The Hangman's Lair Page 9

  A woman sitting close to the bar raised a trembling hand. Her face was fixed on Godfrey Frye, her eyes almost popping out of her head with surprise.

  ‘Would you stand?’ said Mr Frye.

  The woman stood up and a second spotlight swung around to pick her out of the crowd. Godfrey Frye was silent for a few seconds, standing with his hands raised to his forehead and his eyelids half closed.

  ‘You grandmother’s name was Edith,’ he said. His words seemed to split the air in the room like a saw carving into wood.

  ‘Y-yes, that’s right,’ said the woman.

  ‘She has a message for you,’ said Godfrey Frye. ‘She is telling you . . . not to be sad. She is telling you . . . she is happy in the spirit world . . . and that your family should not worry about her. She says that you must convey this message to your sister Veronica and to your mother Rosalind.’

  The woman was almost toppling over with astonishment. ‘I . . . Y-yes, I will,’ she cried. ‘Thank you. Does she say anything else?’

  Godfrey Frye paused. His head shifted slightly to one side, as if he was concentrating on a sound that was echoing from far away. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She sees your future. I am shown . . . is it an office? No, a shop, perhaps? No, something else . . . There are boxes and . . . envelopes . . .’

  ‘That’s where I work!’ cried the woman. ‘At the sorting depot. I work for the Post Office!’

  ‘Your future contains a great success,’ said Godfrey Frye. ‘The spirits are showing me . . . a promotion? A change of job?’

  The woman gasped. ‘I know what that means! Thank you, yes, I know what that means! I’ve been thinking about applying for a supervisor’s job! Now I know I should go for it!’

  ‘Then I am glad the spirits have been able to help you,’ said Godfrey Frye. He nodded to the crowd and they clapped wildly

  ‘Wait,’ he said. The crowd instantly hushed. ‘The spirits are also showing me great success for someone else here in this room. Success with money. For someone who is . . .’ His fingers waivered in front of his forehead and his eyelids fluttered. ‘Who is . . . a member of a large family, someone very popular and . . . I am being shown . . . I believe it is our own Mr Raphael Moustique.’

  The audience whispered approvingly. Izzy’s uncle, now standing behind the bar, perked up at the mention of his name. Suddenly, Godfrey Frye breathed deeply and lowered his hand, as if his connection to the undead has just been broken.

  ‘No, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid the spirits will allow me no more of that vision. Even I cannot predict what they will reveal.’ The audience chuckled. ‘So, let us move on . . . I am now seeing a faithful, much-loved companion . . . A dog, named . . . is it Keith? Kenneth? . . .’

  There was a gasp of joy from a table close to me. ‘That’s Killer!’ cried an old man, waving his hands in the air. ‘Oh, dear little Killer!’

  It turned out that Killer was very happy in the afterlife, that he had all the rabbits he could eat and that his ex-owner would soon find happiness with a lady whose name began with T.

  For almost an hour, Godfrey Frye ‘talked’ to the dead. He correctly told a woman in a red dress all about the house she’d recently inherited and predicted that next spring would be a good time to sell it. He held a man’s pocket watch and correctly gave us its history, then informed the man that his longgone grandfather wanted to make sure the watch stayed in the family for ever. He found a couple in the audience for whom the number 247 was significant, correctly diagnosed their dead relative’s final illness and let them know that their dead relative was telling them to switch to a low-fat diet.

  I still couldn’t quite work out how he was doing it.

  However, I was getting angry. Partly at all those in the audience who were taking him seriously and partly at Frye himself. This guy was preying on these people’s most sensitive feelings. He was suckering them into believing everything he said by trapping them in a skilful mish-mash of facts and lies, like a spider trapping bugs.

  And he was very, very good at it. Once or twice, I even caught myself wondering what these dead people were going to advise their still-living family members!

  After a few more chats from beyond the grave, Godfrey Frye announced that the spirits had exhausted him. Tonight’s contact with the realm of the mysteries was at an end. Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen, blah blah blah.

  He left the stage to thunderous applause. As soon as he’d gone, the chill seemed to lift and everyone started behaving normally again. I went back to Izzy’s table. Her mum had finally returned and was sitting next to her.

  It was now time to take action and find out what this get-rich-quick scheme of Izzy’s uncle’s actually was. He told Godfrey Frye he’d talk to him after the show. I had to listen in! Somehow . . .

  ‘He’s really unnerving, that Godfrey Frye, isn’t he?’ said Izzy’s mum. ‘So accurate. I’m still wondering if he’s for real?’

  ‘Muuuum,’ said Izzy crossly. ‘You’ve forgotten the orange juice again. And the crisps. Again.’

  ‘Oh. Watching that Godfrey Frye must have distracted me,’ said her mum. ‘Anyway, it’s too late now. We’ve got to be going. You two have got school tomorrow.’

  ‘Before we go,’ I said quickly, ‘I need to have a word with Izzy’s uncle.’

  ‘What about?’ said Izzy’s mum.

  I tried to think of something that wouldn’t give away the fact that I wanted to spy on his meeting with Godfrey Frye. ‘Um . . . my next door neighbours. They have a really great stage act. They do, um —’

  ‘Juggling,’ said Izzy, at exactly the same moment I said, ‘Trampolining.’

  ‘Juggling on a trampoline?’ said Izzy’s mum. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing that! OK, I’ll wait here. Don’t be long!’

  I headed back towards Frye’s room and Izzy followed me. ‘You see what I mean?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he’s scarily effective, isn’t he? Mind you, I think people just want to believe it’s true. I suppose it’s kind of reassuring to think your dead relatives are still taking an interest.’

  The important thing is to present my uncle with a cast-iron case,’ said Izzy. ‘Prove Frye is a phoney. How are we doing on that score?’

  ‘Er, not very well,’ I said. ‘We have nothing yet which would change his mind, I’m sure.’

  ‘Maybe we could trick Frye somehow?’ suggested Izzy. ‘Do you think we could get him to admit it’s all trickery? Perhaps we could even secretly record an admission.’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s too good. He won’t let his guard down. I should think he’s so used to playing the mystic he almost believes it himself. He’d only tell the truth to someone he really needed to.’

  We reached the corridor outside Frye’s room. His door was wide open. The pong of cigarette smoke was still hanging thickly inside the room, but Frye himself was nowhere to be seen.

  I quickly glanced up and down the corridor. ‘Shout if anyone turns up,’ I whispered.

  Before Izzy could object, I nipped inside the room. Izzy let out a squeak of alarm, but stayed put on guard.

  I probably had a matter of seconds. Godfrey Frye wouldn’t have left his door open if he was planning on being gone for more than a minute or two. Quick, quick, look for clues!

  There wasn’t much in the room that might have even been a clue. Apart from the sofa, a small table and chair with a mirror on the wall beside it, the place was almost empty. There was a tall, curtained window, and hanging up in a long line were a series of framed photographs of various stage acts shaking hands with Izzy’s uncle and grinning. There didn’t seem to be anything at all in the room that was personal to Godfrey Frye.

  Suddenly, I heard a sharp ‘Psssst’ from Izzy in the doorway. I turned, but she’d already ducked out of sight. The sound of slow footsteps was coming along the corridor.

  There was no way I could leave the room without being seen. In a panic, I dived behind the sofa. I lay there with
my knees pulled up, and my head level with the arm of the sofa nearest the window.

  I heard the door shut softly. The footsteps crossed the room. My heart was thumping away faster than the drummer in The Fat Dads.

  The sofa suddenly shuddered and billowed as someone dropped heavily on to it. Then I heard the sharp sound of a match being struck and a few seconds later a fresh cloud of cigarette smoke wafted through the air. I fought back the urge to cough.

  A hand dropped down to the side of the sofa, just centimetres from my face. A hand with claw-like bony fingers. That pile of local newspapers I’d spotted before was right in front of my nose. The hand grasped the top one and lifted it out of sight.

  Trying not to move, I peeped at the remaining newspapers. They were in an untidy heap and I noticed that all of them - well, all the ones I could see, anyway - were folded back at one particular page. These pages showed different issue dates at the top, but they were all headed Obituaries. I shuddered slightly. This guy was reading about dead people, now, not just talking to them!

  There was a loud knocking at the door. I almost jumped out of my skin, but luckily Godfrey Frye’s shifting on the sofa covered up whatever sudden twitch I might have made.

  ‘Mr Frye?’ came Uncle Raphael’s voice from outside. ‘Might I have that chat with you now?’

  On the one hand, I was delighted: I was going to get a ringside seat at this meeting and not miss a word of it. On the other hand, I was terrified: I was trapped behind this sofa and I had no idea what might happen if I was discovered.

  ‘You may enter,’ drawled Godfrey Frye. His voice sounded even more rasping and sinister than usual.

  The door opened and Raphael bustled in, bumping it shut behind him. ‘Wonderful show this evening, Mr Frye. Wonderful. I was so deeply moved.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Godfrey Frye.

  Twisting my arm around carefully, I fetched my trusty notebook from my pocket. Pen at the ready, I scribbled down the entire conversation. Here’s a copy of what they said, including a couple of extra notes in brackets:

  Raphael: I’ve got a little business proposal for you, old bean.

  Frye: I do not have much money at my disposal, Mr Moustique. If you’re expecting me to invest in some new venture of yours, then I’m afraid that —

  Raphael: Ooooh, no no no, nothing like that. This is something entirely unique. This is an idea of mine that you, and you alone, are the key to. It requires your own very special talents to even make it possible, old chap.

  Frye: I don’t understand.

  Raphael: Mr Frye, your gift of second sight is nothing short of amazing. Y’know, I wasn’t sure that such things really existed until now. You’ve proved to me that I was right to keep an open mind. I said to myself only this morning, I said, Raffie, I said, it is fate that has brought Mr Godfrey Frye and you together. Sheer good luck, as it were, that we can . . . (Handwriting scribbled so fast, can’t read this bit.)

  Frye: But what is it that you are proposing? How is it that

  I can help you?

  (Behind sofa, S. Smart’s eyes are watering from the

  cigarette smoke. Really needs to cough!)

  Raphael: How do you fancy winning a small fortune?

  Frye (Long pause): In what way?

  Raphael: By entering into a little game of chance. I’m not

  a betting man, myself, you understand. In fact, the entire

  gambling scene is quite repugnant to me. But this is a

  highly unusual situation. You see, we have an American

  chap arriving at this hotel in two days’ time. From

  America. I happened to take his booking myself and got

  chatting. Very interesting man. He’s a professional poker

  player. He gambles for a living.

  Frye: Really? Such a profession must be even less

  profitable that working on the stage!

  Raphael: My thought exactly! But this American, it turns

  out, has just had a collosal stroke of good fortune. He’s

  won umpteen thousands of dollars and he’s treating

  himself to a holiday over here by way of celebration.

  Frye: Surely you don’t intend to play this man at cards?

  Raphael: Not MYSELF, no, no. My idea is for YOU to play

  him at cards.

  Frye: I’m sorry, it’s out of the question. I know nothing about card games, I’ve never played poker in my life, and in any case I simply don’t approve of gambling.

  Raphael: Ah, but, y’see, it’s not really gambling, as such, really, now, is it? Not when you know where every card in the deck is. (Long pause. Silence. S.Smart really needs a good cough!)

  Frye: Mr Moustique, are you suggesting that I should use

  my powers to cheat at cards?

  Raphael: Oh, not cheat, no no no, it’s not cheating. It would simply be using your natural talents. He uses his natural talents as a card player, you’d

  use your natural talents as a psychic. The spirits would be able to show you every card he plays. Before he even plays it!

  Frye: That is an outrageous misuse of my gifts. I’m sorry, Mr Moustique, but the answer is no. Besides, as I have told you, I do not have much money at my disposal.

  Raphael: No, but I do. Just at the minute, I have access to quite a large sum . . .

  (The Big Holiday Fund Izzy mentioned!)

  Raphael: . . . Think of it! My cash, your psychic abilities.We could bet every last penny I possess and be sure of winning. We’d make a mint, an absolute stack of dosh!

  Frye: Have you not been listening? The answer is no. Now, good night, Mr Moustique. I require considerable rest after the trauma of the evening’s performance.

  (Frye gets up off sofa and heads for door.)

  Raphael: Surely there’s some way I can persuade you . . .?

  Frye: There is not. I will not insult the spirits by making a profit out of them!

  Raphael: But you take fees from me for your performances. What’s the difference?

  Frye: A fee for my services is unfortunately necessary. I need to make a living, somehow. But taking a share of winnings, gained through my contact with the spirits, that is something entirely different.

  Raphael (Slapping his hands together in glee): Well,then, that’s the solution! I’ll give you a flat fee. For services rendered, ‘n’ all that. You play this American, using my money and afterwards

  I pay you a simple fee. Call it a bonus, for all the extra customers you’ve been bringing to The Pig and Fiddle this last week, eh? How does that sound? You won’t be touching the profits, as such.

  Frye (Long pause): What sort of fee?

  Raphael: Well now, let’s see. How does two thousand pounds grab you?

  (Behind sofa, S. Smart almost drops notebook.)

  Frye: I would still be risking the anger of the spirits.

  They might extract some penalty from me . . . I’ll take no less than ten thousand pounds.

  (Behind sofa, S. Smart almost drops notebook again.)

  Raphael: Three thousand.

  Frye: Nine.

  Raphael: Four.

  Frye: Eight.

  Raphael: Five.

  Frye: I’ll accept six, provided I have a signed contract, which guarantees me the money. No matter what.

  Raphael: It’s a deal! Splendid! I’ll have that contract for you in the morning! Fancy a drinkie, on the house, for free, my shout?

  Frye: Thank you, no. I must get back to my rented rooms on the other side of town.

  (Door opens. Both step out into corridor.)

  Raphael: Righty-ho! And, ah . . . mum’s the word, eh? Not a word to a living soul. We, ah . . . never had this conversation, wink wink, eh?

  Frye: I understand entirely, Mr Moustique.

  As soon as they’d gone, I scurried out of my hiding place and raced back to Izzy and her mum in the pub. Well, first I had a good cough, then I scurried back to Izzy and her mum in the pub.

  ‘Wha
t happened?’ gasped Izzy, wide-eyed.

  ‘I’ll tell you in the car,’ I said. ‘You will not believe it.’

  ‘Oh, there you are at last, Saxby,’ said Izzy’s mum. ‘Come on, time to go.’

  The night air out on the street was cool, breezy and fresh-smelling. Izzy’s mum had parked a short distance away and I was looking forward to the walk, to clear the smog out of my poor, suffering lungs.

  We passed the narrow alleyway that ran between The Pig and Fiddle and the first of the houses next door. As we did so, something suddenly caught my eye - a brief flash of light.

  Keeping out of sight around the corner of the building, I peered into the darkness. There it was again! The night breeze must have blown the first match out. There was Godfrey Frye, striking a second match to light a cigarette. The yellowy flash lit up his face for a second or so. And I could see that there was someone with him. They were talking together in hushed tones.

  I couldn’t quite make out who it was Frye was talking to. The flash of the match only revealed a wildhaired shape, which . . .

  I suddenly realised it was Jimmy, the singer with The Fat Dads. And in that instant, several things slotted together in my mind.

  ‘Saxby!’ called Izzy’s mum. ‘Don’t dawdle! It’s getting late!’

  I hurried to catch up. ‘I’ve got it!’ I said to Izzy. T know how Godfrey Frye is finding stuff out about people! I know how he comes out with all those spookily accurate facts!’

  It all revolved around two things. Can you work out what they were? (You’ll have to wait till the next chapter to see if you’re right.)

  A Page From My Notebook

  OK, let me get this straight: Izzy’s uncle is going to use a FAKE medium to play a REAL gambler.

  Obvious conclusion: Raphael is going to lose every last penny of that Big Holiday Fund. What a twit!

  Wait a minute! If Frye loses the game, as he will, because he can’t REALLY get messages from the dead to tell him what cards are where, then . . . What’s in it for him?

  Wait a minute part 2! Remember his deal with Raphael. A contract! Raphael has agreed to pay Frye the money whatever happens. Frye doesn’t NEED to win! Raphael is going to end up owing money to this American gambler AND to Frye! What a twit!