Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

‘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.

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.