“You’re right. For newspapers, there’s nothing more appealing than a ‘wronged woman’ story.”
“So Bernstein would promise them nightclub work. They’d start entertaining guests at nightclubs and work their way up to a featured spot in the club’s cabaret. And, he’d tell them, who knows what that would lead to? The silly little madams thought they were going to be Judy Garland in A Star is Born.”
“But they ended up as nightclub hostesses,” I said.
“Yeah. As tarts. They made commission from drinks they persuaded punters to buy. It was never enough to live on. So too often they had to provide the randy goats with a quickie in a back alley for a fiver. Or a split lip. Not many of them lasted long. So Bernstein had a ready market for new talent.”
I drank some more of the tea-tasting coffee. Then I asked: “Did Bernstein’s legit clients know about this?”
“No, and I wouldn’t if I hadn’t been so close to him. I was waiting for him late one night at his office. He’d been at some gobshite event like a Masonic dinner. He said he wanted to see me after it. There’d only be one reason, but in those days I thought I needed him. He did get me some great bookings. Anyway, this girl came to the office. She said her name was Julie. She had a black eye. She showed me bruises on her arms – horrible blue marks where a man’s powerful hands had gripped her. She told me her whole story. About what Bernstein had done to her and the promises he’d made. She’d been working a nightclub as a hostess but she’d got a bit lippy about the way she was treated. The owners threw her out. After they’d given her a beating. She wanted Bernstein to know. I told her he wouldn’t care. But I would. I wasn’t there when he came back from his Masonic dinner. And, afterwards, we went our separate ways.”
“What happened to Julie?”
“I gave her a couple of quid to help her get out of town. Never heard from her again.”
I raised my coffee cup for a sip. “Who beat her?” I asked.
“The Hardmann brothers.”
I clunked my cup down so hard it cracked the saucer.
“You mean Tommy and Terry Hardmann?” I said.
Jessie’s lips were compressed hard together in a moue of disgust.
“Yeah! A double dose of gobshite.”
“I couldn’t have put it better,” I said.
The Hardmann brothers had built an empire of seedy nightclubs, striptease parlours, porn shops, and brothels in London. They’d expanded their business in Brighton a couple of years ago when they’d bought The Golden Kiss club on the seafront from the property racketeer Septimus Darke.
At the time, the rumour was that Darke didn’t want to sell. He was a hard case who solved problems with violence. He’d tried to kill me when I’d exposed a bribery scandal. But he’d met his match with the Hardmann brothers. And knew it. I’d heard that Darke had handed over the keys to The Golden Kiss for less than half its market price.
I said: “Surely even Bernstein would have steered clear of the Hardmanns?”
Jessie said: “He got an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“How did he come to know the Hardmanns?”
“Through another gobshite – Billy Dean, one of Bernstein’s more scrubby clients. Dean does his act in the Hardmanns’ clubs. He’s the comic who fills in between the strippers. When the Hardmanns moved into Brighton, they needed a steady stream of girls for their clubs and brothels. Dean knew Bernstein had girls coming in every day looking for work. It wasn’t long before the Hardmanns came calling with an offer that got pound signs dancing in front of Bernstein’s eyes.”
I thought about that. Bernstein had lost his meal-ticket client – Max Miller – two years ago. Yet it seemed he still had plenty of the folding stuff. He ran a Jag, wore a Rolex, ate at the best restaurants. He couldn’t have financed that lifestyle from his diminishing string of down-the-bill performers. Unlike Darke, perhaps Bernstein hadn’t wanted to refuse the Hardmanns’ offer. But as the relationship developed, perhaps he’d wanted more. The Hardmanns wouldn’t have liked that. And when they thought someone was a threat, they had a way of removing that threat – permanently.
I sat there wondering whether the Hardmanns could have killed Bernstein. There was a mystery man at Bernstein’s office the morning he died. Could that have been one of the Hardmanns? Running Bernstein through with a sword would have been just the Gothic touch they’d have enjoyed.
Jessie said: “You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
I said: “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
I was thinking that if Jessie had killed Bernstein, the Hardmann story would be a great way to throw suspicion elsewhere.
Chapter 11
I left Jessie in the station buffet with the curly sandwiches and headed back to the Chronicle.
If what she’d told me about Bernstein and the Hardmann brothers was true, it would be a dynamite story. But you don’t sling accusations of murder at gangsters without solid proof. And I still couldn’t decide whether she was sincere or leading me up a garden path edged with nasty thorns.
So my morning had produced a lot of suspicion – but not a solid story. Figgis wasn’t going to be pleased about that. Worse, I hadn’t provided any copy for the paper’s midday edition. I noticed the paper was already on sale at a newsagent as I hurried down Queen’s Road.
It was just before one when I pushed through the swing doors into the newsroom. There was plenty of activity but no sign of Figgis.
Phil Bailey was pounding out a story on his typewriter.
“Seen Figgis?” I asked.
“Out at lunch,” he said.
I nodded at Phil and headed over to my desk. Figgis would be back by half past one in time for the afternoon special edition deadline. That gave me just over half an hour to find a story and get some copy on his desk.
I pulled my telephone towards me and lifted the receiver. I dialled a number at Brighton police station.
The phone was answered after three rings by a man with a voice that reminded me of heavy cartwheels trundling along a country track.
“Didn’t think I’d find you in your office?” I said. “Haven’t you got a murder to solve?”
Ted Wilson said: “Tomkins has taken charge of the Bernstein killing himself. He’s got me running around for him like a rookie constable. It’s about time I jacked this job in. I’d have a better life as a traffic warden.”
“Lots of fresh air and pleasant people to meet. Not to mention the schadenfreude of watching their tantrums when they come back and find you’ve ticketed their car.”
“You make it sound irresistible. But you didn’t call me to discuss my career prospects.”
“Any new whispers on the Bernstein killing?” I asked.
“Not really. Tomkins is racing around but most of the time he’s chasing his own arse.”
“I’m guessing you haven’t spent all your time acting as Tomkins’ flunky.”
“What do you think?” Ted sounded more cheerful. “You didn’t hear this from me.”
“Who are you?” I jested.
“And none of your ‘police sources’.”
“I’ll source the information to ‘Chronicle enquiries’,” I said.
Ted cleared his throat. “Well, you remember the receptionist at the office?”
“Sally Ashworth.”
“Yes. She told us a mystery man went upstairs while she was signing for a registered letter. She saw the man leave wearing a raincoat about ten minutes later. Well, I suggested to Tomkins that we follow up that lead. He dismissed the idea – just a customer visiting one of the businesses on the upper floors.”
“An insurance claims assessor and a chartered surveyor.”
“That’s right. I ignored Tomkins and interviewed the staff of both firms. Neither of them could place the man from his description.”
“That’s hardly surprising. The description was so vague it could apply to anyone or no-one.”
“But here’s the kicker. Last Friday both
firms received phone calls from a man who wanted to make an appointment at eight-thirty on Monday morning.”
“The day of the killing,” I said.
“Yes. In each case, the two firms told the caller their office didn’t open until nine-thirty. And, in each case, the caller made an appointment for later that morning.”
“And didn’t turn up,” I said.
“You already knew?” Ted sounded a bit offended that I’d rained on his parade.
“No. But the bloke was obviously casing the joint. He was working out whether he’d be able to get upstairs without anyone on the top floors seeing him. Even if he knew the offices’ regular opening hours, he couldn’t be sure someone wouldn’t be there early on the day in question. And he needed a clear run upstairs so he could use the backstairs down to Bernstein’s office. In that way, he’d avoid close contact with Sally in the reception area downstairs. If he’d passed her, she might’ve been able to give us a more detailed description of him.”
“Yeah! Sometimes I think we should change jobs.”
“You wouldn’t like it here,” I said. “You’d end up swapping Tomkins for Figgis.”
“Out of the frying pan into the fire?” Ted said.
“With Figgis, it would be an ashtray. But have you told Tomkins about this?”
“No.”
“Because if you do, he’ll accuse you of freelance enquiries and not following his orders.”
“Right.”
“So you want me to write the story in the Chronicle so the facts are out in the public domain and he can’t ignore them?”
“Correct.”
“Sneaky,” I said. “But I can’t help feeling I’ve been used.”
“About time,” Ted said.
The line went dead.
I pulled my trusty Remington towards me and started to type.
Within five minutes, I had three hundred words which summarised what Ted had told me. I rolled paper out of the carriage, called Cedric over, and told him to take the copy up to the subs.
The story put another suspect – the mystery man - into the frame. But it didn’t answer many of the questions I was left with after my morning’s interviews. And it didn’t help me to decide whether I could trust what Jessie O’Mara had told me about Bernstein and the Hardmann brothers. I needed confirmation from a second source. The obvious choice would be Billy Dean.
Still at least my story about the mystery man would put a grin on Figgis’ face.
Or perhaps not.
As the happy thought had passed through my mind, he’d stepped through the newsroom doors.
He hustled across the room with a face like a gamekeeper’s trap.
It was fair to assume he wasn’t bringing me good news.
Two minutes later I was sitting in Figgis’ office while he lit up a Woodbine.
He took such a long drag, the fag practically self-combusted. He blew out a long stream of smoke and relaxed a little as the nicotine hit his system. His cheeks sagged a bit but his eyes stayed hard.
I’d seen the signs before. He had news I wasn’t going to like.
I said: “I’ve filed a new angle on the Bernstein killing.” I filled in the details. “It could make a lead for the next edition.”
“I’ll take a look later.”
Figgis’ gaze strayed to a white envelope on his desk. It was sealed but lying upside down so I couldn’t see the name of the addressee.
“I hope that’s not my notice,” I joked.
“No.”
“So why am I sitting here?”
“Pope called me up to see him just before lunch.”
“What did he want? A crash course in how to edit a newspaper?”
“Some hope of that. He wanted me to fire Sidney Pinker.”
Figgis took another big suck on his gasper. Stubbed out the dog-end in his ashtray.
My jaw dropped and I swallowed hard. I couldn’t believe it. Pinker had worked for the paper for more than twenty years. He’d sat in the end-seat in row C at the Theatre Royal so often, the seat had a permanent imprint of his bum.
I said: “You obviously refused.” Glanced at the letter on the desk. “You didn’t refuse.”
Figgis shrugged. “Pope made it an order. He said having a theatre critic who was a suspected murderer was bad for the paper’s image. Might lose us some of our readers among the county set.”
“If he means those yahoos in the Cuckfield and Fulking Hunt he hangs around with, we’d be well rid of them. Besides, that sort wouldn’t pick up a real paper like ours even if they were wearing surgical gloves. Most of them only get The Tatler so their moggie has something posh to line its litter tray. You need to speak to His Holiness again. Explain that if we sack Sidney now it’ll make it look like we think he’s guilty.”
“I’ve already explained that,” Figgis said. “Pope doesn’t see how the police could get something as important as that wrong.”
“I take it he’s never met Tomkins then. Besides, I’ve already lined up a string of other suspects – all of them with more motive and opportunity than Sidney.”
“But none of them were caught in Bernstein’s office holding the sword that was sticking in him.”
I pointed at the envelope. “Couldn’t you forget to post it? Stick it in the post box without a stamp. That way, it sometimes gets returned to sender.”
Figgis said: “His Holiness has ordered me to have it delivered by hand. This afternoon.”
He reached for his cigarettes. But I reached across his desk and grabbed his wrist before he could reach them.
“Wait. I’m going upstairs to speak to Pope myself.”
“No use. He’s left for the day. Gone to his club in London.”
“Let me take the letter,” I said.
“You’ll throw it in a bin.”
“I promise not to. But what’s the harm if I keep it in my pocket and forget to take it round to the cop shop for a couple of days? We could use the time to figure out a way to make Pope change his mind.”
Figgis said: “I can’t do that. Pope will be on my back this evening, wanting to know that I’ve had the letter delivered.”
He shook a fag out of his packet and reached for his matches.
I sat there and glared at him. A thousand-watt stare of disgust and resentment. I was furious. Angry at Pope’s heartlessness. Furious at Figgis’ cowardice. I could feel my muscles tensing. I felt like grabbing Figgis by his red braces and hanging him from the picture rail.
But instead I grabbed the letter from his desk.
Figgis dropped the ciggie he was lighting.
He said: “Give that letter back.”
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid. If you destroy it, I shall just write another.”
“I’m not destroying it. I’m delivering it myself. The least I can do is be there for Sidney when he gets the news. He’ll be devastated.”
“I know you mean well, but I can’t let a member of my news team do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s unprofessional and will make us look like we’re not serious about sacking Pinker.”
“That’s rubbish – and you know it.”
Figgis stood up like a man who planned to tower over me. I’d be intimidated and give in. But he’d forgotten he was six inches shorter so sat down again.
He said: “Give me that letter or I’ll have no alternative but to fire you.”
I said: “I have a better idea. I resign.”
I stormed out of the room, charged across the newsroom, and burst through the swing doors into the corridor.
Behind me, I could Figgis shouting: “You can’t resign until I’ve had a chance to fire you.”
I scuttled down the stairs. By the time I’d reached the door leading out into the street I was panting like a marathon runner. My forehead was damp with sweat.
I realised the letter had crumpled in my hand.
Suddenly, it felt like my own death warrant.
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Sidney Pinker looked like someone had just slapped a coat of whitewash across his face.
His lips quivered. Tears rolled from his eyes across his cheeks. His nose was damp. Saliva dribbled from the side of his mouth. His hands shook. And he was breathing in great noisy gulps of air.
He fumbled in his pockets and said: “I’ve lost my handkerchief.”
I reached for mine and handed it to him.
He wiped his eyes. Then blew his nose. It sounded like the foghorn which announces the Queen Mary sailing into port.
We were in an interview room at Brighton police station.
I’d handed him the letter five minutes earlier.
I could tell from the hunted look in his eyes he knew what it was. He ran it between his fingers, like a magician, as though he was trying to make it vanish.
I’d decided on my walk to the cop shop that there would be no easy way to break the news. I’d thought of trying to build him up with a few positive thoughts before I handed it to him. But I couldn’t think of any. I was now out of a job. And as soon as he opened the letter, he would be as well.
So when I’d walked into the room, I’d just handed him the letter and said: “It’s not an invitation to a Buckingham Palace garden party.”
Sidney finished wiping his eyes and nose and offered me the handkerchief back.
“Keep it,” I said. “You deserve to get something out of this.”
His lips twitched into a thin smile.
“More than twenty years I’ve served that paper, dear boy, and this is how they repay me. Where’s the loyalty?”
“If you’re looking for loyalty, Sidney, try dog walking. Newspapers have always been a rough game. Only adults can play.”
“They think I’m guilty.”
“It’s just His Holiness. He’s got as much backbone as an amoeba. He thinks that people will stop buying the paper because it once employed a murderer. But readers won’t think that. Most people are fair-minded. They believe in innocent until proven guilty. Good old Magna Carta.”
Sidney leaned forward eagerly.
“But you’ll still write stories for the paper to help clear my name?”
I leaned back in my chair. It was one of the screwed to the floor ones.
The Comedy Club Mystery Page 10