Requiem for a Dummy Page 10

  I found a little café and warmed myself up with a mug of tea. As I sat by the window staring out across the road and beyond to where the sky met the sea, my hands clasping the mug in both hands, savouring the heat it produced, I was surprised how sad I felt at seeing the old place in such a state. I knew that things would be different but I really hadn’t expected so radical a change.

  My destination was Sunset House in Hove, a retirement home for variety artistes. I showed the address to the café owner. He gave me directions with the assurance that I could walk there in about half an hour, which was fine by me. The exercise would do me good and despite everything else he’d done old Adolf had not been able to eradicate the benefits of breathing in the sea air.

  The café owner was pretty accurate for within thirty-five minutes I approached my destination. Sunset House was a large stuccoed villa, placed on a quiet stretch of road opposite the sea. It must have been something quite splendid in earlier days when it was no doubt a luxurious seaside dwelling owned by some rich fellow. Now there was an air of shabbiness and neglect about the place. Paint was peeling here and there; the lawn was overgrown with moss, and weeds were invading the path that led up to the front door.

  I stood on the porch and glanced at my watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I rang the bell, which was answered by a young girl in a maid’s outfit. She looked a little startled when she saw me. A lot of young girls do, I’m afraid. Despite the war, they’re not used to seeing a youngish chap with a black eye-patch. I suppose it can give me a sinister and rather foreboding appearance.

  I raised my hat and smiled as charmingly as I could. ‘My name is Hawke. Mrs Connor is expecting me.’

  Mrs Connor was the matron of this establishment. I had spoken to her on the telephone the day before and explained that I wished to speak to one of the residents, Cyril Sarony, in connection with a murder enquiry. She seemed quite alarmed at first, not wanting anyone in her charge to be upset with talk of death and murder, but I had worked hard to set her mind at ease, assuring her that I would be gentle, considerate and discreet.

  The young girl bade me enter and led me down a featureless hallway to Mrs Connor’s office; here she knocked lightly on the door. ‘Come in,’ cried the voice I recognized from our telephone conversation.

  ‘Please wait here, sir,’ said the girl, before disappearing into the room. She emerged a few moments later with erratic swiftness like the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.

  ‘Mrs Connor said you’d best go in.’

  Mrs Connor was a large lady floating to the top end of her forties. She was dressed in a bright floral dress which may have fitted her beautifully when she was about a stone lighter but now it seemed to be imprisoning her ample figure rather than gracing it. Her face was heavily made-up with powder and lipstick. She leant over her desk and extended a podgy hand to me. I shook it. It was cold and slightly damp.

  ‘Gladys Connor,’ she said briskly but not unkindly, and then, like the young maid, did a double take after catching sight of my eye-patch.

  ‘A war wound, Mr Hawke?’ she enquired, waving me to a seat.

  I nodded. It was a convenient reply. It was a subject I really didn’t want to discuss. It was tedious for me to explain that it was an accident with a faulty rifle when I was training to join the army at the start of the war. If that hadn’t happened, I’d have been fighting Hitler in uniform rather than plodding the streets as a private detective. I quickly cast these dark thoughts aside.

  ‘How exactly can I help you, Mr Hawke?’ Mrs Connor smiled at me but it was a professional smile. There was no warmth behind it.

  ‘Well, as I explained on the phone yesterday, I just want a chat with Mr Sarony about the old days and his friendship with Raymond Carter.’

  ‘And this is in connection with a criminal investigation.’

  I nodded again and passed her one of my cards.

  Mrs Connor frowned and some of the powder on her forehead flaked a little. ‘But what has Cyril Sarony to do with a crime in London? He hasn’t left Brighton in about five years. He can barely walk now.’

  ‘It’s only background information I’m after. I’d just like him to reminisce, that’s all. I won’t mention anything about crime. I don’t wish to upset him.’

  Mrs Connor’s professional expression softened. ‘That is essential. Cyril is rather frail now and I don’t want him disturbed in any way. However, if it’s just a chat about the old days then that’s fine. It’s what he loves. It’s what they all love in here. Their life was the stage and the only bit of living they get to do now is to relive the past.’

  I was beginning to warm to Mrs Connor. The stiff and starchy exterior was melting away and the real caring persona beneath was making an appearance.

  ‘Why don’t you introduce me as a reporter who’s doing a piece about old-time music hall stars and then there’s no suspicion of the real reason for my visit?’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ beamed Mrs Connor, rising from her chair. ‘Very well, come along then. I’ll take you to meet Cyril. He’ll be in his room now. He doesn’t usually emerge until lunchtime.’

  She took me through a large lounge area where about a dozen or so of the residents were sitting around; some playing cards, others reading, a couple chatting, and one poor old dear was staring mournfully at the wall. Most ignored our passage through the room, but a couple of the ladies turned their heads in my direction and gave me a sly coquettish smile, as for a brief moment they were young girls again. My patch didn’t seem to bother them.

  On entering Cyril Sarony’s room, at first glance it appeared to be empty. This impression was supported by the fact that Mrs Connor had knocked and there had been no reply. The room felt cold although there was a meagre fire struggling for survival in the grate. The walls were bare apart from a couple of yellowing theatre posters and a mottled mirror. There was a single bed, a desk, a table with a radio on it, a large wardrobe and a winged armchair facing away from us towards the window. How sad, I thought, to live a long and productive life only to end up here a virtual prisoner in these bleak, dingy quarters. Suddenly, there was a slight movement in the large armchair.

  ‘Who’s there?’ A croaky voice emerged from the depths of the chair.

  ‘He’s rather deaf,’ muttered Mrs Connor conspiratorially, as she led me round the front of the chair to introduce me to its occupant.

  Cyril Sarony was skeletally thin, his body shrunken with age. He was almost completely bald apart from a few uncombed stubborn wisps of white hair that sprouted from the side of his head. His face was shroud white, but it possessed two of the brightest blue eyes I’d encountered. They were like azure diamonds shining forth from those pasty features.

  Mrs Connor introduced me as a reporter as arranged and left me with him. ‘Don’t tire him, please. No longer than half an hour, eh?’ she murmured on departure.

  I nodded in agreement.

  We were left alone. Cyril Sarony grinned. ‘Nice to meet you, young man,’ he said, his voice and demeanour belying his aged appearance. ‘Before we start, let’s have a little nip, eh? There’s a bottle of good brandy in that cupboard and a couple of glasses. Let’s warm our cockles, shall we?’

  I retrieved the brandy and poured him a glass. ‘Good lord, young man, don’t be stingy. Let’s have a good measure. This is a bit of a celebration. I don’t get many visitors these days …’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘To be honest, I don’t get any at all.’

  He beamed and took a generous sip before emitting a dry, throaty chuckle. ‘It warms the cockles, it does. It warms the cockles. Now then young man …’

  ‘Call me Johnny.’

  ‘I will. I will. And you must call me Mr Sarony.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Sorry. My little joke. That’s what Tim always used to say: “my little joke”.’

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘My dolly. I was a vent act you know. Quite an attraction in my day. Before you were born.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted t
o chat to you about. Your vent act and how you helped Raymond Carter.’

  The eyes dimmed and the mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Oh, him,’ he said disdainfully.

  ‘You know that he’s a great success now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know that.’

  ‘Do you listen to his radio show?’

  Cyril Sarony made a disparaging noise in his throat. ‘Pah! A vent act on radio. How ridiculous is that? The whole point of a vent act is to see a man – see a man, mind you, make a wooden doll talk and no matter how much you stare at him you can’t for the life of you see his lips move. On radio they could just be two different men – who’s to know? And the crime is that Carter is a very good ventriloquist. And so he should be. I taught him all I know.’

  ‘How did you come to meet?’

  Cyril Sarony’s pale features softened into a smile. ‘It was years ago, my boy. Just after the Great War. Can’t say for sure. My memory is still as sharp as it ever was, but I’ve never been good on dates. I was quite successful, me and Tim that is. We weren’t quite headliners but certainly not in the wines and spirits department – that’s down at the bottom of the bill. “Cyril Sarony With Tim, His Talking Doll” – that was my bill matter. Not brilliant, was it? But the act did fine. Here, top up my glass with a drop more brandy, son: this talking is making me thirsty. Yes, that’s right. Full to the top.’

  ‘Now then, how did I meet Raymond Carter? Well, it was at the old Hackney Empire. Of course, in those days London was crammed with theatres. As I said it was just after the war and folks were desperate for entertainment. They just wanted to laugh and sing again after all the misery of that bleedin’ war. There was hardly a night when we didn’t have a packed house. Raymond was a young shaver, around twenty I should guess. ’Course he went under the name of Frank Palmer then. He was a stage hand and he was fascinated by ventriloquism. He used to watch me from the wings every night and came to chat to me in between shows. He was eager to learn the techniques and the tricks. I know how he felt. I’d been the same as him when I’d been younger. My father was a vent too and he’d schooled me in the art – and it is an art, young man. It takes skill, patience, dedication and hours and hours of practice. And even then it’s not given to everyone to succeed. I think ventriloquism chooses you, rather than the other way around.

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, Raymond sort of became my pupil. It didn’t take long for me to realize the lad had a natural talent for it. A gift, if you like. He picked things up with ease. He used to practise on Tim as well, getting used to the mechanics of the doll. It’s not all talking with your mouth closed, you know: you have to co-ordinate eye, head and mouth movements, too. And never keep your dolly still for more than ten seconds or that’s how he’ll come across to the audience – as a bleedin’ wooden doll. He’s got to live, you see. You’ve got to convince them he’s alive.’

  There was a crack in the old man’s voice and he took a large gulp of brandy to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘I remember the day Raymond came into my dressing-room carrying a large suitcase. He’d gone and got his own doll. He’d been up to Smallbone’s magic shop in town and had his own dummy made. And they weren’t cheap even then. Well, that week after a few practices with me, I let him come on stage towards the end of my act so that the dolls could indulge in a bit of cross talk together. It went down a treat. I suppose it was the novelty of seeing two vents on the stage at the same time – two men who said nothing but their dollies were going at it hammer and tongs. It was something really different. We did it again every night that week and got the same reaction. At the end of the engagement, I decided to take on Raymond as my junior partner. He was more than happy to accept my measly offer of twenty-five per cent of the take. He was now in show business. And that’s when he changed his name.’

  The old man paused for a moment, those brilliant eyes misting over as though he was visualizing the moments all over again.

  ‘So, Johnny,’ he said at length, ‘you can imagine what happened. Gradually Raymond took over more and more of the act. He didn’t stay on twenty-five per cent for long. Well, he was a lively, good-looking lad and I was an old codger approaching sixty. He had more appeal to the audience, especially the ladies. Oh, and he did have a way with the ladies. You know what they say about sailors having a lady in every port – well, he was the same with the chorus girls. More than one sometimes in every theatre. Then he slipped up. Got one of them pregnant. Silly blighter. Still, he did the decent thing and married the girl. Nice little thing; Sally was her name. It was about this time he told me that he had decided to go solo. He thought I was holding him back. He’d got his eye on the West End, he said. That was a real slap in the face for me, I can tell you. After all I’d done for him. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d done it with some kindness, but he just dropped it on me like one of Hitler’s bombs. Bang! You’re out of the act, go and plough your own furrow. I know it’s silly and sentimental – I expect it’s the brandy talking – but I used to think of him like the son I’d never had. I didn’t have kids of my own; I was married to the theatre, you see. But I looked on Raymond that way.’

  The old man’s bright eyes moistened. ‘Brandy always does this to me,’ he said, trying to effect a grin as he wiped an errant tear away with his sleeve. ‘You can top my glass up again, lad. In for a penny, eh?’

  I poured a little more of the brandy into his glass without comment. I had no intention of saying anything that might interrupt his flow.

  ‘So, off he went with wife and his little son ready to climb the heights of the show-business ladder of fame, leaving me to try and make something of what was left of my career. But times were changing. People didn’t seem as amused as they once were with a man and a dummy on stage. They needed more novelty. More brashness, I suppose. I struggled along for a bit and then I gave up and worked as a kind of talent scout for a booking agency for a while until I threw my hat in altogether.’ He coughed a little on purpose and I could hear his chest rattle. ‘My health let me down in the end. Still my compensation was that Raymond had the same problems with his act as I did. He didn’t change with the times, y’see, and the bookings fell away. In time he was just an also ran on the variety bills. He began to drink and became unreliable. But I didn’t feel sorry for him because just after leaving me he did the nastiest thing a man could do.’

  I leaned forward affecting an interest. Well, I wasn’t affecting it, I was really interested, but I wanted to demonstrate that fact to Cyril to make sure he carried on with his revelations. He took a sip of brandy before continuing.

  ‘He left his wife and young ’un and went off with one of his blasted chorus girls. He just dumped them. Like he dumped me. Left them without a penny. Well, the girl, Sally, his wife, was distraught. The fool really loved him, y’see. Oh, he had charm when he wanted to. He could switch it on and off like a tap. I tell you, he could have given that Jekyll and Hyde some lessons in the art of being two-faced. It was tragic. Sally couldn’t get over losing the bastard so she topped herself. Slashed her wrists. He didn’t even go to the funeral. That’s your Raymond Carter for you. When it came down to it, all he cared about was himself. He just used other people for his own convenience and satisfaction.’

  Cyril Sarony sat back in his chair with the air of a man who had finished his tale. But there was more that I needed to know.

  ‘What happened to the child?’ I probed gently.

  Cyril shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that Raymond had nothing to do with the little lad. He refused to accept any responsibility for Sally or the child’s future. It was as though they had never existed. He cut them from his life. I believe he persuaded himself that they had never existed. I told you he was a bastard.’

  ‘How old was the baby when Sally died?’

  ‘About one or two, I reckon.’

  ‘And what happened to the chorus girl that Raymond went off with?’

  Cyril’s face split into a wide gri
n and he gave a slight chesty laugh. ‘She fell by the wayside. Like they all did. No doubt there’ve been dozens of tarts in his bed since then. Even now in his forties he’s a good-looking chap, isn’t he? I see his picture in the papers. I bet he’s still sniffing round the girls.’

  ‘What happened to Raymond in the thirties?’

  Cyril shrugged. ‘He played the halls. Second-rate venues up and down the country. He struggled like we all did then. He scraped a living, I guess. Then like a bleeding miracle, he pushed the stone away from the mouth of the tomb and stepped into the limelight once more. Big time.’

  The anger that this evoked in the old trouper set him coughing again and with great effort he sat forward and expelled a gobbet of phlegm into the fire grate where it hung there hissing and sizzling.

  ‘It couldn’t have happened to a slimier toad.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Raymond Carter?’

  ‘The last time I saw him to speak to was in August 1920. And he did the talking. He told me to get lost. That I was all washed up and he would no longer be associating himself with me. I’ve seen him a couple of times since – on the stage. I hate the man, Johnny, but I’ve got to give him his due: he’s a mighty fine ventriloquist. And the words stick in my throat to admit as much.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I hope you’ll print the story in your paper. It’s time his adoring public knew what a termite he is.’

  I nodded positively, but did not commit my lips to the lie. I felt bad about lying to the old man, but I was only doing my job, wasn’t I? ‘And you’ve really no idea what became of Raymond’s son,’ I said, keeping myself on track.