Shirley leaned forward and kissed me gently on the cheek. “You really are crazy. I guess I must be a girl who goes for crazy.”
“I’ve always hoped so,” I said.
Shirl glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run. I’m due at a shoot in a studio in Hove this afternoon.”
“Let’s meet this evening,” I said. “I’ll come to your flat at seven.”
We embraced and kissed. And for a moment, the wind seemed to drop and the waves grow quiet.
And then, with a toss of her head and a “See ya!” Shirley hurried off along the prom.
I watched her go, until she crossed the road and turned into a side street.
I wondered how much she wanted to go to London. And whether I should follow her.
But I would have to think about that later. I was due to meet Susan Wheatcroft at five o’clock. She was going to tell me what she’d discovered about Brandenburg J Bekker in the Chronicle’s files.
I wondered whether I’d be able to take it all in. I bummed around town most of the afternoon in a daze. Shirley’s idea about moving to London had taken me by surprise. I’d thought it might happen one day, but I felt I had unfinished business in Brighton. There were still stories here that I wanted to tell. Had wanted to tell, I should say, because the Chronicle’s columns wouldn’t be open to me now.
There was always the Evening Argus. But I didn’t think Jim Houghton would take kindly to me straying onto his turf. So perhaps that only left the London papers. It would be a big step. Perhaps I had to take it. But first I had to crack the Bernstein story. Or was it the Winkle story? Or the Hardmann brothers? Or Mary-Lyn? Or Bekker? There were so many twists and turns in this I simply didn’t know which would lead me to the truth.
But perhaps Susan had found some information that would throw new light on the story.
When I reached Prinny’s Pleasure, Jeff was behind the bar.
He was foraging in his left ear with the wrong end of a teaspoon.
I said: “Have you ever thought that kind of activity might be one of the reasons you never have any customers?”
He said: “What kind of activity? And, anyway, I do have customers. You’re in here.”
You can’t win against that kind of logic.
So I said: “Give me a gin and tonic. And make sure that spoon goes nowhere near it.”
Jeff poured my drink and I took it to a table near the door.
Susan bustled in a couple of minutes later. She hurried over to my table. She looked hot and flustered, like she’d just had a steamy session in bed with Steve McQueen, her latest object of lust.
She sat down and said: “When you hear what I’ve got to tell you, you’ll owe me a big one, honeybunch.”
I said: “You can have any drink on me – double or treble.”
Susan winked. “Who said anything about a drink?”
I grinned: “In that case, I may need to ask Shirley’s permission.”
Susan mock-pouted. “Why should she have all the fun? Anyway, I would like a noggin. Make it a pint of best beer.”
I called over to Jeff to bring the drink.
Susan said: “You’ll be surprised by what Henrietta and I turned up about your Bekker guy in the morgue.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a bunch of yellowing press cuttings.
Jeff arrived with Susan’s drink. He put the glass on the table and said: “I like a girl who can put away a pint.”
She winked at him: “I can put away more than that, honeybunch. The question is: have you got it?”
Jeff blushed and retreated to the bar.
I smiled. “Don’t embarrass the kiddies,” I said. “Now, what have you got for me?”
Susan frowned a bit, compressed her lips, put on her serious face. “It wasn’t easy, even with Henrietta’s help. We looked under Bekker. Nothing. Then we tried Korn Krunchies. Zero. We even tried breakfast cereals. Zilch. We were going to give up when Henrietta suggested that, as we were looking for a connection between Bekker and Max Miller, we should try under Miller. Apparently, if a cutting is filed under the name of a famous person, but other people are mentioned, it isn’t always filed under their names as well.”
“I believe Henrietta once mentioned that to me,” I said. “It’s because the other names are usually onlookers rather than news-makers in the event which the item covers.”
Susan hoisted her glass and took a good long pull at it. Replaced the glass, wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“You’ve got it, honeybunch. But Hen hit the jackpot.”
Susan flourished a cutting from among the bunch she’d laid on the table.
“Look at this,” she said.
I took the cutting and stared at it. It showed a photo of Max Miller sitting next to a sturdy young man in a US Marines uniform. There was a strip of medal ribbons on his tunic. The golden oak leaf on his epaulette showed he held the rank of major. The guy had the kind of face which once would have been strong with high cheeks and square jaw. But now it looked ravaged. As though he’d been through long hardship. Or some ordeal.
He was wearing dark glasses.
The caption below the picture explained why.
“Everybody’s favourite comic Max Miller shares a joke with Major Brandenburg J Bekker, US Marines, during a visit to Woodland Grange, St Dunstan’s, near Brighton. Major Bekker has received treatment at the hospital after losing his sight in the battle for Omaha Beach on D-Day. Max talked with the hero for half an hour during one of his regular morale-boosting tours of St Dunstan’s. Major Bekker told the Chronicle: “St Dunstan’s is just the best place ever – and Max the perfect tonic for a guy who’s been through some tough times. They’ve given me more than I can ever repay.”
I handed the cutting back to Susan.
I said: “So Miller and Bekker knew one another from the war.”
“There’s more,” Susan said. She flourished a second cutting. “This one’s about three months later.”
She handed the cutting to me. It showed Bekker and Max Miller sitting at a table. The caption read: “War hero Brandenburg J Bekker and everyone’s favourite Cheeky Chappie Max Miller entertain each other with some brain teasers. Major Bekker said: “Max and I love to test each other with riddles and puzzles. Max always wins. He’s a real clever guy.”
I said: “It looks like they met regularly and became friends. I wonder whether those meetings continued after the war.”
Susan cocked her head to one side while she considered that. “Could be,” Susan said. “There were no more cuttings of Bekker and Max together. But I did get this.”
She rummaged in her bundle of cuttings. She pulled out four pages cut from a glossy magazine.
She said: “So what did the poor blinded major do after the war? He went and launched the most popular breakfast cereal after cornflakes in America. Lot of other places, too.”
She handed me the magazine pages.
I said: “These come from Fortune magazine.”
“Yes. The American business monthly. I know a guy in the magazine’s London bureau. I once did him a favour. He’s what they call over the pond a real stand-up guy. Although he was lying down when I did the favour.”
I grinned. “I won’t pry into that.”
“I called him and he biked the cutting down. One good turn deserves another, eh?”
I skimmed down the pages. It was a profile job of the man and his works. The story told how Bekker had returned penniless from the war – and blind. But he was determined not to let his blindness stand in the way of making a success of his life. He had an uncle who was a farmer in Kansas. The uncle was complaining the US Department of Defense had cancelled its contract for corn now the war was over. He had tonnes of the stuff sitting in a silo. Bekker found a way to turn it into a breakfast cereal. News of the blind veteran hero spread in the papers – and Korn Krunchies became the number one breakfast for other veterans and their families. Within two years, Bekker was a milli
onaire. Within three, a multimillionaire. After ten years, he had so much boodle, he’d set up his own philanthropic foundation. It was rumoured the foundation had funded scores of projects to help the blind. Rumoured because Bekker was shy about his charity work and donations were often anonymous. Sometimes he made them through third parties.
I put the cutting on the table. “Did he make donations to St Dunstan’s?” I asked.
Susan shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Remember what he said about St Dunstan’s in the Chronicle cutting: ‘They’ve given me more than I can ever repay.’ Perhaps he decided he wanted to repay. But if his donations were anonymous nobody would know, including St Dunstan’s.”
“Well, even if he did, they won’t be getting any more.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Bekker died two years ago.”
Susan pulled a cutting from The Times out of the bunch. It was dated the fifth of May 1963. It recorded that Bekker had died the day before, the fourth of May.
Susan said: “After Bekker died, his company was bought by one of those faceless corporations. His foundation was dissolved last year. My stand-up lying-down guy told me.”
Susan picked up her glass and drained the last half-pint in a couple of swallows.
I nodded at her empty glass. “Another?”
Susan giggled. “No, I’m meeting someone later. And I think he might need careful handling.”
“Be gentle with him.”
“Aren’t I always, honeybunch?”
And with that, Susan gathered up her things and bustled out of the pub.
I idly swirled the lemon around in my gin and tonic while I thought about what Susan had discovered.
Fact one: Max Miller had met Brandenburg J Bekker. Theory: Miller and Bekker had developed a deeper friendship founded on their personal experiences of blindness. I recalled Cilla at the Last Laugh had told me that Max had been blinded for three days in the First World War. Fortunately, he recovered his sight. But the experience had seared him for life.
Fact two: Bekker was a rich man and gave money anonymously to charity, sometimes with the aid of other people. Theory: Bekker used Max to funnel money to St Dunstan’s. Perhaps he’d sent money to Max to pass on anonymously to St Dunstan’s shortly before he died. But wait a minute. There was something about the date of his death that was also important. It was just three days before Max had died on the seventh of May 1963.
Fact three: Max had a reputation for keeping money in safety deposit boxes. Theory: Bekker had given Max money to pass to St Dunstan’s – but Max had died before he could do it. The money was still sitting in a deposit box.
Conclusion: Somehow Mary-Lyn Monroe had learnt about this and was on the trail of the cash. But was she the only one? Did the Hardmann brothers know about it as well? And what about the five comics? Evelyn Stamford had told me that Max dropped by the office to jaw with Bernstein over a bottle of whisky. Could Max have dropped a hint to Bernstein about his role as a conduit for donations? If he had, and the Hardmanns knew about the money as well as Mary-Lyn, Bernstein could have been the source of the leak. Perhaps Billy Dean learnt about it and passed the information to the Hardmanns.
It all made a kind of sense although I couldn’t prove any of it. But it didn’t explain why Bernstein had been murdered. And it didn’t provide a reason for stealing Max Miller’s Blue Book if the real target was the cash.
Just as important, it didn’t provide the proof I needed to spring Sidney Pinker from the cells.
And it didn’t give me the hard facts I needed to write the kind of story I could sell to a national newspaper for big money. Anything I wrote now would sound like a crazy conspiracy theory. If I wrote a story like that, I’d look like a charlatan rather than a serious reporter.
I drained the last of my gin. I couldn’t think of any way to make my theories stand up. But Ernie Winkle had known Max Miller better than most people. Perhaps he’d heard something.
It might be hard to make him talk.
But not as hard as persuading Shirley to come on a second visit to the Last Laugh club.
Chapter 19
The lights outside the Last Laugh were out when Shirley and I pitched up, shortly after eight.
A seagull had splattered the display case with the picture of Ernie “Mind your manners” Winkle.
The place looked more like a funeral parlour than a palace of fun.
I tried the front door. It opened and we stepped into the foyer. The place was empty and felt cold. There was no-one behind the glass window of the ticket office.
Shirley gave a little shiver. “Jeez! Winkle should call this place the Last Hope,” she said.
I’d had a tough time persuading Shirl to come. But I’d explained my theory about Bekker using Max Miller as a funnel for an anonymous donation to St Dunstan’s. I’d said Ernie Winkle might know more and I hoped to force the truth out of him.
Shirl had just arched her eyebrows in disbelief.
“Let’s try in the auditorium,” I said.
We pushed through a pair of swing doors. The lights were on but no-one was at home. There wasn’t going to be anyone to groan at Ernie’s jokes.
Cilla was behind the bar. She’d sold us the tickets on our first visit.
She flipped the pages of an old National Geographic magazine.
She looked up as we approached the bar. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you back here. Not after the barney and break-up you had last time.”
“We made up outside,” I said.
“With the aid of a fire extinguisher,” Shirley added.
Cilla’s face lit up with a grin. “You’re not the pair who saw off those two Yankee hoodlums? Left the street knee deep in foam.”
Shirley and I held hands and took a mock bow.
“We scarpered before any blue flashing lights appeared.” I put on a Chicago gangster’s accent. “Me and my moll split before the cops could put on the bracelets.”
We ordered drinks and Cilla did the honours.
I said: “Is Winkle doing his act tonight?”
“If he does, I’m going back to the ticket office,” Cilla said.
“Yeah! His jokes are about as funny as finding a cane toad in your dunny,” Shirley said.
“Winkle was always weird but these last few days he’s been stranger than ever,” Cilla said.
“Strange? How?” I asked.
“He sits in his dressing room all day long. He thumbs through a dictionary. He bought a second-hand encyclopaedia from a bookshop. He’s scribbling stuff on bits of paper then ripping them up and throwing them away.”
“He’s thinking up some new funnies,” Shirley said.
“No. He’s past that. It’s as much as he can do to remember the old jokes.”
I said: “Is he in his dressing room now?”
“I expect so,” Cilla said. “Where else would he be?”
“Let’s pay him a visit,” I said to Shirley.
“You’re not allowed back stage,” Cilla said. “I’m supposed to stop you. But I guess I just didn’t notice.”
She reached for her magazine and turned a page.
We crossed the auditorium and stepped through the door next to the stage. The lighting guy who’d been there on my last visit wasn’t around. Perhaps it was his night off. Or perhaps he’d quit.
We found Winkle in his room. He was sitting on a stool in front of his dressing table staring at himself in the mirror. He had a glass of scotch in front of him. Papers and books were scattered across the top of the table.
Winkle shifted his gaze as we stepped into the room and our images were reflected in his mirror.
He swivelled wearily on the stool like a man who’s too tired to be bothered about anything.
He said: “You were here before. I never forget a face. But in your case I’m prepared to make an exception.”
“As Groucho Marx said,” I added.
Winkle grunted. “Clever bastard, are
n’t you?”
“I try,” I said.
Winkle spotted Shirley and brightened up. Switched on his cheesy grin. “Who’s the doll?”
“Not one that’s ever gonna climb into your pram,” Shirley said.
“An old man can dream.”
“Yeah! Keep it that way.”
“Anyway, why are you here?” Winkle asked.
I idly picked up one of the books on the dressing table at random. It was Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.
I flipped through the pages. The corners of lots of them had been turned down.
I said: “What do you need this book for?”
Winkle had a swig of his scotch. “What’s it to you?”
I moved away from the dressing table and Winkle’s gaze followed me. Shirley slipped behind him. Silently, she started to look through the books and papers.
I said to Winkle in a voice intended to get his full attention: “I just thought it might provide a clue about why you lied to me last time we met.”
His piggy eyes watched me as I turned Brewer’s pages.
“My whole frigging life has been a lie,” Winkle said. “I promised myself I was going to be a top-of-the-bill comic and look what happened to me. I played second fiddle to Max Miller and ended up in this shithole.”
“And then to add insult to injury, Danny Bernstein inherited Max’s Blue Book instead of you.”
“A travesty.” Winkle took another pull at his scotch.
“And you fell out with Bernstein, never to speak to him again.”
“I cheered when I heard he was dead. They could hear me as far away as Eastbourne.”
“Except it’s not true, is it?”
Winkle frowned and his eyes darkened. “What do you mean? It’s a documented fact that Bernstein got the Blue Book.”
“But it’s a lie that you cut your contact with him. In the days before his death you met him here.”
Winkle bristled. “Where did you get that idea?”
“From a witness who saw both of you together. And full of mutual bonhomie, I’m told. Not a cross word.”
The Comedy Club Mystery Page 17