The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

“Never again.” Hamish Scott scrabbled into his clothes for dear life. “Those hyenas are going to tear it off one of these days. Count me out.”

“If I had a prick like yours, mate,” Paul Duncan sniggered, eyeing the weedy former schoolteacher from top to toe, “I’d feel the same.” He squared his footballer’s shoulders, and admired himself in the cracked mirror of the scruffy room allotted to them at the pub.

“I’m with you, Hamish.” Jason Knight saw where his best interests lay, but the redundant salesman in him sought to smooth things over. “None of us can quit, can we, Greta?” They couldn’t – she’d made sure of that.

“Glad you remembered which side your privates are buttered.” Tony Hobbs (ex- colonel) heaved himself up ostentatiously with the aid of his stick, banged it on the floor to emphasize his authority, and limped to the piano to place an affectionate hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I’ve worked my ass off managing you lot, and so’s Greta.”

The three men kept silent as they bitterly recalled just how darling Greta had worked her ass off on their account.

“If only my boys would try to get along better,” Greta purred reproachfully, but the small black eyes in the solid face flickered malevolently. “You all dance to my tunes so admirably it seems a pity to break the trio up. Perhaps I’ll try a new routine. How would that be?”

Even Tony danced to Greta’s tune, but tonight Hamish had reached breaking point. “I won’t do it. I won’t even do Wednesday.” His voice rose to a shriek. “I want out now! ”

“Oh, you will mate,” Paul said viciously. Wednesday meant serious money, even the vastly reduced amount that dribbled down to them, and no replacement could learn the routines in two days. “Face it, Hamish. She’s got us by the short and curlies.”

“Sweet of you, my great big cuddly teddy bear. Tonight’s teddy bear?” Greta suggested lightly, while her husband listened impassively.

Paul fell suddenly silent, and Justin saw his chance.

“Come on, Hamish. One more show won’t kill you.”

“All right, but Wednesday’s the last.” Hamish hurled his defiance at their trainer, pianist and de facto boss.

Greta grinned. “Over my dead body.”

How did he land up in this hole? It was Nick Didier’s philosophy that a job was a job and even the most repellent had something to offer if you could stand back a few paces and think of something worse. Spider-catching in Antarctica, for instance. He hated the cold, he hated spiders, and compared with these horrors catering for Women’s Only Night at a steamy club looked tolerable, even if they were gathered to watch male strippers. This trio, The Bubbling Berties, hardly lived up to their name – they looked dead miserable.

“Fancy ’em, do you?.

Les leered over Nick’s shoulder, as he watched the trio from the doorway of the kitchen at the side of the hall. Les’s Crappy Catering Company (as Nick termed it) had finished its own role for the evening, and two hundred or so women were gearing up to scream their loudest, having drunk enough to dull their indigestion pains.

“I’d sooner fancy your food, mate,” Nick replied amiably.

Les only laughed. His only concession to haute cuisine was the names he gave the muck. Turkish Salsa, Thai Salad of Minty Prawns, and Cajun Chicken a l’Orange turned out to be yoghurt flavoured with almond essence, pink slop prawn cocktail (with a parsley leaf as garnish if it wasn’t too expensive) capped by your old friend fried chicken with a tired orange segment. With the right names the ladies would love roasted cowpats, Les maintained, only he didn’t call them cowpats.

Four weeks in the food trade had convinced Nick this career was not for him. Apparently his great-grandfather had been a master chef. Good luck to the old codger. Then Dad had changed his mind and said he was a detective. Yeah, great, Nick had thought jealously. The Case of the Stolen Spotted Dick maybe. Detection was his thing, he didn’t want to tread in family footprints.

Les seemed to have a point about the cowpats, judging by the approving noise level as dinner was served. And now it was being raised even higher, as the Bubbling Berties, seated at a bar across the rear of the stage with their backs to the audience, went into action:

“Oh, what a bubbling gent I am...”

The three top-hatted, tuxedo-clad men burst into song as they whizzed round on their barstools, raising glasses of something that sparkled, whether champagne or not. The glasses were twirled, and raised again as the Berties simultaneously (or almost) drank a toast to the audience.

Directly in front of Nick, an upright piano on floor level by the low stage was being pounded by a middle-aged woman in a tight black evening dress she’d outgrown several sizes earlier. That must be Greta Hobbs, he decided. She was some sort of cousin of Les’s, and apparently it was she who had persuaded the misguided owner of the club into making use of Les’s services. Greta picked up a glass standing on the piano top, to swig champagne in a toast to her troupe, and as the bubbles in it sparkled in the brightness of the spotlight above her, the Berties awarded her a toast in return.

Nick’s mind began to fantasize. Suppose inside that piano there was a gun rigged up ready to shoot the pianist, as in Ngaio Marsh’s novel? Or even a poisoned dart? That way suspicion would fall on someone on stage, but because everyone was watching, no one could possibly have done it. It would be the impossible murder. Yes! He liked it.

Somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to him, the Berties were launching themselves into an inefficient dance routine, as various items of outer clothing and then shirts were discarded, and the audience began to rehearse their war whoops. The top hats, however, remained firmly on the Berties’ heads.

On retiring to their stools, a skinny individual who didn’t look as if he gained much work satisfaction wove his way in a double shuffle, glass once more in hand, to the corner where the piano top provided a convenient resting place for it as he proceeded to remove his trousers. He tossed them into the wings, crooning his solo verse:

“I bubble every evening and I bubble every day...”

Nick decided the loud roars of enthusiasm could only be anticipation for future revelations when the scarlet bikini briefs disappeared. The elderly gent sitting at the end of the front row behind her was already waving his stick in excitement.

“What’s that old geezer doing amongst all these women?” he asked Les.

“That old geezer, son, is Colonel Tony Hobbs, retired, Greta’s ever-adoring husband and the Bubbling Berties’ manager.” Les cast a scornful look at the Bertie currently bubbling in the limelight. “And that’s Hamish Scott. Greta took pity on him when he cracked up -” Les was a fair man, so he added, “- if you can call it that. She fancied a bit of intellect, she said, even though he’s not much better than Tony in the how’s your father department.’

With obvious relief, and abandoning his glass, Hamish wriggled his way back to the bar to join his colleagues for the next chorus. The solo routine was then repeated, first by the beefy white- briefed Bertie (“Paul Duncan”, Les sniggered. “All three of them are her ex-lovers, but in Paul’s case not so much of the ‘ex’.”) and then by the younger one sporting natty bright blue bikini briefs. Les obliged again. “Jason Knight, replaced at work by a computer. Greta offered him the job no computer can do.”

All three Bubbling Berties were back at the bar for the last chorus, displaying their patriotically-clad lower limbs. Their three glasses remained with Greta’s on the piano-top, but still they hung on to their top hats. It gave a remarkably seedy, almost obscene effect, and those hats began to exert a fascination over Nick. When – if ever – would they come off?

Not yet. The removal of the briefs was discreetly managed behind the stools, and as the music changed to the traditional stripper music the audience was treated to the sight of three G-stringed Berties standing at the bar, first Paul on stage left, then Hamish in the middle, then Justin, and drinking from a