Simon Brett - Dead Giveaway

A spasm of annoyance crossed Joanie Bruton’s face. She recognised the right answer and felt cross with herself for not having said it.

‘So it’s over to the gentlemen, for a question which could win for you, Tim, not only a nice lot of money to add to what you’ve already collected, but also a champagne weekend in Amsterdam to add to your video-recorder and camera. Not only that, if you get this question right, you will also take part in our Hats In The Ring! finale, with a chance to win this evening’s Super-Duper Star Prize — the Austin Metro!’

The audience exhaled a long sigh of gratified materialism.

‘So here is your last question on the subject of Theatre:

From which of Shakespeare’s plays does the following famous line come — “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!”?’

Tim Dyer looked as if he knew, but, cautiously, he double-checked with Bob Garston. They both seemed to be in agreement.

‘Henry V .’

‘. . is the right answer!’ screamed Barrett Doran. The audience erupted into applause, through which another jingle played.

‘Oh well done, Tim. Well done, Tim and Bob. But, ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for our gallant loser. Thanks to Joanie Bruton, who nearly got her to the final, but not quite — and a big hand for Trish Osborne! Many thanks for playing the game, Trish. Have you had a good time?’

‘Yes, thank you, Barrett, it’s been really smashing.’

‘That’s great. That’s what we like to hear. And, of course, Trish isn’t going to go back to Billericay empty-handed. No, she takes with her?470 and don’t let’s forget. . ’ He cued the audience to join in with him. ‘. . her If The Cap Fits cap!’

Again the red, blue and silver creation appeared on the screen, as Trish Osborne was led off into the darkness.

Tim Dyer was looking very pleased with himself. All was going according to plan. He had won everything he intended so far. Only the Austin Metro remained. Quietly confident, he prayed again to his own specialised God.

‘Now, for the big Hats In The Ring finale. Tim, will you come over here.’ Barrett led the final contestant on to a little platform in the middle of the red spinning-wheel. ‘Now on to this wheel, as you see, a variety of hats are fixed.’ He pressed a button and the hats sprang into view. ‘Let’s see, what have we got — an admiral’s hat, a fez, a busby, a bishop’s mitre. . Now each of these hats has a price marked on it, and that is the amount of extra money that Tim is going to win if that is the hat which, after the wheel has been spun, comes to rest above his head! So, you see, he gets?200 for the mitre,?500 for the busby, and so on. .

‘Now you’ll notice, two of the hats haven’t got any price marked on them. There they are — right next door to each other — the dunce’s hat and the crown! Now if the dunce’s hat comes to rest above your head, Tim, I’m very sorry, but you get absolutely nothing extra.’

‘Ooh,’ sighed the audience, contemplating a fate worse than death.

‘If, on the other hand, it’s the crown, you, Tim Dyer, will instantly become the proud owner of a brand-new Austin Metro!’

‘Aah,’ sighed the audience, reassured, and burst into spontaneous applause.

‘Right, are you ready, Tim?’

The contestant, still praying and now glistening with sweat, nodded. All the lights faded except for those on the wheel and on Barrett’s lectern.

‘Here we go.’ Barrett held the edge of the wheel and gave it a hefty pull. It span wildly.

The host returned to his lectern and watched. Tim Dyer didn’t move a muscle. The audience was totally still.

‘Nerve-racking stuff, this,’ said Barrett Doran. ‘Tense moment.’

He reached for the red-and-blue-striped glass in front of him.

The wheel showed little sign of slowing down. ‘Goes on for ever,’ said Barrett Doran jovially. ‘Dear, oh dear, the excitement’s too much for me. Need a drink of water to calm me down.’

He took a long swig from the glass.

The wheel was slowing. The audience started shouting at it, willing it to stop by the crown. Every eye was on a monitor, hypnotised by the decelerating ring of hats.

Suddenly they were all aware of a strange noise. It was a gasping, a desperate, inhuman wheezing.

A camera found Barrett Doran, from whom the sound came. The audience had time to register the face rigid with shock, before, pulling the lectern down with him, he crashed to the floor.

Full studio lights snapped up. Technicians rushed forward. The celebrities rose to their feet, overturning their long blue desk.

In the circle of hats Tim Dyer stood, pointing up at the still crown directly above his head. But no one looked at him. All eyes were drawn to the middle of the set, where Barrett Doran lay dead.

Charles Paris heard about Barrett Doran’s death that evening. It was hard to escape it in the W.E.T. bar, where much less dramatic events were regularly inflated into Wagnerian productions. He heard that doctors and the police had been called, but had left W.E.T. House and was on his way back to his Bayswater bedsitter before anyone mentioned the word ‘murder’.

The next morning the death was reported on radio and in Charles’s Times , but it was not until the afternoon’s edition of the Standard that it was suggested the incident might have been caused by anything other than natural causes. Two days later the press announced that a woman was helping the police with their enquiries into Barrett Doran’s death, and the following day a 24-year-old employee of West End Television, Caroline Postgate, was charged with his murder. Then, as always with British crimes, all information on the case would cease until the trial.

The girl’s name meant nothing to Charles, but, having been virtually on the spot when the murder happened, he felt intrigued by it and wanted to find out more. His first move was to contact his agent. Maurice Skellern, though completely deaf to vibrations of new productions coming up which might lead to jobs for his clients, had a very good ear for theatrical gossip, and was likely to know as much as anyone about a juicy theatrical murder.

Still, first things first. Charles asked the mandatory question about whether there was any work coming up.

Maurice Skellern laughed wheezily down the phone, as if this was the best joke he had heard for a long time. He did not answer the question; nor did Charles really expect him to. He knew that, on the rare occasions when something did come up, his agent would ring him.

Maurice was quickly on to the real subject of the conversation. ‘Had a bit of excitement the other night at W.E.T., I gather.’

‘You could say that.’

‘You got any dirt on it to tell me?’

‘’Fraid not. I was ringing you in search of the same.’

‘But come on, Charles. You were actually there .’

‘Up in the bar.’

‘So what else is new? So how much do you know?’

‘Just that he died on the set at the end of the recording, and now some girl I’ve never heard of has been charged with his murder.’

‘Well, what can I tell you? For a start, he was poisoned. Did you know that?’

‘No. With what?’

‘Cyanide.’

‘Ah.’ One or two things began to fall into place. ‘Cyanide which was being used for the programme in the studio next door?’

‘You have it in one. Something that boring little poseur Melvyn Gasc was doing, apparently. Seems the cyanide got nicked from there and put into poor old Barrett’s glass instead of water.’

‘Gin.’

‘What?’

‘Instead of gin. Barrett’s water-glass on the set was filled with gin.’