Dead Giveaway

Chapter Five

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.’

‘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.

It was full at that hour, and as he gazed at the clientele crowding the long bar, Charles felt infinitely old. The variegated flying-suits, the strident colours of fabrics and hair, the lurid make-up which would have been condemned at Drama School as ‘horribly over the top’, all seemed to point up the incongruity of his crumpled figure in its loyal sports jacket.

He needn’t have worried. The bright young things at the bar were far too involved in themselves and each other to notice him as he peered from flying-suit to flying-suit, trying to identify Sydnee.

She wasn’t there. At least, she wasn’t there unless she had dyed her hair another colour (which was of course not impossible). He sat at an empty table on the outskirts of the action. If she was there, she could find him. He knew his own appearance hadn’t changed in the last few days (or probably the last few decades).

He was gratified to discover that his invisibility did not extend to the staff. He had hardly sat down before a waiter, whose tail-coat and white tie seemed at odds with the yellow-and-green-striped hair and the Christmas Tree decoration dangling from the ear-lobe, materialised to take his order. He drew Charles’s attention to the infinite list of highly-priced cocktails on the card in front of him.

‘Er, just a large whisky, please.’

‘On the rocks?’

‘Please.’

The waiter vanished, very quickly to return with a tall glass so full of ice that the whisky had paled almost to invisibility, and a large bill.

Charles sipped his drink, while mortifying thoughts about how old and out of touch he was ran through his head.

Sydnee’s hair was still the same copper-beech colour when she appeared a few minutes later. Her flying-suit this time was electric blue.

‘Hi,’ she said, offering no apology for her lateness. Television time, Charles remembered, except for the unshakable rigidity of studio schedules, is always approximate.

‘Can I, er. .?’ He looked round for the waiter.

But she had already snapped her fingers to summon one, ordered herself a Screwdriver and ‘another of the same’ for him. Charles wasn’t used to being with these thoroughly emancipated women.

Sydnee didn’t bother with small talk, but went straight to the point. ‘I’m convinced Chippy didn’t kill Barrett, but I want you to prove that she didn’t.’

‘Is she a close friend of yours?’

‘Fairly close, yes. We’ve worked on a lot of shows together. Been off on a few long locations. You get to know people pretty well stuck for a wet six weeks in a hotel in Scotland.’

Charles nodded. There were people he had got to know pretty well in similar circumstances.

‘And, from what you know of her character, you don’t see her as a murderer?’

‘No way.’

‘What is she like?’

‘Well, she’s dramatic and she’s neurotic. Started as an actress before she went into stage management, so she tends to make a big production of everything. Also, looking like she does, she always has plenty of men after her. .

‘But she’s one of those girls who always ends up falling for the ones who are complete shits.’

‘Right.’ Sydnee looked at him appraisingly, but with approval, respecting his judgement. As he had on the day of the recording, Charles caught a momentary glimpse of the real person beneath the surface efficiency.

‘And Barrett Doran was the latest in this long line of shits?’

Sydnee nodded.

‘How long had it been going on?’

‘Maybe six months on and off. They met on another W.E.T. series. Another game show, actually. Chippy was A.S.M. on that.’

‘They didn’t move in together?’

‘No. He’d just turn up at her flat every now and then. Usually not when he said he would. She spent a lot of those evenings sitting waiting with the dinner slowly drying up in the cooker. Then another night he’d turn up at one in the morning with no warning at all.’

‘How to win friends and influence people.’

‘Oh, Chippy lapped it up. There was always a kamikaze element in her relationships. She asked for it.’

‘And she got it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Barrett presumably had other fish to fry?’

‘You bet. He was the worst sort of celebrity. Reckoned, because he was a famous face, he could get off with anyone. And usually he could.’

‘Did Chippy mind that?’

‘At first I think she did. Then she realised that either she would have to accept all the others or forget it, so she stopped complaining. I think it kind of fuelled her masochism.’

‘Was Barrett married?’

‘Not significantly. I think there probably was a wife somewhere in the background, but it didn’t inhibit his activities.’

‘And, if Chippy was prepared to put up with all that, why was she suddenly reckoned to be capable of murdering him?’

‘Because he broke it off. Didn’t just stop turning up at her flat, didn’t just stop ringing her. . he actually told her: Forget it, it’s all over.’

‘Any idea why?’

‘I think he was probably just bored with her. The sex, from her account, was pretty good, but then he could get plenty of sex elsewhere. I think also Chippy was a bit ordinary for him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just an Assistant Stage Manager. Little bit of fluff, little bit of nothing. Barrett was getting to that stage of celebrity where he no longer just wanted to screw everything in sight, he only wanted to screw other celebs. You know, he wanted to be seen around with people, wanted to make it to the gossip columns.’

‘And Chippy didn’t match up?’

‘No. Not famous enough.’

‘Hmm. Sounds as if she was well shot of him.’

‘Yes, of course she was. I told her it’d be a disaster from the start. Trouble was, Chippy reckoned she had fallen in love with him — no, let’s be fair to her, she had fallen in love with him. I mean, I know she always dramatised things, but this time it was a bit different. I’d seen her in the throes of other affairs, but she had never been like she was with Barrett. She was just totally obsessed with him. She used to tape all his shows and sit at home on her own watching them.’

‘What, game shows?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’d sit and watch game shows for pleasure? My God, it must have been love.’

Charles stopped short. He remembered that he was talking to someone whose work was game shows. He mustn’t assume that she shared his cynicism on the subject, and be careful that he didn’t offend her.

Sydnee’s pale-blue eyes stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then, slowly, a childlike smile broke across her face.

‘It’s all right, Charles. I’m fully aware of the real quality of what I work on. But the work is nothing to do with the end-product. As you know, you can still be satisfied with your own professional contribution to a project that is utter rubbish.’

He nodded. He had frequently had that experience. There was now more of a bond between them.

His glass was empty. He looked around vaguely, but again a peremptory gesture from Sydnee produced the waiter and repeated their order.

‘Presumably,’ he said, picking up the threads, ‘Chippy’s obsession with Barrett is one of the reasons why the police reckon she killed him?’

‘Yes. Oh, she was certainly doing all the classic things a murder suspect should. . going round saying what a bastard he was, how much she hated him, how much she wished he’d never existed. I mean, none of us could deny that she had issued plenty of threats against him.’

‘You were questioned by the police?’

‘Oh yes. Everyone who was on the set at the time of the murder.’

‘I’m surprised they haven’t been on to me.’

‘They’ve got your address and phone number. I just don’t think they needed to spread the net any wider. They reckon they’ve got enough to convict Chippy already.’

‘Hmm. Like what?’

‘Well, let’s say we’ve sorted out Motive. As I recall from my teenage reading of detective stories, the next point to be checked was always Opportunity.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So far as Opportunity was concerned, Chippy was uniquely placed. She was working on Method In Their Murders, she knew Melvyn Gasc had insisted on the realism of having all the correct props for the series, so she knew that the bottle of cyanide was around.’

‘And she went off to look after Studio B soon after six. I remember.’

‘Exactly. So she had a unique opportunity to doctor Barrett’s glass.’

‘Which contained gin originally, am I right?’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

Again Charles fudged the truth a little. ‘I worked it out from things Barrett said to you.’

‘He always insisted on his glass of gin. Don’t blame him, actually. You need something to keep up that relentless good humour in front of the camera.’

‘Hmm. One strange thing that struck me,’ Charles mused, going off at a tangent, ‘was why he didn’t die earlier.’

‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

‘Well, if he was that dependent on the gin, why didn’t he take a big swig earlier on in the recording? Why did he wait till the end?’

‘Yes, I wondered about that. The only reason I could think was that, under all that brashness, Barrett Doran was very nervous. He was concentrating so hard on getting the new show right that he forgot about the booze.’

‘I suppose that’s possible.’

‘He did nip off to his dressing room for a big one at the end of Part One.’

‘Ah.’

‘Also, he played it well. I mean, in terms of drama. He only used the drink when the wheel was spinning, claiming that he couldn’t stand the tension. He was a good showman, Barrett.

‘Hmm.’ Charles took a long, pensive swallow of whisky. ‘Did you get a chance to talk to Chippy after the recording?’

‘Yes, I did. We went out for a few drinks after the first round of police questioning.’

‘What sort of state was she in?’

‘Pretty terrible. Kind of numb and totally fatalistic. Like part of her was dead. With Barrett gone, she didn’t reckon she had anything to live for. That’s what worries me. If she’s in that sort of state, she’s not going to fight. I know her. She’ll just accept being accused of the murder. She’ll see it as a kind of punishment, yet another proof that it’s a rotten world and she never had a chance.’

‘But she can’t just have been charged on circumstantial evidence. The police must have got a bit more on her.’

‘Yes, I suppose they have. You see, she did fiddle around with Barrett’s glass.’

‘Did she?’

‘Oh yes. She made no bones about it. She told me that evening. And presumably she told the police too.’

‘What did she say she did?’

‘While she was meant to be looking after Studio B in the meal-break, she was feeling really vindictive towards Barrett — you know, particularly after he’d cut her dead in the bar — and she decided she’d have a small revenge on him. She knew about the gin, knew he always had a glass on the set, so she just thought she’d deprive him of that comfort.

She said all she was going to do was to change his glass round with one of the others on the celebs’ desk.’

‘Did she say whose?’

‘No. Anyway, she says she didn’t do it. When she got into the studio, she picked up the glass, then realised how petty she was being and didn’t bother.’

‘She just left things as they were?’

‘So she said. Well, the police ran fingerprint checks. Needless to say, hers were all over the cyanide bottle — she’d been handling the Studio B props all day. They were also all over Barrett’s glass and decanter — along with a lot of other prints.’

‘Oh really?’ said Charles innocently.

‘So, given that evidence, and her motive, and the fact that she and Barrett had a shouting match just before the recording. .’

‘Did they?’

‘Yes. She went to his dressing room, silly girl. Shouted all kinds of things that a lot of people heard. Said how he wouldn’t get away with the way he’d treated her, how she had planned how to get even with him. .’

‘Direct threats?’

‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’

Charles looked down at the melting ice of his drink. His conclusion was inescapable, but he wanted to phrase it as gently as possible.

‘Listen, Sydnee, I know Chippy’s a friend of yours and I can see exactly why you’re doing what you’re doing, why you’re involving me, but I’m afraid it does sound pretty hopeless. I mean, Chippy had every reason to want Barrett dead, and she had the opportunity to kill him. From what you say of her mental state, she sounds to have been quite hysterical enough to have done it. I’m sorry, Sydnee, but I think the police are right. They’ve got their murderer.’

The pale blue eyes were full of pain. To his surprise, he saw tears gathering at their corners.

‘As I say, I’m sorry, but that’s how it must have happened. She went to Barrett’s dressing room, hoping for the final reconciliation. He was as unpleasant to her as ever. She thought, all right, sod the bastard, I’ll get him. She went back to Studio B, got the bottle of cyanide. . into Studio A and filled his glass. Wouldn’t have taken her more than a minute. And that was it.’

Sydnee was silent for a moment. Then, softly, she said, ‘Except it wasn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I heard about the argument going on in Barrett’s dressing room, and I went down to get Chippy out of it. I then took her back to the bar and bought her a large drink. So she’s got an alibi from the time she went into Barrett’s dressing room.’

‘Okay, so she must have doctored the drink before she went to see him. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to the main outline of the crime. She told him she was going to get him.’

‘Yes.’

Sydnee’s reply was so listless, and she looked so dejected, that Charles felt he must summon up a little more interest.

‘Let’s look at the time-scale. When did she say she went into Studio A to switch the glasses?’

‘First thing she did when she went down from the bar. And that’s when the police say she put the cyanide in the glass. It was the only chance she had. She was seen going into Barrett’s dressing room at twenty-five-past six, and I got her out of there about twenty to seven.’

Charles did the sums in his head. Then, slowly he said, ‘Ah. You know, Sydnee, I think you may have a point, after all.’

Because, as he knew well (and with a degree of gratitude), at six-thirty the contents of the glass on Barrett Doran’s lectern had been not cyanide, but gin.