Requiem for a Dummy

by David Stuart Davies

  There was an emaciated, sallow-faced constable on duty outside the flat when I arrived. He was hardly a threat to anyone wishing to gain entry illegally. A few hearty puffs in his direction and he’d collapse. I reckoned he’d come off worst in a scrap with a skeleton.

  I told him who I was and that Inspector Llewellyn was expecting me.

  He nodded sternly and allowed me to enter. I found David in the sitting-room talking to Sergeant Sunderland.

  ‘Morning, Johnny. Not a good one for you is it?’

  I tipped my hat to the back of my head and sighed. ‘Seems not.’

  David cocked an eye at his assistant. ‘Make a brew, Sergeant, will you? Nice and strong, with two sugars for both of us, eh.’

  Sunderland did as he was told without a word, although I could tell that he didn’t appreciate being treated like a skivvy and especially having to make tea for a ‘non-professional’. I’d encountered him before. He was a decent copper with a bright mind and lively sense of humour which was not always fully appreciated or utilized by David.

  ‘Give me the story then,’ I said, plonking myself down on a chair and offering my friend a cigarette. There was a brief pause while we both lit up, encircling our heads in smoke.

  ‘She was discovered by the milkman,’ David said at length. ‘He came early this morning, found the door open and the radio blaring. He thought it was odd and so he investigated. He found the lass in the bedroom, sprawled on the bed, dead as a doornail. Red marks around her neck.’

  ‘Any sign of a struggle?’

  ‘None. Come and have a look see.’

  David led me into the bedroom. It was a simple, yet stylish room with cream décor. On one of the bedside tables there was a framed photograph of Evelyn. She was dressed in a dark, low-cut evening gown, leaning seductively against a wall. She was smiling.

  ‘The lady in question has been taken away, of course, but the rest is just as we found it.’

  They found it tidy. There were no overturned chairs, no rumpled rugs, no drawers hanging out of the dressing-table and no smashed ornaments. No sense of violence at all. The eiderdown was rumpled a little; that was all.

  ‘It was a swift, neat and tidy job,’ said David.

  ‘And carried out by someone she knew. Someone she was happy to be in the bedroom with.’

  ‘Exactly. And who is that likely to be? Her boyfriend, of course: Mr Raymond Carter.’

  ‘She might have had more than one boyfriend.’

  David threw me a glance heavy with cynicism.

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘supposing it was Carter who did this. Why would he do it?’

  ‘You tell me; he’s your client.’

  ‘I can’t think of a reason. Unless he’s lost his mind. Otherwise it would be professional and personal suicide – like cutting his own throat.’

  ‘Perhaps she rejected him. Told him to sling his hook. He was a bit old for her wasn’t he? Perhaps she fancied some younger meat.’

  ‘But is he going to kill her for that? And are you saying that he murdered Keating too? Why would a man at the top of his profession in the entertainment world suddenly turn killer and in doing so throw away all he’s worked for for years? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Sergeant Sunderland entered carrying two mugs of tea.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said taking one from him.

  He nodded stoically.

  The tea, my first of the day, tasted good.

  ‘If he’s not our guilty party,’ continued David, ‘why has he gone missing?’

  ‘Probably to escape being arrested. Anyway, is there any evidence that he was even at this flat last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sunderland piping up. ‘There is. His car was found parked just a street away from here.’

  ‘Sorry, boyo, but it all looks rather black for Mr Carter.’

  ‘Maybe, but, tell me, why is his car still there? If he’s done a bunk, made a bid to escape the police, why didn’t he take his car with him? Makes for a much quicker getaway, wouldn’t you say?’

  David gave me a look which told me that he hadn’t thought of that one.

  ‘The number plate is easily identifiable,’ said Sunderland.

  ‘Nevertheless, he’d have had a good few hours’ start….’

  David shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Johnny, you’re fighting a losing battle here. Until we get any evidence to the contrary we are regarding Raymond Carter as a murderer on the run and the Press will be informed shortly, asking the public to be on the lookout for him.’

  Strangely, I didn’t feel as depressed about this news as I expected. In my conversation with David I had actually convinced myself of my own arguments. Unless Raymond Carter had suddenly had some kind of brainstorm and taken a trip down Insanity Lane – which I doubted – there was no sensible reason to bump off Evelyn Munro or Arthur Keating. And then there was the fellow who threatened Max in Masks Unlimited. I reckoned he was the key to this mystery. However, while my strong conviction that my client was innocent of these murders was, to some extent, encouraging to me, I still had to contend with the bleak and depressing knowledge that I had no definite notion who the real killer was.

  Brains needed to be cudgelled in a big way.

  I swilled down the last of my tea. ‘Thanks for letting me look around. Please keep me informed of any developments, eh.’

  ‘And you do the same,’ said David with a knowing nod.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, squashing the thin pang of guilt with a smile. I really ought to tell David about the mask and the man calling himself Raymond Carter who threatened Max, but some instinct told me that it wasn’t time yet, that I needed to clasp that little piece of information to my bosom for the time being.

  I waved goodbye and made my way out of the flat. However, as I neared the door something caught my eye down by the skirting-board in the narrow hallway leading to the outer door. A dark, smeary mark. I knelt down to examine it. It was blood. Fresh blood. It was dry now but it was covering the fine film of dust running along the skirting-board which had been there a while. And there were some tiny spots of blood on the carpet also.

  What did this mean?

  Well, it meant there was another form of violence that took place in the flat last night apart from the strangling. Violence which had caused a small spillage of blood. So, this matter was not as clear cut as my dear friend Detective Inspector David Llewellyn of Scotland Yard believed.

  With a smug smile, I left the flat and the gaunt bobby guarding it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  * * *

  Consciousness returned very slowly and erratically to him. He waxed and waned, sensing that he was emerging from the thick fog of sleep only to slip back into its embrace within seconds. In those brief semi-waking moments he became aware of little except the darkness around him and the severe pain at the back of his head as though someone had stuck a large axe there and left it deeply embedded in his skull. As his mind struggled to comprehend what had happened to him, where he was and even who he was, the effort exhausted him and he drifted off once more into artificial sleep. Eventually these intervals of wakefulness grew longer as time passed until he managed to remain conscious for a few minutes. It was during this time that he was able to establish a few simple facts concerning his situation.

  He realized that his hands and feet were bound and some foul, sticky, tape-like material was stretched across his mouth, which impaired his breathing and prevented him from making any clear sound or loud utterance. A cry for help was futile. It emerged as a muffled whimper. He was lying on a hard, damp wooden floor and, unless he’d gone blind, he was in total darkness. He was cold and his body ached, especially the back of his head which throbbed mercilessly. There was also a strange noise, an unusual whooshing sound coming from somewhere out there in the black void. Or was it in his brain? He couldn’t be sure. How on earth had he got here, wherever here was?

  Before he could answer that one, he floated away from the world once again. It wa
s some time later before his mind and body thought it safe to bring him back to the surface again. Now he was aware of his desperate need to urinate. The pressure on his bladder was great and competed with his thudding headache for precedence. He attempted to move but his body was still too weak and his bonds were too secure and restrictive. He tried to call out but the best that he could produce was a faint croak which was completely muffled by the tape over his mouth.

  After an agonizing time, he could wait no longer and he grimaced as the warm urine trickled out down his leg, dampening his trousers. He moaned at the indignity of it and the pure hopelessness of his situation. He lay in the darkness wishing he were dead.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ Edward Simmons’ face was gloomy and gaunt as he strode past Larry Milligan.

  ‘Indeed, I have,’ said Milligan, shutting his front door and showing Simmons into his living-room. ‘The police have been here most of the afternoon. I was just about to ring you.’

  It was Sunday evening and the news had seeped out about Evelyn Munro’s murder and the fact that the police were searching for the famous radio star Raymond Carter in connection with the crime.

  ‘What a mess,’ cried the radio producer, running both hands through his hair. ‘The star of the show is a murderer on the run. We like publicity at the BBC – but not like this. You realize it’s the end of “Okey Dokes”.’

  ‘Of course I do. For you it’s just a radio show; there’ll be another along in any minute. For me, I’ve lost my most important client. Whatever happens now, he’ll never headline again – except in prison concerts.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. That bastard has left us both in the dung. I’ve been speaking to my masters at Broadcasting House today. They’re cancelling the series forthwith along with my contract. They’ll be putting repeats of ITMA in the slot for the rest of this season. There’s nothing I can do about it. I just came round here to moan and let off steam.’

  ‘I reckon we could both do with a drink. How about a gin and tonic?’

  ‘Make mine a triple at least.’

  While Milligan saw to the drinks, Simmons paced up and down. ‘I just didn’t see this coming,’ he muttered almost to himself. ‘I’d have never suspected Carter of murderous tendencies. Never thought the bastard had enough passion in him. I’d always got him down for a cold fish.’

  ‘They’re sometimes the worst kind,’ said Milligan, passing Simmons his drink. ‘I always thought there was more to Carter than met the eye. Something darker, more sinister beneath that charmless veneer. I reckon in the end we are both better off without him.’

  ‘I must say you’re taking all this in a much calmer fashion than me.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m a bit of a swan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All calm on the surface and churning like billy-oh underneath.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m a producer. I’m quite used to blowing my top. I reckon I’ll be suicidal tomorrow.’

  ‘Why wait twenty-four hours?’ Milligan gave a wry grin and raised his glass as in a toast. ‘Here’s to Charlie Dokes and his homicidal handler. May they rot in hell.’

  ‘I’ll second that.’

  Both men drank and then fell into silence, each quietly contemplating their lot. Whatever contemplations circulated in their minds, neither gave a thought to the dead girl, Evelyn Munro, brutally strangled in her own flat. Her death did not impinge on either of their consciences. Both men had other concerns.

  ‘Have you spoken to Al?’ asked Simmons after a time, pushing his errant glasses back on to the bridge of his nose.

  Milligan shook his head. ‘Not yet. But he’ll be all right. There’ll be crowds of comedians clamouring for his services. Those in the know are fully aware that he was, in a sense, the star of the Charlie Dokes circus. Without Al’s material, Carter was just a fairly efficient vent. They’re ten a penny.’

  ‘So it’s just you and me in the dustbin, eh?’

  Milligan wanted to say that it was only Simmons who was the sole occupant of that particular receptacle. He had other clients who earned him sufficient commission to keep him comfortable. Now there was a vacancy, as it were, in the prime spot; he’d just have to go out and get himself another name. He’d done it before. While these thoughts were at the forefront of his mind, he kept them to himself. Instead of saying anything, he just nodded.

  ‘And then there’s the cast. They’ll have to be told,’ Simmons mused, swirling the ice around in his glass, causing a little whirlpool.

  ‘The much decimated cast, eh? Two dead and two on the run.’

  ‘Two on the run?’

  Milligan forced a grin. ‘Carter and Charlie.’

  Simmons cast him an odd glance. In a strange way, it seemed that Milligan was finding the situation amusing. Well, perhaps that was the best face to put on things. It was less extreme than his own amateur ranting performance.

  ‘Fancy a top up?’ Milligan raised his empty glass as a prompt.

  ‘Better not,’ said Simmons, turning his wrist to glance at his watch. ‘I’ve got somewhere else to go.’ He gave Milligan a swift enigmatic smile.

  After Simmons had gone, Milligan wandered over to his desk and withdrew a photograph from the drawer. It was of a pretty young woman whom he and Simmons had studiously avoided mentioning. She’d never be a big star now, he mused objectively. He carried the picture to the fireplace, tore it in half and threw it on the flames.

  Some time later, in another room, elsewhere, just beyond the darkness in which the trussed-up figure of Raymond Carter lay, drifting in and out of consciousness, a man was crying. Silent, gentle tears. Tears that had been saved up for such a long time. Tears of pain. Of regret. And of satisfaction. He made no attempt to stem them or wipe them away with his sleeve. He let them flow, as through his blurred vision he gazed down on an old photograph. It was cracked and faded now, the sepia tint gradually disappearing. It was a photograph he had kept close to him for years. It was the photograph that had given him the strength and determination and it was the photograph that had helped to keep the fire of his anger aflame.

  Suddenly, despite the tears he grinned. And why shouldn’t he? What he had desired, what he had planned for had come to pass. There were just a few more days, maybe less, and it would be over. But he mustn’t rush things. It would be as he had planned. A few more days. And then the revenge would be complete. Raymond Carter would be destroyed.

  The telephone rang in the hall. Edith Horner put down her knitting and went to answer it. The caller was John Hawke.

  ‘Hello, John. Do you want to talk to Peter?’

  ‘Not just now. I need to have a word with you….’

  ‘Of course. Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing to get concerned about really … You know we went to see Charlie Dokes at the Palladium last night.’

  Edith chuckled. ‘Do I? Peter has been full of it all day. His school pal Andrew’s round here now; they’re supposed to be working on a little Christmas play for school, but all Peter’s done is chatter about the show.’

  ‘That’s part of the difficulty. The ventriloquist … Raymond Carter is now a murder suspect and has disappeared. The police think he’s on the run.’

  ‘Good heavens. How awful.’

  ‘It may well be on the six o’clock news and it certainly will be in the newspapers tomorrow.’

  ‘He seemed such a nice man when I’ve heard him on the radio.’

  ‘Nice isn’t quite how I’d describe him, but I do believe he’s innocent. He’s my client and I’m working on the case.’

  ‘I see. Does Peter know this?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, and I don’t want him to. Not for the present anyway. The main thing is, will you please try to keep him from finding out about Carter’s disappearance and the fact that he’s wanted for murder? Just for a few days if possible. It will really upset Peter.’

  ‘Oh, yes it will. I know that. Well, we’ll do our best, of course. Peter doesn’t really
listen to the news on the wireless and I’ll make sure we keep the paper hidden. But, of course, when he goes to school tomorrow his friends are likely to know and pass on the information.’

  ‘Possibly. As soon as he does find out, please get in touch and I’ll come over and have a talk with him.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that now? Wouldn’t that be for the best?’

  ‘No, not really. I don’t want to pre-empt the issue. I’m hoping that the theatrical memories of last night will fade a little before ugly reality hits the lad in the face.’

  ‘I understand. We’ll do what we can, John.’

  ‘I know you will. Thanks.’

  ‘Good night John … and take care.’

  There was a movement in the darkness, a thin shaft of dim amber light streaked across the chamber where Raymond Carter was lying. A door had been opened. He tried once again to cry out for help but all that emerged was an inarticulate murmur. He wriggled desperately, trying to hoist himself up into a sitting position. As he did so the rope binding his wrists bit maliciously into his flesh causing him to wince.

  A shape appeared in the bright margin of illumination and then the door swung to, plunging the chamber into darkness once more. He could feel the presence of the intruder – his captor no doubt – and hear his heavy, excited breathing. He moved closer to Carter. What the hell now, he asked himself? Whatever it was, it would be unpleasant. Possibly fatal. At this thought, he felt his heartbeat falter and an icy numbness steal into his body.

  There was a click and a small finger of light appeared. A torch. At first it was shone directly into Carter’s eyes blinding him and then the beam swung around and focused on a small face. A small, brightly painted and shiny face. The face of Charlie Dokes.