A Comedian Dies (16 page)

‘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.

The increase in the number of worried-looking men with head-phones and the lumbering approach of cameras and lights indicated that the televised part of the proceedings was about to start. Rather than missing Paul Royce in the confusion of everyone's departure, Charles hurried across to the BBC table. ‘Paul, I wonder, could we have a quick word after the ceremony? Something I want to ask you about.'

The morose young writer looked at him cynically. ‘You might at least wait till you get the script before you start rewriting it.'

‘No, it's nothing to do with the show. Something else.'

Paul Royce looked at him sharply. ‘OK. I'll hang about.'

‘We could have a drink or something.'

‘Sure,' said Royce, and Charles could feel the boy's eyes following him back to his seat.

The awards ceremony was compèred by a well-loved television personality, who earned enormous amounts of money by asking grown-up people childish questions and rewarding them with consumer durables in the shape of freezers, music centres, kitchen units and cars. The show on which he regularly performed this repellent function was called
The Take-Away Show
, so he opened the awards ceremony with a coy little joke including his catch-phrase, ‘Take it away!'. This was greeted by a round of applause and sycophantic laughter. The well-loved television personality then said how very, very honoured he was to be asked to compère the show and how very very delighted he was to see so many popular and well-loved faces in the audience. At this point the cameras scanned round and picked out one or two of the faces which were more popular and better-loved than the others. To Charles' embarrassment he saw a camera with a red light on trained on him and Lennie Barber. Well, it was no doubt trained on Lennie Barber, but the angle was such that Charles was bound to figure in the shot. He gave a watery smile, hoping that he looked popular and well-loved.

After a few merry quips about some of the senior executives of the television companies and the committee members of the UEF (a bunch of accountants and actuaries tickled pink at mixing with the world of show biz), the well-loved television personality started to introduce the actual awards.

The ceremony followed the mindless pattern that was fixed for such occasions in Jurassic times and which has not changed since.

The well-loved television personality would introduce another well-loved television personality who had nothing to do with the awards; this new well-loved television personality would then deliver a couple of scripted jokes and receive an envelope in which were the names of the three nominations for the award; he would then read out these names in reverse order; whereupon a third well-loved television personality, the one who had won the award, would rise from his convenient seat in well-feigned amazement and go forward to receive his chair-spring. If he were a man, he would then make a very boring little speech thanking all of the production team who had made it possible; if she were a woman, she would start to make a boring little speech thanking all of the production team who had made it possible, but after a few words dissolve in tears. At this point the audience would go ‘Aah'. It was a time-honoured, unchanging ritual and, incidentally, a very cheap way of making a television programme.

The ideal at these ceremonies is to present an award to a figure so old and so legendary in the business that everyone thought he was dead (and, indeed, ideally, he should die very soon after the ceremony). But when this perfect climax cannot be achieved, a posthumous award to a very young performer is a good second best.

So, though those present were constantly reminded of the very wonderful and very heart-warming nature of the occasion, the pinnacle of schmaltz was achieved with the announcement of the award for the Most Promising Newcomer.

Carla's approach to the stage was suitably affecting. So was her little speech. After the trained voices of the other winners, her thin Cockney sounded almost sincere. And she didn't let the audience's expectations down; there were real tears on her cheeks. Charles still found it artificial, not because he did not believe in Carla's feelings, but because the whole set-up seemed an insult to genuine emotion.

To pile on the bad taste, after Carla's broken speech, a clip of Bill Peaky in performance was then shown on the large screen at the back of the stage. Charles watched with interest. The last time he had seen the comedian's act had been in a sadly abbreviated version.

It took him about a minute to come to the conclusion that Bill Peaky had not actually been very good. There was a freshness of attack in the performance and some clever business with the guitar, but otherwise it was run-of-the-mill stuff. The well-loved television personality's mixed metaphor about ‘one of the brightest flames that the entertainment firmament has seen this century so sadly extinguished so soon' (Good God, who wrote his stuff?) was just another example of showbiz hyperbole.

Having formed his own opinion of the late comedian's merits, Charles looked round to see what effect the clip was having on the potential murder suspects. Walter Proud was gazing at the screen with the proper maudlin awe. Lennie Barber, bored and slightly irritated, was modelling the inside of his bread roll into a dachshund. Miffy Turtle, helping Carla back to her seat in the subdued lighting, was not looking at the screen.

But on Paul Royce the effect was profound. The boy sat forward rigid in his seat. His face was set in a hard line of hatred.

When the last award had caused its studied surprise and the last drop of sentiment had been wrung from the occasion and the television recording had been cleared (presumably if there had turned out to be anything wrong with it, the whole process would have to be repeated and everyone be surprised all over again), the crowd of very wonderful people started to disperse. Charles hurried across to the BBC table, fearful of losing his quarry. But on his way he almost bumped into Carla Pratt. She was standing forlorn; Miffy Turtle was a little way away, talking to some prosperous-looking old men with cigars.

She reacted with some shock when she saw Charles. ‘Mr. Paris. I didn't expect to see you here.'

‘I didn't expect to be here.'

She looked round quickly to see that no one was listening and then asked in a soft, urgent voice, ‘Have you got any further on . . . you know, what we talked about?'

‘I think so, yes.'

‘Have you found Janine? Have you put the police on to her?'

Oh yes, of course. When he had spoken to Carla, it had seemed certain that Janine was the guilty party. His mind had been through so many suspicions since then, that it seemed a long time ago. ‘Yes, I found her. But no, I'm fairly certain she didn't kill your husband.'

‘You mean, it was an accident after all?'

Charles shook his head. ‘No, the further I get into the case, the more convinced I become that he was murdered.'

‘So you mean you suspect someone else?'

‘Yes.'

‘Who?'

‘I can't really tell you yet. Quite soon, I hope.'

‘You must tell me as soon as you have anything definite. Ring me at any time of the day or night, please. You must. I really want to know what happened. Let me know even before you get in touch with the police.'

There was no questioning the sincerity of her emotion now. She was deeply upset. Charles felt quite guilty for suspecting her before. Obviously the emotion of the occasion and the sight of her husband on screen had churned her up considerably.

‘I'll let you know,' he said soothingly. ‘I promise.'

Carla turned her head quickly to see Miffy Turtle approaching. With a look of complicity to Charles, she moved off with her late husband's manager.

He took Paul Royce to the Montrose, a little drinking club round the back of the Haymarket, which was one of his regular haunts. The boy seemed subdued, almost resigned. He hadn't asked Charles what it was all about, just followed along unquestioning.

They both drank large Scotches. Charles decided to leap in with both feet. ‘Paul, I've seen Janine.'

The name prompted only a slight reaction. Paul Royce seemed to be dulled by depression. ‘So?'

‘I know about you and her. I know that you were living together.'

‘So? What are you doing – taking on the role of my Moral Tutor. There's no law against people living together.'

‘No, but there are laws against beating people up.'

This didn't produce the shock reaction Charles had hoped for; just a sardonic smile. ‘Listen, Charles, I don't know what your game is, but why don't you mind your own bloody business? You know nothing about my relationship with Janine and, if I did beat her up, you can rest assured that I had a damned good reason for doing so.'