Requiem for a Dummy

by David Stuart Davies

  Carter shook his head. ‘I had my script tampered with at the BBC. It has to be someone connected with the show.’

  ‘These crazy fellows have their methods. It isn’t an idea I’d reject out of hand. But one thing is certain, Ray, this man wants to see you suffer – almost to the point where you’d welcome a quick bullet to the brain.’

  Carter hugged himself and shivered involuntarily. ‘You really … think that?’

  Al nodded. ‘Don’t you? And it seems to me his plan is working. You are seriously rattled. And the more you let him get to you, the more successful he becomes.’

  ‘Well, I know, but it’s difficult …’

  Al flashed a wry grin. ‘I can appreciate that. It’s always easier to hand out advice than take it, but if you could maintain a calm equilibrium and not let the threats get to you, then you’ll frustrate the bastard and then he may well make a slip.’

  It was the same message that Milligan had espoused. Ignore the bastard and everything will be OK.

  ‘Thanks for your honesty, Al. I much appreciate your words. We’ll see what we can do, eh Charlie?’ Carter threw a glance over to the doll in the corner.

  ‘Yes, siree,’ came the squeaky response.

  ‘Look,’ said Al seriously, ‘I’m here for you. If there is anything I can do to help – at any time of day or night, you come a-running. You understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Carter.

  ‘You go out there tonight and give them a bloody good show. Weave the old Carter magic. That’ll give you a lift.’

  Carter flashed a brief smile at Warren as he waved goodbye.

  Left alone in the dressing-room, he turned and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired and old.

  ‘Are you sure you know where you left it, eh, Ray old boy?’ asked Charlie from the corner. ‘The old Carter magic. Are you sure you can get it back?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  As we dined that evening at Bradley’s, a nice little restaurant on Eastcastle Street, near Oxford Circus, I had to adopt the role of social tight-rope walker maintaining a steady and even balance between my two companions: Peter and Maxine. I was aware that I had to keep both happy and relaxed, never letting either of them feel that they were being neglected or ignored. After chatting with Peter about his school work and his latest comics, I switched tack and asked Maxine how a French girl had landed up living in London.

  ‘My father was English,’ she told me. ‘He met my mother on a business trip just before the First War and stayed over in France and married her. They started up the theatrical mask and costume business and were quite successful, but when my mother died, we came back to England. I was just twelve at the time. That was ten years ago.’

  Peter seemed as enchanted by Maxine as I was. She had a sweet innocent air, but her eyes indicated a sharp mind and a strong personality. While we ate, she seemed relaxed and there were no signs of the nervous tensions she was obviously feeling.

  Peter couldn’t resist the temptation.

  ‘Are you one of Johnny’s cust— clients?’ he asked, between gulps of food.

  Maxine smiled. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I told you, Peter,’ I said, ‘Maxine is just a friend. I’m helping her with a little bit of trouble.’

  Peter looked unconvinced. I knew that he was bright enough to recognize flannel and waffle when he heard it. And so he ploughed on, ‘What sort of trouble?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘A man has threatened me,’ said Maxine simply, before I could intervene. She appeared quite unperturbed at the idea of letting Peter know her problem.

  ‘And Johnny’s going to get him, eh?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said quickly, trying to bring this particular train of conversation into a siding. ‘Now why don’t you wipe your chin before that gravy drips on to your shirt.’

  Just before the pudding arrived, Peter nipped to the lavatory giving me a chance to broach the subject of our mysterious Raymond Carter impersonator. ‘I know you told me that he wore a false beard and had on thick glasses, can you think of any other distinguishing features that might help to identify the man?’

  Maxine’s face clouded and her feline eyes misted a little as she thought back to the encounter in her shop with the man.

  ‘There was something, I think, which could help,’ she said after a while.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I remember that he wore his wrist watch the wrong way round.’ She twisted her own arm to reveal the flat of her hand. ‘The dial was on the back of his wrist.’

  I nodded to indicate that I understood. ‘You didn’t happen to notice the make of the watch?’

  ‘No. It was silver with a black strap, that’s all.’

  ‘Good girl. That’s a start. You see, I am convinced that the man who threatened you and who has been doing the same to the real Raymond Carter is close to him – a colleague or even a friend. It’s probably someone I’ve met. Those clues are invaluable.’

  A smile flickered for a moment on her pale features but was gone again in a trice. ‘I feel like I have stepped out of real life into … into a film or a novel. It all seems so unreal. Are you sure that I can’t go home tonight?’

  ‘It would be very unwise. I may be being over-cautious, but Mr Nasty knows where you live and if he takes it into his head that you are a threat to preserving his anonymity … which of course you are … then he may well come calling again. And this time he won’t be so polite.’

  Max shivered. ‘You really think he would do me harm?’

  She knew I did and was only expressing her own fears. I gave her a brief nod as I spied Peter weaving his way though the restaurant towards our table.

  ‘Where am I to go? I cannot really afford a hotel.’

  ‘I have a friend who will put you up for a few days,’ I said quickly. ‘I will take you there later tonight.’

  ‘What about my things? My clothes …’

  I hadn’t thought about that. ‘After the theatre, we’ll go back to your place so you can pick up the essentials.’

  By now Peter had returned to his seat, his face glowing with curiosity. ‘Is Maxine coming to the Palladium with us?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Oh, goody,’ grinned Peter excitedly. ‘Do you like Charlie Dokes as well?’

  This question rather nonplussed Maxine and she faltered in answering.

  ‘She’s not as big a fan as you,’ I said, ruffling Peter’s hair.

  ‘I’ve got all his comics and I listen to his radio show every week.’

  ‘You must be very excited at actually seeing him on the stage,’ Maxine said.

  ‘I am. I am,’ Peter beamed.

  Before we left the restaurant, I called up Benny from the phone cubicle in reception and explained my dilemma. With mock reluctance, he agreed to provide lodgings for Maxine.

  ‘This isn’t a hotel for your girlfriends,’ he jibed, tongue in cheek.

  ‘She is not a girlfriend. If she were a girlfriend, I wouldn’t be bringing her round to your place to spend the night, would I?’

  ‘How do I know? You’re like God, Johnny, you work in mysterious ways.’

  I chuckled. ‘I’ll see you later,’ I said as I replaced the receiver. Benny loved to moan, but he was as reliable as daybreak.

  It did not surprise me that there were no tickets waiting for me at the Palladium box office. Raymond Carter had forgotten to reserve them. It was to be expected, I supposed, with all that he had on his mind but it grieved me to have to fork out the money for three seats in the stalls when I could have had two of them for free. I saw that Maxine and Peter were comfortably seated with a programme and a bag of sweets in the theatre and excused myself. It was twenty minutes before curtain up and I wanted to nip backstage to see my client and check up on things. Without explaining my mission, I left my two charges before they could ask any awkward questions.

  Making it seem like a matter of life and death, I flashed my card a
nd persuaded one of the usherettes to show me backstage. Reluctantly she complied and as I was now reasonably familiar with the geography of the building; within minutes I was approaching the star dressing-room. As I did so, I saw a tall young man in a smart tweed overcoat just leaving. It was Al Warren. He caught sight of me and nodded briefly. ‘I hope you’ve got some good news for him,’ he said tersely. With these words he slapped his trilby to his head and squeezed past me.

  I stared after him for a while, wondering what I had done to deserve such brusqueness. But then perhaps I did know.

  Carter was applying his stage make-up when I eventually entered his dressing-room.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hawke, I’ve just remembered. I was supposed to get some tickets for you, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Well, yes, you were, but that doesn’t matter now, I managed to get my own. I just popped around to see how you were and if you’ve had any further contact with our mystery man.’

  ‘I’m OK, I suppose. I found this in my dressing-room today.’

  He handed me a piece of paper with the words, ‘Tap, tap tap. Death is about to come knocking,’ scribbled in red ink. It looked like the same handwriting as that on the script.

  ‘Not a familiar hand, I suppose.’

  Carter shook his head. ‘Just another little nail in my side. It almost makes me wish the fellow would have a go at me. At least then I’d know who the devil he was.’

  Not necessarily, I thought, remembering my own attack by the killer in the Charlie Dokes mask; but I kept those thoughts to myself.

  ‘Have you made any progress?’ Carter asked, almost casually as though he knew my answer already.

  I didn’t quite know what to say to this. I certainly couldn’t wave some kind of detective magic wand and state that the danger was over. That’s what Carter really wanted. Although I was accumulating various disparate scraps of information and therefore in one sense making progress, I still had nothing that would give me a definite lead. I had no intention of telling Carter about the killer’s attack on me or his threats to Maxine. The more cards I held to my chest, the greater the chance I had of exposing the demon. However, in reality, I knew that at present, I was still standing on the sidelines watching the shadows. I reckoned that to my endangered client I must have seemed to be either incompetent or impotent – or both.

  ‘We’ll both have to be patient,’ I said quietly, almost ashamed to let this platitudinous morsel pass my lips.

  ‘Easy for you to do. Less so for me. Waiting for my executioner to strike.’

  I was dried up now. I could manufacture no further comment and so I turned to leave. Then a thought struck me. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow. I assume I’ll be able to contact you at home.’

  Carter nodded. ‘I have no plans to go anywhere.’

  I hoped that would be the case.

  I returned to the auditorium, which was now almost full and buzzing with noise from the relaxed and expectant audience eager to escape their day-to-day worries in the magical garish greasepaint world beyond the footlights. Peter and Max were in deep animated conversation when I reached them and it seemed they had hardly missed me. Peter grinned as I took my seat and offered me one of his wine gums.

  The lights dimmed and then the large orchestra began to play. It was a dramatic arrangement of the tune that was used to introduce the Okey Dokes radio show. At this the audience gave a spontaneous burst of applause which increased when Raymond Carter walked on to the stage carrying Charlie. It was a strange experience for me to see this man, here bathed in creamy spotlight, glamorous and self-contained as he strode to the microphone, the man I had seen hunched up and dispirited in his dressing-room not ten minutes earlier, the man whom I suspected was falling apart because of the death threats he was receiving. Certainly there was no hint of weakness or uncertainty in his performance now. It was slick, confident and, I have to admit, funny.

  In essence this spot was a brief taster giving the audience an assurance that indeed Raymond Carter and Charlie were in the show. Charlie made some disparaging remarks about certain people on the front row, cracked a few schoolboy howler type gags and then they were off as the curtain pulled back to reveal a string of chorus girls who shimmied to the front of the stage for the opening number.

  We didn’t see Carter and Charlie again for another forty-five minutes. We were presented with some clever jugglers, a fire-eater, a rather serious and stodgy baritone who completed his act with a strangulated version of Old Man River and twin sisters who tap-danced so fast it was a wonder their feet remained attached to their ankles. As this varied array of entertainment paraded before our eyes, I kept glancing at Peter. He seemed mesmerized by the gay spectacle, his hand hovering in a frozen pose over the bag of wine gums. Even when the baritone was struggling for the high notes his attention never wavered.

  But it was when Charlie Dokes returned just before the finale of the first act that the little mite’s face really brightened. He grinned, chuckled and guffawed at all the gags, squirming in his seat with joy. Max, too, seemed thoroughly entranced with the man and his dummy and I have to admit I chuckled at the jokes which were a clever and witty combination of the naïve and the sophisticated.

  Then the lights came up for the interval while the auditorium was still ringing with the applause.

  ‘It’s great, Johnny,’ said Peter, his face split from ear to ear with a wide grin.

  ‘Really. I thought it was a bit dull,’ I said mischievously.

  Max giggled. ‘Don’t be awful, Johnny. It’s wonderful. A real tonic.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I beamed. ‘Now, who’d like an ice cream?’

  The second half was very much a re-run of the first half – we even had to endure more strangulated musical proclamations from the baritone. The climax of the show was a spectacular comic sketch with Carter and Charlie supposedly on holiday on a houseboat. Every time one of the many portholes was opened, water gushed through dousing Carter in the face but miraculously missing his voluble doll. During a storm sequence, the whole set trembled as though being buffeted by the waves, sending Carter spinning from one side of the houseboat to the other. This clever blend of slapstick and the comic patter (from Charlie) delighted the audience, prompting them into spontaneous applause in between their bursts of raucous laughter. Peter could hardly contain himself with joy, wriggling in his seat with fits of giggles and rocking backwards and forwards with glee, along with the other children in the audience, every time the water poured through a porthole to drench the unfortunate ventriloquist.

  Before we knew it, it was finale time when all the performers returned to the stage and walked down to the footlights to take a bow. The audience were so relaxed and merry now, everyone clapped and cheered generously; even the podgy baritone garnered a few cheers. But the tidal wave of applause and adulation was reserved for the final act. Raymond Carter came on now dressed in a smart dinner suit carrying Charlie Dokes who was similarly attired. As they stood on the edge of the stage acknowledging the audience’s warm reaction, Charlie’s spangled bow tie revolved like a glittery windmill.

  The cast retreated, took a final bow and then the curtains swished together. The show was over. I gazed down at Peter. His face was flushed and shining.

  ‘That was the best ever,’ he said, grabbing my hand. ‘Thank you for bringing me.’

  ‘You’re most welcome,’ I grinned.

  ‘Now I know what I want to do when I grow up. I want to be a ventriloquist.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, ‘I thought you wanted to be a detective.’

  His face grew serious for a moment. ‘Oh, I do. Perhaps … perhaps I could do both.’

  ‘Perhaps you could. But for the moment, let’s get you home to bed, eh?’

  Under different circumstance I might well have taken Peter around to Carter’s dressing-room to meet his hero, but I was unsure with the ventriloquist’s current mental state how we would be received and I didn’t want the lad to be disillusioned. Also I didn’t want Ca
rter to see Maxine and I had no intention of leaving her alone in the foyer while we visited the star of the show. So Max, Peter and I joined the swarm of people filing out of the theatre, spilling on to the cold dark streets of blackout London.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, dragging them up towards Oxford Street, leaving the throng of theatregoers behind. ‘We’ll get a cab much easier up here.’

  And sure enough we did.

  We hadn’t travelled very far before Peter fell asleep, his head resting in the crook of my arm. I nudged Max and indicated our sleeping partner.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘He has had such a good time. Oh, how I wish we never lost the innocent pleasures of childhood.’

  ‘But you enjoyed the show also?’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes. Oh yes, I did. It was very clever and funny at times. But seeing that doll, its face, I couldn’t forget the mask that I made just like it and the man, that terrible man who frightened me.’

  I grimaced in the shadows. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think how it would affect you. What an idiot I am.’

  She stroked my hand, her eyes shining brightly. ‘Don’t worry. I still had a good time. I knew I was safe with you.’

  I tingled a little at this pronouncement.

  When the cab pulled up outside the Horner household, reluctantly I brought the snoozing Peter back into the land of the living. I held his hand and escorted my sleepy young friend to the door. Martha took him inside. ‘Did you have a good time?’ she asked.