Requiem for a Dummy

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘It was wonderful,’ mumbled Peter, stifling a yawn.

  She grinned and gave me a knowing nod. ‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, John?’

  I shook my head. ‘Thank you, but I’ve got a cab waiting. I’ve still a little business to see to.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll get this little imp washed and ready for bed before he falls asleep in the hall.’

  We shook hands and parted. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said, as the door began to close and headed back to the cab, which was chugging noisily on the roadside.

  Our next port of call was Max’s flat above Masks Unlimited for her to pick up some of her things to see her through her stay in her new lodgings.

  When the cab pulled up outside the shop, Max squeezed my hand. ‘Please come inside with me, Johnny.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said gently, and instructed the driver to wait once again.

  ‘Sure, mate,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette, thinking, no doubt, of the juicy fare he was going to extract from me.

  Like the shop premises below, Max’s flat was tiny. It was in fact one room. There was a single bed in the far corner while one alcove was curtained off as a wardrobe and the other as the kitchen area with a small sink, a draining board and a gas ring. There was a folding table, two chairs, and an armchair. Somewhere beyond was a small bathroom. While Max busied herself collecting a few clothes and toiletries, I stood by the door. Well, for two people to step inside the room would have crowded it.

  ‘There,’ she said at last, clutching a small suitcase, ‘I think that will do.’ She was breathless and her face shimmered with a fine gloss of perspiration. When I didn’t respond, her eyes widened in a quizzical stare. I didn’t reply because I was captivated by her – this pretty young woman with the broad smile and bright alluring eyes. She looked so vulnerable while at the same time quite beautiful that I had an overwhelming desire to take her in my arms and kiss her. Not one of those platonic pecks but a real full-blown Hollywood movie kiss. I resisted the temptation to make a fool of myself with a little throat-clearing noise and a garbled, ‘Right, if you’re ready, let’s be off.’

  She grabbed my arm and we left. On the short journey over to Benny’s, I told her a little about the fellow, warning her that he would no doubt assume that she was my girlfriend. ‘When Benny sees me with any girl, he sees that as a clear indication that wedding bells are in the offing.’

  Max giggled. ‘He sounds like my father. He so wanted me to be married. Especially towards the end when he knew he was dying. He wanted to feel that I had someone to look after me – to protect me. But you cannot manufacture these things. They just happen naturally.’

  I nodded in what I hope looked like a wise and knowing manner.

  ‘But tell me, Johnny, do you not have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Who’d have me?’ I asked. ‘A scruffy one-eyed bloke?’

  She didn’t reply, but turned her head away and gazed out of the taxi window at the darkened streets of the city.

  As I expected, Benny made a fuss of Max, preparing her a hot drink and plying her with some biscuits, before showing her the spare room.

  ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ he whispered in my ear, as Max unpacked her small case. ‘You could do a lot worse.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, suddenly discovering that I had run out of flippant replies. ‘I know.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  * * *

  Raymond Carter felt strangely relaxed as he parked the car not far from the building where Evelyn Munro lived. He’d had a very successful show tonight. All the gags had worked and the Saturday-night audience had been an enthusiastic one. He had tried hard to recapture the old ‘Carter magic’ as Al had referred to it and good old Doctor Theatre, that strange phenomena which robs the brain of all worries and imbues one with confidence and energy when one steps out in front of the footlights, had worked overtime for him this evening. He’d left the theatre quite exhilarated and twenty minutes later he was still in the same intoxicated state. Certainly the prospect of a few glasses of champagne and a night in bed with a shapely and desirable young woman did much to maintain his sense of bonhomie. For a time all thoughts of dead bodies on the doorstep and threatening telephone calls had been banished from his mind.

  Carter pulled the case containing Charlie out of the boot. Despite the fact that Evie hated the dummy coming into her home, he wasn’t going to leave the little fellow in the car overnight. Charlie was too precious. He needed to keep him close.

  Carter sauntered towards the block of flats breathing in the cold night air and then allowing it to float out on a fine grey breathy cloud. Rather than take the lift, he walked up the two flights to Evie’s flat. He found the door slightly ajar and from inside he could hear the jaunty tones of a dance band playing on the radio. He dropped Charlie’s case in the hallway and then he wandered into the sitting-room, slipped off his coat and scarf and flung them down on one of the armchairs. The room was empty, but he was expected: the champagne was nestling in an ice bucket and two glasses gleamed in readiness at its side.

  ‘Darling, where are you?’ he called, hoisting out the champagne and attacking the cork with practised aplomb. There was a sharp pop as it flopped on to the carpet and the champagne bubbled forth.

  ‘You’d better hurry up, or I’ll drink all the bubbly myself.’

  He poured out two glasses and took a sip from his own while he listened for a response.

  There was none.

  Evelyn was no doubt in the bedroom making last-minute adjustments to her make-up. He knew that she was a stickler for looking just right.

  He waited another minute, sipping champagne and tapping his foot in time to the music. Then with some purpose he strode towards the bedroom.

  ‘Come on, old girl,’ he called somewhat impatiently, opening the door. ‘I’m sure you look perfect.’

  He had been right. Evelyn was in the bedroom. But she was not attending to her make-up. Instead, she was lying on her back on the bed, her eyes wide open staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her mouth was also open, agape in a silent scream.

  It seemed like some weird trick of the light. The shadows and the soft lighting had conjoined to create this sadistic and bizarre effect. Surely Evelyn was just having a nap. She’d probably had a few cocktails while waiting for him to arrive and they had made her drowsy. She had just dropped off to sleep. Certainly her awkward pose on the bed – her legs splayed apart, one arm limply hanging over the edge – suggested that sleep had taken her unawares. He would give her a little shake and then she would rouse herself. Rouse herself and give him a little kiss.

  But it was not sleep that had taken her unawares; it was death.

  At first Raymond Carter couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. It was a surreal mirage. The lights and his imagination playing games.

  Surely.

  For God’s sake. Surely.

  He edged his way a little closer to the bed, staring with horror at that beautiful face frozen in panic, the eyes mirroring the shock and fear she must have experienced when she knew. When she knew that she was going to die.

  And still the dance band played on. It was a foxtrot now, Carter noted inconsequentially, his body beginning to shake with dread.

  Leaning over her body now, he saw the bruising at her throat. Dark red weals were forming around her smooth, tender neck. She had been strangled. She had been murdered.

  Carter’s stomach suddenly heaved and he staggered backwards as bile rushed into his mouth. He tried to force it back but some of it dribbled down his chin and on to his shirt front. He ran to the bathroom and was sick into the lavatory bowl, groaning and moaning, his body racked with shudders as the contents of his stomach gushed past his lips. When he’d finished, he sank to his knees and began sobbing. His body shook like a man with palsy. If asked why he was weeping, he would have found it difficult to explain. Was it for the loss of his beautiful girlfriend, a sweet thing cut down in her youth? Was it for himself and the fu
rther misery and despair this second brutal murder would bring to his door? Or was it because he felt so helpless and lost? It was probably all these things and more. For Raymond Carter, rationality had fled and gut feelings were in charge.

  He lay on the bathroom floor some ten minutes before he felt able to move again. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and swilled his face in the basin. His drained and bleary features gazed back at him from the bathroom mirror. He noted that the over-riding emotion stamped there was fear.

  He gave a swift glance towards the door – the door leading back into the bedroom. Dare he go back in there? Dare he go back and see the dead body again?

  He had to.

  Like a somnambulist, he made his way back.

  She was still there. Exactly as he’d left her. She hadn’t miraculously roused herself to pour a glass of champagne. No, Evelyn was still sprawled on the bed, with her mouth held in that frozen scream.

  Evelyn was still dead.

  And then the telephone rang.

  The fierce insistent ring pierced Carter’s senses, constricting his heart and squeezing his bladder.

  He knew that he shouldn’t answer it.

  He knew that he just had to.

  Like a fluttering dove, his hand hovered over the telephone as its case vibrated with ferocious persistence. Gently he scooped up the receiver and slowly brought it close to his ear.

  He heard an obscene giggle and then the familiar Charlie Dokes voice. ‘Howdy chum. How are you doing? Did you like my little surprise?’

  Carter searched his mind in vain for something to say, a response to this monster on the other end of the telephone, but he failed.

  ‘You should have been there, Ray old boy. My, my, was she surprised when I put my hands around her neck. At first she thought I was fooling. Well, as you know, I’m that kind of fellow. But then … when I tightened my grip, she soon stopped smiling. I pressed a little harder and you know what, she soon stopped breathing as well.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ stammered Carter. ‘Bloody crazy.’

  ‘You know what, Raymond, I reckon that’s what the police are going to say to you when they find out what you’ve done.’

  ‘What I’ve—’

  ‘Murdered your girlfriend. Strangling the poor little thing until there was no air left in her pretty little body. That’s not a nice thing to do.’

  It was about this time that Carter’s brain stopped functioning in any kind of coherent fashion. It couldn’t cope any more with what was happening to him. The dead body and the concept that his own doll was accusing him of murder was too much for him. Certain thought processes in his brain began to shut down – to help him escape from reality. Just before the dizziness affected his balance, he was quite aware that the doll man on the phone was right. The police would believe that he had murdered Evie. This time there would be no doubt in their minds.

  Slamming the receiver down, he managed to stagger to an armchair before the grey mists of unconsciousness enshrouded him. He collapsed inelegantly in a deep faint.

  The shutdown was brief. Within five minutes he was slowly groping his way back to consciousness once again. The dance band was still playing over the radio. The syrupy strains of Moonlight Serenade wafted through the flat adding an unnerving veneer of unreality. He was living his own nightmare.

  At last Carter was able to pull himself to his feet and make his way to the drinks cabinet and pour himself a large gin, which he downed in two gulps. The alcohol burned the back of his throat and made his eyes water. Somehow he found the discomfort rather pleasing.

  What the hell was he to do now? he asked himself, trying desperately to quell the sense of panic that was mushrooming inside him. It seemed to Carter that his life was in ruins. This was the end of the road. He would be accused of Evie’s murder. Arrested. His radio show would be cancelled. His career as a family entertainer was down the sewer. He might even go to the gallows for a crime he didn’t commit. He had a vision of himself dangling at the end of a rope, his body twisting in spasms.

  He was a dead man.

  He moaned out loud in his pain.

  Then suddenly he knew what he had to do. He knew with amazing clarity what his only option was.

  He had to escape. To run away. To go into hiding.

  He couldn’t allow himself to be arrested. To go meekly into a dank cell – maybe never to leave it. He had to flee London. Hightail it to the provinces. Scotland maybe. He could lose himself there. He had some money back at his flat. That would keep him afloat for a while. At least it would buy him some time.

  A strange, tight smile crossed his tortured features. It wasn’t much of a plan, he thought, but it was a plan of sorts. It was something that he could do. He picked up his coat and quickly shrugged himself into it and then hung his scarf loosely round his neck. He had to get away, he kept telling himself. A sense of urgency now gripped him. He scanned the flat for any signs of his presence. The champagne glass. He washed it at the sink and put it in one of the cupboards.

  He moved to the hall, instinctively picking up the case containing Charlie Dokes. He wasn’t going to leave him behind. Charlie came with him wherever he went. And anyway, he needed a friend now more than ever he had done in his life before.

  He paused before the outer door and took a deep breath before opening it.

  His breath emerged as a strangled croak for there on the threshold stood a man. He was little more than a menacing silhouette, the light from the corridor framing him with a pale yellow aura. The man’s features were in deep shadow but Carter believed that he knew him.

  The shock of finding someone on the doorstep caused Carter to retreat into the hallway. The man did not move but now Carter could see that he held a gun in his hand with the barrel pointing directly at his heart. The crazy thought struck him that perhaps he was still in his faint and this was some wild dream and he’d regain consciousness any time now.

  ‘Don’t shoot me,’ he found himself saying. ‘Please,’ he added desperately.

  The silhouette chuckled. ‘How you doing, Ray old boy?’ he said, the voice belonging to Charlie Dokes.

  ‘What do you want with me? Is it money…?’

  ‘It’s revenge, old boy. Simple as that. Good old-fashioned revenge.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I’ve never done you any harm …’

  The man chuckled again. ‘Turn around, Raymond. Turn around so you’ve got your back to me.’

  ‘Why, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Just do as you are told, Raymond. Don’t be a naughty boy,’ the Charlie Dokes voice sneered at him from the gloom.

  ‘Please … please don’t shoot me,’ he said again.

  ‘Do as you’re told, Raymond.’ The voice now had an impatient dangerous edge to it.

  Reluctantly Raymond Carter turned slowly and awkwardly, still clutching the case containing his dummy.

  There was a sudden movement behind him and he felt a fierce blow to the back of the head. Pain, like an electric current seared through his body and his vision dimmed. He had only time to utter a muffled gasp of pain before he crumpled to the floor into a deep pool of darkness.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  * * *

  Max and I were having a picnic. We were sitting on a river-bank with a hamper groaning with food and she was feeding me a piece of chicken and giggling. Bees buzzed in the background, ducks played on the river and the sunlight warmed my face. I couldn’t remember feeling happier in my whole life. I dabbed my lips on a napkin and leaned over to kiss her. She responded readily, her arms encircling me. In the distance I could hear church bells ringing. They seemed to be chiming in rhythm with the beat of my heart. The more we kissed, the louder the bells sounded. They became unnaturally loud, the booming calls filling the air around me with deafening tones.

  I shook my head desperately to rid myself of the noise which began to thunder in my head. Suddenly the skies clouded, as though someone had turned off the sun, and a blackness invaded
the land. I was left in a dark clammy void with just the ringing in my ears. I opened my mouth to cry out and in doing so I woke myself up. The river-bank, the food and Max had disappeared and I was in my dreary bedroom amid a heap of rumpled sheets with the telephone ringing its head off on the bedside table. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. But then, I reminded myself, it was Sunday, supposedly the day of rest. However this thought was swiftly accompanied by the one about there being no rest for the wicked.

  My dream wrecker was David Llewellyn.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know the latest, boyo, especially as it looks like your client has done a bunk.’

  ‘Carter.’

  ‘That’s the fellow. I’m at his girlfriend’s flat right now. Evelyn Munro. She’s been murdered.’

  My heart sank and I flopped back against the pillows. ‘Murdered. And you think Carter did it?’

  ‘Correct. Yes, I do think Carter did it. As I say he’s done a bunk – scarpered. There’s no trace of him. If that’s not the action of a guilty man, I don’t know what is.’

  I thought that it was also the action of a frightened man, but I kept that thought to myself.

  ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘Same as Keating. Strangled. Look I’m going to be here for a while at the flat. If you want to pop over and have a look around for yourself, come and join me.’

  I noted the address and said I’d be there in half an hour.

  Twenty minutes later, I was in Tottenham Court Road hailing a cab, my mind awhirl with ragged thoughts about the case. It looked very much like it was about to crumble to dust. Certainly, from the little I knew it seemed that Raymond Carter appeared as guilty as hell. However, I had learned long ago never to take the apparently obvious as gospel but in this instance it looked as though it was. I hoped I’d learn more to prove otherwise when I got to Evelyn Munro’s flat, but I wasn’t sanguine. I gazed glumly from the cab window at the empty Sunday streets of the damaged capital. It was a ghost city with just a few grey wraiths flitting through its dusty thoroughfares. It looked like some gigantic film set waiting for the extras to arrive. Some of the shops had already put up their rather sad and tawdry Christmas decorations. Somehow they depressed me even more.