‘How did this all come about?’ he asked, as he carried out his ministrations with great care.
‘I was attacked.’
‘That much I could have deduced. Who by and why?’
‘You don’t really want to know. In fact, I’m not really sure myself.’
‘Some detective you are,’ he observed, pulling the bandage tight, making me wince. ‘There … all done. Florence Nightingale couldn’t have made a better job of it.’
He was right. It was a superior piece of work all right.
‘Now let’s have a look at the other one.’
I slipped my trousers down far enough to expose the bandaged wound. Once the dressing was removed, the actual cut did not look as bad as it had the night before but it still throbbed like hell. Deftly and with skill, Benny repeated the procedure of cleansing, anointing with cream and bandaging and in less than five minutes I was ready to go out into the world again, albeit in a rather jerky fashion.
‘What you need now is a hot cup of tea and one of my Eccles cakes.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Benny grinned. ‘It’s just what the doctor ordered.’
We went downstairs and I sat at one of the tables while Benny went off to bring me the tea and cake. While I indulged myself, Benny drew up a chair and chatted with me. He asked me about Peter and reprimanded me for not bringing him to see his ‘Uncle Benny’ for at ‘least a couple of weeks’. And then, in a blatantly obvious fashion, he attempted to find more out about the knife wounds. I deflected his questions with one of my own about the café. ‘How’s business these days?’ I asked casually.
It was the usual trigger for my old friend to moan about customers’ manners, his uncertain profits and the high prices he paid for his supplies. I grinned through the performance having heard it all before, knowing full well that Benny’s café was going from strength to strength; it was just that the old guy seemed to get some kick out of painting a bleaker picture. It somehow made him feel better.
‘Much obliged for the snack,’ I said at last, brushing away the errant flakes of the Eccles cake from front of my new coat, ‘and for the medical treatment.’
‘My bill will be in the post,’ Benny grinned. ‘You want another cup of tea?’
I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got things to do.’
Benny accompanied me to the door. ‘Don’t forget. I want to see that little scamp Peter. You bring him round here soon.’
I assured him that I would and left.
Now, I had a man to see about a case of adultery.
Percy Goodall lived in a small flat on Queen Anne Street, barely a stone’s throw from Broadcasting House. I had taken a chance of catching him in. The chance paid off. I had hardly stopped knocking at the door before it was wrenched open and the man himself stood before me. He was tall, but with a pear-shaped body which bulged in the middle putting a great strain on the buttons of his waistcoat. He was possessed of rather soft feminine features which he had tried to disguise with a small moustache and goatee beard. I had never seen him before, but as soon as he spoke I recognized his voice from numerous radio programmes.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, in a tone that was not exactly friendly.
I passed him my card and, as he perused it, I tried an old trick of mine which no doubt Danny would have attributed to my familiarity with the Blarney Stone. ‘I’m helping the police with their enquiries into Arthur Keating’s death,’ I said firmly, with what I hoped was a note of official menace.
‘Helping the police? I’ve already spoken to the police. There’s nothing more to say.’
‘Well, it’s rather more to do with your relationship with Raymond Carter, sir. If I could come inside and have a few words….’
Goodall did not budge.
‘It will only take a few minutes and then we can clear the matter up and you won’t be bothered again.’ I gave him a knowing look and added pointedly, ‘It’s in your best interests.’
At last this brought about some reaction. He looked a little unnerved now and with ill grace he showed me into a tiny sitting-room which was very tidy and bleakly Spartan.
‘What exactly is this all about?’ he asked. He maintained his well-modulated tones, but I could tell from the awkward stance he adopted and his fluttering hands that he was nervous.
‘Raymond Carter.’
‘What about Raymond Carter?’
‘I gather there is no love lost between the two of you.’
‘And how do you gather that?’
‘I know that he had a brief affair with your wife and then she left you.’
‘So he did. And so she did,’ Goodall observed bitterly. ‘What has that got to do with you?’
‘Raymond Carter is receiving death threats.’
‘Is he now? Well, I am not surprised’ He paused as though some amusing thought had struck him and his eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Oh … I see. You think …’ Suddenly Goodall emitted a strange little noise. It was more of a whinny than a full-blown laugh. ‘You think it’s me. You think I’m sending him death threats.’ He whinnied again, the hands flapping even more erratically now. He was obviously finding the idea quite hilarious.
‘And you’re not?’
‘Of course I’m not. I don’t like the man; in fact, I detest him, but if I was going to kill him, I certainly wouldn’t warn him about it in advance. And if – if, mind you – I was going to do it, I’d have done it some time ago.’
‘When your wife left you?’
Suddenly, Goodall seemed to relax, he folded his tall frame into an armchair and indicated I take the one opposite him.
‘What angered me about Carter was his betrayal of me as a fellow broadcaster. He went behind my back and seduced my wife. They were not the actions of a gentleman. That’s what I can’t forgive him for. But it’s hardly a matter for murder is it? As for Dorothy – my wife – leaving me, he actually did me a favour. I was glad to get rid of the silly cow. I must admit that I fell for her beauty not her brains and then I discovered that she didn’t have any at all … brains that is. Or morals for that matter. If it hadn’t been Carter it would have been some other chap she’d have been bed-hopping with. I’m better off without her. So you see, there is no hard coal of burning hatred in my heart for Raymond Carter. As I say, I dislike the man. He’s a bounder and a bloody cad but I wouldn’t soil my hands by sending him death threats.’ He glanced down at my card which he was still holding in his hand. ‘So, Mr … Hawke, I hope that settles the matter.’
‘Where is your wife now?’
I got the whinny of a laugh again. ‘How should I know? Bedlam for all I care. She’ll not be far from some poor devil’s bed I’ll be bound.’ He found this thought very amusing and laughed again.
I realized that I was going to get no further relevant information from this chap, maybe a few more effeminate high-pitched giggles but little else. I rose from my chair and made my way to the door.
‘So who do you think is behind these death threats then?’ Goodall asked. ‘Who is your main suspect?’
I shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I said.
TWENTY-TWO
* * *
Maxine Summers consulted her watch. It was 3.15 and already dark outside. Business had been slow today – not that it was particularly good any day. Even at the best of times theatrical mask-making was very much a niche market, but before the war when her father was alive and in charge, the business had done quite well. It wasn’t just the theatre world they supplied: the idle rich also came to them to purchase masks for their champagne parties and various fancy dress soirées. But since the outbreak of war, there had been less and less demand for their frivolous trade. Fun and extravagance were in short supply. When her father had died suddenly from a brain haemorrhage, Maxine had seriously considered shutting down the business but it was all she knew and so she kept it on in the hope that things would improve. However, now she was hardly making enough to live on.
The order book had but a few entries – various masks for a couple of provincial pantomimes – and that was all. Some days not one customer came into the little shop. It was a lonely and depressing business, made more so by the absence of her beloved father. She missed him so much.
As she stood by the door staring out through the glass into the cold dark street outside, she felt as though she was looking at her future. She gave an involuntary shiver and wrapped her arms around herself.
And then out of the gloom she saw a figure approaching the shop, hurriedly, with a purpose. She stepped back as the figure entered, causing the bell to ring eerily in the empty premises. The customer was a tall man with his trilby hat pulled down over his face.
Maxine retreated behind the counter and smiled at him. ‘Good afternoon, how may I help you?’ she said brightly.
Slowly, the man lifted his head so that she could see his features. He had a pair of thick-lensed glasses and the lower half of his face was covered by a heavy beard. He looked rather like a comic version of a foreign spy or anarchist. His appearance made her smile. However, she had seen the fellow before. He was a customer. He had ordered a mask to be made. He grinned at her in a strange way as he noted her recognition.
‘You remember me,’ he said, in an unusual guttural fashion as though he was swallowing something at the same time as he was speaking.
She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I ordered a mask from you. The one that looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Charlie Dokes.’ He produced a photograph from his overcoat pocket and held it up for her perusal. It was a picture of the ventriloquist’s doll.
‘I remember it very well. It was an unusual request,’ she smiled. ‘I do not get many customers who want masks to look like someone … something else so specifically.’
‘Good. I just wonder if you’ve had anyone coming in here asking about the mask.’
For the second time that afternoon, Maxine felt herself shiver. There was an underlying menace in the way the man asked the question. There was no humour or even common courtesy in his tone. Nevertheless she found herself answering truthfully. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact …’ she said.
‘Was it a man with an eye-patch?’ The voice was openly aggressive now, threatening.
She recalled the man with the eye-patch and his claim to be a detective, investigating an important case. She hadn’t known whether to believe him or not at the time; she had been infuriated by his forceful manner and his arrogance. Now she was inclined to believe him. The man who stood before her was beginning to frighten her.
‘I don’t remember,’ she found herself saying. Some instinct within her told her not to give too much away or it would place the one-eyed detective in danger.
Max’s answer did not please the bearded man. He leaned over towards her and grabbed her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. With a sudden movement he dragged her roughly towards him so that she was held over the counter. She gave a slight gasp of shock at this sudden act of violence.
‘Don’t give me that,’ he growled. ‘It was the man with the eye-patch wasn’t it? You can hardly forget that, can you? A man with one eye.’
She felt his warm breath on her face. Now she really was frightened. She could see that this man had a reckless danger in his eyes which glared at her, maliciously, through the thick lenses of his spectacles. She also noticed that his beard was not real. It was fake hair that had been stuck on with spirit gum as they did in the theatre. His whole appearance was false – a disguise. He had something to hide. This discovery intensified her fear and she tried to pull away from him but his grip was strong and she couldn’t move.
‘Yes, yes,’ she admitted, quietly.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Nothing.’ Maxine realized that if she had told the truth, he may do her more harm.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he snarled, tightening his grip on her arms.
‘It’s true,’ she cried, tried to force back the tears that were moistening her eyes. ‘I always keep customers’ details private. It’s the shop’s policy.’
The bearded man stared at her for a while as though debating with himself whether to believe her or not.
‘It is true,’ she added in an earnest whisper.
‘Did you describe me to him?’
‘No, no. I swear. No. I just told him I couldn’t give him the information that he wanted and then he went away.’
After a brief pause he released his hold of the girl. He gave her a tight smile as though to acknowledge that he was satisfied that she was telling him the truth. Maxine edged backwards, away from the counter, making sure she was out of his reach, although he didn’t seem to notice. His mind seemed to be on other things.
‘Now little lady, I was never here, right? You do not breathe a word of my visit to a soul. You got that?’
Maxine nodded again. She knew that could be her only response. She feared for her life otherwise.
‘Believe me, if you squeal, I will hear about it and I’ll come back and then I won’t be quite so pleasant. Talk and it will be the worse for you. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good girl.’ He raised his hand to his hat in a farewell greeting and threw the girl a chilling smile before disappearing out into the November dusk.
TWENTY-THREE
* * *
After my interview with Percy Goodall, I made my way home. I wasn’t quite sure whether I could cross the smooth Mr Announcer with the effeminate giggle off my list of suspects. I tended to think so. Although he had seemed relaxed, equitable even, about Carter’s affair with his wife, maybe that giggle suggested that he had interests elsewhere and she had just been a convenient cover. My gossipmonger friend, Limelight Lionel, might be able to fill me in on the sexual proclivities of Mr P. Goodall.
Despite my wounds throbbing with less insistence, thanks no doubt to Benny’s ministering, I still felt weary as I trudged my way up the stairs to my place. The lack of sleep in recent nights and the physical damage I had undergone were beginning to take their toll. My intention was to catch forty winks before going over to pick Peter up for our Saturday treat, a slap-up tea and a trip to the theatre. How I was going to cope with that, I didn’t know. As I closed the door behind me I was already having difficulty preventing my eyelid from drooping. I didn’t want to end up drifting off in the Palladium and snoring loudly in the stalls. I kicked off my shoes, undid my tie, lay on the couch and it wasn’t very long before I was off to the land of Nod. Unfortunately, the forty winks doubled in number at least, and when I surfaced somewhat groggily from my slumbers, the room was quite dark. Pulling on the blackout curtains, I switched on the lamp and glanced at my watch. It was coming up to four o’clock. I swore and reached for the telephone. It was Peter who answered, the weary tone in his voice informing me that he knew it was me – me with another excuse for being late. I had lost count of the occasions I had turned up hours after the appointed time or even not at all when pressures of work kept me away. I always felt bad about letting the boy down, but a fellow’s got to make a living.
I imagined Peter at the other end of the line, hair neatly combed, shiny of face but glum of expression, in his new belted raincoat all ready for my arrival as he would have been for the best part of an hour.
‘I’ve been delayed but I’ll be with you in about thirty minutes, I promise,’ I said with mock cheeriness.
‘OK,’ came the muted reply. He’d heard that promise before and it was one that had been broken several times. But not today, I vowed.
As I replaced the receiver, I felt rotten. I was fully aware how disappointed a child could feel when let down by an adult. They put such faith in our words. As an orphan myself, I knew better than most the pain that can be caused by the casual disregard that grown ups sometimes applied to promises. I remembered from my own childhood those supposed special treats that never materialized: that big dipper ride of slowly riding high with anticipatio
n only to swoop down to the depths with disappointment. I promised myself that I would make it up to the lad by giving him a really special night.
With the speed of a frightened leopard, I gave myself a quick wash, knotted up one of my flashier ties and grabbed my new coat and was ready to rush out into the street and grab a taxi when the telephone rang.
I was about to ignore it. I didn’t want to be delayed further but my professional detective conscience overruled such sloppy behaviour. As I lifted the receiver, I hoped that it was Peter just checking to see if I was about to leave.
It wasn’t.
‘Mr Hawke. Is that Mr John Hawke?’
I recognized the voice immediately. Who could forget those soft, alluring Gallic tones? It was the lovely Maxine Summers.
‘Yes, this is John Hawke. How can I help you Mademoiselle Summers.’
She gave a gentle gasp of surprise. ‘You knew it was me?’
‘Your accent … I recognized your voice.’
‘Of course. Mr Hawke, I think I am in danger. That man has been back to the shop and … he threatened me.’
‘That man? The one who ordered the mask? You mean Raymond Carter.’
‘Yes. Him. Can you come to my place now? I … I don’t feel safe.’
I looked at my watch and cursed silently. I couldn’t break my promise to Peter and yet here was a damsel in distress and a pretty cute damsel at that. My conscience was about to indulge in a tug of war with itself but sometimes my brain manages to arrange things before I have had the time to sort them out myself. Suddenly I found myself saying; ‘Yes, I’ll get a cab and I’ll be with you in about ten minutes, but then you’ll have to come along with me. You see I’m due to pick up Peter, my twelve-year-old nephew, [Peter was always my ‘nephew’ to people who didn’t know us – it saved a lot of explanations] and I’m already late. I promised to take him to tea in the West End and I can’t disappoint him. You must join us too so we can talk.’
Requiem for a Dummy Page 15