However, as I turned into Prior’s Court something suddenly deflated my balloon of contentment. Call it sixth sense if you will, but I knew immediately that something was wrong, something was not as it should be. It was like someone had walked over my grave, as an old sergeant of mine used to say. The hairs prickled on the back of my neck and instinctively my body tensed. Something imperceptible brought my senses to attention. Whether there was a slight sound, a movement in the shadows or sense that I was no longer alone, I did not know. All I did know was that my personal Radar had picked something up and had warned me to be on the alert. I shook my head to dislodge the soft cushion around my brain created by the alcohol.
Instinctively, I froze on the spot and listened. Like an animal I sniffed the air for danger. But there seemed to be nothing – nothing more tangible than the usual muted night sounds. For a fleeting moment I thought I had been imagining things and then there was a slight movement in the black void before me. It was just a gentle rustle of clothing as though someone had shifted position or taken a step nearer. Whatever it was, I was certain there was someone beyond my sight, out there in the darkness, someone who no doubt meant me ill.
‘Who’s there?’ I asked automatically. It was a silly question in one sense, but it informed whoever it was waiting there in shadowy ambush that I was aware of their presence.
From out of the blackness came a little high-pitched giggle.
I waited in the gloom, my nerves beginning to tingle.
‘It’s a lovely evening, Johnny,’ came a disembodied voice. It was a voice I recognized. It was a voice that sent a chill to my heart and a flush of perspiration to my brow. It was the voice of Charlie Dokes.
I was lost for words. What could one say in reply? I was too puzzled and apprehensive to conjure up some coherent response or even some witticism, so I said nothing.
‘Cat got your tongue, eh, Johnny? Little meddling Johnny.’ The sound now seemed to be coming from another direction. Either the devil was moving around or he was throwing his voice. Instinctively, I took a step forward towards the sound and I heard a shuffling in the gloom as though my phantom friend was shifting position again.
‘I’ve come to get you, Johnny,’ said the disembodied surreal, squeaky voice. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to put a stop to your interfering ways before you ruin my party.’
Another direction again.
Behind me this time.
I swung round just in time to catch the shape of the figure as it approached me. At first it was just a shadowy silhouette, hardly any lighter than the darkness from which it emerged, but, as it came closer, I could just about make out the features. I peered hard at the face and then my heart did a fierce leap into my mouth. I was staring into the shiny, clown-like face of Charlie Dokes. There he was: red-lipped rictal grin, bold gorgon eyes and vivid painted cheeks.
The dummy had come to life.
It had grown into human form.
And it was moving towards me.
Coming to get me.
For a moment, my mind could not cope with this prospect, one that was at once too fantastic and yet terribly real. I was for a brief time held rigid, unable to move, my body mesmerized with the horror of this apparition.
The garish face shimmered before me like a macabre mirage and inanimate though the features were, they seemed to me to project an aura of cruelty and malevolence. Involuntarily, I emitted a sharp guttural cry of fear. How could this be, my mind screamed, as I took few clumsy steps in retreat? But the thing kept coming, the eyes holding me with their maniacal scare.
As though in some bizarre dream, that grotesque face came nearer and nearer, forming itself with greater clarity out of the shadows. It did not utter a word but I could hear the thing breathing, breathing heavily. Before I knew it, the creature was almost upon me. Then I saw the knife. It was raised above his head and glimmered palely in the dim moonlight.
As the blade began to descend, at last my instinct for self-preservation took over and I dodged sideways to escape the blow. I wasn’t entirely successful. The knife caught my right arm and sliced into the material of my overcoat – my lovely warm overcoat. My assailant giggled. It was the repulsive Charlie Dokes giggle and the sound of it made me shudder. And then he came at me again, but now I was ready for him. I bent low and head butted him in the stomach as hard as I could. To my delight I heard him groan as the wind was banged out of him. He staggered back and again I saw that surreal face clearly. Of course, I informed my now sober brain, this is a man wearing a mask, not some supernatural thing from the pit. But I also told myself that this man in a mask intends to kill me.
He returned, the knife held before him, but this time he anticipated my move sideways and I felt a sharp pain in my thigh.
A hit. A palpable hit.
Strangely, the overwhelming emotion I felt on receiving a wound was anger. The bastard had torn my overcoat and now he had hurt me. He had gone too far. I roared with rage and ran towards him as they had instructed me during bayonet practice, although, of course, in this instance, I didn’t actually have a bayonet to aid me. Now it was his turn to retreat and try to avoid my advance. I grabbed the hand that held the knife and thrust it upwards, shaking his arm as hard as I could in an effort to force him to drop it. I had almost succeeded when he pressed his body against mine and kneed me in the groin, causing me to release my grip.
I groaned and stumbled awkwardly, but managed to retain my balance. Again the blade descended and again my overcoat suffered a further breach. On the shoulder this time. If I survive this assault, I pondered wildly, I’ll be wandering around London with bruised privates, wearing a coat of rags and tatters.
Without a pause, he came at me once more. This time I employed a different tactic. Instead of trying to dodge out of his way, I rushed towards him again, but this time I quickly side-stepped to the right when I drew close. As I did so, my hand shot out towards my assailant’s face, or more precisely to the garish mask that he was wearing.
‘Let’s see who you are,’ I yelled fiercely, my fingers finding purchase on the edge of the mask. As I tugged hard at the shiny papier-mâché visage glinting in the thin moonlight, once again the knife penetrated the sleeve of my coat and I felt the sharp stab of pain in my arm as I received a second wound.
I gave a yelp as the blade sliced into my flesh, but I maintained my grip on the mask and tugged even harder. So hard in fact that I began to fall backwards. Suddenly I felt myself losing my balance but I held on to the recalcitrant mask, and found that I was hauling my assailant down with me. With a most un-Charlie-Dokes-like deep-throated grunt, he heaved himself back from me in order to maintain his own equilibrium. As he did so, I managed to drag the doll’s mask away from his face.
Released from my grip, he stumbled away into the darkness and I fell to the ground, crashing down on my wounded arm. For a very unpleasant moment, I saw a very bright ack ack display of lights flash before my eyes while my arm felt as though it had been stabbed with a red-hot poker. Stifling a moan of pain, I picked myself up, but by now my assailant had disappeared. Without his disguise his vulnerability had been exposed and he had evaporated into the night. As I steadied myself, I could hear his footsteps fading into the distance. I swore softly. I hadn’t managed to get a look at his face.
I took a few deep breaths and tried to bring my heart rate down to somewhere approaching normal. As I did so the pain in my right arm asserted itself with a regular rhythmic throb. I’d better get home and examine the wounds to my arm and thigh and, I thought, wryly, survey the damage to my overcoat. I was about to turn and stagger the last few yards to Prior’s Court when a thought struck me. For a few moments I searched in the shadows until I found it. The mask – the grinning gargoyle mask of Charlie Dokes. The mask worn by the killer. I scooped it up and hobbled homeward.
EIGHTEEN
* * *
‘You’ve been a very careless boy, haven’t you? A very careless boy indeed,’ the voice sniped at h
im.
He wiped the sweat away from his forehead before replying, ‘I guess so,’ he said, looking away into the darkness.
‘You nearly got caught. Exposed yourself.’
The head turned and the eyes stared accusingly.
‘I know. I know. Let it drop, will you?’
‘How can I? I ask you. How can I? You call yourself a mastermind. You nearly ruined everything, you fool,’ said Charlie Dokes, his mouth snapping noisily.
NINETEEN
* * *
On reaching home, I stripped off my clothes in order to examine my wounds. It was a painful process because the ritual required so much movement from my gashed arm, that I moaned and groaned each step of the way. I’m not keen on pain.
At last, stripped down to my underclothes, I took on my medical duties and inspected the damage. The gash on my thigh was quite narrow but fairly deep. It could probably do with some stitches, but I wasn’t about to take myself off to hospital for that. I was a big boy now. I didn’t need a nurse to kiss me better – although the fleeting thought of it aroused me slightly. A feminine embrace and a pair of warm lips on mine would be an ideal restorative. Shaking such notions from my tired mind, I took down the first aid tin. I reckoned that if I bandaged the wound on my leg tightly it would heal itself sufficiently in a week. The cut on my arm was more painful but less serious. I bathed it in Dettol and stuck some cotton wool on it held down with a big strip of Elastoplast. I certainly couldn’t have bandaged it one handed.
Although the two wounds ached unpleasantly, guaranteeing that I wouldn’t get much sleep that night, I was thankful that I had escaped comparatively lightly from the little skirmish. It had been bizarre and frightening. I wouldn’t forget very easily being attacked by the figure of Charlie Dokes. It was the stuff of childhood nightmares, but I had experienced it. The one positive aspect of the encounter – how circumspect that word is – was that it indicated that I was getting close to some unpleasant truth and the killer – for I must assume it was indeed he who had attacked me – wanted to eliminate me before I came any closer to it. This thought filled me with mixed feelings. I was pleased that I had in some way unnerved the fellow, but I didn’t relish the fact that I was now on his list of potential victims. However, I felt so weary and in such discomfort that neither contemplation stirred my emotions to any great degree. All I cared about now was to escape the cares of the world by having a good kip.
So, once I’d finished ministering to my wounds, I took myself off to bed. I lay on my back – the position which caused the least discomfort – and waited to be scooped up into the arms of Morpheus. He took a long time coming. While I tried to let my mind drift off into sleep, my two wounds were sending throbbing Morse code messages to each other. Sometime around three in the morning I finally drifted off.
When I awoke, the pain started immediately. Both wounds pounded indignantly. They were not going to let me forget their presence or the way I’d allowed my body to be damaged in such a violent fashion. I decided not to examine the cuts in case they depressed me further. I would just have to grit my teeth and get on with things – the damage would heal in time. So I gritted my teeth and set about the awkward and often painful task of dressing myself and carrying out my morning ablutions. Finally, after much jerky movement and a series of stifled groans, I was ready to face the world. As I sat over what I laughingly called breakfast – a cup of tea, a slice of burnt bread scraped with a sheen of margarine, and a cigarette – I examined the mask that I had ripped from my assailant’s face the night before. It was finely crafted – from papier mâché – was a clever representation of Charlie Dokes’s ugly mug. On the inside of the mask was a signature. It was tiny and I had difficulty making it out with my naked eye. I retrieved my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass from the sideboard drawer and gave it a closer examination. It looked like ‘Max Summers’. ‘That could come in handy,’ I murmured to myself, but before I could let my thoughts wander down that particular avenue, the telephone rang.
It was Peter, wanting to know what time I was coming round today. Of course, it was Saturday. I’d forgotten.
‘I’ve one or two errands to carry out this morning,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful, ‘so I reckon it’ll be sometime in the afternoon before I can make it.’
Peter groaned. ‘I wanted us to have a game of football in the park this morning. It’ll be too dark by the time you get here.’
‘I’m sorry about that, but I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you into Town for a nice tea and then …’ – I paused dramatically and chuckled – ‘and then, I’ll take you to the Palladium to see Charlie Dokes.’
‘Really! Do you really mean it?’ Peter virtually shrieked down the phone with uncontained excitement.
‘Certainly do,’ I said beaming. ‘That’s better than a kick about in the park, eh?’
‘You bet.’
‘See you later then, OK?’
‘Can’t wait. Come as soon as you can,’ he said, and I pictured him as he replaced the receiver in the hallway of the house where he stayed. He would be grinning from ear to ear, his young face flushed and his eyes wide with pleasurable anticipation.
Checking my watch for the time, I lifted the receiver again and dialled. It was a bit of an off chance but I knew that Limelight Lionel worked six mornings a week and could invariably be found at his desk between the hours of nine and when the pubs opened. After that it was anyone’s guess where he’d be.
I was in luck.
‘Good morning, Johnny. You got some juicy gossip for me I hope?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ I said, bending the truth a little. ‘I’m afraid I’m after a little information again.’
Lionel gave a dry chuckle. ‘You know I do this kind of business in the Old Mitre. Information comes at a liquid price, my son.’
‘I’ll just have to owe you. You know you can trust me.’
‘Maybe, but I’m rather thirsty now.’
He was playing with me and I went along with the game.
‘So, what do you want to know this time?’
‘I’ve got hold of a theatrical mask. Very nice. Very well executed. The maker’s name is on the inside: Max Summers. Have you heard of him?’
Lionel chuckled again. ‘Max Summers? Certainly have. One of the best in the business.’
‘Where does he hang out?’
‘Four pints and a whisky chaser …’
‘A steep price for an address, Lionel.’
‘Steep price, maybe, but where else you gonna go for this info?’
‘Point taken. It’s a deal.’
‘Max has a shop on Henrietta Street, near Covent Garden. Don’t leave it too long before you pay your dues, Johnny boy.’ With that parting shot, he put the phone down.
I walked to Henrietta Street thinking the exercise would do the wound to my thigh some good. Whether it was beneficial or not, I wasn’t sure; I just knew that it hurt like hell. By the time I had reached my destination, I was limping because of the pain. My composure wasn’t helped by the additional discomfort from the wound to my arm which throbbed in sympathy with its partner. I must have made a strange sight: a one-eyed limping man in a tattered and sliced overcoat grimacing at every step, slowly patrolling Henrietta Street.
As I neared the Charing Cross Road end of the street, I came across a small shop front which was full of masks. The sign above the door read MASKS UNLIMITED. Below it in very small lettering I read: ‘Prop. M. Summers’. Good old reliable Lionel. I went inside. The shop was tiny. There was room for two customers only before a narrow counter, behind which was a small display cabinet containing half-a-dozen masks and a door leading off to the rear of the premises. There was a little handbell on the counter. I rang it.
A voice called from the inner recesses of the shop, ‘Coming.’
And sure enough, the owner of the voice came. It was a pretty young woman with short cropped glossy dark hair that framed her face and the most amazing grey eyes, like
those of an enigmatic cat. She was dressed in a pinstriped pencil skirt and a neat black cardigan that was buttoned almost to the neck. Her face was powdered to a pale ivory and enlivened by her bright red lipstick. She flashed me a broad smile of greeting. Sadly, I was wise enough to recognize that this was a practised smile given freely to all prospective customers and not something meant especially for me. And indeed, why should it be? I must have looked a strange fish indeed with my tired face, my limp, eye-patch and coat of threads and tatters. Certainly not someone to arouse the interest of an attractive young lady. More’s the pity, I thought, for I found this attractive young lady particularly alluring.
‘Good morning,’ she said, politely. ‘How may I help you?’ Her voice was soft and mellifluous and tinged with accent. She was French.
‘I’d like to have a word with Mr Max Summers, the proprietor.’
At my request, her long fingered right hand fluttered around her mouth in a feeble attempt to stifle a laugh.
Her action was so delightful and refreshingly natural that I found myself smiling too. I didn’t really know why. ‘Have I said something funny?’ I asked gently.
The girl nodded, her eyes still brimming with amusement and then she giggled again, but this time she made a greater effort to contain herself. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, blushing slightly, ‘you see I am Max Summers, the proprietor.’
‘Max…?’
‘Short for Maxine.’
‘I see. I apologize for jumping to conclusions.’
Requiem for a Dummy Page 13