A Sticky End

by James Lear

  “That’s absolute nonsense,” said Trent. “If anything, it was the other way around. Who was giving Morgan money? Buying him a house? Making him his heir?”

  “I’ll come to that. But to return to the events of Saturday night and early Sunday morning. At some point, Sean Durran slipped a suppository containing mercury oxide into Bartlett’s asshole. Subsequent investigations have found a concentration of the substance in the lining of his rectum. There is no doubt whatsoever that it was administered per ano.”

  “But the razor, for God’s sake,” said Ross. “Who cut him with the razor?”

  I held up a hand. “When they had finished, Morgan left Bartlett and Durran together in the bathroom. Bartlett gave him some money, and then Durran handed over the letter and the message, and left. Frank Bartlett was alive and well when you last saw him, wasn’t he, Sean?”

  “Yes. I told you, he looked like he’d had a shock. But there was nothing wrong with him.”

  “When Morgan came back upstairs, he found Bartlett brushing his teeth at the bathroom sink, showing no sign that anything was wrong. They exchanged a few words, then Morgan saw Durran off the premises and prepared for bed. When he came back upstairs, Bartlett had locked the bathroom door. Morgan smelled smoke, and assumed that Bartlett was having a cigarette before coming to bed.”

  “We found ash in the bathroom,” said DS Weston. “But it was not cigarette ash.”

  “No,” I said. “In fact, Bartlett had burned the letter that Durran delivered to him, and tried to flush the remains down the toilet. A few pieces floated around the room and escaped his notice. He was not smoking a cigarette. He was trying to destroy a final note from his blackmailer.”

  “But I wasn’t blackmailing him anymore!” cried McDermott, springing to his feet. “I told you. You must believe me!”

  “I know. Please sit down, Jack. No—it was not you who was blackmailing him. Nor was it Morgan. It was someone else—someone who was threatening to expose Bartlett not only to his wife, but also to the newspapers and the police. To destroy his entire life. This final demand—whatever it was, we will never know for sure—must have been some kind of ultimatum. Perhaps Bartlett had refused to pay his blackmailer. Whatever the contents of that letter, it was enough to make Bartlett despair. Enough, in fact, to make him suicidal. He took the razor—which, only a few minutes previously, had been used to shave Sean Durran, and with which he had frequently shaved Morgan.”

  “And me,” said McDermott. “He was keen on all that business.”

  “Thank you, Jack. Bartlett’s shaving fetish was well known to all his lovers. He was not always discreet.”

  “So you’re saying, in fact, that Frank cut his wrists after all?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ross. There was no one else in the bathroom with him. The door was locked from the inside. Morgan could not get in, and Durran had left the house. There is no other means of access, apart from a window which was also closed on the inside. Frank Bartlett, stricken with horror at the contents of the letter, desperately sad after his argument with Morgan, perhaps remorseful after the orgy they had with Durran, decided to take his own life.”

  “Make your mind up, Mitchell. Murder, or suicide?”

  “Both. Already the mercury oxide was absorbed into his bloodstream. He experienced a burning, itching pain over his torso—hence the scratch marks. His heart would have been beating fast, his mind disordered—he would have experienced a sort of panic. All these factors together drove him to cut himself with the razor. Whether it was the loss of blood that killed him, or the mercury poisoning, we don’t know. The two causes would have been racing each other to take Frank Bartlett’s life.”

  “Oh God,” said Trent, “how horrible.”

  “But the strychnine in the mouthwash?” asked Sergeant Godley. “The lab found that right away.”

  “A red herring,” I said, “or a precaution in case Durran failed to deliver, whichever way you look at it. Bartlett’s interest in oral hygiene was even better known than his lust for shaving. Anyone close to him would know that he regularly rinsed his mouth out after sex.”

  “But if Durran had already poisoned him—”

  “What puzzled me for a long time about this case was why, if the murderer had found such a clever way of killing Bartlett, he or she would go to such lengths to make it look like suicide. And then it struck me. Nobody would ever believe that Harry Morgan was a murderer—you only have to talk to him for five minutes to realize that. But it’s possible, just possible, that he could be the sort who would drive a man to suicide. They were having a queer affair, weren’t they?—and a man who is capable of that is capable of almost anything, certainly blackmail and extortion—in the eyes of the law. So the killer, who wanted Bartlett dead so badly, stumbled upon a brilliant way of deflecting suspicion, of disguising Bartlett’s death as suicide, knowing that the police would look no further than the scandalous sexual relationship between the two men, and would instantly assume the worst.

  The police would want a quick conviction—and when they found poison in the mouthwash, and Morgan with blood on his hands, they would put two and two together. Minor details like the toxicology report could be overlooked. Yes, it was a muddle—nobody would be sure if Morgan had simply driven Bartlett to suicide, or had a more active hand in his death by poisoning him or by wielding the razor himself. He had a cut on his finger, which he said was sustained while trying to shave Sean Durran—but who would believe that? And where was Durran, to corroborate all this? Gone. As far as the police were concerned, there was no such person as this mysterious Sean Durran. Morgan had just made him up as a desperate alibi. Perhaps he wouldn’t even mention him—being a married man, a father of two small children. Perhaps he would lie all the way to the gallows. Whatever happened, the murderer was confident that Morgan would be found guilty.”

  “You keep talking about a murderer,” said Ross, “but who is it?”

  “You are about to find out.”

  “Bet it was the blackmailer,” said McDermott, “whoever that was.”

  “You’re right, and you’re wrong, Jack. Bartlett certainly was being blackmailed, and he was paying out a large amount of money to his persecutor, as we can tell from the records he kept at the office. He told you to enter it all in a ledger, didn’t he, Arthur?”

  “Yes. He was very careful like that.”

  “Hoping, perhaps, that one day he might bring the blackmailer to justice. Well, justice worked a little too slowly for Frank Bartlett—but we will finish the job for him.”

  There was a gentle knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  It was PC Stan Knight, my little blond cop, right on cue, looking very neat and fuckable in his blue uniform.

  “Just to let you know, Doctor Mitchell, that I’m stationed outside the door as requested. And there are police officers at the front and back of the house, and at points along the road.”

  “Good man, Knight,” said Weston. “Carry on.”

  Stan saluted, winked at me, and left the room.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” said Ross. “You surely don’t think that one of us—”

  “Very useful, that ledger,” I continued. “Proof that Bartlett was being blackmailed. All there in black and white. You’re very efficient, Tippett. I know Frank Bartlett relied on you in all things.”

  “I did my best,” said Tippett, with a slight break in his voice. His eyes were wet.

  “I’m sure you did. But even you couldn’t be expected to isolate and identify the person who was delivering these blackmail demands to the office. Perhaps they were posted and delivered by the postman. Perhaps they were brought by messenger. It’s impossible to keep track of everything in a busy City law firm, isn’t it?”

  “If I had any idea who it was, I would have told you,” said Tippett. “But I know no more about it than Mr. Bartlett knew. Or Mr. Ross.”

  “I assure you,” said Ross, “I kept my nose out of Bartlett’s p
rivate affairs.”

  “Like the good friend you were,” I said. “But not everyone was so uninterested, or should I say disinterested, in Frank Bartlett’s private affairs. Were they, Trent?”

  “I should think not,” said Trent, taking a swig of whiskey and smoothing down his moustache. “My poor sister had to put up with a great deal. She tried to turn a blind eye, but there came a point when there was so much money being paid that she couldn’t help but notice. The staff’s wages weren’t being paid.”

  “Imagine that.” I said. “And what did you advise?”

  “Oh, I’ve never had any influence over Vivie,” said Trent. “She’s very much her own woman. I advised her against marrying Bartlett in the first place, and when we found out that the leopard hadn’t changed his spots, as she rather hoped he might, then I advised her to leave him. But she didn’t. She’s a loyal old stick, my sister. I suppose, in her way, she loved him.”

  “She certainly enjoyed the material benefits of being married to him.”

  “That’s a rotten thing to say.”

  “Maybe. But true nonetheless. There wasn’t a great deal of money in your family, was there? I don’t imagine your sister was too sorry to make such an advantageous match, whatever Bartlett’s tastes.”

  “If you’re implying that she married him for money, you’re very wrong.”

  “All right. We’ll call it a love match, if you prefer. Or a civilized arrangement between two mature adults. Perhaps it suited your sister to have a certain amount of freedom—”

  “How dare you! Are you implying that Vivie was unfaithful?”

  “Maybe. Or perhaps she was simply glad to be undisturbed at night.”

  “That’s a disgraceful suggestion.”

  “They never had children, did they?”

  “No. Thank God.”

  “No heirs at all, in fact.”

  “No.” Trent looked a little nervous.

  “So when Bartlett died, his entire estate passed to his wife, and when she dies… What do you know of your sister’s will, Mr. Trent?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Well, then, I have the advantage. Mr. Ross has been kind enough to give us the details—”

  “Under police duress,” said Ross, flushing dark with anger. “This is all most abnormal.”

  “The whole case is abnormal, from beginning to end,” I said, “but not in the way you may think.”

  “So—what did her will say?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Trent. There is no will. Mrs. Bartlett has never got around to making one.”

  “Despite my constant suggestions that she should,” said Ross. “It’s ridiculous for a woman of her means to die without proper testamentary dispositions.”

  “Like most of us, I suppose, Mrs. Bartlett has no thought of death. The years go by, and these things slip and slide.”

  “So?” said Trent. “There’s plenty of time to remedy that. She’s a wealthy woman.”

  “Or will be,” I said, “when Bartlett’s last will is overturned and Morgan goes to prison. She will inherit everything. But she’s also a very sick woman, as you keep telling us. I certainly hope the shock of her husband’s death doesn’t kill her. What would happen, Mr. Ross, if Mrs. Bartlett were to die intestate?”

  “The estate would pass to her next of kin.”

  “Of course. And that would be…?”

  “Her brother.” He looked at Hugh Trent.

  “This is ridiculous. Vivie’s not going to die. She’ll buck up in a few days. The shock has knocked her back, but she’ll get over it. Bartlett’s not such a great loss.”

  “And she has all that lovely money to console herself with.”

  This was too much for Trent, who stood up and made for the door. “I’ve had enough of this. The poor woman has just lost her husband under the most distressing circumstances, and you’re suggesting—”

  “Stop there, please, Mr. Trent,” said Weston. “Let’s calm down and sit down, shall we?”

  This was not what I wanted him to do at all. It suited my purposes to wind Trent up to the highest pitch of anger, in order to justify my next move.

  “Your sister is nothing more than a money-grubbing cheat,” I said. “If the blackmailer didn’t drive Bartlett to his death, his wife would have done it herself.”

  “How dare you!”

  “In fact, I half suspect that she was the person behind the letters, the demands for money—”

  “That is an outrageous suggestion.”

  “Outrageous? Or the most natural thing in the world? A woman disappointed, who sees money slipping out of her hands, and who discovers that she has been finally disinherited—in favor of a man? A queer? Like her husband?”

  Trent lost his temper, pulled back his arm, and aimed for my jaw. I ducked just in time, but the blow struck me on the ear, and it hurt like hell. In pain and shock, I picked up my glass of whiskey—I’d filled it right up to the brim with neat scotch—and threw it directly in Trent’s face.

  “Now, Stan!” I yelled, and the door burst open.

  Trent was spluttering, dripping with whiskey, wiping the stinging liquid from his eyes. But before he could move, Stan was behind him, grabbing his arms, securing them with handcuffs. Trent shouted and cursed, but he could do little more than struggle.

  “Good God,” said McDermott, who was the first to notice what was happening. “Look at the feller’s moustache!”

  All eyes focused on Trent’s upper lip, where his splendid moustache, that feature that marked him so strongly as a man of property and propriety, was peeling away from his face.

  Slowly, slowly, it came unstuck, finally hanging on by a corner, dangling down over his chin like a very large, bedraggled caterpillar. Trent watched it, cross-eyed. Finally, after clinging on for what seemed like an age, it fell to his lapel, and thence to the floor. Weston sprang forward, picked it up, and put it between the folds of a clean handkerchief.

  “I’ll take care of that for you,” he said. “And the side-whiskers too, when they come off.”

  He was right: Trent’s splendid sideburns were starting to curl up at the edges, as the whiskey dissolved the spirit gum that held them in place.

  “Now,” I said, stepping up to him and running my fingers through his hair, “we only have to do this”—I brushed the hair forward, changed the center parting to a side parting, arranged it roughly, and stepped back—“and I think we will all agree that Mr. Hugh Trent looks completely different.”

  “Jesus,” said Sean Durran. “It’s him.”

  “The resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks is striking, isn’t it? Congratulations, Mr. Trent. You could have been a movie star. You could have made it in Hollywood. Instead you chose to be a murderer.”

  “You can’t prove a thing,” said Trent, looking guilty and ridiculous in equal parts.

  “Oh, but I can. Durran here recognizes you, don’t you Durran? Is this the man who gave you the letter and the capsule and the message for Bartlett? The man who told you where you could find him, and when? Who gave you fifteen pounds for your troubles—more than you could make from a dozen or more gentlemen?”

  “It is. I swear to God it’s him.”

  “You lying bastard—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Trent,” I said, fighting back an urge to punch him hard in the stomach and knee him in the groin. “You’ve said enough. Save it for the courtroom.”

  “So, you mean,” said Ross, “that it was this man who drove his own brother-in-law to suicide? Who arranged for his death?”

  “Yes. But he had an accomplice. Do you recognize anyone else in the room, Sean?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Who?”

  “Him.” He pointed at Tippett. “The one at the Ship I told you about. Nervous type. One of my regulars. He was there the night that I met Mr. Trent.”

  Tippett was looking desperately around the room, like a trapped rat. “No! I never did a thing!”

  “You told Trent ab
out the original blackmail, didn’t you, Arthur? You gave him the idea of carrying it on, and throwing the suspicion on Morgan. Yes, you know all about Morgan. You noticed the spark between them the very first time he walked into the office. You knew that Frank Bartlett was in love with Harry Morgan—and you realized that this was an opportunity. You knew that Trent was jealous of Bartlett’s money, that he’d do anything he could to get his hands on it, so the two of you cooked up this plot to drive the man to his death and to send Morgan to the gallows.”

  This was the only hypothesis I’d been able to come up with, during the long dark night with Bert snoring beside me. It seemed ludicrous, nightmarish to me then—but, in the cold light of day I could think of nothing better, and when I outlined it to DS Weston at the police station, he didn’t seem to think it was so ridiculous at all.

  From the look on Arthur Tippett’s face, Weston was right. I’d scored a bull’s-eye.

  “There’s nowhere to run, Tippett,” said Weston. “The house is surrounded.”

  “Do you have nothing to say for yourself, man?” said Ross. Tippett hung his head and kept quiet.

  Trent, however, had other plans. Wriggling like an eel, he broke free from Stan’s grasp, kicked open the living room door, and ran crazily across the hall. There was a shout, a crash, and a terrible thud, followed by the sound of wheezing and whimpering.

  “It’s all right, Mitch,” came Bert’s voice from the hall, where I’d stationed him in case we needed a bit of extra muscle. “I’m sitting on him.”

  Weston walked briskly into the hall.

  “Hugh Trent, you are under arrest for the murder of Frank Bartlett. And for the attempted murder of your sister, Mrs. Vivien Bartlett.”

  Ross, McDermott, Godley, and Durran goggled in astonishment.

  “Don’t worry, Trent,” I said. “The doctors are with her now. They think they found her in time. The mercury oxide you have been feeding her for the last forty-eight hours has not been enough to kill her. Not quite.”

  Chapter Seventeen