Dead Giveaway

by Brett, Simon

  The set in Studio B was considerably smaller than that in Studio A. (Indeed, the whole studio was smaller.) It represented a study-like room, a cross between a barrister’s chambers and an amateur laboratory. Shelves of leather-bound books encased the walls, while the surfaces were littered with a variety of phials and retorts. Firearms, daggers and the occasional skull had been scattered in calculated disorder. The set could have been designed for an updated remake of Sherlock Holmes.

  And, though the man at the centre of this space could not have been mistaken for the great detective, he was, as it happened, speaking of crime. ‘And here we have it –’ he was saying, in an exaggerated French accent, indicating a small elegantly-shaped bottle with a glass stopper which he held between thumb and forefinger, ‘perhaps the quickest-acting of all poisons. Cyanide. Beloved of detective-story writers, though significantly less popular with real murderers. Cyanide can kill in as little as ten seconds. Well, though I said it is not popular with murderers, there have still been one or two juicy cases where it was the favoured method. In 1907 Richard Brinkley . . .’

  ‘Ooh, it’s Melvyn Gasc,’ hissed the one female in the party, peering at the speaker beyond the cameras. ‘He did that series on torture, didn’t he?’

  ‘This is the follow-up,’ Sydnee hissed back. ‘It’s called Method In Their Murders. Being made for Channel Four.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ a third female voice hissed. Charles could make out a shapely outline in a flying-suit of indeterminate colour which had stepped in between his group and the light.

  ‘Chippy. It’s me, Sydnee. I’m trying to keep this lot out of the way. Mustn’t be seen by the others in this game show.’

  ‘Barrett’s thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has the Great Shit himself put in an appearance yet?’

  ‘He’s around.’

  ‘Maybe I should go and have a word with him . . .’

  ‘No, Chippy. This show’s going to be hectic enough without that kind of complication.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d just be interested to see how the bastard reacted if I walked in. I bet he’d –’

  But the girl called Chippy was cut short by another hissing voice, male this time, as a Floor Manager, complete with headphones, came up and asked what the hell was going on and what the hell they thought they were doing bursting into a studio while there was a rehearsal in progress and whether they would piss off out again double-quick or whether he’d have to bloody kick them out.

  Sydnee peered out into the corridor as they beat their hasty retreat from Studio B, but all seemed to be clear. ‘We’d better go back on to our set,’ she said, and then, with a note almost of desperation in her voice, went on, ‘Barrett may be there, or John, or Jim. Then we can get your bit of rehearsal sorted out. Or the hats sorted out. Or something . . .’

  She got them to wait in the corridor while she slipped to check that Studio A was clear of contestants and celebrities. She took her duties seriously.

  Within a minute they were ushered back on to the red, blue and silver set. Sylvian the Mohican was still fiddling, unhappy with the alignment of the lectern in the centre of the floor. Three cameramen were slumped lethargically over their cameras. There were more people around than there had been earlier in the afternoon.

  One of them was Jim Trace-Smith, the Producer. Since there was no sign of Barrett Doran, and the Executive Producer, John Mantle, had yet to return from his, er, important meeting, it had fallen to Jim Trace-Smith to brief the ‘professions’ as to what they had to do.

  The Producer was tall with dark-brown hair which stuck out on his crown as if cut by a school barber. There was something boyish about his whole appearance. Even his pale-blue flying-suit looked as if it had come from Mothercare. His face would have been astonishingly youthful, but for the almost comical creases of anxiety which were etched in between the eyebrows. He had the air of someone who took life very seriously indeed.

  Nor was this impression dispelled when he began to speak. His voice had a slight Midlands flatness which, even when his words expressed great enthusiasm, seemed impervious to animation.

  ‘Good afternoon, one and all.’ He made what was perhaps intended to be an expansive gesture. ‘And may I say how delighted I am that you have agreed to join us in the fun of Hats Off!’

  ‘If The Cap Fits,’ murmured Sydnee.

  ‘Oh yes, If The Cap Fits. It’s a really terrific game and I think there’s no question that you’re all going to have a ball. Now, as you’ve probably gathered, the show that we’re recording tonight is what we call a “pilot”. That means that we’ve all got to be our brilliant best, because, according to how we do this show, the “powers-that-be” will decide whether or not they’re going to make a series of this terrific game. And we all want to make sure that there is a series of If The Cap Fits – don’t we?’

  This proposal was heartily endorsed by three of the ‘professions’. Charles thought he’d reserve judgement until he’d found out what the game involved.

  ‘Does it mean,’ asked the one female in the party, ‘being a pilot, that what we record will actually go out on the box?’

  ‘Oh, almost certainly, yes,’ the Producer lied. ‘As I say, it’s a terrific game. I’m sure we’ve got the casting right, and I’m sure that what we record tonight will be the first show in a series that will run and run!’

  He made this rallying-cry with all the bravura of a librarian turning down the central heating.

  ‘Now I hope you’re all beginning to understand what you’ll have to do. You are involved only in Round One of our terrific game, but I’m sure you’re going to get the show off to a great start. Now you’ve all been carefully selected by our highly-trained research team . . .’ He winked with awkward flirtatiousness at Sydnee, who ignored him.

  ‘. . . because you all represent some kind of profession. This profession will in each case be symbolised by a hat, but, just to confuse the contestants, you’ll all be wearing the wrong hats. They have to guess who are the rightful owners of the various forms of headgear.’

  He then proceeded to explain that this was the reason for the game’s name, a point which by now had penetrated the skull of even the dullest of the four ‘professions’.

  ‘Well,’ Jim Trace-Smith continued with limp heartiness, ‘have you all got your hats sorted out?’

  ‘Erm, I’m afraid we’re having a bit of a problem with Wardrobe about the hats . . .’ Sydnee drew him to one side and a whispered discussion ensued.

  When the Producer turned back to his audience, the furrows on his forehead were longer. ‘Well now, just got to actually sort out the hats, but can I just check what your professions are . . .’

  He drew a list out of his flying-suit pocket. Charles had been one hundred per cent wrong. There was no bank cashier, no professional footballer and no dental nurse. Instead, his colleagues proved to be a hamburger chef, a surgeon and a stockbroker. Incredibly, the one female in the party turned out to be the stockbroker.

  ‘We’ve got the actor’s hat sorted out,’ Sydnee whispered, ‘but I don’t know where Wardrobe have gone now, so I’m not sure about the others.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a word with them,’ said Jim Trace-Smith. ‘Now we’ll need a tall white chef’s hat for the chef . . .’

  ‘Actually that’s not what I wear,’ the chef objected. ‘I have this little paper cap which –’

  ‘So far as the public’s concerned,’ Jim Trace-Smith overruled, ‘chefs wear tall white hats. Now for the surgeon we need one of those green mob-cap things . . .’

  ‘Actually I very rarely wear one of those. I . . .’ But the surgeon thought better of it and stopped.

  ‘Now we’ve got the actor’s hat sorted out.’

  ‘Well –’ was as far as Charles was allowed to get.

  ‘And for the stockbroker, obviously, a bowler hat.’

  ‘But I never wear a bowler hat.’

  ‘So far as the publ
ic is concerned, stockbrokers wear bowler hats!’

  ‘But I’m a woman, for God’s sake! You can’t expect me to –’

  How this argument would have resolved itself can only be matter for speculation, because at that moment Sydnee’s restless eye caught sight of a man and a woman entering the far side of the studio. ‘Oh, my God, it’s Bob Garston and Fiona Wakeford! Jim, the celebs are arriving! Quick, you lot, follow me!’

  She started off, with her obedient foursome in tow, towards the exit that led to Studio B, but was stopped short in her tracks by the entry from it of a familiar bulky figure, followed by a dainty little woman in a fur coat and a short, balding, pale man.

  ‘Oh God, it’s Nick again! And Joanie Bruton! Quick! This way!’

  The hamburger chef, the surgeon, the stockbroker and the actor, now as obsessed as their guardian with keeping their identities secret, dived after her through the door that led to the Control Gallery of Studio A, and left the set to the celebrities who were to be the stars of If The Cap Fits.

  Chapter Two

  JOHN MANTLE, EXECUTIVE Producer of If The Cap Fits, reckoned that he was doing well. As the third round of Armagnacs was served in Langan’s Brasserie, he sneaked a covert look at his watch. Nearly half-past three. Even if they left within a quarter of an hour and got a taxi straight away, it would be well after four before they got back to W.E.T. House. And the longer they kept out of Studio A that afternoon, the better.

  This thought was not prompted by laziness or an unwillingness to face his responsibilities. John Mantle was a deeply conscientious producer. He had been conscientious during the eight years he had spent learning his craft in the Light Entertainment Department of B.B.C. Television, and equally conscientious since, three years previously, he had moved to West End Television to do the same job for three times the money. But producing, he knew, did not only involve monitoring what went on in studios. That could frequently be left to an obedient underling, and he had the most biddable of lieutenants in Jim Trace-Smith, also from the B.B.C., whose invaluable attributes of diligence, even temper and total lack of imagination, John Mantle had quickly recognised, made him an ideal producer of Light Entertainment. The young man had been easily seduced into commercial television, again by the simple device of tripling his salary, thus becoming the first recruit to the entertainment empire John Mantle was slowly but surely annexing from his former employers.

  The presence of Jim Trace-Smith in Studio A that afternoon at least ensured that the preparations for the pilot were proceeding, and freed the Executive Producer for more important duties, which in this case involved keeping his lunch guests out of Studio A as long as possible. The explosion when they finally got there was inevitable, but the later that happened, the less chance there would be of implementing the changes they were bound to demand.

  There were two of them – Aaron Greenberg, podgy, grizzle-bearded, voluble, an untidy eater and drinker who allowed no word to go unsupported by an expansive gesture of his short arms; and Dirk van Henke, tall, blond, silent, drinking only Perrier water and constantly dabbing at his mouth with a corner of his table napkin. They represented the American copyright-holders of Hats Off!, the game show which had been successfully networked for three years in the States and the rights to whose format West End Television had bought for an almost unbelievable amount of money. They had followed the piloting and development of the show in the States and were thus the honoured bearers of the ‘Bible’, that partly written but mostly unwritten stock of information and advice which would save any new developer of the show from falling into the format’s most obvious pitfalls. They were extremely protective of their property, regarding any proposed change in the show as a direct personal assault.

  Since their arrival in London two days previously, John Mantle had spent every waking hour justifying to Greenberg and van Henke the inevitable alterations which transatlantic relocation of the show demanded. They had fought everything; he had had to explain and re-explain each tiny kink and quibble of the revised format; but, by sheer, relentless, debilitating tact and the granting of a few minor concessions, the Executive Producer had managed to satisfy them that their baby, the property that, as Greenberg kept asserting, meant ‘somebody’s gonna make a pot’, was being treated with the care and respect that was its due. They now knew about every change and, grudgingly, they had accepted them all.

  Except the title.

  John Mantle had first broached the subject in the hire-car back from Heathrow, where he had personally met their Concorde flight. He had explained that Hats Off! did not have the right sound for a British game show, and that, after careful assessment of many possible alternatives, West End Television had decided on If The Cap Fits.

  ‘What the shit does that mean?’ Aaron Greenberg had asked.

  ‘Well, it’s a kind of saying. A proverb, if you like. “If the cap fits, put it on.” It means, if something applies to you, then it applies to you . . .’ John Mantle had continued feebly. ‘It’s a very common expression. Very right for the show. Don’t you have that proverb in the States?’

  Aaron Greenberg snorted. ‘I never heard of it.’

  ‘I think,’ said Dirk van Henke in his quiet, precise voice, ‘our equivalent would be: “If the shoe fits, wear it”.’

  ‘Yes. That sounds as if it has the same meaning.’ John Mantle smiled enthusiastically at this point of contact.

  ‘Shit,’ objected Aaron Greenberg. ‘You’re not suggesting we call the show If The Shoe Fits? I mean, hell, it’s about hats, not shoes.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. Of course I’m not suggesting we call it If The Shoe Fits.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. Otherwise you would have screwed yourself out of a deal that’s gonna make a pot for somebody.’

  ‘No, I’m suggesting we call it If The Cap Fits.’

  ‘No way. Forget it.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Hats Off!’ Dirk van Henke insisted softly. ‘Hats Off!

  That is the name of the show. Call it anything else and we don’t have a deal.’

  The Executive Producer had left it there for the time being. Much of his work consisted of confronting people with unpalatable facts, and he knew that the most important element in any such presentation was always its timing. After he had deposited his guests at the Savoy, where they were going to ‘shower and sleep off the Concorde-lag’, he had returned to W.E.T. House and got on to the Legal Department, who had negotiated the long, wrangling purchase of the rights to develop the Hats Off! format. He wanted to know where he stood legally on changing the title.

  Like everything to do with the law, the situation turned out to be ambiguous. The relevant clause was: The licensees agree not to adapt, rearrange or alter the format in any way without the approval of the owner, such approval not to be unreasonably withheld.

  The crux of the issue was, of course, the last phrase, in particular its penultimate word. What was unreasonable? This, as the Legal Department advised him unhelpfully, was a matter of interpretation. They would investigate and get back to him.

  The Executive Producer assessed the position. The set had been designed and built with the changed title all over it. The music links had been recorded. Even if there had been time to reverse the decision, alterations at this late stage would represent considerable expense. And John Mantle always prided himself on keeping within his budgets.

  He decided to sit it out. He’d wait and hear what the Legal Department advised when they came back to him, but, unless that was really bad, he would stick by his original decision. It would inevitably lead to tantrums from Greenberg and van Henke, but, if they only found out about the new title on the afternoon of the recording, he judged they would have little opportunity to do anything about it. And, once the show had gone down well in front of the audience, he felt confident that they would be less worried about the change.

  He kept his nerve pretty well for the next couple of days. Once he almost lost it, and that moment of
uncertainty had led to the confusion of the title at Reception which Charles Paris had encountered. But basically the Executive Producer reckoned he’d get away with it. The Legal Department, when they finally came back to him, had little to add. Everything still depended on the interpretation of the word ‘unreasonably’, and they couldn’t really say how that decision would go in a court of law unless the issue actually went to a court of law. In other words, the lawyers proved as helpful as ever.

  John Mantle offered more drinks, but even Aaron Greenberg refused this time. As he settled the bill with his American Express Gold Card, the Executive Producer stole another look at his watch. Nearly four. The show started recording at seven-thirty. Only a few hours to survive the Americans’ wrath.

  On the way out of the Brasserie, he greeted West End Television’s Head of Drama who was coming to the end of lunch with a moderately famous actress. As a further delaying tactic, he introduced the couple to his guests. Since the actress had recently been seen in a Masterpiece Theatre in the States, conversation developed satisfactorily.

  John Mantle was discussing a vicious point of W.E.T. politics with his colleague, when he overheard Greenberg saying, ‘Yeah, and do you know what they wanted to call it? Only If The Cap Fits!’

  ‘Really?’ The moderately famous actress chuckled throatily. ‘Why – is it a show about contraception?’

  Aaron Greenberg looked puzzled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Cap, darling. Cap. Dutch cap. A form of female contraception.’

  The American shook his shaggy head, still bewildered.

  ‘It’s a thing you put . . .’ The moderately famous actress gave another throaty chuckle. ‘I’m afraid we’re liable to get a bit technical here. It’s a . . . what would you call it? A diaphragm!’

  ‘A diaphragm?’ Aaron Greenberg echoed. ‘You hear that, Dirk? You know that dumb title they wanted to use? If The Cap Fits. You know what a “cap” means over here? A diaphragm! A diaphragm, for Christ’s sakes!’