Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

The three top-hatted, tuxedo-clad men burst into song as they whizzed round on their barstools, raising glasses of something that sparkled, whether champagne or not. The glasses were twirled, and raised again as the Berties simultaneously (or almost) drank a toast to the audience.

Directly in front of Nick, an upright piano on floor level by the low stage was being pounded by a middle-aged woman in a tight black evening dress she’d outgrown several sizes earlier. That must be Greta Hobbs, he decided. She was some sort of cousin of Les’s, and apparently it was she who had persuaded the misguided owner of the club into making use of Les’s services. Greta picked up a glass standing on the piano top, to swig champagne in a toast to her troupe, and as the bubbles in it sparkled in the brightness of the spotlight above her, the Berties awarded her a toast in return.

Nick’s mind began to fantasize. Suppose inside that piano there was a gun rigged up ready to shoot the pianist, as in Ngaio Marsh’s novel? Or even a poisoned dart? That way suspicion would fall on someone on stage, but because everyone was watching, no one could possibly have done it. It would be the impossible murder. Yes! He liked it.

Somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to him, the Berties were launching themselves into an inefficient dance routine, as various items of outer clothing and then shirts were discarded, and the audience began to rehearse their war whoops. The top hats, however, remained firmly on the Berties’ heads.

On retiring to their stools, a skinny individual who didn’t look as if he gained much work satisfaction wove his way in a double shuffle, glass once more in hand, to the corner where the piano top provided a convenient resting place for it as he proceeded to remove his trousers. He tossed them into the wings, crooning his solo verse:

“ I bubble every evening and I bubble every day.. .”

Nick decided the loud roars of enthusiasm could only be anticipation for future revelations when the scarlet bikini briefs disappeared. The elderly gent sitting at the end of the front row behind her was already waving his stick in excitement.

“What’s that old geezer doing amongst all these women?” he asked Les.

“That old geezer, son, is Colonel Tony Hobbs, retired, Greta’s ever-adoring husband and the Bubbling Berties’ manager.” Les cast a scornful look at the Bertie currently bubbling in the limelight. “And that ’ s Hamish Scott. Greta took pity on him when he cracked up -” Les was a fair man, so he added, “- if you can call it that. She fancied a bit of intellect, she said, even though he’s not much better than Tony in the how’s your father department.’

With obvious relief, and abandoning his glass, Hamish wriggled his way back to the bar to join his colleagues for the next chorus. The solo routine was then repeated, first by the beefy white-briefed Bertie (“Paul Duncan”, Les sniggered. “All three of them are her ex-lovers, but in Paul’s case not so much of the ‘ex’.”) and then by the younger one sporting natty bright blue bikini briefs. Les obliged again. “Jason Knight, replaced at work by a computer. Greta offered him the job no computer can do.”

All three Bubbling Berties were back at the bar for the last chorus, displaying their patriotically-clad lower limbs. Their three glasses remained with Greta’s on the piano-top, but still they hung on to their top hats. It gave a remarkably seedy, almost obscene effect, and those hats began to exert a fascination over Nick. When – if ever – would they come off?

Not yet. The removal of the briefs was discreetly managed behind the stools, and as the music changed to the traditional stripper music the audience was treated to the sight of three G-stringed Berties standing at the bar, first Paul on stage left, then Hamish in the middle, then Justin, and drinking from a second set of champagne-filled glasses. Smoke and audience noise reached a crescendo, as the be-thonged trio, hands on hips, legs apart, faced their increasingly appreciative audience.

Nick gulped. The whole affair was repulsive. Perhaps women viewed it differently, although none of his girlfriends had ever been into this kind of thing. It occurred to him uneasily they were hardly likely to tell him, even if they were.

The music crashed out towards its finale, with all eyes glued to the thongs. At last they were whipped away and the Bubbling Berties displayed all their glory to a now hysterical audience. (Nick must have been the only spectator looking at those terrible top hats.) Some women were climbing on their seats, others seemed ready to rush the stage.

In a crowning act of bravado the Berties marched to the piano, and reclaimed their abandoned glasses. At long last the hats were discarded, tossed to a waiting hand from the wings, as they toasted their pianist once again. Greta rose to her feet, toasted them, and resumed her seat to continue the triumphant musical finale.

“Amazing, ain’t it?” Les seemed admiring of this ghastly performance. “You’d never think they loathed each other – and that they hate old Greta even more.”

“I thought you said they were her lovers.”

“She blackmailed them into starting this game by saying she’d tell their wives. She’s a sexy old thing is Greta, and her husband’s useless. Now she won’t let them leave.”

“They’ve got minds of their own, haven’t they?”

“If they had once, Greta brainwashed them with dreams of fame and fortune in Hollywood, and by pointing out how upset their wives would be to miss out on the Oscars and the Tony. And how much their wives wouldn’t like to hear their housekeeping cash comes from other women screaming at their husbands’ pride and joys. Someone will do the old bag in one day,” he added casually.

“Murder? You’re not serious, Les?”

A harsh jangle rang out from the piano, as Greta’s fingers slipped from the keys, her face convulsed. Her body first slumped, then took the stool with it as it crashed to the floor.

It was his knowledge of first aid that sent Nick unwillingly to the Greta’s side. It was one thing to fantasize on poisoned darts, quite another to face a possibly dead body. Her husband was hobbling around in shock waving his stick at all and sundry, but that was a fat lot of use.

First aid looked redundant, and if Nick’s suspicions about its being some sort of cyanide poisoning were right, he had to act quickly. She might not be dead, and if she were, there might be evidence lying around. Poisoned darts? Standing tall to every one of his 5 foot 4 inches, he croaked to the club owner: “Call the police as well as the ambulance, and keep the audience here. No one should touch anything. Not even-” he yelled, seeing Paul halfway into his thong, “ that ” .

“Listen, mate,” Paul said viciously, “I ain’t proposing to stand here like a limp chili pod waiting for the fuzz just because old Greta’s had a drop too much.’

Nick summoned up his courage. “She may have been murdered.”

That stopped all three Berties, thongs or no thongs, and a red-faced Tony Hobbs came charging onto the stage, yelling, “It was one of you, wasn’t it? You bastards, you murdered my wife. Which one of you did it?”

“I said may ,” Nick shouted. “But I can’t see how. It would have been impossible, except by a poisoned dart – unless -”

“Impossible’s enough for me,” Paul interrupted. “I’m putting my thong on. Want to make anything of it, nipper?”

Nick didn’t, and the other two Berties quickly followed Paul’s lead.

“Aren’t we the little hero, then?” Les was torn between his usual sneer and reluctant admiration. “The club won’t be offering you any medals for inviting the fuzz, though, they come all too often without asking.”