Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

‘Could I speak to Mr. Turtle, please?’

‘Who wants him?’

‘My name is Charles Paris.’

“Ang on a minute.’ Silence. A click. ‘You’re through.’

‘Hello, Charles. What can I do you for?’

‘Miffy, I wondered if I could come and talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Well it’s about my working with Lennie Barber. I mean, you represent him, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, the fact is. .’ Time for a little tactical disloyalty. ‘I’ve been with the same agent for some years and I can’t honestly say he does a lot for me.’ (That bit, at least, was true.) ‘I was thinking, if this partnership with Lennie develops into anything, there might be arguments for us being jointly represented.’

‘You might have a point.’ Miffy didn’t sound too bowled over by the idea. ‘Of course, I do specialize in the variety area. Clubs, summer season, panto, that sort of scene.’

‘Yes, well, that seems to be the way my career’s moving at the moment.’ Absolute lies, Charles thought as he said it. On the other hand, it was moving more in that direction than it was in any other. In every other area of the entertainment business its customary stasis obtained.

‘OK. Come and have a talk about it. Fill me in a bit on what you done and so on. We’ll see if an arrangement is going to be mutually beneficial. How’re you placed?’

‘As you know, we’ve just started rehearsals for the telly. But I think there’s going to be some kind of script conference this afternoon that won’t involve me. So I’ll be free later.’

‘OK. Come along about four then. You know where we are?’

‘Yes.’

‘The name’s not on the door yet, ’cause we only just moved, but when you get here, it’s second floor.’

The new address of the Miffy Turtle Agency was, Charles decided, a step up in the world. It was in Argyll Street, just next to the London Palladium, maybe in the hope that success would rub off by contiguity. Miffy Turtle obviously had hopes of expansion to afford such an address; it also explained his anxiety at the prospect of losing his most lucrative clients.

The move had been very recent. The reception area was littered with half-emptied boxes and piled-up folders. The girl behind the typewriter looked as Cockney as she had sounded on the phone. Sharp, pert little face, sharp, pert little body. The sort of girl you’d never dare make a pass at for fear she’d laugh at you.

‘Mr. Paris, innit? OK, I’ll just go in and see if Miffy’s free.’ She went through the door to an inner office and returned after a brief exchange. ‘Won’t keep you a minute. Take a seat.’

He could hear a low hum of conversation from the office. It sounded like a female voice with Miffy’s. A large framed poster leaning against the wall prompted visions of a leggy chorus girl and Charles fantasized a little as to what would come out of the office. In a rather adolescent way, he had built up an image of Variety work as sexier than legitimate theatre.

But he couldn’t indulge in such fantasies; it was more important to prepare himself for the approaching interview.

It struck him that he was in danger of becoming a joke figure for his repeated murder accusations. Like a pimply youth proposing to every woman he meets, he seemed constantly to be gearing himself up to another confrontation. Janine Bentley, Paul Royce, now Miffy Turtle. Thank God he felt confident that he was finally on the right track. If this proved to be another mare’s nest, he would look ridiculous. He decided that in future murder investigations (if any) he should try to avoid confrontations. Just build up a dossier of evidence and then hand it over to the police. Though, in this case, there would be a hell of a lot of explaining to do before he could get down to details and, from his own experience, the police welcomed amateur detectives about as avidly as elephants welcome umbrella-stand manufacturers.

Something buzzed on the girl’s desk and she ushered him into Miffy’s office. Charles did a slight take when he saw that the agent was alone. There was another door facing his desk, which must lead to another exit. The fantasy chorus girl had gone that way.

In spite of the chaos in the outer office, efforts had been made to put Miffy Turtle in a setting worthy of a West End agent, or at least the setting in which West End agents appear in West End plays. He sat in a swivel chair upholstered in dark brown leather. Across the large mahogany desk his clients were offered a matching reproduction Chesterfield. On the wall there were framed photographs of people Charles didn’t recognize, girls in sequinned dresses, men with big bow ties, all with insincere smiles and insincere messages scrawled across them. Either side of the window red velvet curtains hung, the skimpiness of their cut suggesting that they were not designed ever to be pulled.

Miffy maintained the image. He wore a pale green three-piece suit; the heavy gold cuff-links and chunky identity bracelet were very much in evidence. He looked like a footballer giving a pre-match interview.

To Charles it all seemed wrong. In his experience the really big agents worked from dusty garrets or anonymous boxes. Dickie Peck, one of the most important of the lot, had an office as musty and in need of decoration as the bar of a provincial rep.

Miffy rose expansively and gestured to the Chesterfield. As close as this, Charles was very aware of his adversary’s powerful build. A little chill spread over him at the thought of what he was about to do.

‘Glad you could come so soon, Charles. Like a cup of tea, eh?’

‘Thank you.’

Miffy pressed the switch of his intercom and gave the order. The self-conscious way he used the machine confirmed the impression given by its glossy exterior. He had kitted himself out with the complete set of props when he moved into the office.

‘Nice place.’ Charles said it to gain a little time and because he thought he might as well at least start on a friendly basis.

Miffy glowed. ‘Yes, I’m pleased with it. I’ve always had this theory that if you’re going to move into the big league, you got to look as if you’re there already.’

‘Not a bad principle. And you are moving into the big league?’

‘Sure I am. Whole scene needs a shake-up. All the top names in the agency business are old men now. Need a bit of young blood. It’s wide open.’

‘Good.’

‘Good for my clients, yes. Now, like I said on the phone, I only deal with Variety stuff. Fine while you’re with Lennie doing that sort of work, but if the calls start coming through from the Royal Bloody Shakespeare Company, I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

‘The Royal Bloody Shakespeare Company has managed to do without my services for the past eleven years and I doubt if they’re planning a major policy switch.’

‘No, I was speaking, like, generally. I mean, that’s what you are basically, an actor, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’ Charles hesitated. He was feeling uncomfortable. He could go on with this banter indefinitely, but if he didn’t make some sort of move soon, he was going to walk out in ten minutes under contract to the man he had come to accuse. He blurted out, ‘I’ve come about Bill Peaky’.

‘Bill Peaky.’ Miffy looked bewildered.

‘Yes. I know he was murdered.’

‘Murdered.’ Again the repetition sound genuinely flummoxed. But Charles did not have a chance to assess the reaction. He heard the soft click of a door behind him and saw Miffy Turtle’s eyes rise, puzzled, to the person who had just come in.

Charles turned to find himself looking up the barrel of a small black pistol at the end of which was a tight-lipped Carla.

Miffy spoke first. ‘What the hell are you doing, love?’