A Comedian Dies

by Simon Brett

  ‘Great.’ Then with a sudden access of detective conscience, ‘Must just go and have a quick word with someone. See you out there.’

  ‘Don’t be long. It’s late.’

  As Charles pushed through the curtain to the back of the club, he met Lennie Barber emerging. ‘Better?’

  ‘Yeah. Bloody guts. Still, can’t complain. My usual trouble’s constipation, so I suppose this is a step in the right direction. Wish it was only a step rather than a bloody trot, though.’

  ‘You going back to Walter’s?’

  ‘Yes. Never sleep too good straight after the act.’ How considerately everyone was playing into his hands, Charles thought.

  Chox Morton was packing up a small bag of electrical equipment. He jumped like a rabbit when Charles approached. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Chox, you know you were talking about Hunstanton.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Saying how you discussed electrocution from guitar amplifiers.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Can you remember who actually raised the subject? Who first asked about electrocution?’

  ‘Here, what is this?’ Chox moved suddenly to get past, but Charles reached out quickly and grabbed the boy’s wrist.

  The reaction was incredibly fast. Chox’s free hand shot out and karate-chopped at Charles forearm, numbing it and freeing him.

  The roadie nursed his wrist. His thin face was tight with emotion. The sunken eyes glared feverishly. ‘Don’t you ever touch me like that.’

  ‘What do you mean? I just wanted to ask you a question.’

  This seemed to relax him. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I . . . I over-reacted. I . . .’ The boy fought for coherence. ‘I’ve had some trouble in the past, with homos, know what I mean? Sorry, I just don’t like people touching me.’

  ‘OK. Sorry to grab you like that.’

  ‘Forget it.’ The roadie turned to leave.

  ‘All I want you to tell me is, who raised the subject of people being killed by electrocution from guitar amplifiers?’

  Chox looked back at Charles, a small smile twisting his thin lips. ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, and left.

  Virginia Moult’s cottage in Chiswick was neat and Victorian, like a set for one of those turn-of-the-century television series that sell so well abroad. The bedroom was the largest room, though that didn’t say much. By the time the bed had been fitted in, there wasn’t a lot of space for anything else. Which meant there was little point in standing around. Charles flopped onto the bed.

  Virginia moved to the pile of wafer-thin stereo equipment, stacked like filing trays on a walnut table. ‘Do you like Music While You Work?’

  ‘If it’s good enough for the British Forces Network in Germany, it’s good enough for me,’ replied Charles, remembering the regular announcement on the famous radio programme.

  Virginia slammed in a cassette and started to strip off. There were speakers either side of the headboard and the stereo was so good that Elton John was virtually in bed with them.

  Virginia lay beside him, naked except for a silver whistle charm on a chain round her neck. That, with her large breasts and tightly prominent bottom, made her look like a gym mistress. And somehow Charles felt he was going to be put through his circuit training.

  He reached over to her shoulder and crushed the duly satisfying breasts against his chest.

  ‘Hey, there’s no hurry,’ she said. ‘Weekend. You are hungry.’

  ‘Eat when I can.’

  ‘I, on the other hand, have regular meals.’

  ‘Come on, you said your husband was in Rome for a month.’

  ‘Yes, but he only left this morning.’

  ‘Ah. What do you do it for?’

  ‘Other men? Fatuous question.’

  ‘Just fun, you mean?’

  ‘That and . . . He’s meeting his mistress in Rome.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s a film producer. She’s in the movie. That’s part of the reason. Also I suppose there’s time passing.’

  ‘Cram as much experience in while you can?’

  ‘Guess so. Dear God, you’re a fat lot of good. When I want to go to bed with a memento mori, I’ll look for a skeleton. Tonight what I had in mind was a real, live man.’

  ‘Of course. Apologies for the maudlin turn of the conversation. Let’s start again.’ A pause. ‘Nice music.’

  ‘Yes, nice music. From my brand new stereo set-up. Very superior. And tax-deductible. Bought on the advice of one of my writers.’

  ‘I didn’t know writers were stereo buffs.’

  ‘This one is. Very deeply into it. Actually, I think he’s rather contemptuous of the stuff he recommended for me. He builds his own equipment. That’s what the real experts do. Oh yes, what he doesn’t know about plugs and transistors and amplifiers and leads isn’t worth knowing. I went round to his flat once – only once, he didn’t like people visiting, but I was curious – and, God, the great mound of hi-fl gear he’d got. Don’t know how his girl-friend put up with it – except she wasn’t around much. Off touring. Dancer or something.’

  During this long, musing speech. Charles had found himself listening with mounting excitement. He could hardly find his voice to ask, ‘Which one of your writers are you talking about?’

  He knew the answer before she spoke. ‘Paul Royce.’

  ‘You say his girl-friend was a dancer.’

  ‘Yes, with one of these pop modern lots. Not that I met her. He never brought her anywhere. I think they’ve broken up now, anyway.’

  ‘Did he ever mention her name?’

  Again Virginia didn’t have to say ‘Janine’ before Charles’ thoughts started on a Cresta Run of their own.

  ‘Charles, I seem to be losing your interest again.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away.’ With a great effort of will he brought his mind to bear on the matters in hand. And very soon his concentration was rewarded.

  CHAPTER TEN

  FEED: What do you think of this idea of Pay-As-You-View television?

  COMIC: It depends how much they are going to pay us.

  ‘Gerald, it must have been him. It all fits. He had the motive – the fact that Peaky was screwing his girl. He certainly had the violent temperament. Having seen what he did to Janine, I can vouch for that. He had the opportunity – he went backstage during the interval that day in Hunstanton. And, most important, he had the technical knowledge to commit the crime.’

  ‘Who did you say you found this out from, Charles?’ The solicitor’s voice down the phone was tinged with suspicion.

  ‘His agent, Virginia Moult.’

  ‘Something in your voice tells me you have been tomcatting again. I don’t know how you keep it up, Charles.’

  ‘Nor do I, Gerald.’ Charles picked up the innuendo with feeling. His body still ached from his protracted gym lesson.

  ‘Don’t be crude, Charles.’

  ‘Sorry. It comes of mixing with all these comedians.’

  ‘I think you should get back to Frances. Really organize yourself.’

  ‘Hmm. I must ring her.’

  ‘Anyway, what are you going to do about Royce?’

  ‘I’ll have to talk to him, confront him. There’s no way I’m going to get any proof in this case, unless there’s a missing eyewitness who’s yet to come forward.’

  ‘What about Janine?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Suppose she saw Royce fiddling with the wires. And he beat her up to make her keep her mouth shut.’

  ‘It’s a possibility. She said she was with the theatre St. John’s Ambulance man during the interval.’

  ‘Have you checked that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it would be an easy life so that she could claim ignorance of what lover boy did.’

  ‘With lovers like that, that poor girl doesn’t need enemies.’ Gerald’s idea was a good one. The speed with which Janine had covered up her boyfriend
’s identity when Charles questioned her suggested that she at least thought him capable of murder. If she had actually seen him setting up the crime, her behaviour made even more sense.

  ‘You don’t fancy doing that, do you, Gerald?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Checking the alibi. When you say you’re a solicitor, people’ll tell you anything.’

  ‘Then why don’t you get on the phone and say you’re a solicitor. It wouldn’t be the first time. Come on, aren’t you supposed to be a master of disguise?’

  ‘My confidence in my abilities in that direction has been rudely shaken recently.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll have a go.’ Gerald was in fact glad of any crumbs of investigation which fell off the detective’s table. Pursuing the image for a moment, Charles reckoned he was currently proving to be a rather messy eater.

  ‘Meanwhile, I’ll have a word with Royce.’

  ‘I suppose you are likely to see him once you start rehearsal for this Lennie Barber pilot.’

  ‘Think I’ll see him before that. He’s up for some script-writing award at this UEF lunch.’

  ‘And you’re going to be there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound your end of show business.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Some mad idea of Walter Proud’s. Get me and Lennie Barber seen about together. He reckons this’ll ensure that the telly show is very big.’

  ‘Not such a mad idea, actually, Charles. Subliminal effect. You know the award show’s being televised, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t wave at the camera, Charles. It’s very unprofessional.’

  Gerald was right. It wasn’t Charles’ end of show business. As he sat in the tartan ballroom of the Nelson Hotel, a new egg-box development in Park Lane, he began to realize just how far from his end of show business it was.

  For a start, there was wearing a suit, a penance which Charles avoided whenever possible. And in this gathering of glittering trendies, he was awkwardly aware of the age of his suit, which was due for a come-back when the nostalgia boom reached 1962.

  Then there was the company. Charles felt he had had rather a lot of sitting and drinking too much with Walter Proud recently. To make things even more awkward, there seemed to be an atmosphere between Walter and the television company executives who occupied the rest of the table. Nigel Frisch was pointedly ignoring the producer, lavishing his attention on an actor and actress who had been nominated for awards for their parts in a soap opera about Edwardian vets. Charles wondered how Walter had managed to get the tickets for the event, since his presence seemed so much resented.

  Lennie Barber, who might have cheered up the proceedings, was morose. He brooded darkly on his digestion. When they sat down, he drew Charles towards him and said, ‘You know, what I always try to do is, every morning before I go out, have a good long sit on the lavatory, just wait till something happens, just wait, you know, before I leave the house. Doesn’t always work.’

  If that was going to be the standard of the comedian’s repartee right through the meal, Charles could do without it.

  The only person he did want to see was Paul Royce, but because he was up for a radio award, the writer was over on the BBC table. So there was no chance of making contact until the whole grisly affair was over.

  The artificiality of the occasion depressed Charles. Nobody was there for anything but self-advertisement and yet all felt obliged to lavish greetings and insincere compliments on each other. Even the mild excitement of finding out who had actually won the awards (small gold-plated sculptures of escaped chair-springs) was defused by the fact that everyone present seemed to know the winners in advance. And those who didn’t could work it out from the seating plan; the winners were placed at the ends of the tables nearest the stage so that they could rise in simulated consternation and not be lost by the cameras.

  The food was in keeping with the artificiality of the occasion. The Nelson specialized in what is euphemistically known as ‘international cuisine’. The soup looked like soup, the meat was meat-shape and the vegetables were vegetable-shape; in fact it had all the qualities of real food except taste.

  The televising didn’t start until the actual handing-out of awards began, so there was a certain amount of moving about during the meal. At one point Dickie Peck, with his trade-mark of drooping cigar ash, came over to Charles’ table. Walter Proud’s vigorous wave was rewarded by a vague nod before the agent turned to Nigel Frisch. ‘How’s it going, Nigel? Want to talk to you about this new series idea for Christopher Milton.’

  ‘Lovely. Right with you. Let’s make it lunch at Wheeler’s. Can you do tomorrow?’

  ‘No. Friday any good?’

  Frisch shook his head. ‘Have to be next week. Tuesday?’ The agreement was reached. ‘By the way, Nigel. Who’s getting the Most Promising?’

  ‘Bill Peaky. Posthumous.’

  ‘Of course. I’d forgotten. Hmm. Funny, he was going to join my stable.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him the afternoon he died and we agreed it. Hunstanton, of all places. There was a wasted trip.’ Dickie Peck seemed unaware of the fact that three other people at the table had also been in Hunstanton on that occasion. ‘I suppose his widow picks the thing up. Oh yes, there she is.’

  Charles looked in the direction Dickie Peck indicated and saw Carla at the end of one of the tables near the stage. Deep in conversation with Miffy Turtle. She wore a beautifully-cut black dress and Miffy’s instinctive flashiness was subdued into a charcoal grey suit. They made an attractive couple. Charles couldn’t help visualizing other circumstances, in which Bill Peaky collected his own award. For Carla’s sake, he had an obligation to find out who had killed her husband.

  The increase in the number of worried-looking men with head-phones and the lumbering approach of cameras and lights indicated that the televised part of the proceedings was about to start. Rather than missing Paul Royce in the confusion of everyone’s departure, Charles hurried across to the BBC table. ‘Paul, I wonder, could we have a quick word after the ceremony? Something I want to ask you about.’

  The morose young writer looked at him cynically. ‘You might at least wait till you get the script before you start rewriting it.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the show. Something else.’

  Paul Royce looked at him sharply. ‘OK. I’ll hang about.’

  ‘We could have a drink or something.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Royce, and Charles could feel the boy’s eyes following him back to his seat.

  The awards ceremony was compèred by a well-loved television personality, who earned enormous amounts of money by asking grown-up people childish questions and rewarding them with consumer durables in the shape of freezers, music centres, kitchen units and cars. The show on which he regularly performed this repellent function was called The Take-Away Show, so he opened the awards ceremony with a coy little joke including his catch-phrase, ‘Take it away!’. This was greeted by a round of applause and sycophantic laughter. The well-loved television personality then said how very, very honoured he was to be asked to compère the show and how very very delighted he was to see so many popular and well-loved faces in the audience. At this point the cameras scanned round and picked out one or two of the faces which were more popular and better-loved than the others. To Charles’ embarrassment he saw a camera with a red light on trained on him and Lennie Barber. Well, it was no doubt trained on Lennie Barber, but the angle was such that Charles was bound to figure in the shot. He gave a watery smile, hoping that he looked popular and well-loved.

  After a few merry quips about some of the senior executives of the television companies and the committee members of the UEF (a bunch of accountants and actuaries tickled pink at mixing with the world of show biz), the well-loved television personality started to introduce the actual awards.

  The ceremony followed the mindless pattern that was fixed for such occ
asions in Jurassic times and which has not changed since.

  The well-loved television personality would introduce another well-loved television personality who had nothing to do with the awards; this new well-loved television personality would then deliver a couple of scripted jokes and receive an envelope in which were the names of the three nominations for the award; he would then read out these names in reverse order; whereupon a third well-loved television personality, the one who had won the award, would rise from his convenient seat in well-feigned amazement and go forward to receive his chair-spring. If he were a man, he would then make a very boring little speech thanking all of the production team who had made it possible; if she were a woman, she would start to make a boring little speech thanking all of the production team who had made it possible, but after a few words dissolve in tears. At this point the audience would go ‘Aah’. It was a time-honoured, unchanging ritual and, incidentally, a very cheap way of making a television programme.

  The ideal at these ceremonies is to present an award to a figure so old and so legendary in the business that everyone thought he was dead (and, indeed, ideally, he should die very soon after the ceremony). But when this perfect climax cannot be achieved, a posthumous award to a very young performer is a good second best.

  So, though those present were constantly reminded of the very wonderful and very heart-warming nature of the occasion, the pinnacle of schmaltz was achieved with the announcement of the award for the Most Promising Newcomer.

  Carla’s approach to the stage was suitably affecting. So was her little speech. After the trained voices of the other winners, her thin Cockney sounded almost sincere. And she didn’t let the audience’s expectations down; there were real tears on her cheeks. Charles still found it artificial, not because he did not believe in Carla’s feelings, but because the whole set-up seemed an insult to genuine emotion.

  To pile on the bad taste, after Carla’s broken speech, a clip of Bill Peaky in performance was then shown on the large screen at the back of the stage. Charles watched with interest. The last time he had seen the comedian’s act had been in a sadly abbreviated version.