Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

Her sudden change of mood and subsequent shielding of his identity had shown that she believed in her boy-friend’s guilt. Which meant that he must have had the opportunity to commit the crime. Which meant he must have been down at Hunstanton on the relevant afternoon. And must have been backstage during the interval.

It couldn’t be anyone in the company. There was no way that he wouldn’t have found out about the affair between Janine and Peaky when it started. Anyway her boy-friend was reported never to have gone on tour with her.

Charles thought back. Four people had gone backstage at the interval. Dickie Peck. Miffy Turtle. Paul Royce. And Walter Proud.

Dickie Peck Charles discounted as having nothing to do with the case. (For rather unprofessional reasons, as it happened. He had once suspected Peck in another case and been proved wrong.)

Miffy Turtle and Paul Royce, Charles knew little about. But anyway his thoughts leaped past them as a new suspicion took hold of him.

Walter Proud had divorced his wife a year before. How many middle-aged men before him had chucked up their settled, life for a last fling with a young girl? Walter Proud used to be moody and was now drinking heavily. In a drunken fit he would be capable of acts of violence.

What was more, Walter Proud had started life as a sound technician. He understood the mysteries of electrics and wiring.

From every point of view, he seemed to be the likeliest person to have murdered Bill Peaky.

COMIC: An agent’s trying to sell one of his acts to a night club owner.

‘You gotta see this girl. She’s got an amazing body. Her vital statistics are 75-23-36. And what an act!’

‘What does she do,’ asks the owner, ‘dance?’

‘No. She just crawls onto the stage and tries to stand up.’

Fate seemed to read his thoughts and when Charles got back to his Hereford Road home he found a note, scrawled by a Swedish girl from one of the other bedsitters, that ‘Moritz Skollen’ had phoned and, when he rang Maurice Skellern, he was given a message to contact Walter Proud at the television company which made The Alexander Harvey Show. Fate seemed to be setting up a confrontation.

After a bit of trouble with the switchboard, who didn’t appear to have heard of Walter Proud, Charles got through. He found his prospective murderer in a buoyant mood.

‘I’ve pulled it off, old boy.’

‘What?’

‘A pilot of a show with Lennie Barber. Nigel Frisch saw the interview with Alex and he thinks we may be on to a winner. May have just judged the nostalgia cycle right. So it’s all systems go.’

‘When does it happen? The year after next?’ asked Charles, familiar with television scheduling.

‘No, it’s a real rush job. In the studio in six weeks.’

‘Phew.’

‘The studio date was reserved for a special with Bill Peaky.’

‘What? The thing you were seeing him about?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Walter brushed the idea aside and pressed on. ‘But it’s really great news, isn’t it? I mean, it won’t just be recreating Barber and Pole routines, though there’ll be a bit of that. Lots of new material, really make it a kind of sketch show, with variety acts, of course. Pop singer guesting, maybe, a few dancers.’

‘These Foolish Things,’ Charles threw in, to see if the name prompted any betraying reaction.

It didn’t. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Should be one of the bigger names. Well, what do you say? Great, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said Charles with guarded enthusiasm. Guarded because, though it was possible that Walter was ringing to say that, after his initial success in the role of Wilkie Pole, he would play the part again in the new show, Charles had been in the business too long to make that assumption. It was just as likely that Walter was ringing to tell him, thank you very much, thought you were super, love, but I’m afraid the part’s going to the Dagenham Girl Pipers.

Fortunately this uncertainty was settled by the producer’s next words. ‘Of course you must come back and do your Pole, but it won’t just be the two of you. We’re going to open it out quite a lot, bring in a few other younger character boys and girls for the sketches. I think it’s going to be very big. Look, as I say, the pilot’s in the studio in six weeks, so we’ll want you available for filming from about the third of next month. I checked availability with Maurice and he didn’t seem to think there was a lot in the book, unless it was something you had set up and not told him about.’

‘Well. .’ At such moments Charles was always tempted to play hard to get, mumble mysteriously about talk of a film, possibility of a telly series and so on. Nobly he restrained himself. ‘No, that should be fine.’

‘OK. Well, I’ll put the booking through and my casting director will be in touch with Maurice. Listen, as it’s such a rush job, I want to get talking about it as soon as possible. Now Lennie Barber’s doing his act at a club this week. Booking he got after The Alexander Harvey Show. The Leaky Bucket in Sutton, don’t know if you know it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I was thinking of going, sort of to see what kind of a night-club act he’s doing these days, talk through some ideas for the show. Also getting a couple of writers along who I think could be the right combination for the show. Steve Clinton and Paul Royce, do you know them?’

‘I’ve met Paul Royce. Never heard of Steve Clinton.’

‘Dear oh dear, where do you hide yourself? Steve’s one of the biggest, names in the comedy field. Writer for Phil O’Neill, for a start. And he did that sit-com for Thames, the one set on a cross-Channel ferry, called A Bit on Each Side .’

‘Sorry, I’ve never heard of it. And what’s a sit-com? Is it one of these chairs with a chamber-pot incorporated?’

‘No, you’re having me on, Charles. Sit-com — situation comedy. Anyway, do you fancy joining us for the trip? Lennie’s on about eleven, so it could be a late night. I’m meeting up with the boys and their agent, Virginia Moult, in the bar here at about nine, so’s we can have a few drinks and then get a car down. Could be a good evening.’ Beneath the big-time image, there was a lonely appeal in Walter’s voice.

‘Sounds interesting. I’d like to come.’

‘Great. It’ll continue your education. Don’t you worry, Charles, we’ll soon have you understanding how comedy works.’

After the conversation, Charles was conscious of the opposing pulls of his two careers, as an actor and as a detective. He knew that the mild elation he felt was because Walter had offered him a job, not because his suspicions about the producer as a murderer were hardening into certainties. Oh well, time enough to check out his theories of Bill Peaky’s death. The main thing was, it was work.

The Leaky Bucket in Sutton was one of those little clubs which closes and re-opens every six months or so under a different name. Its existence was based on the fallacy that people in the London suburbs won’t make the effort to go up to town and want a night spot on their doorstep. A relay of new owners and managers discovered for themselves the falsity of this premise, in their own time, with their own money.

In its recent incarnations it had been The Horseshoe, a drinking club, Kickers, a discotheque, The Closet, a gay club (much to the fury of the local residents), The Safety-Pin, a punk-rock club, and The 39 Steppes, a club with an emphasis on vodka and Russian cuisine. This last venture had only survived a fortnight, which was short even by the standards of the premises.

But now a new owner of unfailing (and unjustified) optimism had reopened it as a cabaret club, with a resident live group for dancing and ‘the best of the world’s entertainers’ (to quote from the club’s literature) for entertainment. The people of Sutton greeted the new incarnation with the same apathy they had lavished on its previous manifestations and the new owner started to lose money in exactly the same way as his predecessors.