Cyril shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a clue – but wherever he is he’s better off not knowing who his father is.’
‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Sarony …’ I said, realizing that as far as the case was concerned I had squeezed this particular lemon dry.
‘Oh, you’re not going so soon, are you? I was so enjoying our little chat.’
I felt a pang of guilt as I noted the desperate sadness in his eyes. I had taken him, momentarily, back to the good old days, his good old days, allowing him revive memories of a time when he was performing, when he still walked out on a stage to engage with people, of a time when he mattered. Now I was dragging him back to the drab present and abandoning him there – abandoning him in this tiny, shabby room with a misty view of the sea and nothing to look forward to but further decay and death. For a brief time I had allowed him to pass through the door into his warm and colourful past and now I was shutting that door and not even providing him with a press cutting he could treasure.
‘I’m sorry but …’ I muttered, embarrassed by my own ruthlessness.
Suddenly, Cyril smiled. ‘That’s all right, young man. You have things to do, I know.’ Without warning he rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘But you won’t leave without saying goodbye to Tim, will you?’
Without waiting for my reply – which was fine because I really hadn’t got one – he moved in a stiff awkward fashion to the large oak wardrobe by the bed. On opening its creaky door he extracted a large suitcase. With some difficulty he undid the clasps and lifted the lid, revealing a ventriloquist’s dummy – a red-cheeked fellow dressed in a faded green and red striped blazer and white flannels. He wore a jaunty, schoolboy’s cap. Cyril lifted the doll out and began operating him: the eyes swivelled, the head rotated from side to side and the wooden mouth clapped open and shut.
‘This is my Tim,’ said Cyril, proudly. ‘Say hello to the young gentleman, Tim.’
‘Hello, young gentleman,’ said Tim, Cyril’s aged lips quivering somewhat as he did so.
I nodded politely and somewhat bizarrely I found myself addressing the wooden doll. ‘Hello, Tim, I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘I’ve got something to ask you,’ said Tim, the eyes flickering from side to side. ‘Why would you find a cashier in a police station, eh? Tell me that.’
I smiled. This old chestnut had passed me by. I indulged Tim. ‘I don’t know. Why would you find a cashier in a police station?’
‘He’s there to count the coppers,’ said Tim, with gleeful satisfaction and produced a high-pitched giggle which transferred itself to Cyril.
‘He’s a monkey, isn’t he?’ said Cyril.
I smiled and nodded.
‘Goodbye then, young man,’ said Tim. ‘But one last word. I hope when you write your piece about Raymond Carter you’ll tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It’s time people knew what he was really like.’
By the time Tim had finished talking, his lips had stopped moving and the words were coming directly from Cyril Sarony.
A few minutes later I was walking along the promenade, breasting a sharp and blustery wind from the sea as I made my way back towards the town centre and the railway station. I had learned quite a lot and the trip had certainly been worth it in terms of the case. Why then did I feel so depressed?
FIFTEEN
* * *
‘You’re up bright and early,’ said Larry Milligan, as with accustomed ease he pushed passed Raymond Carter into the hallway of his client’s mews house. He surveyed the ventriloquist who was smartly dressed in sports jacket and flannels. ‘I fully expected you to greet me still slopping about in your pyjamas and bearing a face like a wet weekend,’ he observed sardonically, throwing his overcoat on to the sofa.
‘Yes, well, I’ve a busy day ahead of me. I’ve decided it’s time I got my life back on track.’
Larry gave him a grim smile. ‘Glad to hear it. You got coffee?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘So,’ said Larry a few minutes later, perched on one of the stools in Carter’s kitchen, cup of steaming coffee in hand, ‘what has brought about this change of perspective? I left you jittery and maudlin yesterday and today you’re buzzing like Donald Duck on heat. I gather there have been no more telephone calls.’
‘Oh, yes, there have. I got one last night. But by then I’d had enough. I just put the phone down and cut the bastard off. If he cannot spill his venom into my ear he can’t poison me, can he?’
Milligan pursed his lips. ‘Very poetic. And logical, I suppose.’
‘If I don’t let this fellow get to me, then his purpose is defeated. He’s already caused enough trouble in my life; I’m not going to let him continue.’
‘Bravo, say I,’ said Milligan, before taking a tentative sip of the steaming coffee. ‘Does that mean you’ll be giving your one-eyed Sherlock Holmes the heave-ho as well?’
Carter shook his. ‘No. Hawke stays on the case. I still want to get to the bottom of this business. There is a murderer behind it after all. I’m not stupid enough to think I’m safe just because I’m not taking the calls any more. We’ll see what happens next, but one thing’s for sure: I’m determined not to start cringing when the telephone rings. Now, unless you have some pressing business matter to discuss, I must ask you to drink up and leave me to get on. I have a pretty girl to placate.’
‘Evelyn? You’ve fallen out?’
‘A little more than that. I don’t want to go into details. Let’s say I upset her mightily and I’ve got a fair amount of grovelling to do.’
‘Do you want my advice?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m your manager so you’re going to get it anyway. Let her go, Ray. She’s a two-a-penny singer who’s trying to grab some of your spotlight for herself. My nose tells me she’s bad news.’
‘Your nose is in danger of being bloodied by my fist,’ snapped Carter. ‘You’re employed to look after my professional life, Larry, so keep your meddling fingers out of my private one. When I need a wet nurse, I’ll let you know.’
Milligan shrugged. ‘I’m only trying to help. As I’ve told you before, Ray, people at the top of the show-business tree don’t have private lives. As long as you’re in the main spotlight, you belong to the public.’
‘I’m my own man and always have been.’
Milligan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. There was a lot he could say but he was well aware that it would be pointless. He was used to performers who, having sniffed fame, believed they knew best. Milligan knew differently. If Carter wanted to push his own personal handcart to hell, then let him. Certainly he would not be hitching a ride. Milligan poured the coffee down the sink and moved into the sitting-room where he scooped up his overcoat and headed for the door. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he murmured, without turning round.
‘What are you doing here?’ Evelyn Munro’s reception was as cold and harsh as a winter blizzard.
‘I’ve come to make amends – to apologize for being a first-class idiot. There’s something I need to explain to you. Hear me out, please?’
‘Explain? There’s nothing to explain.’ She did not budge from the threshold of her flat.
‘Give me ten minutes, that’s all.’
She gazed at his face for some moments, her mind whirring with possibilities. Suddenly she looked a little nervous. Carter took her hand. ‘Please,’ he begged.
Evelyn cast a glance back into her flat and then relented: ‘Five minutes,’ she said.
Sitting with Evelyn on her sofa, smoking several cigarettes, Raymond Carter told her the whole story in detail: the phone calls, the threats, the lot.
‘And so,’ he concluded, ‘when you impersonated Charlie yesterday, I just snapped. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t Raymond Carter who slapped you but some foolish nervous wreck.’
Evelyn appeared genuinely shocked by Carter’s revelations. ‘And you think whoever is threatening you over the phone was responsible for Arth
ur Keating’s death – his murder?’
‘There’s no doubt. And I could be next.’
She slid her hand forward and took hold of his. ‘Oh, Ray, why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I’m not quite sure now. I just wanted to keep the whole thing secret, I guess. Part of me was … I don’t know … embarrassed, I suppose, ashamed by it.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. You’re not responsible for the actions of a madman. Oh, come here.’ She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘Then I’m forgiven?’ he said.
She gave him a dry smile. ‘I guess so.’
‘It was a shock to my system and knocked me for six for a time. But now I’m determined that this creep – whoever he is – is not going to get to me … is not going to destroy me.’
‘Of course not, darling.’
Another kiss. Carter hadn’t expected the reconciliation to be so swift, so easy.
‘What about the police? What do they think?’
Carter shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. I suppose at the moment I’m the main suspect in the frame for Keating’s murder. But they’ve no real proof, so I guess they’re watching and waiting to see what happens next. I know I can’t rely on them. That’s why I’ve got my own man on the case.’
Evelyn reached over and retrieved a packet of cigarettes from her handbag, and extracted two, passing one to Carter. ‘What d’you mean, your own man?’
Carter flipped his lighter and lit the cigarettes. ‘I’ve got a private detective working for me.’
Evelyn giggled. ‘How exciting. How very Hollywood. Does he look like Humphrey Bogart?’
Despite himself, Carter grinned. ‘Hardly, he’s a young chap with an eye-patch, but I reckon he knows what he’s doing.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘John Hawke.’
Evelyn turned her head and blew a cloud of smoke over Carter’s shoulder.
‘How interesting,’ she said, evenly. ‘Let’s hope he comes up with the goods.’
Carter grinned and cast an eye towards the bedroom door. ‘I was thinking that perhaps we should celebrate our reconciliation in appropriate style.’ He stroked the back of her hand gently.
‘Oh, I’d love to, Ray, but I’ve got such a busy morning. Not just right now, eh?’ She cast a glance at the bedroom and smiled awkwardly. ‘Some other time. Soon.’
Carter thought she looked nervous, but he wasn’t about to press the matter. He knew that he had some ground to make up with Evie and pushing her into bed before she was ready was not the best of tactics.
‘Come and see me after the show tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a little supper on the town and then perhaps you’ll come back to my place for a nightcap.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ She kissed him again, but just as he was about to hold her in his embrace, she rose briskly, straightening her dress. ‘But, my darling, I’ve got to get myself ready now. As I said I’ve a busy day.’
Ray gave a theatrical moan. ‘Very well. I’ll just use your bathroom before I leave, is that OK?’
Surprisingly she did not answer, but he made his way there all the same. While he was washing his hands he thought he heard the outer door of her flat close. Maybe she had another visitor. Apprehensive, he waited and listened for the sound of voices. He didn’t want to compromise Evelyn, or more particularly himself, by being discovered visiting her flat. There were no voices, but nevertheless he left the bathroom quietly and peered around the sitting-room door. Evelyn was sitting on the sofa with her make-up mirror applying some lipstick. She looked up as she noticed Carter’s head appear round the door and smiled. ‘What are you doing, skulking around my flat? You look like a very well-dressed burglar.’ She giggled at her own conceit.
He grinned sheepishly back at her. ‘I thought I heard a noise, someone in the flat.’
‘Drat those mice. I shall have to get them some slippers. Oh, Raymond, don’t be silly, there’s no one here. You must relax, otherwise you’ll end up a gibbering wreck.’
She moved to his side and put her arms around him. He felt the seductive warmth of her body and smelt the faint sweet aroma of her eau de cologne.
He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll try,’ he said softly, with a sudden realization of how difficult it was going to be to ignore his feelings of insecurity and uncertainty. The morning bravado he had mustered about the phone calls was already receding. The thought insinuated its way into his mind that maybe he wasn’t strong enough for all this. For years he had thought of himself as a tough fellow, emotion-proof, but perhaps he had been kidding himself. Either that, or he had not really been put to the test before. He had been the one calling all the shots, making the decisions, but he was most certainly being put to the test now and on current form he wasn’t handling things at all well.
Evelyn gazed at his sad features and gave him a reassuring hug before pulling away. ‘Now then, weren’t you about to depart?’
‘Guess so.’
The telephone rang and without thinking his body stiffened and he felt his mouth go dry. Evelyn saw the effect this had on him and squeezed his hand.
‘You’re in my flat now, Ray. And it’s only the telephone. It’ll be Monty, my agent. Just a mo.’ She moved to the telephone on a small table against the wall and lifted the received from the cradle.
‘Evelyn Munro,’ she whispered seductively, glancing over at Carter with a smile. Then her features darkened and her brow creased in a surprised frown. She clasped her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s for you,’ she said simply.
‘Me?’ cried Carter, louder than he intended. The old fear returned and his legs began to feel unsteady. ‘Who is it?’
Evelyn shrugged. ‘He says he’s a friend.’ She held out the receiver for Raymond to take it.
He did not move.
She held out the receiver closer to him. ‘Come on, Ray. Don’t be frightened.’
But he was frightened and all logical arguments and prevarications had gone from his head. In fact, his eyes and his mind focused solely on the black Bakelite telephone receiver that Evelyn held out like a supplicant.
It was a friend, she’d said, but he really didn’t have any friends. And certainly no one who would know he was in the flat of Evelyn Munro, apart from Larry that is, and he wouldn’t ring him here and he wouldn’t classify himself as a friend anyway. Theirs was a strictly business arrangement.
‘I’ll put the receiver down, if you like,’ said Evelyn. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice.
‘No, that’s my job,’ Carter snapped, snatching the receiver from her and clasping it to the side of his head.
‘Hello. Raymond Carter.’ His voice was firm and aggressive.
There was silence on the line at first and then through the sibilant hiss Carter could detect a faint chuckling. It was mocking and high-pitched. He was about to replace the receiver when the caller began to speak. To Carter’s horror, he heard the voice of Charlie Dokes.
‘Hello, there, Ray old chum. How’s tricks? Got the little girlie into bed yet? You being a naughty boy again, are you?’
A sharp, fierce pain rippled across his chest and for a moment he thought he was going to faint. His legs began to give way and he staggered backwards, dragging the telephone to the very edge of the table until it was in danger of crashing to the floor.
‘What is it, Ray?’ asked Evelyn, alarmed at Carter’s behaviour.
‘It’s him,’ he muttered.
Evelyn snatched the receiver from his limp grasp. ‘Hello, hello,’ she called down the phone. ‘Who is this? What do you want?’
Ruffling his hair, Carter stood back watching her intently, wondering what she was hearing.
‘He’s hung up,’ she said at last.
‘What did he say?’
She shook her head as she replaced the receiver. ‘Nothing. I heard nothing.’
‘But it was him. Using Charlie Dokes’s voice. The same bastard.’ Carter�
�s eyes widened with fear as he realized the full implication of the call. ‘My God, he’s watching me closely. He seems to know my every movement….’
SIXTEEN
* * *
I sat by the window on the noisy, rattling train on my way back to London, staring out at the passing panorama of fields and houses, houses and fields, with the occasional factory and river thrown in for variety but without really seeing a thing. My mind was fully occupied, digesting the details of the Raymond Carter story as passed on to me by Cyril Sarony. If I was to believe what I was told – and there really was no reason not to – Mr Raymond Carter emerged as the bastard son of Jekyll and Hyde. Obviously beneath that smooth and apparently sensitive exterior beat a heart of lead. To ditch your young wife and child and have nothing more to do with them takes more than the average streak of cold bloodedness. It puts you up there with Attila the Hun. In my encounters with my client, he had presented himself at worst as Mr Bland and at best a fine fellow, who, to his astonishment and surprise, found himself being persecuted and threatened. If his treatment of Sally, his wife, and his little boy, as well as old Cyril Sarony himself, was anything to go by, over the years Raymond Carter must have created enough enemies to fill a medium-sized football stadium, all ready to do him ill. In that sense the field of suspects was wide open. Well, in theory anyway.
As the train neared Victoria, my mind was still reeling with the implications of my discovery. It certainly opened several new avenues to consider and investigate. I calmed my feverish thoughts and acknowledged that despite Cyril Sarony’s revelations and the different complexion they placed on the case, the likely candidate for making the death threats, and indeed the person who had murdered Arthur Keating, was still someone connected with the Okey Dokes radio show. However, now there were greater possibilities for nailing down a motive – the reason this mystery caller had for trying to destroy Carter’s career and, presumably, ultimately, the man himself. The thought struck me that Carter might well have a suspicion as to who this avenger was, but didn’t want to confess it because it would reveal some unforgivable past behaviour of his – something that would show the bastard up for what he was: a bastard.
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