Dead Giveaway (2 page)

She stopped on another gesture from the dumpy woman and crossed over for another quick whisper. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Sydnee apologised as she returned, ‘John Mantle’s still tied up in . . . er, an important meeting, but the Producer, Jim Trace-Smith, will be here in a minute and he’ll be able to brief you. Meanwhile, perhaps we ought to sort out the actual hats that you’ll be wearing for the show.’ Pitching her voice up, she called to the studio in general, ‘Is there anyone from Wardrobe around?’

Her plea produced a tired-looking girl in a silver flying-suit and a limp-looking bald man in a pink flying-suit.

‘I wondered if you’d sorted out the hats for the First Round . . .?’ asked Sydnee with diplomatic diffidence.

‘More or less,’ the girl replied, and then revealed the reason for the researcher’s tentative approach. ‘But we’re still not happy about it. I mean, Wardrobe is about costumes that people
wear.
Hats for a game show I’d still have said come under Props.’

‘Yes, I see your point, but the hats are actually going to be
worn
,’ Sydnee cajoled. ‘These people here are going to wear them.’

The girl’s sniff showed that she remained unconvinced. ‘Well, I’ve talked to Head of Wardrobe and she says we should do it for today – under protest, mind – but if the show goes to a series, alternative arrangements may well have to be made.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the researcher agreed readily. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. But can we see what you’ve got for us today?’

The bald man in the pink flying-suit was grudgingly despatched, and soon came back with a selection of hat-boxes. ‘But we would like to make it clear that we’re still not happy about it,’ he insisted.

‘Yes, I understand.’ Sydnee reached eagerly towards the boxes.

‘Do you mind?’ said the girl shirtily. ‘You’re not Wardrobe, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, handling hats is a Wardrobe job.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Sydnee withdrew, her poise momentarily threatened, while the girl from Wardrobe demanded, ‘Right, who wants what?’

Sydnee stepped forward again. ‘Now you see, each one of them has to wear a hat which symbolises his or her profession. Did you get the list of professions?’

‘No,’ the girl replied stonily.

‘Well, Charles Paris here, for instance, is an actor . . .’

‘Oh yes?’ The girl in silver battle-dress reached into a box, pulled out a floppy Tudor bonnet and thrust it at Charles. ‘Try that.’

He put it on. It was too big. ‘I’m not sure that this actually says “actor”. . .’ he began.

‘That,’ the girl hissed in a voice that brooked no disagreement, ‘is what actors wear. That is your hat. That is what you will wear. You are now responsible for it. You will look after it. You will see that no one else wears it.’

‘Ah,’ said Charles. ‘Right.’

‘Erm . . .’ Sydnee interposed. ‘I’m afraid that won’t quite work. You see, the point of the game is that they don’t wear their right hats.’

The girl from Wardrobe looked at her pityingly.

‘No, you see, they have to wear the wrong hats, and it’s up to the punters – er, the contestants to change them round and get them wearing the right ones. That’s why the game’s called what it’s called.
If The Cap Fits,’
Sydnee concluded lamely.

‘Look, you wanted hats to fit four people. Now you tell me you don’t want them to fit those four people – they’ve got to fit four other people. What is going on?’

‘No, they’re not meant to fit four other specific people. The contestants may move them around. They’re meant to fit any of them, all four of them.’

The girl from Wardrobe folded her arms over her silver flying-suit. Her tired mouth took on an even harder line. ‘I am not in Wardrobe to supply hats that don’t fit. I am trained to supply costumes that do fit.’

Sydnee looked fazed. It was not clear how she was going to get out of this one. But, before she could attempt any solution, her eye caught movement at the side of the studio and was once again lit up by sudden panic. ‘Quick, quick!’ she cried. ‘Someone’s bringing the contestants in! Come on – this way!’

And again she did her sheepdog routine, bundling the four ‘professions’ out of Studio A.

Sydnee’s party came through double doors out of Studio A and started up the corridor which led towards the lifts. As they approached, the lift doors opened and their leader saw something which made her reverse promptly, shepherding her flock back the way they had come.

‘What was it?’

‘Just getting out of the lift. Nick Jeffries.’

‘Ooh,’ squealed the one female in the party. ‘You mean Nick Jeffries, the boxer?’

‘Yes. He’s on the panel for the show.’

‘Ooh, you’ve got all the sexy ones on, haven’t you? Did you select them. EH?’

This last was accompanied by a huge nudge to Sydnee, who offered hardly even a pretence of a smile in return. Then she looked behind her and saw, to her horror, a bulky man in a plush sheepskin jacket following them down the corridor. ‘It’s Nick Jeffries,’ she gasped. ‘Quick, in here!’

She thrust open the nearest door, over which a sign read, STUDIO B. AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.

They found themselves in darkness, cramped between a wall and a loose hanging curtain. ‘Follow me,’ urged Sydnee. They followed. Rounding the corner of the curtain, the five of them were momentarily blinded by the sudden glare of studio lights.

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 public 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
.