A Comedian Dies Page 6

  ‘You don’t know the boy-friend’s name?’

  ‘No. I spoke to him once or twice on the phone, but never got his name. Janine kept her private life very private.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointing. A blind alley.

  ‘Incidentally, Mr . . . Don’t tell me your name, because I’m as unlikely to believe that as I am your phoney cover as an insurance salesman . . . I find it rather strange that you know the Foolish Things have just been in Hunstanton.’

  Charles smiled feebly. ‘Oh, I like to keep an interest in show business.’

  ‘I also find it strange that you asked me for Janine’s private address when you told my secretary you’d tried her home. She’s lived in the same place for three years.’

  ‘Ah.’ The cover was definitely blown. Maybe try the truth. See how that went down. ‘Look, in fact I’m a kind of private detective.’ Well, a heightened version of the truth. ‘I’m investigating a crime and I believe that Janine can help me with some information.’

  It did sound melodramatic. Green looked at Charles for a long time, weighing the likelihood of this new story. He appeared to make up his mind. ‘I see. Well, I suppose society has a duty to help people like you, though yours is a rather unpleasant business.’ He tore a piece of paper off a pad on his desk and wrote something on it. He sealed it in an envelope and wrote on that. ‘Go to this address. They may be able to give you what you’re looking for.’

  Green and his secretary’s fascinated stares followed Charles out of the office.

  The address was not far away. In Old Compton Street. It was a strip club. Photographs bulged either side of the curtained doorway. It didn’t look a likely place to find a missing dancer, but that was where he had been directed.

  Inside the doorway Charles was met by a stocky gentleman who looked very familiar. Mr. Green without a nose-job. Must be a brother.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Charles handed over the note. The man tore it open and read it. ‘Fine, sir. Well, it may be rather expensive, but I’m sure you’ll find it well worth the money. Now, in fact there isn’t any film in the cameras, but I think that only adds to the excitement. The girls will move about and pose for you, but I’m afraid we do have to insist on the rule of no touching. Now if you’d like to –’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I’m just trying to find Janine.’

  ‘You can call the girls whatever you like. They won’t mind. Call one Janine if you –’

  ‘What the hell did it say in that note?’ Charles snatched it back and read:

  DEAR JOE,

  THIS KINK WAS COMING ROUND SNIFFING AFTER ONE OF MY DANCERS. SEEMS MORE YOUR LINE. WELL IT’S BUSINESS. LOVE TO MYRA AND THE KIDS. MIKE.

  Oh dear. He shouldn’t have worn that raincoat.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  COMIC: I say, I say, I say, why did the film-mad chicken cross the road?

  FEED: I don’t know. Why did the road-mad chicken cross the road?

  COMIC: To see Gregory Peck.

  ‘As you can imagine, Gerald, I felt quite a fool.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, if you are going to turn funny, you’re about the right age for it. I mean, if you do feel you want to start flashing in the park. It’s only to be expected.’

  ‘Ha, ha. You’re condemning yourself too. You’re the same age as me. And smooth solicitors aren’t immune from developing embarrassing habits. So watch it.’

  Gerald chuckled uneasily down the phone. He was warned that his secretary Polly might be listening in. In spite of her obvious maturity and worldly eye, he had an old-fashioned view of what she should be allowed to hear or see.

  Charles continued, ‘One thing was interesting. Even though he did think I was some kind of pervert, the information he gave me was true. Janine and her boy-friend have recently moved out of their flat. I’ve checked.’

  ‘Where did you get the address?’

  ‘Amazingly, from Maurice. You know, Maurice Skellern, my agent, the theatrical ‘Who’s Sleeping with Who’. He knew somebody who knew somebody who had once known Janine. Rang me back within half an hour. He’s impressively efficient about everything except being an agent.’

  ‘He didn’t know who Janine’s boy-friend was?’

  ‘No. Nobody seems to know that. But they’ve certainly both moved out.’

  ‘If you went to the flat, surely you could have checked with the landlord.’

  ‘I didn’t go to the flat. I just rang up and spoke to the new tenants. They didn’t know who had been living there before. But I got the landlord’s name and rang him. He was, to put it mildly, unhelpful. To put it less mildly, bloody abusive. That’s why I rang you.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I thought maybe you could use your professional position. If you were to identify yourself and ask him, he’d probably tell you.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I mean, solicitors carry weight – and not just from all those lunches they have at their client’s expense.’

  ‘Ha, ha. You have a very puerile sense of humour, Charles. All right, I’ll try and ring you back.’

  Gerald fulfilled his promise within ten minutes. ‘I understand what you mean about downright abusive.’

  ‘Ah. He didn’t tell you anything either?’

  ‘He told me all he knew, but it wasn’t very helpful. He didn’t even know Janine had been living there. Some bloke had a five-year lease on the place and it’s been through a long sequence of sublets – you know, the lease passed on with a payment euphemistically known as ‘fixtures and fittings’. Used to be known as ‘key money’. Illegal, but pretty common, particularly since the Rent Act. It was on the subject of this practice that the landlord became downright abusive.’

  ‘Hmm. So Janine’s trail has gone cold?’

  ‘Yes, Charles. For the time being, she’s disappeared.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which must surely lend support to your theory that she killed Peaky.’

  ‘Yes. Except, since the inquest raised no suspicion of foul play and she doesn’t know that anyone disbelieves its findings, why does she need to disappear?’

  ‘See your point. What else could it mean, though?’

  ‘Well . . . if someone else murdered Peaky and she found out, then she might know too much and . . . I don’t know, it’s only conjecture, but the timing does seem odd. There must be some connection between Peaky’s death and her disappearance.’

  ‘Sure thing, buster.’

  ‘The main priority is still to find her. And to get as much background on the case as possible. I’ll pump Lennie Barber some more.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, the show’s tomorrow. How was the rehearsal?’

  ‘I don’t really know. It’s more like army drill than rehearsal. Barber gives me my timing by numbers. “I say my line, you give it a count of two, then you come in. In the middle of the speech a count of four and at the end of the line give three before you move your head.” I think a computer could be programmed to do it instead of me. And probably better.’

  ‘Is the material funny?’

  ‘God knows. It seems pretty corny to me, but then I’m not an expert on comedy script. Also rehearsing it this way would take the humour out of anything. See how the audience reacts tomorrow night.’

  ‘I’ll be out front rooting for you, baby. And, incidentally, anything else I can do for you on the investigation front, just let me know.’

  The Alexander Harvey Show was pre-recorded some four hours before its late-night Saturday transmission, so that any major technical cock-ups or offences against public decency could be edited out. Like most chat shows, it kept its guests in a well-stocked hospitality room until such time as they were fed out like gladiators into the arena with Alexander Harvey. The theory was that a drink would relax the guest into his most sparkling form. The danger was that the guests could become relaxed to the point of incoherence and occasionally even fall off their swivel chairs.

  Charles was b
eginning to fear that this might be the case with Lennie Barber. The comedian had appropriated a whole bottle of whisky from the rather dishy researcher who was looking after them, and was working through it as if it were lemonade. Charles, who himself had a modest proficiency with a whisky bottle, was amazed at the speed with which it was going down. He was stinting himself for fear of forgetting the elaborate system of acting by numbers which he had just learned, but Lennie Barber seemed to be affected by no such inhibitions.

  ‘Bloody awful medium, television,’ the comedian mumbled disconsolately. ‘No atmosphere, you do everything a dozen times, keep stopping and starting. You can’t see the bloody audience and they can’t see you, for all the cameras and sound booms and bloody people. So many people around, just hanging around. Looks as if they’re gathering for a lynching.’

  ‘Didn’t you like it when you did the old Barber and Pole Shows?’

  ‘It was different then. Less sophisticated. Less bloody cameras. You just did your act. Now it’s all arty-farty. Still, you got to do it. Never turn up a telly. That’s what people watch these days. Got to be seen if you’re going to make it.’

  ‘Yes, and of course that’s where the money is,’ Charles contributed knowledgeably.

  ‘Not the real money. Sure, television’s good. But the real money for a comedian’s in cabaret. Those big cabaret joints, the clubs, they pay the comic all the door money, virtually. Make their dough on the drinks, and the chicken-in-the-basket. Yes, if you want to clean up, get on to one of the major cabaret circuits. Mind you, you need to do the telly for them to book you. Bleedin’ vicious circle.’ Lennie Barber morosely refilled his whisky. His hands were no longer bandaged, no doubt as a concession to the television camera, but he held the glass and bottle gingerly. As he put the bottle down, Charles saw on his palm the bright pink of new skin surrounded by yellowing flakes which were all that remained of the blisters.

  Lennie Barber’s burns were genuine. Which, to Charles’ mind, made it very unlikely that the old comedian could have killed Bill Peaky.

  ‘Um, I think we’ll probably be going ahead in about ten minutes,’ said the dishy researcher, and added for the seventh time, ‘So it’ll just be about ten minutes’ chat along the lines Alex suggested and then straight into the sketch on the special set.’

  ‘Fine. Point me in the right direction when the time comes,’ Barber mumbled slackly.

  ‘Are you sure you, feel all right, Mr. Barber?’ Her pretty little face looked anxious. Good heavens, was this show going to be a MAJOR DISASTER to be talked about for weeks in the bar? Like all girls in their twenties in television, she took it TERRIBLY SERIOUSLY and she wasn’t sure that she could cope with an incapably drunk guest. Oh dear, would Alex blame her?

  ‘I’m on top of the world.’ Barber’s tones were even more slurred.

  ‘Oh, um. If you’ll excuse me, I must just have a word with the producer.’ And she scuttled out, all White Rabbit.

  Charles, who had also been worried by the sudden deterioration in Barber’s condition, was relieved to receive a wink.

  ‘Get ’em worried. They love it in television. Feel lost without an atmosphere of panic.’

  Charles laughed. ‘She’s a pretty little thing. Your type?’

  ‘My type?’

  ‘Your type of woman?’

  ‘I haven’t got a type of woman anymore. Just no interest in them. I’ve been through it all – affairs, marriage, divorce, one-night stands, little dancers, big landladies, the lot – and now I couldn’t give a damn. It’s as if all that bit of my life just doesn’t exist.’

  ‘But don’t you miss it?’

  ‘Never give it a thought. I find, getting older, lots of things that used to be important just don’t matter anymore. I look back and I think, why the hell did I waste all my time with that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles mused. In a strange way the moment seemed propitious to continue his inquiries into Bill Peaky’s death. With no apologies for the change of subject, he started. ‘Lennie, you know you told me about Bill Peaky having an affair with one of the girls in Hunstanton?’

  ‘With three of them, yes.’

  ‘But one in particular. Janine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve no idea where she is, have you? I want to contact her.’

  So far the comedian had not seemed to notice the change in direction of the conversation, but at this he looked up. ‘Now why do you want to contact her? Oh, just a minute, Walter told me something about you being a bit of an amateur detective on the quiet. Is that it? You think there may have been something funny about his death?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘The coroner didn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘No, but I happen to know that Peaky did test out his equipment as usual that day.’

  Barber registered genuine surprise at that. ‘How on earth did you find that out?’

  ‘Norman del Rosa saw him. For reasons of his own he didn’t want to tell the police.’

  ‘I can guess the reasons of his own. He was off stealing the dancers’ knickers.’

  ‘Not far off.’

  ‘So, what . . . you reckon someone fiddled with the electrics after Peaky had tested them?’

  ‘Again, it’s possible.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘Hmm. I think you may be on a wild goose chase. That theatre’s electrics were so ropey nothing would surprise me about them. I would imagine whatever the fault was just came and went.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But anyway, your suspicions are heading towards Janine at the moment?’

  ‘As she had been having an affair with him and had a major row on the day of his death, she would seem to have some sort of motive.’

  ‘Yes. Mind you, who didn’t? I don’t think there was a single person in that company whose back he hadn’t got up at some point. He was bloody rude to everyone – all the dancers, the pop group lot, that miserable little pianist. Even poor old Walter. He’d been hanging round for some time trying to get a telly show going, but Peaky treated him like dirt, kept saying he was getting better offers from the other companies, that sort of line.’

  ‘Oh, so Walter had been down to see the show before that day?’

  ‘Oh yeah, three or four times.’

  ‘I see. But going back to Janine . . .’

  ‘Sorry. Don’t think I can help you. Never even knew her address.’

  ‘She’s moved anyway, but I thought you might know some of her friends or . . .’

  ‘Don’t know she had any. You could try the rest of the group, I suppose. No, she was a funny little thing. Very quiet. Apparently lived with this boyfriend in London, but nobody never knew his name. I gather the entry of Prince Bloody Charming Bill Peaky into her life really confused her. Should she give up boy-friend? Should she even tell boy-friend? You know how screwed up kids get about that sort of thing.’

  He spoke as if people who got upset about sexual matters belonged to an alien race. The whisky glass was filled again and emptied.

  Charles was back where he started. Barber’s comments had told him nothing new about Janine. They had opened up possibilities for investigation of other characters involved in Sun ’n’ Funtime, but Charles found it difficult to concentrate on more than one suspect at a time. Until he had seen Janine, any other course of inquiry seemed a bit futile. Once she had been eliminated . . . Even as he thought it, the word ‘eliminated’ took on sinister overtones. What had happened to Janine Bentley?

  The producer of the show arrived with the dishy researcher. Lennie Barber slumped back into his posture of glazed incapacity.

  ‘All set?’ asked the producer with imposed joviality. (Incidentally, the producer was not Walter Proud, who, though responsible for the original idea of recreating the Barber and Pole routine, seemed since to have been pushed into the background.)

  ‘Set? I’m as set as a bloody blancmange, thank you.’ Lenn
ie Barber rose to his feet expansively, then seemed to lose his balance and sank back, arms windmilling, onto the side of his chair. Chair and comedian collapsed in a sprawling heap on the floor. The producer and the dishy researcher hastened forward to scoop Barber up.

  ‘Are you going to be all right for the show?’ The acid in the producer’s tone was trickling straight down to his stomach to feed his incipient ulcer.

  ‘No problem.’ Lennie Barber oriented himself towards the door and got through it, hardly hitting the frame at all.

  Ignoring Charles, the producer and the dishy researcher scuttled after. As they passed, he heard them muttering, ‘Thank God we keep that interview with Greg Robson in reserve. Just need a quick announcement from continuity about a change to the scheduled programme.’

  Alexander Harvey’s high viewing figures did not exactly reflect his personal popularity. Indeed, many of the people who watched the programme did so merely to confirm how much they disliked him. Being the host on a chat-show is, by its nature, a thankless task, because everyone tunes in to see the guests rather than the presenter anyway, and the host has the options of either keeping a profile low to the point of anonymity or high to the point of irritation. Alexander Harvey had chosen the latter course.

  Sometimes this paid handsome dividends. He was very good at stimulating the reticent and cutting short the long-winded, and often the guests, in sheer exasperation at the manner of his questioning, made newsworthy indiscretions. Also he was clever – no one denied that – and was quick at picking up nuances or spotting potentially interesting new directions for the conversation.

  His approach also had disadvantages. Apart from the obvious one that the viewing public, who didn’t basically like him, were constantly having their attention drawn back to him, he sometimes tended to cut short an interviewee too early into an anecdote and not to allow his victims to pace the conversation to their own style.

  He was also ‘very into’ The Arts and considered his guests on a sliding scale of esoteric snobbery. Opera stars he held in highest esteem, breathing adulation over them with every word. Other classical musicians got a fairly high rating. Theatrical knights and dames scored well, though the rest of the acting profession came rather lower down the scale. Authors and playwrights were OK, so long as they weren’t too successful with the public. Popular singers had to have unexpected sidelines to rate anything other than contempt. And comedians . . . Well, comedians were there to be patronized with ill-disguised disgust.