The Comedy Club Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  “And it came up as a big fat zero. So your parents decided to use both names.”

  Mary-Lyn smiled showing a fine set of teeth. “You’re a clever guy. Maybe we can do business.”

  “And maybe we can go to bed. It’s nearly two.”

  Mary-Lyn winked. “Hey, maybe we can and all. If we do the deal I’m offering, maybe we can seal it with more than a handshake.” She double winked. “Know what I mean?”

  I crossed my room and poured myself a stiff gin. Topped up with tonic. Added a slice of the lemon Mary-Lyn had cut.

  “I was suggesting we might go to our respective beds.”

  “Now there’s a problem there. I just blew into town this evening, and I still need to find myself a hotel.”

  “You could try the Beauregard on the seafront.”

  The guest house was run by Mrs Blagg, the Widow’s crony. It was about time the bedbugs had someone new to bite.

  “Well, that’s real kind, Colin.” She raised an eyebrow. “It is Colin isn’t it?”

  “It was the last time I checked my birth certificate.”

  Mary-Lyn crossed to the table and freshened her G and T. “Let me cut to the chase.”

  “I wish you would before you drink all my gin.”

  “One of your guys is in the slammer on a phony charge. Am I right?”

  I nodded thoughtfully. She seemed to know a lot for someone who’d just blown into town.

  I said: “My colleague Sidney Pinker should be released in days.”

  “Yeah! That’s what they all say. But the cops seem made up with the idea that your Pinker croaked a guy called Danny Bernstein. Right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Well, I bet you didn’t know this.”

  “Try me?”

  “Bernstein made a trip Stateside last year.”

  That had my attention.

  Mary-Lyn said: “Apparently the guy was looking to see if he could break into the entertainment business in Atlantic City. Those casinos need that bit extra to hook the punters. So they put on shows. Singers, funny men, jugglers, strippers. It’s classy stuff. The agencies who supply the acts make good dough. Bernstein wanted a slice of the action.”

  “Which he didn’t get.”

  “Worse than that. He got the wrong kind of action.”

  “You’re talking the mob?” I asked. “The Mafia.”

  “Here’s the crack. While he was in Atlantic City, Bernstein became too fond of the little steel ball.”

  “He played the roulette tables?”

  “Like he was Nelson Rockefeller. But he ended owing a lotta money to a lotta people. Then he skipped town before they could put the squeeze on him.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Those lotta people have hired you to get the money back.”

  “You’ve just hit a home run, my friend.”

  “As I’m on a winning streak, let me make another guess. You were behind the anonymous phone calls to my landlady yesterday.”

  “Made the calls before I quit New York. Just checking out the lie of the land, honey.”

  I drained the last of my gin and tonic and put my glass down.

  “Well, it’s an interesting story, Miss Monroe, and I should be able to get five hundred words out if it. Thank you and good night.”

  Mary-Lyn sat down again in my best chair.

  She said: “I ain’t finished yet. I hear you could be looking for work.”

  “I’ve got plenty,” I lied.

  “That’s not what I’d heard. The scuttlebutt is you got canned from your job.”

  “I’ve decided there are more opportunities for freelance work,” I said stiffly.

  “And so there are. Team up with me, and we get a twenty-five per cent commission on the money we recover. My clients reckon Bernstein must have his loot stashed somewhere.”

  “I’m a journalist, not a debt collector.”

  “Sure. But you find out things. You could tell me and I’ll pay big money. I read your articles. You know who’s screwing who in this town.”

  I thought about that for a minute. A lot of things didn’t add up here. Mary-Lyn said she’d just blown into town, but she knew what had happened to Bernstein and the fact Sidney was in jail. She knew about me and claimed to have read my articles in the Chronicle. And she knew I’d recently quit the paper.

  Mary-Lyn took a slurp of her gin and emptied the glass.

  I said: “Let me pour you another.”

  I crossed to the table and collected the gin bottle. Moved back to the chair. Feigned a trip on the carpet. And made sure a good shot of gin drenched Mary-Lyn’s blouse.

  She shrieked. “Goddam it, can’t you pour it into the glass.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “There’s a dry towel in the bathroom. You can mop yourself down.”

  Mary-Lyn stood up and stomped off to the bathroom. “Yeah! Like I don’t need a complete change of clothes.”

  Mary-Lyn slammed the bathroom door behind her. I dived to the side of the chair and grabbed her handbag.

  I opened it and rummaged inside. There was an airline ticket from New York. She’d arrived in Britain two days ago – not today, as she’d claimed. There was a compact, a lipstick, and a brush thing. And there was a hotel key. For room 636 in the Majestic Hotel. Posh and expensive. Way out of the Beauregard league.

  I made a note of the room number and thrust the key back in the bag. I put the bag back at the side of the chair.

  Mary-Lyn stomped back into the room.

  “Jeez! I stink like a distillery.”

  “Perhaps you should find a hotel and change,” I said.

  “Yeah! But you think about what I’ve said. We could be a team – you and me.”

  She grabbed her bag and stalked out of the room.

  I had a good sniff to see if I could smell the spilt gin. But the only scent that reached my nostrils was like a sweet honey carried on a summer’s breeze.

  It could have been her perfume.

  Or it could have been trickery.

  When I finally climbed between the sheets, I couldn’t get to sleep.

  Too many mysteries were chasing around my mind. I tossed and turned on the lumpy mattress to try to make sense of them.

  This all started with a murder and a theft – of the Blue Book. I now knew for certain that Sidney hadn’t killed Bernstein. There were just too many other suspects with a real motive. So if Sidney hadn’t killed Bernstein, he couldn’t have stolen the Blue Book.

  Yet I still couldn’t nail the true killer – and neither could the cops. All of the comedians had a motive – and none of them had an alibi for the time of the killing. Only one of them – Peter Kitchen – had a history of violence. But I didn’t attach too much importance to that. Giving a heckler a slap wasn’t in the same league as running through a theatrical agent with a sword.

  More likely candidates as killers would be the Hardmann brothers. They’d built their criminal empire through violence. Murder, too. None had ever been proved because the bodies weren’t usually found. But I couldn’t rule them out. Perhaps one of them had been the mystery man.

  Normally, I’d be able to eliminate the suspects one by one. But not this time. To make the whole thing more mind bending, the evening’s fun and games had produced two new mysteries. I couldn’t figure out what Darragh Mahoney was doing in the sewers. If he was a true Irishman, I’d whack myself over the head with a shillelagh.

  To top it all, the appearance of my so-called long-lost cousin, Mary-Lyn, posed fresh questions. I was willing to bet she wasn’t who she said she was. But who was she? Could she have been hired by one of the suspects to find out what I knew? Did she hope to undermine my investigation? Was she going to steer me onto the wrong track?

  I didn’t have an answer for any of the questions. But I did have a decision. I would find out who she really was in the morning.

  The only thing I hadn’t yet worked out was how.

  At eight o’clock the following morning I
was standing in a phone box opposite the Majestic Hotel.

  I had a plan of sorts. It was dangerous to the point of crazy. If it had gone wrong when I worked for the Chronicle, it would have got me fired. But I didn’t work for the Chronicle. And if it went wrong, I wouldn’t fire myself. I might even give myself a promotion. Unless I was in jail.

  My plan was to get into Mary-Lyn’s room and search it while she was having breakfast in the restaurant. I reckoned I’d be able to find out what she was really up to.

  I’ll admit there were one or two holes in the plan.

  After a late night, she might sleep in. She might order room service.

  But I was about to plug those holes. I hoped.

  I picked up the telephone and dialled the Majestic’s reception. I asked to be put through to room 636.

  The telephone rang. It rang seventeen times before the receptionist came back on the line.

  “I’m afraid Miss Monroe is not in her room at present. May I take a message?”

  I replaced the receiver.

  So the room was empty. Or, perhaps, not. Mary-Lyn could have been in the shower. But I couldn’t keep throwing up difficulties.

  I scooted across the road to the broad marble steps which led up to the hotel’s grand entrance.

  I avoided them and slipped round the corner to a less imposing door. It was the one which servants used to bring in the luggage when gentlemen travelled with a valet and ladies with their maid.

  I barged through the door and hurried down a short corridor to the backstairs. I was pretty sure Mary-Lyn would take the lift. She didn’t look like a backstairs kind of girl.

  I had a little rest on the fourth floor, got my breath back, and then attacked the summit.

  If you’ve watched as many Hollywood private eye movies as I have, you’ll know that getting into a hotel room without a key is a cinch. You find an obliging chambermaid and then pretend you’ve locked yourself out. Or dropped your key down the lift shaft. Or given it to your wife, who’s unexpectedly walked out on you.

  So, on the sixth floor, I pushed through the doors from the backstairs and looked for a chambermaid.

  But, like waiters, there’s never one about when you need one. Well, I said my plan had a few holes.

  I was in a corridor with doors off to the rooms on either side. There was a thick carpet which sighed with pleasure when you walked on it. At the far end of the corridor, there was a lift. The lights above the door showed the lift was on the ground floor.

  There was a large laundry basket parked half-way down the corridor. It was a big wicker job which pushed along on casters. Perhaps a chambermaid would appear in a few moments with some dirty laundry to put in it.

  Trouble was, I didn’t have a few minutes. If Mary-Lyn was at breakfast, she might just be polishing off her last slice of toast and marmalade. She could be heading back to her room.

  The door to room 636 was a few steps along from the laundry basket.

  I walked over and tried the handle.

  Locked.

  There were more holes than I’d expected in this plan.

  I stood there and wondered what to do next.

  And then the lights above the lift door flashed. The lift was coming up from the ground floor. It passed the third floor.

  It could stop at the fourth. Perhaps the fifth. Wouldn’t necessarily come on to the sixth. It might be full of other guests. All standing ramrod stiff and staring at the floor, like people do in lifts. Not necessarily Mary-Lyn. But, then, I was loitering in the corridor and I’d look suspicious - even to other guests.

  I had to retreat or find a way to hide.

  I hurried back to the laundry basket and climbed in. The thing creaked as I lowered myself over the side. And there was a strong smell of starch as I plunged among the bedding and lowered the lid.

  I heard the ping as the lift reached the sixth floor and the doors opened.

  I lifted the lid an inch and peaked.

  Two men stepped out of the lift. The doors closed behind them and the lift started down.

  The men walked towards me and my eyes popped. I couldn’t believe it.

  On the left was Gino, the small guy who’d tried to use my head for baseball practice outside the Last Laugh club.

  On the right was Willis, the guy with hands like baseball mitts.

  They strode confidently along the corridor. Like they knew where they were going.

  They stopped outside room 636. Gino knocked on the door.

  They waited. Looked at each other like they hadn’t expected the door to stay shut.

  Willis hammered on the door. It shook on its hinges.

  He said: “The broad ain’t at home.”

  Gino said: “She’s the boss to you.”

  “I thought you were the boss.”

  “Only when the broad ain’t around.”

  Willis’ brow wrinkled in confusion.

  He said: “Do you think she’s having breakfast?”

  “Could be.”

  “Be awesome if she eats Korn Krunchies for breakfast.”

  Gino looked puzzled. “Why awesome?”

  “Because of those TV ads we have back home.”

  “Which TV ads?”

  “The ones where you get those girls dressed as chipmunks singing ‘Eat Bekker’s for breakers’.”

  Now Gino was irritated. “What is this?”

  “Don’t you know, boss. It’s because Brandenburg J Bekker makes the Korn Krunchies.”

  At the mention of Brandenburg J Bekker, Gino’s posture tensed.

  “I told you not to mention that name,” he said.

  “Korn Krunchies?”

  “No. Brandenburg J Bekker. We do not know that name. Understand?”

  Willis scratched his head. “But we do know it. It’s why we’re here.”

  Gino shook his head in despair. “Come on, let’s try the breakfast room.”

  I lifted the lid of the laundry basket and watched as they sloped back down the corridor. They climbed into the lift, the doors closed, and the lift descended.

  A chambermaid came out of a room with a bundle of bedding in her arms. It piled up in front of her face.

  I ducked down under the laundry.

  She walked to the basket, lifted the lid, and tossed it in. Didn’t see me lurking in the bottom, partly hidden by a pillowcase.

  The basket started to move. Its casters squeaked. The basket creaked. The chambermaid was singing Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood. Didn’t sound a bit like Nina Simone.

  I lay doggo under the soiled sheets and decided to spring out of the basket as soon as it stopped. As soon as the chambermaid went into another room.

  And then the basket tipped sideways. I sprawled on my side.

  And suddenly I was sliding down.

  Down.

  Down.

  Like I was on the longest helter-skelter in the world.

  Chapter 17

  If you’re ever leaving a hotel in a hurry, I don’t recommend the laundry chute.

  It’s a long way down and dirty linen doesn’t make great company. By the time I’d reached the bottom I was tangled in a mass of sheets and pillowcases.

  I’d been buffeted from side to side until it felt my bum was on fire.

  I shot into a large hopper and sank into a pile of linen. And then a heap of sheets and towels landed on top of me.

  I lay there winded, wondering what the hell would happen next.

  I scrambled about in the heap of linen and somehow got my head in the air. I grabbed the side of the hopper and heaved myself free of the tangle.

  As I appeared above the top of the hopper, a young woman wearing jeans and a kind of tabard arrangement, turned round and looked at me.

  She had mousey hair tied up under a scarf. She was heaving wet linen out of a washing machine.

  Her eyes turned into saucers and her jaw dropped. Her mouth worked to say something but no words came out.

  I hauled myself up onto the side o
f the hopper, swung my legs over, and jumped to the ground.

  “I was looking for a sock I’d lost in bed,” I said.

  She nodded, but her jaw still hung loose.

  “The laundry basket tipped over while I was looking,” I said by way of explanation.

  I smiled at her and headed for the door.

  I had opened it when she said: “Did you find it?”

  “Find what?”

  “The sock.”

  “Must still be up there,” I said.

  I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

  I crossed the road and sat in one of the prom’s shelters looking out to sea. A stiff breeze was coming in from the south-west. The sea was grey and heaved in a swell. Waves sploshed noisily on the shingle and tossed spray into the wind.

  A couple of seagulls circled above the water.

  I had a lot to think about. It was clear that Gino and Willis were Mary-Lyn’s hired help. I’d first had the pleasure of meeting them on Monday, two days earlier. But Mary-Lyn had pitched up at my rooms only last night.

  There was one explanation. Mary-Lyn knew that I was investigating Bernstein’s death – and she wanted me stopped. She had a Yank’s desire for simple and permanent solutions. So Plan A. Gino and Willis had been despatched to do the business. But Shirley had foiled plan A.

  So Plan B. Mary-Lyn had decided on a more subtle approach. Softly, softly, catchee monkey. If she couldn’t knock my head off – I could still feel the swish of Gino’s baseball bat - perhaps she could blow it with the thought of making big money. Especially as I was now without gainful employment.

  Well, I’d scotched Plan B. What would she try next? Did she even have a Plan C? I had no idea, but I’d need to be extra vigilant in watching my back.

  What I couldn’t figure out is how an American breakfast cereal magnate came into the picture. Was Brandenburg J Bekker one of the hard types who were owed money by Bernstein? Perhaps Bekker had loaned Bernstein dollars which he’d frittered away in the Atlantic City casinos.