nearly got her to the final, but not quite – and a big hand for Trish Osborne! Many thanks for playing the game, Trish. Have you had a good time?’
‘Yes, thank you, Barrett, it’s been really smashing.’
‘That’s great. That’s what we like to hear. And, of course, Trish isn’t going to go back to Billericay empty-handed. No, she takes with her £470 and don’t let’s forget. . . .’ He cued the audience to join in with him. ‘. . . her
If The Cap Fits
cap!’
Again the red, blue and silver creation appeared on the screen, as Trish Osborne was led off into the darkness.
Tim Dyer was looking very pleased with himself. All was going according to plan. He had won everything he intended so far. Only the Austin Metro remained. Quietly confident, he prayed again to his own specialised God.
‘Now, for the big
Hats In The Ring
finale. Tim, will you come over here.’ Barrett led the final contestant on to a little platform in the middle of the red spinning-wheel. ‘Now on to this wheel, as you see, a variety of hats are fixed.’ He pressed a button and the hats sprang into view. ‘Let’s see, what have we got – an admiral’s hat, a fez, a busby, a bishop’s mitre. . . . Now each of these hats has a price marked on it, and that is the amount of extra money that Tim is going to win if that is the hat which, after the wheel has been spun, comes to rest above his head! So, you see, he gets £200 for the mitre, £500 for the busby, and so on . . .
‘Now you’ll notice, two of the hats haven’t got any price marked on them. There they are – right next door to each other – the dunce’s hat and the crown! Now if the dunce’s hat comes to rest above your head, Tim, I’m very sorry, but you get absolutely nothing extra.’
‘Ooh,’ sighed the audience, contemplating a fate worse than death.
‘If, on the other hand, it’s the crown, you, Tim Dyer, will instantly become the proud owner of a brand-new Austin Metro!’
‘Aah,’ sighed the audience, reassured, and burst into spontaneous applause.
‘Right, are you ready, Tim?’
The contestant, still praying and now glistening with sweat, nodded. All the lights faded except for those on the wheel and on Barrett’s lectern.
‘Here we go.’ Barrett held the edge of the wheel and gave it a hefty pull. It span wildly.
The host returned to his lectern and watched. Tim Dyer didn’t move a muscle. The audience was totally still.
‘Nerve-racking stuff, this,’ said Barrett Doran. ‘Tense moment.’
He reached for the red-and-blue-striped glass in front of him.
The wheel showed little sign of slowing down. ‘Goes on for ever,’ said Barrett Doran jovially. ‘Dear, oh dear, the excitement’s too much for me. Need a drink of water to calm me down.’
He took a long swig from the glass.
The wheel was slowing. The audience started shouting at it, willing it to stop by the crown. Every eye was on a monitor, hypnotised by the decelerating ring of hats.
Suddenly they were all aware of a strange noise. It was a gasping, a desperate, inhuman wheezing.
A camera found Barrett Doran, from whom the sound came. The audience had time to register the face rigid with shock, before, pulling the lectern down with him, he crashed to the floor.
Full studio lights snapped up. Technicians rushed forward. The celebrities rose to their feet, overturning their long blue desk.
In the circle of hats Tim Dyer stood, pointing up at the still crown directly above his head. But no one looked at him. All eyes were drawn to the middle of the set, where Barrett Doran lay dead.
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
‘Yes, thank you, Barrett, it’s been really smashing.’
‘That’s great. That’s what we like to hear. And, of course, Trish isn’t going to go back to Billericay empty-handed. No, she takes with her £470 and don’t let’s forget. . . .’ He cued the audience to join in with him. ‘. . . her
If The Cap Fits
cap!’
Again the red, blue and silver creation appeared on the screen, as Trish Osborne was led off into the darkness.
Tim Dyer was looking very pleased with himself. All was going according to plan. He had won everything he intended so far. Only the Austin Metro remained. Quietly confident, he prayed again to his own specialised God.
‘Now, for the big
Hats In The Ring
finale. Tim, will you come over here.’ Barrett led the final contestant on to a little platform in the middle of the red spinning-wheel. ‘Now on to this wheel, as you see, a variety of hats are fixed.’ He pressed a button and the hats sprang into view. ‘Let’s see, what have we got – an admiral’s hat, a fez, a busby, a bishop’s mitre. . . . Now each of these hats has a price marked on it, and that is the amount of extra money that Tim is going to win if that is the hat which, after the wheel has been spun, comes to rest above his head! So, you see, he gets £200 for the mitre, £500 for the busby, and so on . . .
‘Now you’ll notice, two of the hats haven’t got any price marked on them. There they are – right next door to each other – the dunce’s hat and the crown! Now if the dunce’s hat comes to rest above your head, Tim, I’m very sorry, but you get absolutely nothing extra.’
‘Ooh,’ sighed the audience, contemplating a fate worse than death.
‘If, on the other hand, it’s the crown, you, Tim Dyer, will instantly become the proud owner of a brand-new Austin Metro!’
‘Aah,’ sighed the audience, reassured, and burst into spontaneous applause.
‘Right, are you ready, Tim?’
The contestant, still praying and now glistening with sweat, nodded. All the lights faded except for those on the wheel and on Barrett’s lectern.
‘Here we go.’ Barrett held the edge of the wheel and gave it a hefty pull. It span wildly.
The host returned to his lectern and watched. Tim Dyer didn’t move a muscle. The audience was totally still.
‘Nerve-racking stuff, this,’ said Barrett Doran. ‘Tense moment.’
He reached for the red-and-blue-striped glass in front of him.
The wheel showed little sign of slowing down. ‘Goes on for ever,’ said Barrett Doran jovially. ‘Dear, oh dear, the excitement’s too much for me. Need a drink of water to calm me down.’
He took a long swig from the glass.
The wheel was slowing. The audience started shouting at it, willing it to stop by the crown. Every eye was on a monitor, hypnotised by the decelerating ring of hats.
Suddenly they were all aware of a strange noise. It was a gasping, a desperate, inhuman wheezing.
A camera found Barrett Doran, from whom the sound came. The audience had time to register the face rigid with shock, before, pulling the lectern down with him, he crashed to the floor.
Full studio lights snapped up. Technicians rushed forward. The celebrities rose to their feet, overturning their long blue desk.
In the circle of hats Tim Dyer stood, pointing up at the still crown directly above his head. But no one looked at him. All eyes were drawn to the middle of the set, where Barrett Doran lay dead.
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
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