The Comedy Club Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  But where?

  Perhaps Sidney Pinker would be able to point me in the right direction. But that raised another question. Where was Pinker? I hadn’t seen him around the paper this morning.

  The telephone on my desk rang.

  I lifted the receiver and said: “Colin Crampton.”

  A voice as taut as a violinist’s bowstring said: “Oh, dear boy, thank heavens I’ve reached you.”

  Sidney Pinker, the errant theatre critic and part-time libeller, sounded more fraught than usual.

  I said: “What’s up, Sidney? As it happens, I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I can’t speak for long,” Pinker said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m making my one phone call.”

  “We don’t ration phone calls at the Chronicle.”

  “I’m not at the Chronicle.”

  “I know that. Where are you?”

  “At the police station.”

  “That’s my beat.”

  “Just listen, dear boy. Danny Bernstein is dead.”

  “The Danny Bernstein who’s an agent?”

  “Yes, the one who took exception to my piece in last Friday’s paper. Although everything I said was true.”

  “How did he die?”

  “The police say he was murdered.”

  That had my attention.

  “So why are you at the police station?”

  Sidney gulped back a sob. “Because, dear boy, the police say I killed him.”

  I felt the muscles in my shoulders tense, the way they always do when a big story breaks. It felt like a bolt of fire had shot down my spine. Tired old neurons in my brain lit up like they were the neon around Piccadilly Circus.

  Pinker started to say something else, but a gruff voice interrupted him: “That’s all. You’ve had your phone call.”

  The line went dead. I sat at my desk and stared at my phone.

  I felt like I’d just missed the punchline of a bad joke.

  Ten minutes later, I was in an interview room at Brighton Police Station arguing with Detective Chief Superintendent Alec Tomkins.

  Tomkins was a big man with a fleshy face, piggy eyes, and thick dark hair which he combed straight back from his forehead. He was wearing a dark grey pin-striped suit and brown brogue shoes. Tomkins had become the top detective in Brighton less through his penetrating powers of deduction and more from knowing when to roll up his trouser leg. He had a habit of feeling the wrong collar – and I hoped he’d made the same mistake with Pinker.

  I said: “I want to see Sidney.”

  Tomkins curled his lip in a sneer and said: “You’re not his lawyer.”

  “I’m here as his colleague and the person he wants to provide him with advice.”

  “You should tell him to plead guilty.”

  “That’s against my religion.”

  “Then you’ll end up in Hell with Pinker.”

  I gave Tomkins a flinty look. “See you down there,” I said.

  Tomkins laughed.

  I said: “Suppose you tell me what you know so far.”

  “I’ve got Ted Wilson heading a team at Bernstein’s office taking statements and collecting evidence.”

  That was a lucky break. In the Sherlock Holmes Award for Brilliant Deductions, Ted would bring up the rear. But he’d still think he’d done a pretty good job. He was an honest cop. Most important of all, he was my only helpful contact on the force.

  I said: “Any early results from Ted’s investigation?”

  Tomkins pulled an irritated face. “There’s no doubt about the main facts,” he said. “Bernstein was killed with a sword.”

  My eyebrows jumped at that.

  “Where would anyone get a sword from?”

  “It was mounted on the wall of Bernstein’s office. A memento from one of his former clients, apparently. One Suleiman the Sword Swallower.”

  “Former client?” I queried.

  “We understand he died on stage. Got a bad attack of hiccups in the middle of his act. Forgot to take his indigestion tablets before he went on. They had to bring down the curtain.”

  “So the show didn’t go on?”

  Tomkins ignored that and said: “It looked as though Bernstein had tried to defend himself. He’d seized an Indian club from the wall – memento from a juggler client. The club was on the floor by Bernstein’s chair.”

  I said: “Pinker is no swordsman.”

  “That’s not what we’re hearing. Sally Ashworth, the receptionist, walked into the room to find Bernstein pinned to his chair like a butterfly mounted on a card. Pinker was laughing hysterically. And he had his hand on the sword’s hilt. Forensics will confirm that when we test for fingerprints.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Pinker couldn’t fillet a sardine without going all squeamish.

  Tomkins said: “We’ve nailed the method of murder and the opportunity. Now all we need is the motive. But I’ll crack Pinker on that under questioning.”

  So Tomkins didn’t yet know that Bernstein was suing Pinker for libel.

  I said: “Before you interview Sidney, I must speak to him.”

  Tomkins laughed. “You and whose army?”

  “You’ve just said you plan to crack Pinker. I’ll take that as a clear intention to use violence when you interview him. I’ll be leading on that in the story I write for the Chronicle. I shall put it on the wires for the national press as well.”

  Tomkins face flushed like a boiled beetroot. “I was using a figure of speech.”

  “Tell that to the officer investigating you for misconduct.”

  Tomkins stood up. He quivered with anger. He wanted to hit me but knew that would only prove my point. “Five minutes, not a second more.”

  He stamped out of the room and slammed the door.

  Two minutes later I was sitting on a hard deel chair facing Sidney Pinker.

  We were in interview room one, usually reserved for hard cases like armed robbers. It had bars on the windows and the room’s two upright chairs and deel table were bolted to the floor. Long ago, the walls had been painted with cream emulsion. Now they were covered with scratches and dark blotches. Down by the floor an unknown wag had scratched, “This way to the escape tunnel” into the paintwork.

  Pinker sat slumped on his chair. He looked like a wraith from a ghost story by M R James. His face was white. It shone like melting wax. His pale blue eyes were clouded with panic. They seemed to have sunk deeper into his skull. He was shaking his head in misery.

  He was wearing a tan brown jacket over a pale green shirt open at the neck, and a flowery cravat. It didn’t look like the kind of gear you’d wear for a spot of swordplay. A breastplate or cuirass would have been more à la mode.

  When I entered the room, Sidney looked at me like I was the executioner come to cut off his head. Then he recognised me and his lips twitched into a wan smile.

  “Dear boy, it’s you. Have you come to take me back to the office?”

  I sat down on one of the bolted chairs.

  “No, Sidney. I’ve come to find out what’s happened. I’ve just been told an incredible story by Tomkins about Danny Bernstein being run through with a sword.”

  “It’s true, but I didn’t do it.”

  “Tomkins said you had your hand on the sword’s hilt.”

  “When I saw that awful scene, I just collapsed, my dear. I just didn’t know what I was doing. I think I must have been trying to pull the sword out.”

  I leaned my elbows on the table, rested my head in my hands, and took a long look at Pinker.

  I said: “Let’s start at the beginning. When Figgis learnt about the libel writ Bernstein had issued, he told you to stay well away from him. Why didn’t you do that?”

  Pinker shook his head from side to side. “It was last night. I just couldn’t sleep. Wesley said I should have some hot chocolate, but I said, ‘No, sweetie, you know it puts pounds on my pecs’. Wesley would never look at a man with flabby pecs. So I just lay there
with it turning over in my mind.”

  “The threat of the writ?”

  “Of course, dear boy. Not the worry about my pecs. Anyway, by the morning, I’d decided the only thing to do was to sort the matter out man-to-man. I asked Wesley about it at breakfast. While he was straining his carrot juice, I said, ‘Do you think I could appeal to Danny Bernstein?’. And do you know what he said?”

  “Tell me,” I said wearily.

  “Well, Wesley, the saucy scamp, said, ‘In those boxers you could appeal to the massed bands of the Brigade of Guards.’ And I said, ‘In that case, I’m going to ignore grumpy old Figgis.’ And do you know what I did next?”

  I shook my head. “I wasn’t with you, Sidney.”

  “More’s the pity, dear boy. Anyway, I immediately picked up the telephone and I dialled Bernstein’s office. But there was no-one there. Too early, I suppose. So I said to Wesley, ‘I’m going round there straight away.’ And Wesley said, ‘Better put your trousers on first. At least before you arrive. You don’t want that Danny Bernstein to get the wrong idea.’ And I laughed.”

  Pinker’s face flushed as he chuckled. But the chuckle choked in his throat and turned into a gulping sob.

  I gave him a moment to compose himself. Then I asked: “What time did you arrive at Bernstein’s office?”

  Pinker glanced at his watch. Or rather he glanced at the hairs on his wrist. It turned out his watch had been taken from him – along with his belt and shoelaces – when he’d been arrested.

  He said: “It was just after nine. I know that because I heard the Town Hall clock chiming the hour as I reached the place.”

  “Did you go in straight away?”

  “Yes. That is to say, dear boy, no.”

  “Which was it, Sidney?”

  “It was yes. I only hesitated to furl my umbrella. It’d been raining. Just a light shower but it stopped as I arrived.”

  “Did you go to Bernstein’s office immediately?”

  “Immediately. Or, rather, after a short delay.”

  “What kind of delay?”

  “I asked Sally – she’s the receptionist there, and a lovely girl as girls go – if Danny Bernstein was in. She said he’d arrived about ten minutes earlier and gone straight to his office. That is to say, he didn’t go straight to his office, because, apparently, he hung up his raincoat in the coat cupboard under the stairs. It’s at the back of the building. Sally asked me if I wanted to leave my umbrella there.”

  Sidney’s hand flew to his mouth. “Oh, my golly golly gum drops. My umbrella is still there. And it’s a present from Wesley. He’ll be just furious if I’ve lost it.”

  I said: “At the moment, Sidney, a lost umbrella is the least of your troubles.”

  A lone tear trickled down Sidney’s cheek. He pulled out a paisley handkerchief and brushed it away.

  I said more gently: “Did Sally say whether anyone was with Bernstein when you arrived?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  I huffed a bit and said: “Sidney, what did she say?”

  “She said that a man had come in while she’d been talking to the postman and signing for a registered letter. That was about five minutes before Bernstein arrived. The man had gone straight to one of the two top floors – they’ve got a chartered surveyor and an insurance claims assessor up there. She didn’t have time to ask for his name. But he’d left five minutes before I’d arrived.”

  “So there was no-one else in the building apart from Bernstein – and Sally?”

  “Not as far as Sally knew. She didn’t think any staff were in yet at the surveyors or the insurance place. That’s probably why the man left. Both the other offices were closed. And Evelyn Stamford, Bernstein’s personal assistant, wasn’t in either.”

  “Did Sally show you into Bernstein’s office?”

  “No. I’d been there before – a few months earlier – and I knew where it was. The door of his office was ajar, so I knocked lightly and pushed it open…”

  Pinker shivered. He belched loudly, put his hand to his mouth. Leaned forward and clutched his stomach as though he were in pain.

  “Take it slowly, Sidney,” I said. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “It was Bernstein. He was sitting in the chair behind his desk. The chair was swivelled sideways so I could only see the side of his head. I didn’t see anything else at first. I suppose I wasn’t expecting to. My mind was in a turmoil about what I was going to say to him. And then I realised something was wrong.”

  Pinker rubbed his hands nervously together. His tongue flicked over his dry lips.

  “Then the telephone on his desk rang. I jumped in shock. I don’t know why. It was only a telephone. But I felt like my body had been invaded by an evil spirit. I knew that something terrible was going to happen to me. The bell was the warning. A ghostly voice sounded in my mind. It said, ‘For whom the bell tolls… it tolls for thee.’”

  Pinker swallowed hard. “I stood there shaking with fear as the telephone rang and rang.”

  Chapter 3

  Sidney Pinker shivered and clasped his trembling hands together.

  I said: “Pull yourself together, Sidney. So the telephone rang. What happened next?”

  Pinker said: “It stopped ringing.”

  “Is that all?”

  Pinker entwined his fingers like he was praying. Perhaps he was.

  “I wish it had been,” he said. “How I wish it had been. When the phone stopped, I looked back at Bernstein and that’s when I saw the sword for the first time. It was terrible. I thought I was going to throw up. I was worried about gobbing all over my new suede shoes. There was already blood all over the floor. It must have shot out like a geyser when the sword went in. My mind was all over the place, dear boy. I wanted to rush to the bathroom, but then I realised I didn’t know where it was.”

  I leaned forward and patted Pinker’s arm. I said: “Slow down, Sidney. Take it easy. You’re babbling – quite understandable. But you need to stay calm.”

  “But I wasn’t calm. My mind was racing. I thought that if I pulled the sword out everything would be all right. So I moved around the desk. I felt like my body was possessed. Of course, that’s nonsense, I know. What a silly sausage you must think I am.”

  “Forget the sausages, Sidney. Just tell me what happened.”

  Pinker swallowed hard. “I walked up to Bernstein and grabbed the sword. I don’t know why I did it. I was just acting on impulse. I tugged on the sword but it wouldn’t move. The blood had soaked the front of Bernstein’s shirt and jacket. It had pooled in his lap. I felt so faint. The world seemed to be revolving around my head. I stood there clasping the hilt of the sword. I knew if I let go, I would swoon.”

  “Swoon?”

  “Fall, dear boy, on the floor. Like that dying swan in the ballet. But without doing a pirouette first. I felt like my brains were seeping out of my ears. I could feel warm tears trickling down my cheeks. And then I heard the scream.”

  “Where from?”

  “Behind me. I turned around and Sally, the receptionist, was in the room. She was holding her head in her hands and she screamed and screamed. And so I started to scream as well. I couldn’t help myself. It was a weird kind of ecstasy. We were both hysterical. I don’t know how long it went on, but I suppose we must have stopped. Because then Sally pointed her finger at me and shouted ‘You’ve killed him.’ But I hadn’t – at least, I didn’t think I had.”

  I held up my hand. “Wait a moment. What do you mean, you didn’t think you had? You’ve already told me you saw Bernstein with the sword buried in his chest.”

  Pinker took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “By this point, dear boy, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  I said: “I understand you were in a panic and that scrambles the mind. But in a couple of minutes, Detective Chief Superintendent Alec Tomkins is going to walk in here and ask you some tough questions. You need to gather your wits and think straight. You ce
rtainly don’t want to tell him you think you might have stuck a sword in Danny Bernstein. I mean, who the hell did you think you were in there? The Count of Monte Cristo?”

  Pinker took a deep breath. He wiped his forehead again and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. He nodded slowly – like someone who’s just unravelled one of the deeper puzzles of the universe. Like how you know a black hole is there when you can’t see it.

  “I understand,” he said.

  I wasn’t convinced he did.

  So I said: “I’m going to arrange for a lawyer from the paper to come. Don’t answer any questions until he arrives.”

  “What if Tomkins insists on an answer?”

  “Tell him statements given under duress are not admissible in court. So he should put his thumbscrews away.”

  Pinker forced a thin smile. “I’ll do that.”

  I said: “What puzzles me is why you wrote the article that riled Bernstein.”

  Pinker’s eyes flared. “Because I hate the man,” he said. “All theatrical agents are leeches, but Bernstein was one of the worst. He exploited young entertainers, booked them into lousy venues, and then took an unfair percentage of their fees. No wonder live variety theatre is dying in this country.”

  I said: “You’re entitled to your views Sidney, but I’d keep them to yourself while Tomkins is around.”

  Pinker shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  The door opened and Tomkins walked in. He had a smirk on his face like he’d just eaten a pot of raspberry jam. He was followed by a uniformed sergeant I didn’t recognise.

  Tomkins leered at me and said: “Time’s up.”

  “It is - for your career, if you put a foot wrong while you’re interviewing Sidney,” I said.

  I stood up and walked towards the door, turned towards Sidney.

  I said: “Don’t let Tomkins rile you. After all, you’re the innocent one around here.”

  I glanced at Tomkins. For a moment at least, I’d wiped the jammy smirk off his face.

  I called Frank Figgis from the telephone box opposite the police station.