Dead Giveaway Read Free Page A

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