The Sun Goes Down

by James Lear

  The heat was overpowering now, the beach emptying as people retreated to the shade of rooms for a siesta. I don’t much care for afternoon naps; if I’m going to bed in the daytime, I prefer to have company. I looked around the bay for any sign of Joseph. I needed to ask him a lot of questions about life on the island and enlist his help in unravelling the mystery of the suicidal soldier, but he was nowhere to be seen. His father was snoozing in a chair in the shade of the bar; there were no customers. The Jessops’ balconies were empty. I climbed the steps to the Continental and entered the cool lobby. Perhaps Martin Dear would like to come up to my room to discuss the finer points of Maltese plumbing. After breakfast with Frank, watching Henry Jessop come over his belly and swimming naked for the Captain, I was ready to fuck anything.

  I don’t often resort to masturbation. Why waste what you could give to another? I’m generous like that. But things were getting pretty desperate, and if I closed my eyes I could still see Henry’s slim torso writhing and rippling as he milked himself for me… It would take a minute, no more, and I’d shoot.

  I closed the door of my room, kicked off my shoes and lay on my bed, ready to take matters—quite literally—in hand.

  An hour and a half later I woke up with a dry mouth and a headache. I must have fallen asleep in seconds. Sometimes I wake up with a raging hard-on that demands attention, but on this occasion my brain was the more stimulated organ. I had a lot of thinking to do, and in the cool light of my room, with the sounds of children playing on the beach below, I had a chance to do it.

  Poirot, Marple and Holmes get their facts in order and look for shapes and patterns in what appear to be messy, random phenomena. I would do likewise, mentally tabulating what I knew, what I suspected and what I needed to find out.

  First, the death of Ned Porter. He was found at the base of the cliffs, smashed to bits on the rocks—but I had no way of knowing whether he was alive or dead when he fell. For all I knew he had been murdered elsewhere, the body dragged to the clifftop for disposal, the trappings of suicide (the note, the allegations of blackmail) added to disguise the crime. But by whom? The military authorities, desperate to hush up a queer scandal? A jealous lover—Alf Lutterall or a person unknown? Perhaps Porter had been involved in some crime of his own; one heard a lot about the Maltese habits of smuggling, gun-running, you name it. Porter might have tried to make some money, gotten in over his head, and been killed by gang bosses. Anything was possible.

  Two facts persuaded me that this was not suicide: firstly, Frank Southern said Porter was a cheerful, easygoing kind of guy, not the type to fling himself off a clifftop. Secondly, Alf Lutterall insisted he had everything to live for. Call me romantic, but I find it hard to believe someone like that—especially if he was in love—would kill himself. Perhaps if his love was unrequited, as so often it is—God knows I’ve experienced enough of that with my lingering infatuation with Boy Morgan—but in this case it seemed that Ned loved Alf, and Alf loved Ned in return. Much depended on my forthcoming interview with Alf Lutterall himself: tomorrow, if Frank Southern was as good as his word.

  I’m cynical (or experienced) enough to know that all you have to do with a mysterious death is blow the smoke of a queer scandal around it and people are none too eager to investigate. In the minds of most people we deserve to die; it’s sad, but hey ho, that’s the way it goes, men like me just can’t live in the world, and perhaps it’s for the best if we leave it. But I was damned if I was going to let Ned Porter’s death be written off as just another lamentable suicide, ignored and hushed up. If he was really driven to killing himself, I intended to find out by whom—and punish them. If it was murder, I would bring the perpetrator to justice, however little justice may wish to know.

  I knew so little about Ned Porter, his history and his activities since arriving on Malta. If I took things at face value, and believed in the suicide/blackmail theory, there was one obvious suspect: the Black Crow, as I had named that vile old woman who, according to Tilly and Martin Dear, was hell-bent on blackmailing every sinner in town. Had she found out about Ned’s sex life and threatened to expose him to the military authorities? It was possible, but surely not something to kill yourself over. Surely Ned, a happy-go-lucky young soldier, would just tell the old crone to fuck off. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would even think of blackmail.

  And then I had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Give me five dollars. I tell the police. I know the police here. My father knows them.

  At the time I’d written it off as post-coital panic, the sort of tough-guy act that a lot of young men put on after they’ve taken a big, hard cock up the ass and loved it so much that, like Joseph Vella, they shoot a huge fucking load. And then, as the dick softens and the ass feels sore, the conscience kicks in. I didn’t want to do it, he made me do it, I’ll show him, I’m a real man…Joseph backed down when I called his bluff, but maybe others weren’t as confident as me. Hey, I could leave Gozo anytime I liked. But what if I had to live there? What if I was really frightened of the police? Or—and here another dimension was added to the picture—I needed to hide my sexual indiscretions from the person who loved me? What if Ned Porter had been lured by Joseph Vella to that selfsame hut for a quick fuck, and then found himself facing exposure not only to the army but also to Alf, his lover?

  I didn’t want Joseph to be a bad guy. I wanted him to be just as he appeared: a young man with a taste for cock who didn’t want the world to know about it. I wanted to help him almost as much as I wanted to fuck him again. But if he was the blackmailer, then what? If things had gone wrong, Joseph was big and strong enough to overpower another man—and he knew the island well enough to know exactly the right place to dispose of a body.

  I would have to treat Joseph Vella with great care. I wanted him to be my Watson, my Hastings, and if he was the real villain of the piece I would need to lull him into a false sense of security before exposing him. He could turn vicious. I’m strong enough, but I wouldn’t place any bets on the winner of that fight. And if he was making an income from blackmail, that would explain his reluctance to work behind his father’s bar.

  And how much did Vella Senior know? Was he in on the act? Had he set me up with his son, sending us off for an evening stroll, intending me to become another mark?

  So much for the victim and his persecutors. What else had I picked up in my twenty-four hours on the island? No fact is irrelevant, even the most trivial, the most tangential. I knew this from my own stumbling efforts in the field of investigation: it was the little detail that often held the key, the loose end, the fact the did not fit.

  I went over my list of characters.

  Tilly and Martin Dear, the picture-perfect proprietors of the Hotel Continental, so beautiful and gracious they were almost too good to be true. They took over the management of the hotel with no experience in the field, almost on a whim, it seemed, when the former owners—friends of Tilly’s parents, she said—retired suddenly. Why would they do such a thing? The Andersons were popular and successful according to Claire Sutherland, a regular guest, and had never mentioned retiring. Was there a hidden reason for their decision? If so, were the Dears—who benefited most directly from the sudden vacancy—somehow responsible? And what of the inheritance that enabled Tilly and Martin to buy the business? It must have been a pretty substantial sum, even bigger than my own windfall from Aunt Dinah. It could be perfectly legitimate, of course, but in the mist of suspicion around the death of Ned Porter everything needed to be questioned. Had the money come by honest means? What other secrets lurked behind the immaculate facade of Martin and Tilly Dear? I’d seen the way Martin looked at me, heard his comments about swimming across the bay to private coves. Was their marriage a sham?

  As for my fellow guests, they seemed like a pretty innocuous lot, but who could tell? The Jessops could be white slavers for all I knew, disguising themselves as tight-lipped English missionaries. Their “son,” the beauti
ful Henry, could be an abducted heir, drugged and brainwashed before being sold to some perverted foreign million aire. Or he could be the bait in a trap, luring men like me into a web of crime. He was certainly the sort that people would commit folly over. And what of Claire Sutherland? On the surface she was a very recognizable type, the second-rate actress who plays at being a star, using her charm and glamour to attract young lovers—gigolos, most of them—hiding her loneliness behind lipstick and diamonds. But what if that was all an act? Would she pull off her wig in the closing chapter of this little mystery and announce, in a Cockney accent, that “yew bleedin’ interferin’ Yank ‘ave ruined everyfink” when I revealed her dark secret? What secret? Well, everyone has one. Could she be connected to Ned Porter? It seemed a long shot, but by her own admission she’d been here for many years. God knows what kind of entanglements she’d gotten herself into.

  More transparent was the Captain, a type I was familiar with. Getting old, unable to let go of the lust that has driven him all his life, and cost him, in all probability, his family and home. Trying to conceal his true desires behind the mask of art, all that phoney-baloney about “reference photographs” and modeling for oil paintings on mythical subjects. Once he got a naked man in his sights, his interests were far from artistic. I understood the Captain—and sympathized with him. In forty years that would be me: still chasing cock, but no longer desirable enough to get it on my own terms.

  One thing was certain: the Captain was scared. Jumping at shadows, watching his back, terrified of being found out. When he saw the Black Crow approaching, he went as white as a sheet; perhaps he was one of her victims, hounded by her poisonous letters. Tilly Dear said that he’d been forced out of the UK—had trouble followed him all the way here? Or was there something else, some secret that connected the Captain with Ned Porter? Did he know something about his death? Perhaps he’d even caused it. He took photographs up at the house—had he used them as a way of obtaining money after the event? Did he threaten Porter with exposure?

  I was happily cooking up half a dozen perfectly plausible theories about the death of Ned Porter, each of them incriminating one or more of the guests and locals, until I realized that not a single one of them was based on a shred of evidence. I was simply writing fiction in my mind, regardless of facts. I didn’t even know for certain that Ned Porter was queer. Frank Southern told me that Alf Lutterall was disturbed, grieving, possibly unhinged; the supposition that he and Porter were lovers could be based on nothing more than Lutterall’s wishful thinking. Porter could have been as normal as they come; he could have committed suicide or been murdered for reasons unknown.

  Everything depended, I realized, on what I could learn from Alf Lutterall, and how trustworthy a witness he was.

  I got up, splashed water on my face and went down to the lobby.

  “Ah, Mitch!” Martin Dear was behind the desk, as handsome as ever. Damn you, Dear, where were you a couple of hours ago when I needed you? “There’s a message for you.” He rummaged in the pigeonholes. “Here. Came this afternoon.”

  A slip of paper.

  Be ready to depart hotel 0600 tomorrow. I’m on the island now and will transport you to appointment with Dr. Southern / Capt Haymon / Major Telford. Yours, W Conrad (Sgt Mjr).

  And so my investigation began. Frank had obviously managed to get Major Telford’s permission for Dr. Mitchell, the noted nerve specialist from London, to examine his patient. So far, so good. But first I had an evening ahead of me, and no company.

  “Any idea where Sergeant Major Conrad is staying? I need to speak to him.” Not true, of course, but I have a weakness for NCOs.

  “He didn’t say,” said Martin, “but there’s a barracks block up in Victoria, right by the bus station. Couple of offices on the ground floor.” He scribbled an address on a piece of paper; the street name was something indecipherable in Maltese, lots of Xs and Ks. “Try there. Bus leaves in ten minutes. Excuse me a second.”

  There was a commotion in the doorway, a raised voice, instantly recognizable.

  “I said in any decent hotel there would have been someone to open the door for me! Now go in there and order one of their poisonous cocktails. I suppose you can manage that?”

  It was Claire Sutherland, obviously the worse for drink, with her companion in tow—the man for whom she’d deserted me last night. His evening wear had seen better days—shiny at the knees, seat and elbows, showing the signs of frequent cleaning—but from a distance, and perhaps through Claire’s somewhat blurred vision, he looked elegant enough. He glided through the lobby and was waylaid by Martin, who engaged him in conversation about drinks.

  La Sutherland stood and swayed. Tilly came bustling out of the office, a picture of fresh, neat efficiency, as usual. “Ah, Claire, Mitch, I’m glad I caught you. Will you be dining with us this evening?”

  I was about to reply, but Claire got there first. “Dining? Goodness me, aren’t we grand. In the old days we called it supper, or simply ‘eating.’ Honestly, Dr. Mitchell, I don’t know where she gets these high and mighty ideas from.”

  Tilly wisely ignored her and turned a smile and raised eyebrow to me.

  “I’m going out, thank you,” I said. “I have business in Victoria.”

  Claire was not so easily deterred. “You may play the part of the great lady, my dear, but remember that some of us see through you. There was none of this nonsense when the Andersons were here. They understood the artistic temperament.” And she was off on one of her soliloquies. Her companion, tense and thin-lipped, offered her an arm, and with a little encouragement from Martin steered her into the lounge.

  “Dear Claire,” said Tilly, crossing her arms over firm, ample bosoms. “She’s a lovely lady, but really, sometimes…”

  “You handled it beautifully,” I said, privately wondering what, if anything, Claire thought she knew about Tilly Dear. I added it to my checklist of questions, just a tiny query about the origins of our hostess.

  Those questions rotated in my mind as I made my way to the bus station, hoping against hope that I would get laid before bedtime.

  V

  VICTORIA, ALSO KNOWN AS RABAT, IS THE CAPITAL OF GOZO. It lies roughly at the center of the island on a hill from which, on a clear day, you can look out at the sea in all directions. The buildings are largely sandstone, and by the time I reached the town that evening, the walls were giving back the heat they’d absorbed during the day, making it warm enough to walk the cobbled streets without a jacket.

  The barrack wasn’t hard to find, an ugly concrete building with square windows, devoid of decoration. The entrance was a white-painted wooden door, cracked and peeling, with a small handwritten sign, the ink much faded, proclaiming OFFICIAL BUSINESS ONLY.

  Well, my business was official, and I had Frank Southern’s letter of introduction in my pocket should anyone question me. They needn’t know that I’d come here looking for company for the night.

  A fat man in a sweat-stained shirt sat in the gloomy, airless hall. Behind his desk were three doors leading to offices. He looked over the top of greasy spectacles and said, in a weary English accent, “Yes?”

  “Is Sergeant Major Conrad here?”

  He consulted a list. “Yes.”

  “I wish to see him.” He continued to look at me, boredom and contempt on his face.

  “What is your name, soldier?”

  “I…”

  “Your name. Now.”

  He spluttered out something, I forget what.

  “I shall make a point of mentioning you to Major Telford when I see him in the morning.” Thank God I have a retentive memory; the name worked wonders. Fatso sat up straight, adjusted his glasses and said “May I take your name, sir?”

  “Mitchell.”

  “Well, Mr. Mitchell…”

  “Dr. Mitchell.” The title can be useful sometimes, especially with rank-conscious military personnel.

  “Sergeant Major Conrad is here, sir. Would you like me to ge
t him for you?”

  A voice from behind me. “Who wants me?” London accent, deep, good humored. I turned. Taller than me, black hair, thick black eyebrows above heavy-lidded eyes. Heavy beard growth that obviously hadn’t been shaved since early this morning. He was wearing a lightweight khaki tunic, the top buttons undone.

  My soldier from the ferry. Bill.

  “Conrad? Mitch Mitchell.” As we shook hands, I noted his hand was large and strong. “Good to see you again.” He smiled, deep lines around his eyes. He was in his thirties, I guessed, a little worn and weather-beaten.

  “I was going to get you in the morning, sir.” His accent took me back to the cabbies and market traders of London. “Did you get my note?”

  “I did. But as I was coming into town this evening, I thought I’d track you down.”

  “Doc Southern tell you to keep an eye on me?”

  “No. Do you need it?”

  “Not me.” He smiled. “I know how to look after myself.”

  “If you don’t have plans, I’ll take you for dinner.”

  “I’m not exactly dressed for it.” He gestured down at his dusty pants and army boots.

  “Let’s go somewhere local, then. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah. Let me get my kitbag.”

  He disappeared whence he had come, up a dark staircase at the end of the hall, leaving the desk sergeant scribbling away, trying to ignore me. Conrad was back in thirty seconds.

  “Don’t trust the thieving bastards here,” he said, shouldering his bag. “Not that there’s anything worth nicking. A toothbrush and some clean knickers. Right, let’s go. See you, Porky.” We stepped out into the warm streets. “You like the local grub?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You’re not one of them that’ll only eat English stuff?”

  “I’m not English.”

  “Yeah, I had noticed.” Conrad had dispensed with most of the Hs and Ts in the language. I ‘ad no’iced. “Yank, right?”