ashtray on his desk. ‘If you think of anything else, please get in touch.’ I handed him one of my cards. I knew it would be in the wastepaper bin within seconds of my leaving the room but I had to go through the motions. You never know.

  Gareth was waiting for me when I left Simmons’s office. He was sitting on a chair opposite the door and looked for all the world as if he was asleep, but as soon as I emerged, he raised himself slowly into what was for him a standing position.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said, addressing my chest and then creeping forward down the corridor.

  By the time I left that maze of a building Gareth had cadged further two cigarettes from me.

  TWELVE

  * * *

  When Raymond Carter eventually answered the door, Evelyn Munro could tell that he was far from sober. His stance was uncertain and she could smell the whisky on his breath.

  ‘You took your time coming round,’ he snapped by way of greeting, as he swayed gently like someone on a rickety escalator. ‘No doubt you’ve heard what’s happened. That bastard Keating has got himself killed.’

  Evelyn brushed past him and walked into the sitting-room. Carter wandered in after her.

  She turned on him, her face flushed with anger. ‘Thanks for the welcome! If you must know I stayed away deliberately, in case the police were here. I didn’t want to add to your problems. But I’ve been ringing you for the last few hours and there’s been no reply.’

  ‘I’ve stopped answering the phone. It seems … to give me a headache.’

  His words were slurred and his eyes partially glazed.

  ‘My God, Raymond, you’ve a show to do tonight. How much have you had to drink?’

  Instinctively his eyes wandered to the bottle of Scotch on the sideboard. It was half empty. ‘Not enough,’ he mumbled. And then in the same inebriated mumble, Charlie Dokes who was still positioned by the telephone, echoed the words; ‘Not enough.’

  Evelyn felt a hot surge of annoyance and frustration at Carter’s stupid drunken behaviour. She could, of course, leave him to his fate. The Arthur Keating murder story had not been picked up by the Press yet, but Carter’s failure to perform at the Palladium would certainly make the papers and then it wouldn’t be long before some clever soul connected the two events, coming up with a damaging equation. It was the path to self-destruction. Family entertainment and murder don’t mix. Show-business fame and public approval were fickle and sensitive. They were easily blown away by the winds of rumour and implication. For this to happen now was too soon for her. She hadn’t finished with Carter yet. She needed him to be useful to her for a little while longer. She wasn’t prepared to let that potential slip through her fingers so easily. And apart from that – if there were any scandal it may very well reflect badly on her. Some savvy creep from the gutter Press would dig up the truth about their relationship and no doubt embellish it in the process.

  Grabbing his arm roughly, she dragged him towards the kitchen. ‘You’ve done with whisky for today. We’ve got to get lots of black coffee down you. Sober you up. You and that damned doll of yours have to go on stage tonight and make people laugh.’

  Carter allowed himself to be manoeuvred by Evelyn into the kitchen where he slumped down on a wicker chair. The one small part of his brain that had retained a vestige of clear thinking and common sense knew she was right. And besides he hadn’t the energy now to fight back. The whisky had brought on an overwhelming sense of drowsiness. He just waited to sail away on dreams and leave the real world of complications and pain behind. He was almost asleep by the time Evelyn handed him his first cup of coffee. She had to hold it up to his lips to get the scalding liquid into his mouth. Like a baby he took the coffee, mug after mug of it, until slowly the first flags of sobriety were seen fluttering on the far horizon. Eventually he was able to take the mug in his own hands and drink unaided.

  As the coffee gradually nullified the effects of whisky, Carter began to feel foolish and guilty. He glanced at his watch. It was five o’clock. He had just under an hour before it was time for him to leave for the theatre. He ought to get himself ready – change his clothes. Impulsively, he rose to his feet and immediately sank back down again. His legs weren’t quite ready yet.

  Evelyn shook her head, her face registering a mixture of disgust and dismay.

  ‘Can you get me a cigarette?’ he asked, his voice still shaky around the edges.

  ‘After you’ve drunk another cup of coffee.’

  He half smiled. ‘Are you trying to drown me?’

  ‘I think I’d like to,’ she said, handing him another mug. ‘What on earth has got into you, Ray? Are you on some sort of suicide mission?’

  He shook his head. ‘I just got a bit down about Keating’s death and how it might damage the show … start rumours.’ Even affected by alcohol as he was, he was still certain that he didn’t want Evie to know about the phone calls. The fewer people who knew about those infernal
things the better.

  ‘Getting pie-eyed and missing a show is hardly going to do you any good in the eyes of the public or the police.’

  He nodded vigorously and took a gulp of coffee. ‘Now how about that fag?’

  She snapped open her handbag and retrieved a packet of Senior Service. She lit a cigarette and passed it to him. He gave a sigh of pleasure as he inhaled hard, feeling the soothing smoke billow into his lungs. ‘I think I’m beginning to feel human.’

  ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ said Evie, mimicking the voice of Charlie Dokes.

  Carter dropped the mug in shock.

  ‘Now, look what you’ve done,’ she said.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ cried Carter, staggering to his feet, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Talk like Charlie. You talked like Charlie.’

  Evie seemed puzzled. ‘It was a little joke, that’s all. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘You sounded just like … just like him.’

  Evie laughed out loud. ‘So? Hey, Raymond … maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it really was Charlie.’ And then going into the dummy’s voice again, she added, ‘What d’you think about that, Ray, old boy?’

  This last little touch caused Carter to snap. The trauma of the phone calls crashed down on him, galvanizing his body. He stepped towards the girl, his mind now chillingly clear and his legs functioning as normal. In a careful and precise fashion, he hit Evelyn across the face.

  She staggered back in shock and let out a sharp cry. In truth it was a cry of surprise rather than pain. She had never expected Raymond to hit her ever and certainly not for a little joke. The man must be off his head.

  As soon as he had done it, Raymond Carter regretted his actions. He knew immediately that he had been dangerously foolish.

  ‘I’m sorry … Evie. I’m … sorry. I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘Didn’t mean to, eh? Well, you bloody well did, didn’t you?’ She glared at him, her eyes moist with tears – but they were not tears of sadness or regret but tears of anger. ‘But I’ll tell you this, you crazy bastard,’ she continued, her voice steady and low, ‘you won’t get another chance to do what you just did.’ She snatched up her handbag and hurried from the room. Carter rushed after her into the hall. She was struggling into her coat, her anger making it more of a chore than it should have been.