The Comedy Club Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  “You don’t identify me. I have to work undercover. Name me and I’m finished in that line of work. And I love it.”

  I nodded. “Agreed.”

  O’Rourke grinned. He slipped back into his Mahoney character. “You’re a fine upstanding Englishman, to be sure.”

  He turned to Shirley. “And as for Hoover, it’s true about the women’s clothing – but not the crotchless knickers.”

  “Yikes,” Shirl said. “That’s wild.”

  “Can we keep to the point?” I said.

  O’Rourke settled back in his chair and looked more serious. “Since the nineteen-twenties, the Bureau has battled organised crime. We’ve closed down some big-time racketeers in our time. But they’re like weeds. You pull some out and others sprout. That’s bad enough, but they sprout in a different strain. Your typical mobster used to confine himself to a single city. He’d run illegal gaming joints, perhaps push some drugs, pimp a string of prostitutes. Very lucrative. But then some got greedy. Being a big shot in one city wasn’t enough for them. They had to go state-wide. And now the sharpest are thinking even bigger.”

  “They want to go international?” I asked.

  “You got it. They see General Motors and Coca Cola everywhere and think: why ain’t we gotta slice of that action? But there’s a problem. If you’re in let’s say Atlantic City, all you know is New Jersey. You want to run your rackets in Brighton, England you don’t know anyone in town.”

  “So you have to look for partners,” I said.

  O’Rourke gave me a thumbs up. “Sure. Now there’s a mobster in Atlantic City called Vittorio Mirandola. He’s vicious but he’s smart. We believe he’s offed at least fourteen people, including three rivals who tried to muscle into his patch. But we’ve never been able to nail him. Mirandola has a wife, seven children and three mistresses. But what he really craves is respect. Not from decent people like us. No, from rival hoodlums, the kind of guys who’re snapping at his heels. He reckons he wins that respect by showing he’s got the cojones to take his business worldwide – just like General Motors.”

  “But why Brighton?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Shirley. “London is the obvious choice if you want to run rackets.”

  “You might think so,” O’Rourke said. “But the competition is tougher. And if you’re the new boy on the block, you don’t want to start with a knock-back. That’s not the way to win respect.”

  “So the Hardmann brothers in Brighton fitted the bill as partners,” I said.

  O’Rourke nodded. “A deal between mobsters starts off like a deal between legit businesses. If both have something the other one wants, it makes sense to work together. And Mirandola wanted in to Britain.”

  “What did the Hardmann brothers want?” I asked.

  “Guns.”

  “We’ve already seen a couple of those,” Shirl said with a shudder.

  “Yes, I saw the cops here bringing them in earlier. Antique pieces, but deadly. Mirandola wouldn’t have started with his best merchandise. He’d want to see if he could trust the Hardmanns before he rolled out the ace gear.”

  “What did Mirandola want from the Hardmanns?” I asked.

  “The chance to take part in their rackets. He wanted to lord it around New Jersey that he was the guy with the connections. The guy to see when you wanted some action across the water. But then it all got leery. You see, Mary-Lyn worked for Mirandola. I might say worked her ass off. She was top-of-the-range pussy – rented out for five hundred bucks a night. This guy Bernstein fancied some tail.” He nodded at me. “You know how it is – guy in a strange town, time on his hands.”

  Shirl nudged me in the ribs. “He’d better not know how it is.”

  “I’m a one-girl guy,” I said.

  “Sorry, miss,” O’Rourke said. “Anyway, it seems that there was some pillow-talk. Bernstein wants to impress the girl. Show he’s not some out-of-town schmuck. He’s a big-timer. And suddenly Mary-Lyn knows about the bearer bond and the million dollars. She wants a better job in Mirandola’s outfit. Something that doesn’t involve lying on her back. A standing up job. So she takes a grift to Mirandola. She’ll blow into Brighton and reacquaint herself with Bernstein. She’ll work him as only a professional girl can and get the low-down on the million bucks. Then she’ll croak the guy and make it back home in triumph.”

  “And Mirandola went for that?” I asked.

  “Sure. He thought it was a gas. He makes a million bucks, less what he pays to Mary-Lyn – unless he offs her after the job to save himself a bill.”

  “Except by the time Mary-Lyn reached Brighton with her goons, Bernstein was already dead. So she had to work out how to find the bearer bond without his help – not that he’d have given it.”

  “Her goons would have persuaded him,” O’Rourke said. “But even with Bernstein dead, Mary-Lyn thought she could scoop the cash and win her spurs with Mirandola. Trouble is, of course, if the Hardmanns find out they’re being screwed, then we got a mobsters’ fight on our hands. Welcome to World War Three. And that ‘special relationship’ your Harold Wilson talks about between our two great nations gets flushed down the toilet. So the Bureau sent me to Brighton to stop the scam. Got the thumbs up from a big cheese in some hush-hush government department in London to work undercover.”

  “But why the Irish act in the sewer?”

  “I gotta keep out of the way. A Yank in this town would stand out like a buffalo on the beach. Besides, it seems the cops have raided the Hardmanns’ joint three times looking for guns. Came up nix. I reckoned they were hiding them in the sewers – easy access from that hatch in their backyard. You found that. And they’d been using the tunnels to get around town unnoticed. Did tonight. That’s how I knew they were coming this way. Anyway, some big wheel in London had a word with the sewer guys down here and told them I was a mad Irish professor doing research on underground insects. Guess you saw the ‘roaches.”

  “Nearly came a gutser with them,” Shirley said.

  I said: “We have to thank you for saving our lives tonight.”

  “Yeah!” Shirley said. “You’re a bonzer guy, even if you are a bit mad.”

  “So I guess that wraps it up,” O’Rourke said. “Leave the clearing up to the local cops.”

  “I have one more question,” I said. “Did you find out anything about who killed Bernstein?”

  “Can’t help you there,” O’Rourke said. “But I don’t think it was the Hardmanns. I’d been riding them pretty hard and I think I’d know if they’d offed Bernstein.”

  He stood up, a sign our meeting was over.

  “I guess you’ll have to solve that one yourself,” he said.

  I was awoken the following morning at half past six by someone hammering on my bedroom door.

  The Widow called out: “Are you awake, Mr Crampton?”

  “No.”

  “This is important.”

  “So is my sleep. I didn’t get to bed until four.”

  “Have you got any girls in there?”

  “The Dagenham Girl Pipers. Would you like me to get them to play Scotland the Brave?”

  “Not now.”

  “Then why are you hammering on my door?”

  “Because there’s a man here to see you.”

  “What about?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I forgot to ask.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I couldn’t see very well. He was smoking this smelly cigarette and blew smoke in my eyes.”

  Figgis.

  “I’ll take it from here, Mrs Gribble.”

  I heard the Widow’s footsteps as she clumped down the stairs.

  I levered myself out of bed.

  Figgis didn’t normally make house calls at six-thirty in the morning.

  But I already had a good idea what this one would be about.

  Fifteen minutes later I’d showered and dressed and opened the fron
t door.

  Figgis was standing on the doorstep. His hair looked thinner than usual. There were black circles under his eyes. His nose was red. He had the stub of a Woodbine stuck to his bottom lip.

  I said: “What are you doing out here?”

  Figgis peeled the fag-end off his lip and flicked it into the gutter.

  He said: “The old witch wouldn’t let me in. Had the temerity to suggest I smelt like I’d spent the night asleep in a blast furnace. She can talk. As soon as she opened the door, I got a whiff like she’d stuffed a box of moth balls up her arse.”

  I said: “Come into the hall. I’ll take responsibility. Perhaps your rival aromas will cancel each other’s out.”

  Figgis pulled his grumpy face, but stepped inside.

  I said: “What do you want?”

  Figgis looked at the hat stand, then at the fading print of Holman Hunt’s Light of the World on the wall. Evidently didn’t find inspiration from either of them so he studied his feet.

  I said: “Out with it.”

  “Well, it’s like this. You know I’ve got a generous nature and I don’t like to see an old friend make a fool of himself.”

  “I didn’t realise you had a friend.”

  “I’m talking about you,” Figgis said testily.

  “I see. I didn’t realise I’d entered your pantheon of old friends.”

  “I’ve always had a high regard for you,” Figgis said.

  “Well, thank you for coming round to tell me. But did you have to make it so early?”

  “There’s a reason.” Figgis cleared his throat. “If you’d like to withdraw your resignation, I’ll generously overlook the difficulty you’ve caused the paper and reinstate you at your old salary.”

  At the far end of the hall, the telephone rang. The Widow barged out of the kitchen, glared at us, and answered it.

  I turned my attention back to Figgis and said: “No doubt that’s very generous of you. But, if you remember, I resigned because the paper refused to let me pursue the story to free Sidney Pinker.”

  “We might be willing to think again about that.”

  “Willing?”

  “All right, we have thought again. Pope’s changed his mind.”

  “When did this happen?

  “About half past four this morning when the duty reporter called him and told him it looked like the Evening Argus was going to scoop us on the Hannington’s story.”

  The Widow bustled up the hall.

  She said: “Do you mind if I interrupt?”

  “Yes,” Figgis said.

  “No,” I said.

  “There’s a Mr Albert Petrie on the telephone for you, Mr Crampton.” She turned to Figgis. “And I thought I told you to wait outside.”

  Figgis ignored that and said: “Petrie is the news editor of the Daily Mirror. What’s he want?”

  I said: “An exclusive, I expect.”

  I walked up the hall, picked up the receiver and said: “Colin Crampton.”

  I spent three minutes on the phone, sometimes listening, sometimes talking. All the time watching Figgis’ reaction at the end of the hall.

  Finally, I put down the phone and re-joined Figgis.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Albert Petrie has offered me one thousand five hundred pounds for an exclusive about the Hannington’s caper. That’s almost half what you pay me in a year.”

  Figgis said: “I’ll raise your salary five hundred pounds if you come back today.”

  “Make it a thousand,” I said.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can,” I said. “Because I bet Pope has told you he’ll fire you if you don’t get me back on the paper.”

  Figgis frowned. I’d never seen him so put out. “How come you know so much?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The biggest crime story for months and the Chronicle hasn’t got a crime reporter. It’ll have to rely on agency copy while Jim Houghton on the Argus uses all his many contacts in the cops to deliver a sensational piece. The Chronicle and Argus normally sell about the same number of copies each day. But today the Argus will sell twice what the Chronicle shifts.”

  Figgis fidgeted irritably. He stuck out a leathery hand. “Very well, a thousand more – as long as you’re at your desk in the Chronicle in half an hour.”

  I took the hand and shook. “Good to be back,” I said.

  Figgis grunted as he stomped out of the front door.

  The Widow emerged from the kitchen. She hurried up the hall.

  “Did I do it right, Mr Crampton? I called the hall phone from the extension in the kitchen, then came through to answer it in the hall as though it was an outside call.”

  I grinned. “Yes, you were very convincing when you said Albert Petrie was on the line. Even I believed you – and I’d told you to say it when we planned this little trick last night.”

  “How did you know Mr Figgis would come round?”

  “He had to. It was the only way he was going to get a scoop into the paper.”

  “Did you get your job back?”

  “Yes, I start in half an hour.”

  “At a big salary increase?” the Widow asked.

  “Afraid not,” I said.

  There was no point telling the Widow I was a thousand quid a year richer. She’d only want to put up my rent.

  I met Shirley for a celebration lunch after the busiest morning I’d ever had at the paper.

  I’d hammered out a front-page lead which appeared under the headline THREE DEAD IN FAILED STORE HEIST.

  I’d written another piece on page two with the headline: HOW THE CHRONICLE FOILED A $1M STING.

  I’d added a story for page three with the headline: HANNINGTON’S BLAZE DRAMA.

  I handed Shirley a copy of the midday edition. She read the first few paragraphs on the front page.

  She said: “They’re great stories but I can’t believe we were really there.”

  I said: “I should never have led you into something so dangerous.”

  Shirley grinned: “Try and stop me, whacker.”

  We were in English’s seafood restaurant feasting on lobster Thermidor and champagne. Figgis would find the bill on my expenses at the end of the week. Shirley and I deserved a bonus.

  I forked up some lobster and said: “Despite what happened last night, there’s still unfinished business.”

  “Your guy Sidney Pinker, you mean?”

  “Yes, he’s still in jail. I called Ted Wilson this morning. He told me the cops don’t have any evidence that the Hardmann brothers or Mary-Lyn and her goons were behind Bernstein’s killing.”

  “So that still leaves Sidney holding the can?”

  “He was holding the sword. And it was sticking in Bernstein at the time. That’s the problem.”

  “So who do you think did it?”

  I shrugged. “It could be the mystery man. But no-one has been able to identify him. Or it could be any of the five comedians. None of them have an alibi. Or it could be more than one person – if the cops are right about it being a two-person job. Trouble is, by tomorrow the comics could be anywhere. The Laugh-a-thon takes place this evening. Ted told me they’re having a dress rehearsal at the Last Laugh club this afternoon.”

  Shirley finished her lobster. She picked up her glass and sipped some champagne.

  She said: “How do they judge a Laugh-a-thon. Do the comedians stand there telling jokes until there’s only one man standing?”

  “One of them is a woman,” I said and lifted my champagne glass.

  “Woman or man – what difference does it make?” Shirley said.

  I sat there with my champagne poised half way to my lips.

  Woman or man?

  Of course it made a difference.

  I gawped at the glass like it was the looking-glass in Alice’s adventure and I could see a different world on the other side.

  And as in Through the Looking-Glass, I stared at a world in which logic was reversed. In wh
ich people could arrive before they appeared. Where they could make time run backwards. It was a world where people could wear clothes they didn’t have. And walk through doors that were always bolted.

  I put down my glass.

  I just stared like I was looking through a peephole into the past. Random images flashed in my mind. I saw Danny Bernstein arrive at his office. I saw a cigar box lying on the ground. The scene cut to a sword dripping with blood.

  I should have worked this out before. All the clues had been there.

  Shirley looked hard at me. She could see I was lost in my thoughts. “You know, don’t you?” she said.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Will it save Sidney?”

  “I think he’ll have the last laugh, after all. But I’m going to need Ted Wilson’s help. And I’ve got to bust in on the Laugh-a-thon rehearsal.”

  “Go now,” Shirley said. “We’ll catch up later.”

  I leant across the table and kissed Shirley. Then I hurried from the restaurant.

  Chapter 23

  The rehearsal for the Laugh-a-thon had started by the time I reached the Last Laugh club.

  There was no sign of Ted Wilson, but he had other work to do before he joined the fun.

  I walked into the auditorium. Billy Dean and Jessie O’Mara were leaning on the bar. Teddy Hooper had slumped on a chair at the back with Percival Plonker on his knee. The pair were arguing with one another.

  Evelyn Stamford sat at a table covered in papers in the middle of the auditorium. She was making notes on the different acts.

  Peter Kitchen was on stage trying out his material.

  “As I was saying, the trouble with political jokes is that too many of them get elected. I mean, take Harold Wilson for example. He’s always got that pipe stuck in his mouth. He thinks if he makes enough smoke people won’t be able to see what he’s doing. I think if Harold Wilson is the best a general election can produce, we should abolish democracy. Everyone in favour raise their hands. Yeah! I didn’t think that would get much of a response. I was going to be apathetic, too – but I couldn’t be bothered. Anyway, let’s take a tough line on repeat offenders. Don’t re-elect them. Never mind, things aren’t as bad as you think. They’re worse…”