by James Lear
And then, I passed the point of no return. I thrust once, twice—and here it was, that feeling of panic and release and violence and tenderness, all shooting out of my cock and deep into Tippett’s guts.
We stayed locked together for a while, his feet around my back, my face buried in the pillow, until finally I rolled off, my softening cock, wet with spunk, slipping out of him. He hissed a sharp intake of breath as I left him; he would be sore, but he would like it. I kissed him on the mouth and stopped him from getting up. I didn’t want this to be a quick rinse and goodbye; I still had things to ask him.
“No regrets?”
“None.”
“You should do that more often, Arthur. You’re very good at it.”
“Thank you.” He smiled.
“I think you’ve found your true vocation.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
“Take it as a compliment. And in half an hour or so, take it again.”
“If you like.” He was putting his manners back on, if not his clothes. I found the contrast exciting; just minutes ago, he was writhing underneath me like a stuck pig, not caring what came out of his mouth; now he was weighing his words again. I savored the sense of power that gave me, of control.
“So,” I said, putting my arms around him, holding him tight, “what were you saying about Bartlett? You think he’s been doing what we’ve just been doing?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Why?”
“Because—I just know.”
“Nobody ‘just knows,’ Arthur. Come on. Maybe I can help him.” I knew perfectly well that Bartlett was past helping, but it sounded plausible.
“I saw one of the letters.”
“The blackmail notes?”
“Yes. And it made it fairly clear.”
“Did it mention any names?”
“I’m not sure that I should say.”
“Don’t you trust me, Arthur? All I want is what’s best for Bartlett. And what’s best for you.” I hugged him, and his ass pressed back against me. We might be ready in less than half an hour, at this rate.
“What’s the point in telling you? What can any of us do? We’ll just incriminate ourselves. It’s hopeless.”
“Nothing’s as bad as it seems. Who was telling me, just twenty minutes ago, that he would never have any fun with his body?”
“I know, but—”
“No buts. You may not believe it, but I’ve gotten out of some pretty tricky situations in the past. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. You just have to use your head.”
“That sounds good.”
Ah! The first double entendre! He was a fast learner.
“All in good time, Arthur. If you want this”—I brought his hand to my prick—“then I want some information. Who was Bartlett being blackmailed by?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“But you said—”
“All I know is what they were accusing him of. Buggery. Sodomy. Unnatural vice. All that sort of thing.”
“But names, Arthur. I need names.”
“The blackmailer made it pretty clear that he knew who Mr. Bartlett had been seeing. Who he had been seen with. He hadn’t been…careful.”
Neither had we, really—if any of the Middlesex staff had a mind to bust us, we’d have spent the night in a police cell. There was only the flimsiest of locks on the door; one swift kick from a boot was all that stood between us and two years’ hard labor. But now was not the time to remind Tippett of this. He was comfortable in my bed, with my arms around him, with his hand cupping my balls. I had won his trust.
“It was a young man from the bank that handles B and R’s investments.”
My blood ran cold—did he feel it?
“Really? Who’s that?”
“London Imperial. A Mr. Morgan.”
“I see. What do you know about him?”
“Not much. Nice fellow. Married, with two young children. Mr. Ross thinks very highly of him. And Mr. Bartlett—well, Mr. Bartlett was smitten the moment he walked into the office.”
“Really?” That gnawing jealousy again, even as I held Tippett against me.
“If it had been a man and a woman, you’d have called it love at first sight. L’amour fou. Mr. Bartlett was…well, he was not himself. You could tell. He started making mistakes, and I had to cover up for him. After a while, he recovered, and he was his old, reliable self again—and by that time I knew that he and Mr. Morgan were…”
“Yes, I understand,” I said. “No need to elaborate. So this…Morgan, is it? He’s the one Bartlett’s been giving money to?”
“Exactly,” said Tippett. “And more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The will.”
“The—oh. My God.” I remembered Morgan’s account of the evening before Bartlett had died, those crazy statements that led to the argument, the “something special” that Bartlett had done for Morgan, the “surprise” he had in store.
He’d rewritten his will—in Morgan’s favor.
Morgan, of course, would not know about it. They had never gotten around to discussing it.
Had they?
Bartlett’s death would make Morgan a very rich man—and then the story of the strychnine in the mouthwash, the mystery of Bartlett’s apparently impossible murder or improbable suicide, suddenly admitted a very different interpretation.
An interpretation that the police would be only too glad to jump to.
“Who knows about the will, Arthur?”
“Nobody. Mr. Bartlett’s solicitor, I suppose.”
“And who is that?”
Tippett laughed. “Why, it’s Mr. Ross, of course. They keep all their business in the firm.”
“And would Mr. Ross—”
Tippett rolled around to face me. “Look, Mitch. I’ve got to get home to my mother.”
“No, don’t go yet.”
“I have no intention of going yet. I have about an hour. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to spend all sixty of those minutes with your cock inside me.”
Matching his actions to his words, he slid down my body and took my still soft prick in his mouth, sucking and licking until it started to harden again. And as worried as I was about Morgan and the horrible suggestiveness of Bartlett’s changed will, I soon found that my mind was cleared of everything but sensation.
Chapter Eight
I RAN OUT OF THE HOSPITAL WITH MY HAT IN MY HAND, MY shirt buttoned wrongly, my shoelaces in knots that I was too flustered to untie, and hurried to the station. As the train trundled out through the suburbs, I tried to clear my mind of the poisonous idea that Tippett had planted there—that Morgan, my best friend, the man I had always regarded as a paragon of honesty and decency, was somehow implicated in the death of Frank Bartlett, his lover, benefactor, and protector. Death—by suicide, or by murder? And if by suicide, why? Driven to it—by blackmail? And who had more reason to blackmail him than a man whom he had seduced, who had so clearly benefited from his victim’s generosity—a new house, gifts of money, and now, finally, the change of will? Perhaps these gifts, as Morgan had described them—lavish, embarrassing, even unwelcome gifts—were not given so freely after all. Perhaps Morgan had asked for money, and when he realized how easy it was to persuade Bartlett to be generous, he’d asked for more—a house, a bequest. And then he got greedy, too greedy to wait for Bartlett’s natural death, too eager to get his hands on money that should, by rights, have gone to his widow.
No—this was insane. This was Boy Morgan we were talking about, not some sleazy blackmailer, some confidence trickster, some low-life murderous scum. And yet I knew all too well that blackmailers and even murderers were seldom if ever the Bill Sykes type of the popular imagination. Killers were nearly always known to their victims, and blackmailers were often to be found within the intimate family circle. If I have learned anything from my voracious reading of detective fiction, it’s that the most obvious person is usua
lly the culprit, however many red herrings are thrown in to distract us. I thought of Morgan as honest, decent, and true, but what did I really know about him? How much of his life did he keep from me? He lied to his wife, and he lied to me; for all I knew, he was lying to his employers, using his position in the bank to feather his own nest and then, knowing only too well how attractive he was to men of a certain type, identifying the one man who was best situated to help him.
Morgan had always been ambitious—his marriage to Belinda Eagle proved that. She was his social superior, and would have brought a great deal of money into the Morgan household, were it not for the unfortunate fact that her parents had themselves been ruined and incarcerated after a messy murder. That must have been a great disappointment to Morgan—and when he saw a chance to better himself, when the money was handed to him on a plate, he grabbed it. Impatient as ever, he’d killed the goose that laid the golden egg. The money was as good as his. Once probate had been attended to, Morgan would be a rich man. Perhaps the will would be contested by Bartlett’s widow, but what could she do? Morgan had her, fair and square. Nobody would speak out. Any witnesses, such as Tippett, were so terrified of being implicated in a queer scandal that they would keep their mouths shut. Nobody would state the obvious fact that Morgan had obtained Bartlett’s trust through a sexual relationship, and then exploited him and finally driven him to his grave.
It was with a heavy heart that I walked up the street I had positively skipped along earlier that morning. The house, which once promised a weekend of fun and fucking, now looked like a mausoleum—paid for by Bartlett. Bought in blood.
The only ray of sunshine was the open, smiling face of PC Stan Knight, back at his post, stamping his feet with impatience, looking up and down the street for my approach, grinning the moment he caught sight of me. Well, that did me good. At least there was some honesty in the world. Perhaps my grim misgivings about Morgan were all wrong.
“Thought you weren’t coming back, Mitch,” said Knight.
“Am I late? Sorry. I’ve been up to town.”
“Find anything?”
“Yes.” I gave him a highly edited version of what Tippett had told me, leaving Morgan’s name out of the picture. No doubt his superiors at the station had already formed their own conclusions—and, despite my suspicions, I had no desire to add fuel to that particular fire.
Out of uniform, Stan Knight looked like exactly the sort of young man a mother would like her daughter to bring home: clean, neatly barbered, well proportioned without being unnecessarily attractive. He was wearing a tweed jacket, a white shirt with a knit tie, carefully polished brogues, and dark-blue trousers—possibly part of his uniform, which I found rather touching. Police pay obviously didn’t go as far as a young man like Knight wished it might. I would have to see if I could help out in that area, I thought, forgetting for a moment that I was not actually a wealthy New England playboy.
“How are things going back at the station?” I asked, as casually as possible.
“Hard to say,” said Knight, as we walked side by side along the street. “They’re still questioning your friend.”
“I’m sure he’s helping them as much as he can.”
“Yes.” He looked down at his feet; this was enough to tell me that things were not going well for Morgan. I felt a tightness around my heart. God, I had been ready to find him guilty myself, to execute the sentence—and I was supposed to be his friend. I had a sudden urge to save him, and felt ashamed of what I had allowed myself to think. That was not the action of a friend. Morgan would have sworn to my innocence and knocked down anyone who accused me, even if I’d been found covered in blood with the razor in my hand, such was his faith in me. And I’d been ready to condemn him on nothing more than hearsay.
It felt good to be doing something, at least. “So, where are you taking me?”
“First stop, Clapham High Street.” Knight grabbed my arm and ran. “Come on! That’s our bus!”
Twenty minutes later we were seated in the saloon bar of a tiny little pub under the railway bridge at the north end of Clapham High Street, rather ambitiously named the Queen’s Head. Less regal premises it was hard to imagine, though judging by the number of soft felt hats, suede shoes, and colored scarves in the lounge bar, it was possibly not to the royal variety that the name alluded. As for the head—well, there was a silhouette of Victoria on the sign above the door, but I could think of other meanings, and remembered with pleasure the taste of PC Knight’s spunk in my mouth a few hours before. He was eager for a return engagement, that was obvious—but he’d have to wait awhile. Tippett had drained me dry, and I would have nothing for my sexy little copper until bedtime at the earliest. I wondered where I would end up sleeping—my room at the Middlesex, Morgan’s sad, blighted house, or—where did Stan Knight live?
We had a pint and watched the comings and goings, but there was nobody in the Queen’s Head resembling Morgan’s description of Sean Durran, and by half past eight I was getting anxious. We were wasting time. The clientele of the Queen’s Head, at least tonight, looked more like out-of-work chorus boys and window dressers than rough trade. A cursory glimpse into the public bar told me that I would find nothing to my advantage in there—the hostile glances, the loud, braying conversations, showed that this was not a sympathetic environment.
Next stop, the Ring of Bells in Balham, another short bus ride away. Stan was an efficient little Virgil in this trip through south London’s underworld. “We raided this a few months ago,” he said cheerfully, as we pushed through the swinging doors. “All sorts goes on here. A regular brothel, it was.”
“And now?”
“It’s been quiet for a while, but they’ll soon get going again. Landlord pays us off, I reckon. That’s how it usually works.”
“Nasty business.”
“Way of the world, I’m afraid. Come on.”
Two more pints were ordered and drunk; Stan was slightly merry now, and let his knee touch mine rather more often than was necessary.
“That him?” he asked, nodding toward a handsome brute in the corner, his hands dirty from a day’s manual labor.
“Could be.”
“Shall I ask him?”
He seemed eager, perhaps thinking of what he, I, and the dirty-handed brute in the corner got behind closed doors.
“All right. But be tactful. Don’t mention—”
“I’m not going to ask him if he knows anything about the death of Frank Bartlett,” he said. “I’m trained in these matters. Leave it to me.”
I watched the two of them chatting, occasionally looking over to me; when the laborer sized me up, I raised my glass and jerked a thumb at the bar. He nodded slowly, so I ordered another pint.
“Says he knows Sean,” said Stan when I delivered the beer.
“Oh yeah? Good. Know him well?”
“Well enough,” said the man. “He drinks here and at the Bear.”
“That’s the White Bear in Wimbledon,” said Stan. “You know.”
“Ah.” I wondered if this was the big brute who had so scared Morgan in the White Bear’s urinals. “Any idea where he is tonight?”
“Sunday? At home, if he’s got any sense.” He took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, grimaced. “Waste of time being out tonight.”
“Too quiet for you?”
“Yeah. Even here.”
“What about the Ship?” asked Knight. “Think he might be there?”
“Could be. That’s his manor.” The laborer thought for a while, drank off half his pint, and smacked his lips. “That’s better. Gets the plaster dust out of a man’s throat. Not good, working on a Sunday. Still, needs must.” He drained his glass and placed it carefully on a beer mat.
“Another?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bert.”
I gave money to Knight. “Three more pints, Stan, if you would.”
“He
your bit of stuff?” asked Bert, when Stan was standing at the bar. “Nice arse. Bet he’s a good ride. Not seen you round here before.”
“I’m not from around here.”
“Right.” I expected the usual dialogue about Americans, but instead Bert said “North London, I suppose,” as if that were just as remote as Massachusetts. “Come down south for a bit of trade?” He let his huge hand dangle in front of his crotch.
“That sort of thing.”
“I know Sean. Nice lad. He been recommended to you?”
“Yes, in a way. Friend of mine—”
“Yeah, very popular is Sean. Should be. I broke him in. Trained him to the work, if you like.”
“I see.”
“Met him on a building site. Arse like that, boy, I said, money in the bank. And he likes it, too. They’re always the best, them that actually likes it. He’s a good fuck, my Sean.” He sighed. “Would have kept him for myself, if I had the readies.”
“And what about you, Bert? Do you like it?”
“Yeah.” His eyes shone, and his face opened up into a smile, huge creases appearing along his cheeks. “I love it. But that’s not what gents want from me, is it? It’s this.” He gave his cock a squeeze. “So that’s what I give ’em. Don’t like to disappoint by rolling over and sticking me arse in the air, do I?”
“I don’t know that you should be telling me this, Bert. Suppose I was thinking of…using you.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like giving it as well as taking it. And I give satisfaction. I’ve got a lot to give, if you know what I mean.”
I thought I probably did.
“But once in a while it would be nice to…you know.”
“Roll over.”
“Yeah.” Stan brought the drinks, and half of Bert’s disappeared immediately.
“I’d be more than happy to oblige,” I said; I like nothing better than turning the tables on men who are bigger and stronger than me. Fucking slim lads like Tippett, or eager young puppies like Stan, is one of life’s greatest pleasures, but slipping it to a caveman like Bert would delight the true connoisseur.
“But first,” I said, “I need to find Sean.”