Simon Brett - Dead Giveaway

‘Was it? How do you know that?’

Discretion dictated a slight editing of the next reply. ‘One of the researchers was talking about it. So presumably this girl who’s been arrested was the one who substituted the cyanide?’

‘Yes.’

‘Caroline Somebody-or-other. Know anything about her?’

‘She was an Assistant Stage Manager on Melvyn Gasc’s programme. She had been left in charge of all the props and that, so it was easy for her to lift the cyanide.’

‘Ah.’ Light began to dawn. ‘Was this girl nicknamed Chippy?’

‘That’s right. Why, you know her?’

‘I met her that night.’

The girl’s beautiful, fragile face came into his mind. So, when he saw her, she had been contemplating murder. Perhaps that explained the tragedy in her deep, dark eyes.

‘Needless to say, there was a background,’ Maurice went on. ‘She and Barrett had been having an affair. He had just broken it off. Classic situation. “Hell hath no fury. .”, all that.’

‘Yes,’ Charles agreed pensively.

‘Not a lot more I can tell you,’ his agent concluded. ‘Though I gather, talking to people in the business, nobody’s that sorry. Barrett Doran doesn’t seem to have made many friends on his way to the top.’

‘Having seen him in action, I’m not too surprised.’

‘No. Presumably means they’ll have to remake the pilot. Wonder if you’ll get booked again. .’

‘Not if anyone’s got any sense. It was a daft idea having an actor as one of the people in that round.’

‘Ah, but nobody has got any sense in the game-show world.’

‘You mean otherwise they’d be doing something else?’

‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Anyway, why do you say it’s such a daft idea having an actor for the round?’

‘Because the whole premise of that part of the game is based on people’s anonymity, and actors, by definition, aren’t anonymous. They’re always in the public eye.’

‘Are you saying somebody recognised you?’

Charles was forced to admit that this had not been the case.

‘But, come the game, you mean subconsciously they all recognised you and all identified you as the actor?’

Charles was forced to admit that two out of the four contestants had thought he was a hamburger chef.

Maurice Skellern thought this very funny. His asthmatic laughter was still wheezing down the line when Charles said his goodbyes and put the phone down.

He stood for a moment on the landing of the house in Hereford Road. He was feeling shaken. Not by the news of the murder, but by the thought of his illicit sips of gin from Barrett Doran’s glass. A little bit later and his thirst might have killed him. It was an unpleasant frisson .

He wondered whether he should ring his wife and tell her how close he had come to death. His relationship with Frances was once more in the doldrums. They had long ago separated, but ties remained and, like two pieces of wood floating down a river, they occasionally bounced back together again for brief periods. The love between them was too strong for either to form other permanent relationships, but soon after each reconciliation, the same old difficulties of living together reasserted themselves, and once again they would drift apart.

It had been a couple of months since their last such parting and, though he knew nothing would have changed, Charles needed to make contact again. Perhaps hearing that he had nearly swallowed a fatal dose of cyanide would make Frances forget their recent disagreements. It would be a good opening gambit, anyway.

He looked at his watch. No, of course not. It was a quarter to twelve in the morning. Frances was headmistress of a girls’ school. She wouldn’t mind his ringing her there in a real emergency, but just to mention casually that he’d nearly been poisoned. . forget it.

On the other hand, at that time of day the pubs would be open. After his shock, Charles felt he deserved a little pampering. He went down to his local and had a few pints. By the third he had forgotten about the idea of ringing Frances. And, if he thought anything about Barrett Doran’s death, it was only pity for the beautiful, sad girl who had been driven to such extremities by love.

And, but for a phone-call he received the next morning, he might have never thought any more about it.

The pampering of the previous lunchtime had escalated into evening pampering in various pubs and clubs where Charles always felt confident of meeting other actors. As a result, he was moving somewhat tentatively around his bedsitter, as if his exploding head was unattached and had to be balanced between his shoulders, when the telephone on the landing rang.

‘Hello.’ He hadn’t intended it to come out as a growl, but that was the only sound of which his voice was capable under the circumstances.

‘Could I speak to Charles Paris, please?’

‘This is he. . him.’

The caller then seemed to identify itself as ‘Sidney Danson’, which did not immediately ring bells. His fuddled mind was slowly registering that it was an unusually high voice for a man, when she mentioned West End Television and he knew where he was.

‘What can I do for you, Sydnee?’

‘It’s about Barrett Doran’s death.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘You know Chippy’s been arrested and charged, don’t you?’

‘I had heard.’

‘Well, I don’t think she did it. I just can’t imagine her. . not killing him.’

‘Ah.’

‘Could we get together and talk about it?’ She spoke very directly, with the confidence of someone who spent most of her working life on the telephone.

‘We can meet if you like, but I don’t think I’m going to be a lot of help to you. I didn’t see anything. I was only in the studio for that first round.’

‘I still think you could help.’

‘Hmm. Have you any reason for thinking Chippy didn’t do it?’

‘Instinct.’

‘Not always very reliable, I’m afraid, instinct. The police aren’t fools. On the whole, they don’t make an arrest until they’ve got a pretty good case worked out.’

Sydnee did not answer this objection. ‘I’d like to talk about it,’ she persisted.

‘Okay. When do you want to meet?’

‘Could you make it for a drink this evening after work?’

Charles was again reminded of how most people’s lives were defined by the boundaries of work, while at times the only structure in his own seemed to be imposed by licensing hours, but he didn’t comment. ‘Sure.’

‘Say. . half-past six?’

‘Fine. Where, down at W.E.T.?’

‘No. Better off the premises. Too many people with their own theories down here. Do you know Harry Cockers?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Cocktail bar. Covent Garden. Just off Floral Street.’

‘I’m sure I could find it. What, there at six-thirty?’

‘Yes.’

‘One thing, Sydnee. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Why did you get in touch with me?’

‘One of the Stage Managers here mentioned you. Mort Verdon. . you remember him?’

‘Sure.’

‘He said you’d sorted a few things out when those murders happened on the Strutters series.’

Charles felt childishly pleased as he put the phone down. He was amused by the idea that, while his acting career remained undistinguished, his reputation as an amateur detective was spreading.

The venue currently called Harry Cockers had been through many identities in the previous decade, as various kinds of bars and restaurants became fashionable. Its latest manifestation was very Thirties, with bright jagged lines along every surface, and wall-panels showing geometrically-stylised silhouettes of dancing figures in evening-dress. Overhead large fans swished.