On reaching home, I stripped off my clothes in order to examine my wounds. It was a painful process because the ritual required so much movement from my gashed arm, that I moaned and groaned each step of the way. I’m not keen on pain.
At last, stripped down to my underclothes, I took on my medical duties and inspected the damage. The gash on my thigh was quite narrow but fairly deep. It could probably do with some stitches, but I wasn’t about to take myself off to hospital for that. I was a big boy now. I didn’t need a nurse to kiss me better – although the fleeting thought of it aroused me slightly. A feminine embrace and a pair of warm lips on mine would be an ideal restorative. Shaking such notions from my tired mind, I took down the first aid tin. I reckoned that if I bandaged the wound on my leg tightly it would heal itself sufficiently in a week. The cut on my arm was more painful but less serious. I bathed it in Dettol and stuck some cotton wool on it held down with a big strip of Elastoplast. I certainly couldn’t have bandaged it one handed.
Although the two wounds ached unpleasantly, guaranteeing that I wouldn’t get much sleep that night, I was thankful that I had escaped comparatively lightly from the little skirmish. It had been bizarre and frightening. I wouldn’t forget very easily being attacked by the figure of Charlie Dokes. It was the stuff of childhood nightmares, but I had experienced it. The one positive aspect of the encounter – how circumspect that word is – was that it indicated that I was getting close to some unpleasant truth and the killer – for I must assume it was indeed he who had attacked me – wanted to eliminate me before I came any closer to it. This thought filled me with mixed feelings. I was pleased that I had in some way unnerved the fellow, but I didn’t relish the fact that I was now on his list of potential victims. However, I felt so weary and in such discomfort that neither contemplation stirred my emotions to any great degree. All I cared about now was to escape the cares of the world by having a good kip.
So, once I’d finished ministering to my wounds, I took myself off to bed. I lay on my back – the position which caused the least discomfort – and waited to be scooped up into the arms of Morpheus. He took a long time coming. While I tried to let my mind drift off into sleep, my two wounds were sending throbbing Morse code messages to each other. Sometime around three in the morning I finally drifted off.
When I awoke, the pain started immediately. Both wounds pounded indignantly. They were not going to let me forget their presence or the way I’d allowed my body to be damaged in such a violent fashion. I decided not to examine the cuts in case they depressed me further. I would just have to grit my teeth and get on with things – the damage would heal in time. So I gritted my teeth and set about the awkward and often painful task of dressing myself and carrying out my morning ablutions. Finally, after much jerky movement and a series of stifled groans, I was ready to face the world. As I sat over what I laughingly called breakfast – a cup of tea, a slice of burnt bread scraped with a sheen of margarine, and a cigarette – I examined the mask that I had ripped from my assailant’s face the night before. It was finely crafted – from papier mâché – was a clever representation of Charlie Dokes’s ugly mug. On the inside of the mask was a signature. It was tiny and I had difficulty making it out with my naked eye. I retrieved my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass from the sideboard drawer and gave it a closer examination. It looked like ‘Max Summers’. ‘That could come in handy,’ I murmured to myself, but before I could let my thoughts wander down that particular avenue, the telephone rang.
It was Peter, wanting to know what time I was coming round today. Of course, it was Saturday. I’d forgotten.
‘I’ve one or two errands to carry out this morning,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful, ‘so I reckon it’ll be sometime in the afternoon before I can make it.’
Peter groaned. ‘I wanted us to have a game of football in the park this morning. It’ll be too dark by the time you get here.’
‘I’m sorry about that, but I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you into Town for a nice tea and then …’ – I paused dramatically and chuckled – ‘and then, I’ll take you to the Palladium to see Charlie Dokes.’
‘Really! Do you really mean it?’ Peter virtually shrieked down the phone with uncontained excitement.
‘Certainly do,’ I said beaming. ‘That’s better than a kick about in the park, eh?’
‘You bet.’
‘See you later then, OK?’
‘Can’t wait. Come as soon as you can,’ he said, and I pictured him as he replaced the receiver in the hallway of the house where he stayed. He would be grinning from ear to ear, his young face flushed and his eyes wide with pleasurable anticipation.
Checking my watch for the time, I lifted the receiver again and dialled. It was a bit of an off chance but I knew that Limelight Lionel worked six mornings a week and could invariably be found at his desk between the hours of nine and when the pubs opened. After that it was anyone’s guess where he’d be.
I was in luck.
‘Good morning, Johnny. You got some juicy gossip for me I hope?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ I said, bending the truth a little. ‘I’m afraid I’m after a little information again.’
Lionel gave a dry chuckle. ‘You know I do this kind of business in the Old Mitre. Information comes at a liquid price, my son.’
‘I’ll just have to owe you. You know you can trust me.’
‘Maybe, but I’m rather thirsty now.’
He was playing with me and I went along with the game.
‘So, what do you want to know this time?’
‘I’ve got hold of a theatrical mask. Very nice. Very well executed. The maker’s name is on the inside: Max Summers. Have you heard of him?’
Lionel chuckled again. ‘Max Summers? Certainly have. One of the best in the business.’
‘Where does he hang out?’
‘Four pints and a whisky chaser …’
‘A steep price for an address, Lionel.’
‘Steep price, maybe, but where else you gonna go for this info?’
‘Point taken. It’s a deal.’
‘Max has a shop on Henrietta Street, near Covent Garden. Don’t leave it too long before you pay your dues, Johnny boy.’ With that parting shot, he put the phone down.
I walked to Henrietta Street thinking the exercise would do the wound to my thigh some good. Whether it was beneficial or not, I wasn’t sure; I just knew that it hurt like hell. By the time I had reached my destination, I was limping because of the pain. My composure wasn’t helped by the additional discomfort from the wound to my arm which throbbed in sympathy with its partner. I must have made a strange sight: a one-eyed limping man in a tattered and sliced overcoat grimacing at every step, slowly patrolling Henrietta Street.
As I neared the Charing Cross Road end of the street, I came across a small shop front which was full of masks. The sign above the door read MASKS UNLIMITED. Below it in very small lettering I read: ‘Prop. M. Summers’. Good old reliable Lionel. I went inside. The shop was tiny. There was room for two customers only before a narrow counter, behind which was a small display cabinet containing half-a-dozen masks and a door leading off to the rear of the premises. There was a little handbell on the counter. I rang it.
A voice called from the inner recesses of the shop, ‘Coming.’
And sure enough, the owner of the voice came. It was a pretty young woman with short cropped glossy dark hair that framed her face and the most amazing grey eyes, like those of an enigmatic cat. She was dressed in a pinstriped pencil skirt and a neat black cardigan that was buttoned almost to the neck. Her face was powdered to a pale ivory and enlivened by her bright red lipstick. She flashed me a broad smile of greeting. Sadly, I was wise enough to recognize that this was a practised smile given freely to all prospective customers and not something meant especially for me. And indeed, why should it be? I must have looked a strange fish indeed with my tired face, my limp, eye-patch and coat of threads and tatters. Certainly not someone to arouse the interest of an attractive young lady. More’s the pity, I thought, for I found this attractive young lady particularly alluring.
‘Good morning,’ she said, politely. ‘How may I help you?’ Her voice was soft and mellifluous and tinged with accent. She was French.
‘I’d like to have a word with Mr Max Summers, the proprietor.’
At my request, her long fingered right hand fluttered around her mouth in a feeble attempt to stifle a laugh.
Her action was so delightful and refreshingly natural that I found myself smiling too. I didn’t really know why. ‘Have I said something funny?’ I asked gently.
The girl nodded, her eyes still brimming with amusement and then she giggled again, but this time she made a greater effort to contain herself. ‘I am sorry,’ she said, blushing slightly, ‘you see I am Max Summers, the proprietor.’
‘Max…?’
‘Short for Maxine.’
‘I see. I apologize for jumping to conclusions.’
‘And I apologize for laughing at you.’
‘Then we are even.’
This time she flashed me a genuine smile. I luxuriated in the warmth of it.
‘So, how may I help you? You are wanting a mask of some kind?’
‘It’s information, really,’ I said, pulling the Charlie Dokes mask from the innards of my tattered coat. ‘I believe this was made here.’ I passed it to her.
She gave it a cursory glance. ‘Oh, yes, I remember it well. It was made to look like the doll from the radio show. I was given a photograph to work from.’
‘Could you tell me who asked you to make the mask?’
For the first time, Maxine Summers’ sweet face lost its smile. ‘Oh, dear no. I cannot betray a customer’s confidence.’
I leaned on the counter and lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘This is very important, miss. I am a private detective working on an important case. It’s a matter of life and death.’ I passed her one of my cards which she read very carefully, her lovely features registering the change from surprise to uncertainty.
‘I don’t know …’ she said shaking her head slightly.
‘It’s just the name I want. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t vital to the investigation.’
She hesitated further, but I knew that she was weakening. It was time to add a little pressure. ‘I only want the name. There’s no real harm in that, is there? It’s either tell me, or I’m afraid I’ll have to go to the police and you wouldn’t want that, would you? Great big coppers clumping up and down your premises. Looks bad for business too,’ I added. I was not particularly proud of this particular turn of the screw, but I had to be prepared to upset the pretty Maxine in order to get the name.
And from the change in her expression, I could see that indeed I had upset the pretty Maxine. ‘Very well,’ she said coldly and then disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving behind the faint lingering smell of her perfume. She returned a few moments later with a small ledger which she consulted, holding the pages away from me so that I could not see them.
‘The customer who bought the mask was a man called Carter. Raymond Carter.’
My mouth gaped a little. What the hell was going on here? I just stopped myself from asking Maxine if she was sure, if she had given me the correct name. But of course she must have – even though it didn’t make sense. Why would Carter buy such a mask and – more particularly – was it really him who wore it last night in order to attack me? My mind juggled with these thoughts while I repeated the name to Maxine to make sure that I really heard correctly: ‘Raymond Carter.’
She nodded and closed the ledger.
‘Well, thank you, Miss Summers. I really appreciate your help.’
‘Will that be all?’ she asked sharply, sending an Arctic breeze in my direction. There were no smiles now. She looked stern and disappointed and, of course, I knew why. I had bullied and threatened her into doing something she didn’t want to do, something that was against her principles and now she hated me for it. And I hated myself too.
I couldn’t think of anything to say or do that would make her think better of me, this shabby one-eyed man with a ragged coat and bullying manner. And I wanted her to think better of me. Desperately so.
‘Could I buy you lunch … as a thank you for helping me?’ I said suddenly. Where that came from I had no idea. My lusting subconscious had temporarily taken over my brain and tongue and acted on impulse. Normally I would have been too shy to make such a suggestion to a young, attractive woman.
She looked aghast at the very idea of it. There was no hesitation in her reply. ‘No,’ she snapped disdainfully, her eyes flaring with anger.
I tried a little harder. ‘Please. I feel awful about putting you on the spot like this, but it is terribly important. I’d like to … express my gratitude.’
The gates remained closed. ‘Thank you, Mr Hawke, but I really do not want to take lunch with you. To be honest, you are the last person on earth with whom I should wish to take lunch. Goodbye.’
I have never been quite sure where the phrase ‘a flea in my ear’ originated, although I know what it means and on this occasion I experienced the sensation first hand. In fact, if it is possible the delightfully gamine Maxine gave me several fleas in my ear with her fierce and flinty rejection of my offer of lunch.
‘I’m sorry. I hate dining alone,’ I said.
‘And you must do that so often,’ she replied, her eyes narrowing with sarcasm.
‘Keep my card. You never know when you might need a detective.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Hawke.’
Within moments I was back out on to the streets in the cold November wind but strangely it was less chilly than the inside of Masks Unlimited.