He groaned when I described my meeting with Pinker but agreed to arrange for a lawyer to head to the cop shop pronto.
He said: “We’ll have to carry a story on Bernstein’s killing but we’ll hold off mentioning the cops have arrested a suspect. It looks bad if one of the paper’s journalists is on a murder charge.”
I said: “We can’t do that. Tomkins will already have told Jim Houghton on the Evening Argus that he’s arrested Pinker. You can bet a Woodbine to a Havana cigar that the Argus will splash the story in their midday edition. If we tell only half the tale, it’ll look like we’re hiding something. Then people won’t believe any of what we write. We need to be open about this from the start.”
“It’s still going to look like the Chronicle has a theatre critic who’s a potential killer.”
“Not if we make it clear from the start that the cops have arrested the wrong man. I’ll dictate a piece to the copytakers which suggests the police have blundered and the real killer has scarpered. That should put the Argus and Tomkins on the back foot. Then I’ll head round to Bernstein’s office and see what I can pick up from the crime scene.”
Figgis grunted something I didn’t hear. There were a couple of clicks and a copytaker came on the line.
“Take folio one,” he said.
I began: “The police hunt for the killer of theatrical agent Daniel Bernstein got off to a bad start today when the cops arrested the innocent man who found the body…”
A dozen rubberneckers were clustered around the crime scene tape outside Bernstein’s office.
His agency – Bernstein Performers – occupied the ground floor of a three-storey building in a side street near the Old Steine.
I ducked under the tape and strode up to the front door. A grumpy old constable I’d seen before had landed the sentry duty role. He had a walrus moustache and flat feet. I nodded pleasantly to him.
He said: “We didn’t think it would be long before the vultures descended.”
I said: “Look on me as a carrier pigeon. I’ve come bearing interesting information from your boss.”
“The Big Tommo?”
“The very same.”
“What’s the gen from Tomkins?”
“Sidney Pinker has confessed. He got the sword for his birthday and he wanted to see if it worked.”
The cop’s moustache wobbled from side to side while he laughed.
I said: “Any other journos beaten me to it?”
“Not while I’ve been here. There was a short bloke with legs as thick as telegraph poles and a nose like a ripe tomato. Claimed he had business in the building. He sounded like an American so I sent him on his way.”
“Very wise,” I said. “I take it Detective Inspector Wilson is inside.”
Without waiting for an answer, I brushed past him.
I stepped into a corridor which ran from the front to the back of the building. To the right were stairs which led to the upper floors. To the left, an open plan area held a few chairs for visitors and a desk. A worn Indian rug added a downbeat homely touch.
A young woman with cropped auburn hair was sitting behind the desk. She was dabbing her eyes with a paper tissue.
I could hear voices at the far end of the corridor. Before anyone appeared and I was asked what I was doing there, I crossed to the desk.
The young woman looked up as I approached. She stuffed the tissue into a drawer, sat up, and straightened her hair. Tried to pretend nothing had happened. The perfect receptionist.
I said: “You must be Sally.”
She said: “Sally Ashworth. But how do you know?”
“Sidney told me how brave you were this morning.”
Actually, Sidney had told me he’d joined her in screaming like a banshee. But it does no harm to build up people who’ve had a traumatic experience.
Sally gave an involuntary shiver. “Is that the man who killed Mr Bernstein?”
“Sidney didn’t kill Danny Bernstein,” I said. “Sidney’s a theatre critic. He ends bad actor’s careers with his waspish words, but words can never kill in real life.”
Sally’s brown eyes moved from side to side as she thought about that.
“I suppose you might be right,” she said. “But he had his hand on the sword.”
“Sidney had gone to pieces,” I said. “He doesn’t have your courage. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Sally nodded. “I suppose that’s right. He was curled up on the floor crying when the police arrived. I had to give him three of my tissues.”
“I’ll buy you a new box. But you might be able to help me with one point. Sidney told me that a mystery man you didn’t recognise had arrived while you were with the postman.”
“That’s right. He came in a minute after the postman arrived just after half past eight and went straight upstairs. The postman had a registered letter for Evelyn Stamford, Mr Bernstein’s assistant. I had to sign for the letter.”
“And by the time you’d signed, the mystery man was upstairs?”
Sally nodded. “Yes. And a few minutes later, Mr Bernstein arrived. It was only quarter to nine and I was a bit surprised.”
“Why was that?”
“Because he normally comes in much later – sometimes not until ten o’clock. I handed him his post and he went straight to his office.”
“Straight to his office?”
“Well, I think he hung up his coat in the cupboard under the backstairs first.”
“So the mystery man didn’t come to see Mr Bernstein?”
“I don’t think so. He’d gone upstairs and Mr Bernstein’s office is at the back downstairs.”
“Do you know who the mystery man was?”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him. He was sort of medium height and slim. He had a trilby hat on.”
“Anything else?” I said. “This November weather is a bit chilly to go around in the buff with only a hat.”
Sally grinned. “He was wearing a grey suit.”
“Could he have been a client of the firms upstairs?”
“It’s possible. But they don’t open their offices until half past nine. There was no-one up there at the time.”
I said: “Why should a visitor go upstairs when there was no-one up there to visit?”
“There’s a small landing on each floor with a couple of chairs for visitors to wait. I suppose he could’ve been waiting for someone to arrive and left when they didn’t turn up.”
“And he left no message?”
“No.”
“How long was he up there?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it must’ve been about ten minutes. Not more.”
“And then he left?”
“Yes, a few minutes before Mr Pinker arrived just after nine o’clock. The man hurried down the stairs and just flashed through the door. I didn’t even have time to ask who he was.”
“So the man in the grey suit left as mysteriously as he’d arrived?”
“Yes.” Sally’s eyes flashed with indecision. “But I’ve now realised, something was strange. When he left, he wasn’t wearing the grey suit.”
“He’d taken it off?”
“No. What I meant to say was he had the suit on but he was wearing a raincoat over it.”
“But he wasn’t wearing the raincoat when he arrived?”
“I don’t think so.” Sally put a finger to her lips while she thought about that. “I’m certain he wasn’t.”
“Could he have been carrying the raincoat over his arm when he arrived?”
“It’s possible. I only caught a glimpse of him. But I don’t remember seeing it.”
“Could he have taken a raincoat from a hanger upstairs?”
“None of them leave their coats overnight. And, anyway, the upstairs offices are locked when there’s no-one there.”
I thought about that for a moment. He must�
�ve been carrying the coat, I decided. Rain had been forecast and a shower even fell earlier in the morning.
Sally said: “Shortly after the man had left, a call came through for Mr Bernstein. I put it through to his office but the phone wasn’t answered. There’s an extension in Miss Stamford’s room but she wasn’t in yet. So I went to Mr Bernstein’s office to see whether he was there. And it was then…”
I said: “Don’t distress yourself. I know the rest.”
I heard the sound of boots clumping down the corridor.
I said: “Thanks for your help. I won’t forget about the tissues.”
I turned away from the desk just as Ted Wilson stepped around the corner. His forehead had wrinkled into a frown. His eyelids drooped with tiredness. His lips were compressed with tension. He was wearing a tweed jacket and flannel trousers. There was splash of blood on his right shoe. He didn’t look like a man who’d just come from a carnival.
He said: “A messy murder and no breakfast. And, then, just when I think it couldn’t get any worse you turn up.”
I said: “I can’t do anything about the killing, but I can solve the breakfast problem. Full English suit you?”
Chapter 4
Ted Wilson leered at the food a waiter had just put in front of him.
The plate held three rashers of back bacon, two sausages, a grilled tomato, a mini mountain of mushrooms, a heap of bubble-and-squeak, a slice of fried bread, and two poached eggs.
Ted said: “Now that’s what I call a breakfast.”
“You haven’t got the black pudding,” I said.
Ted belched loudly. “I’ve seen enough blood for one day.”
He hoisted his knife and fork and tucked in.
I reached for my croissant and took a bite. I sneaked a quick peak at Ted’s bulging belly to remind myself why I hadn’t joined him in the full English.
We were in Marcello’s. The early morning rush had ended. We’d taken a quiet table towards the back. It was about ten minutes since I’d met Ted in the corridor at Bernstein’s office.
Bernstein’s former office, I should have said.
Right now, ever the agent, he was probably standing at the Pearly Gates waiting to make an entrance. He’d be trying to gull St Peter into believing he could top the bill at the London Palladium.
I dunked the croissant into my coffee and said: “Even as you stuff that forkful of bubble-and-squeak into your mouth, Tomkins is trying to fit up Sidney Pinker for a murder he didn’t commit.”
Soggy flakes of the croissant fell off before I could take a bite.
Ted said: “I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s the quiet ones who surprise you. The gentle ones that commit the most brutal killings. But I’ll admit I can’t figure what Pinker’s motive would’ve been.”
I kept silent about the writ Bernstein had issued. A dead man can’t sue, so perhaps the writ would wither away and everyone would be none the wiser. Or perhaps it wouldn’t.
In any event, I didn’t think Pinker would kill over a libel writ. We were all threatened with them from time to time. We knew that most of them never came to court.
I watched Ted attack his fried bread and said: “I can’t understand why Tomkins has got it in for Sidney. It’s me he’s supposed to hate.”
Ted picked up his coffee cup and washed down a mouthful of sausage with a couple of gulps. “That’s because you don’t know what I do,” he said.
“And I suppose it’s going to cost me another coffee to prise the secret out of you.” I signalled to Marcello to bring another.
Ted stuffed some egg into his mouth and wiped a dribble of yolk from his chin. “Tomkins’ wife Hilda is a fanatic for amateur dramatics. She’s in some kind of am-dram group that runs shows in a church hall up at Patcham.”
“Don’t tell me Sidney gave her a poor notice in the Chronicle.”
“Last year,” Ted said. “The thespians were putting on Blithe Spirit.”
“The Noel Coward comedy about the man who’s visited by the ghost of his first wife.”
Ted nodded. “Hilda was cast as Madame Arcati, the medium who calls up the spirits of the nether world. Hilda tops the scales at twenty-two stone. Apparently, you could hear the boards in the stage creak when she made an entrance. Anyway, in his review, Pinker wrote: ‘If Hilda Tomkins is a medium, I’d hate to encounter a large.’ Tomkins told me Hilda was so upset by the comment, she was off her food for fully five minutes.”
“And now Tomkins is getting his own back.”
“Tomkins may be the superintendent around the station, but I hear he’s the rookie at home. Hilda gives the orders, especially in the bedroom. His tough line with Pinker will get him off night duty with Hilda for a couple of days, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“That’s why he left you to run the crime scene.”
“There was no way he was going to give up the chance to grill Pinker personally.”
“Let’s hope for Pinker’s sake that Tomkins has left his red-hot pliers with Hilda.”
Ted used a piece of bread to wipe the last egg yolk from his plate. He sat back and launched a burp that would have won him a round of applause in Turkey.
I said: “I didn’t have time to have a good look round the building this morning. But the place seemed modest to me.”
“Yes. Bernstein’s operation wasn’t exactly the Rank Organisation. But he did well enough. Drove a Jag, had an expensive watch on his wrist, lived in a big house out at Withdean. Hard to say how he keeps that up from a small agency with a string of second-rate performers.”
“The fruits of his years with Max Miller, perhaps,” I said.
“Maybe. Miller died in May 1963, but a quick glance at Bernstein’s bank statements shows he’s had plenty of cash coming in since then.”
“Is there any chance of me getting a quick look at the murder scene?” I asked.
Ted shook his head. “No chance. But I can tell you, Bernstein had a large office at the back of the ground floor. It looks over a small yard through a window.”
“A window big enough to climb in?”
“Not unless you were a midget and had brought a pair of stilts. The window is high up on the wall.”
“What’s beyond the yard?”
“There’s an alleyway which runs behind the buildings. There’s a gate from the alley into the yard. It’s usually bolted on the inside. But it wasn’t this morning. I checked. There’s a back door on the ground floor out into the yard, but that was locked. Overnight the key is kept in reception. It was in its place this morning.”
“So someone could have got into the yard, but not through the back door?”
Ted nodded. “That seems reasonable. There’s a kitchenette also at the back. A set of backstairs come down into that area from the upper storeys. There’s a door at the bottom of the stairs which is kept bolted on the inside so no casual visitors on the ground floor can use the backstairs to reach the upper storeys.”
“You sound like an estate agent showing me around the place,” I said. “Why all this detail about what it looks like?”
“Because you need to understand what I’m about to tell you now.”
Ted had that smug smile on his face when he thought he had one up on me. This time, it looked like he had.
I said: “If this is good, I’ll pay for your lunch as well.”
Ted said: “Won’t have time for lunch today, but I’m going to tell you anyway. However…” He tapped the side of his nose. “…you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Get on with it,” I said.
“Whoever killed Bernstein had an accomplice.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we believe the murder was committed in pursuit of a theft. We found a cigar box on the floor of the yard outside the window. We believe the killer threw it to an accomplice in the yard.”
My eyebrows lifted at that. “You’re not seriously telling me that Bernstein was croaked because someone wanted to get their hands on his fine Havanas
?”
“H Upmann’s as it happens. But, no, the box never had any cigars in it. He kept it locked in his desk drawer. We found the key still in the lock. Bernstein had a second key on a ring in his pocket. It was what was kept in the box the thief wanted.”
“And what was that?” I asked a touch impatiently.
Ted grinned. “Max Miller’s Blue Book,” he said. “The notorious Blue Book.”
I sat back and absorbed that information. It changed everything.
A year ago, someone had told me about Max Miller and his Blue Book.
That someone was Sidney Pinker.
Twelve months earlier, I was sitting in Prinny’s Pleasure enjoying a large gin and tonic.
In fact, that’s not quite right. Prinny’s Pleasure wasn’t the kind of place where you “enjoyed” drinks. It was a back-street boozer where you downed your noggin from a grubby glass and hoped you didn’t go down with cholera.
The Prinny in the place’s name was the Prince Regent, later King George the Fourth. He’d spent time in Brighton because he could do things in a louche seaside resort he couldn’t in full view of the stuffy court in London or Windsor. The Pleasure was Prinny’s top squeeze, Mrs Maria Fitzherbert. She lived in a smart townhouse in Old Steine, not far from the pub.
Jeff Purkiss, the pub’s mine host, was convinced the pair had used the place for secret assignations. In those days, it used to be called the Old Goat. Jeff had changed the name because he thought its link with royalty would drum up trade and he’d become rich. As a business decision it ranked alongside that bloke who turned down the opportunity to buy the patents to the telephone from Alexander Graham Bell.
As a result, I was frequently the only customer. Which suited me just fine. A crime reporter needs a quiet spot to meet contacts with dirty secrets to tell.
Anyway, I was sitting in the corner wondering whether to risk another drink when the door opened and Sidney Pinker walked in.
He was wearing a blue and white striped rowing jacket, pale cream shirt, and polka-dot bowtie. He wore a pair of pink slacks and had Italian loafers on his feet. The loafers looked like they’d have cost a few million lire on the Via Veneto.
I couldn’t have thought of anyone less likely to drink at Prinny’s Pleasure. Sidney’s usual watering hole was a bar called Fancy Nancy in Kemp Town.
The Comedy Club Mystery Page 3
