The Secret Tunnel

by Lear, James

  “Wow.”

  “Now, Mr. Mitchell. Your turn.”

  I followed suit, and stripped to the waist. Both Waits and Clive eyed me appreciatively.

  “Good. Dark. Kind of hairy. You’ll make a good contrast. An Arab sheik, perhaps.”

  “Oh, God, Bertie, not another Desert Song—”

  “You’d better strip as well, Clive. To make sure you haven’t let yourself go.”

  “I was under the impression that I would not need to audition.”

  “It’s all about teamwork, Clive. I’ve got to see how you work together. Skin tones, body types. Facial features. Chemistry, boy. That’s what audiences want. Chemistry.”

  Clive sighed and stripped. His body was as beautifully proportioned as a Greek statue, and just as smooth, his skin tanned to a light, even gold. He must have traveled abroad, I thought.

  “There we go. Three of the finest specimens of manhood it’s been my pleasure to view for a long time.” Waits was delighted, scribbling notes on his clipboard. “Now let me see. A young boxer, that’s you, Hanrahan, is training for the big title fight. Can you box, by any chance?”

  Sean threw a few punches; they looked convincing enough.

  “That’ll do. His trainer—that’ll be you, Clive—puts him through his paces, then gives him a rubdown before the fight. A thief breaks into the changing room…” He was pacing about, his eyes closed, drawing absurd images from the air. “He steals your shorts. We don’t need to see that, just the discovery that the shorts are gone. So when you face your opponent in the ring you’re only wearing your boots.”

  Sean looked puzzled, trying to work out the plot.

  “And the opponent,” I said, “would be me, I presume.”

  “Yes. We’ll bill you as something like “The Great Effendi.” I don’t know—something exotic. You strip down to your shorts, but then in the interest of a fair fight you lose ’em, bla, bla, bla, and so on in the usual way until the end of the reel. Clive is there to ensure a fair fight, no hitting below the belt. Hey, that’s it! Good title! Below the Belt. Okay, stay there.”

  He bustled out of the room, and we heard him yelling in the corridor. “You guys done yet? I need the studio!”

  “Surely we’re not going to shoot the movie here and now, are we?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Clive. “Waits doesn’t waste time on rehearsals.”

  “But I thought British-American was a legitimate film studio.”

  “So it is. But these pictures don’t go out with the British-American name on them. It’s all strictly hush-hush.”

  “But why? Surely he doesn’t need to make this kind of stuff.”

  “Are you kidding? How else do you think he finances those terrible Daisy Athenasy pictures? She’s box office poison. If she wasn’t blackmailing him, he’d have divorced her years ago. Hell, he’d never even have married her. But there’s a girl with an eye for the main chance. She knew there was no future in skin flicks…”

  “Gentlemen,” said Waits, returning to the room and holding the door open, “if you would be so good as to come through to the studio. There’s no need to bring your clothes.”

  Below the Belt will never go down in the annals of film history, and I sincerely hope it will never be screened outside certain small but lucrative circuits, but, if nothing else, it serves as a record of a very enjoyable afternoon. My “costars” were both attractive men whom I would have been happy to have in any combination and under any circumstances—but, having them both together, our encounter spiced with exhibitionism, made this a truly epic fuck, almost worthy of D. W. Griffith himself. Waits and his cameraman—a harassed fellow in shirtsleeves and pegged pants—watched us with a kind of appreciative detachment, never touching us except to rearrange a limb or measure a focal length.

  The plot, such as it was, progressed roughly along the lines described by Waits. The entire set was a black back-cloth tacked against the wall, a couple of chairs, and, for the massage scene, a towel-covered table, which wobbled alarmingly when Sean lay on it. Costumes were produced from a couple of enormous wicker baskets bursting with shoes, boots, shirts, and various bits of uniform. Women’s garments mingled promiscuously with men’s. Waits catered to all tastes.

  I watched the first scene from behind the camera. Sean warmed himself up with an impressive display of shadow boxing, until the sweat was dripping from his brow and chest. He had still not, perhaps, grasped the exact nature of what was to follow—and I greatly enjoyed the look of surprise on his face when Clive took control of the action, peeling down Sean’s shorts. For a moment, it looked as if the startled young redhead was going to bolt—but Clive’s experienced hands put him at ease, and soon he had developed an impressive erection, as rosy red as his nipples, standing out in an elegant curve from his ginger bush. He stepped out of the shorts, never removing his boots, and allowed himself to be led to the massage table.

  “Cut!” yelled Waits. “Reset.”

  The cameraman did his measuring and repositioned his camera while Sean got comfortable on the table.

  “I hope this never gets shown in Ireland,” he said, before succumbing to Clive’s caresses. The camera was running again, and soon the massage had turned into a blow job. Sean groaned loudly, burying his fingers in Clive’s long chestnut hair; what a shame, I thought, that we were not shooting with sound. Perhaps Waits would cut in suitable intertitles.

  Just before Sean came, Waits yelled “Cut!” again. The cameraman shot a few close-ups of Sean’s glistening wet cock and beefy ass.

  “Now for the discovery. Look, Sean, where are your shorts? You can’t find them. You look surprised, then shocked. Someone has stolen them. That’s good. Now you hunt around for them, both of you. No, you can’t find them. You scratch your heads. Clive, you turn out your pockets. Maybe he’s got them hidden down his pants, Sean. Have a feel. What’s that? Wow! That’s a big one! Look surprised! You’ve never felt one that big! Good boy, you’re a natural. Okay, Mitch, get ready for your scene.”

  I changed into my shorts and boots, making no effort to disguise the erection that had sprouted sometime during Act One. Any misgivings I may have had about committing my indiscretions to film had been blotted out by lust. I bounded into the ring, threw off the robe that Waits had wrapped me in (I think he was hoping to summon up some flavor of the exotic) and bounced around on the balls of my feet, as I’d seen boxers do. Clive stood between us, keeping us apart, and instructed me to take my shorts off. I needed no second bidding.

  The second Clive stepped back, the boxing theme was abandoned in favor of a form of freestyle wrestling. I grabbed Sean around the neck and pulled him close, pressing my hard cock against his sweaty thigh. He responded by tripping me up; I landed on my back, with him on top of me. Soon we were sucking each other’s cocks, hands grabbing asses, fingers penetrating holes. If this was Sean’s first time with another man, he was a natural.

  Waits kept up a stream of “direction” that was far too repetitive to transcribe here, consisting mostly of the words “yeah,” “cock,” and “ass,” plus a few appropriate verbs. Eventually Clive took off his pants and joined us.

  For the finale, I fucked Sean up the ass while he sucked Clive’s cock. We took turns coming; I pulled out and sprayed over his back and ass, Clive came copiously in his upturned face, and finally we held Sean up between us in a seated position, slipping fingers in and out of his hole, while he jerked himself off to a messy climax.

  “It’s a wrap!” yelled Waits, handing us towels. “Pick up your money on your way out. Thank you, gentlemen.” We cleaned up and started dressing.

  “Right, Ron, what’s next?” asked Waits, returning to the office.

  “Welcome to the stable,” said Clive, patting Sean and me on the back. “If you ever feel like getting together for a spot of rehearsal…”

  “I need a beer,” said Sean, his face still flushed and sweaty. “Will you join us, Mitch?”

  “Sorry, gentlemen. Anot
her time. I have work to do.”

  I descended the stairs slowly, pondering what I had learned about the British-American Film Company and its boss, Herbert Waits. Where did David Rhys fit in the picture? And Peter Dickinson? How much did Hugo Taylor know about his employers—and how much did his employers know about him?

  There was much to consider, but little time in which to do it. I took a bus back to Chelsea. There was barely time to dress for the theater.

  X

  BOY WAS PACING THE HALL WHEN I ARRIVED. “WHERE THE hell have you been, Mitch? We’re going to be late. You’re not even dressed.” His bad mood was not entirely due to the hour; he knew all too well that while he had been at work, I had almost certainly been at play.

  “Won’t take me a moment!” I shouted, bounding up the stairs. I threw off my clothes, rinsed myself fore and aft, and was dressed in my evening wear in moments. We were leaving the house and giving final instructions to the babysitter within five minutes of my arrival.

  I desperately needed time to think. If only I had Morgan to myself: he was a good sounding board for ideas, as well as being a top-quality fuck. Or Bertrand, who was proving himself to be an equally serviceable sidekick. What fun the three of us could have…

  No! Focus, Mitch, focus!

  The cab trundled along the Embankment, while Boy and Belinda chattered about the events of the day, the baby’s latest exploits in the nursery, the chances of Boy securing a desirable promotion.

  I tried to review the latest developments in what I still thought of as “the case.” But with every passing moment, it was slipping further from my grasp. I might as well have been one of the millions who would read about it in the newspaper tomorrow, for all the influence I had on events. If something did not come to light tonight, I would be nothing more than a bit player, a bystander in the drama that had unfolded right under my nose. I might as well forget all my sleuthing pretensions, and concentrate instead on being a good doctor to my patients and a good partner to Vince. He had laughed often enough about my detective mania; this would give him the biggest laugh of all. A murder, two movie stars, diamonds, drugs, a suspicious policeman, even an outrageous dowager, straight out of Agatha Christie. All the pieces of the puzzle were there, and what had I made of them? A muddle. A sperm-soaked mess. I’d fucked it up, in more ways than one, distracted at every crucial point by my restless dick.

  I groaned.

  “What’s the matter, old chap? Got a bit of a headache?”

  I smiled and composed myself. “No, Boy. Just trying to work something out.”

  “Oh, you men and your mysteries,” said Belinda. “Now, look lively. We’re here.”

  Charing Cross Road was choked with traffic, pedestrian, horse-drawn, and motorized. The façade of the Garrick was ablaze with electric light, illuminating the names TALLULAH BANKHEAD and HUGO TAYLOR in vast red letters. Somewhere the words “The Lady of the Camellias” appeared in much smaller type; nobody was here for poor Alexandre Dumas. Almost as bright were the diamonds adorning the heads, throats, and chests of the audience, now piling into the theater in a fur-wreathed crush. We were just in time, and joined the end of the line.

  The five-minute bell was ringing, and there was no time for drinks. We made our way to our box, where Bertrand and Simmonds were already sitting, looking thoroughly awkward in their cobbled-together evening wear. Bertrand was wearing a jacket several sizes too large for him; the sleeves came down way over his hands. But at least his shirt was clean; that was money well spent. They stood up when we arrived and moved to the back of the box—but Morgan soon put everyone at ease. Belinda was as charming as ever; if she had any inkling of the nature of my friendship with her husband, or of the kind of people I associated with, she kept it to herself.

  The theater was packed to the rafters. Up in the gods sat the real Taylor and Bankhead fans, those theatergoers who kept the business alive, who sweated and toiled to afford their tickets and repaid the stars even more in terms of their devotion. Further down, the clothes became more opulent, the faces less expressive of eager anticipation. By the time you got to the dress circle and the orchestra, hardly anyone was looking toward the stage. They were all far too busy talking to friends, waving at acquaintances, standing to show off gowns and jewels. In the other boxes people were drinking champagne and eating sandwiches—and casting suspicious, disapproving glances toward us. Frankie must have been delighted at the thought of placing people like us in the middle of all these titles and jewels. I scanned the boxes for a familiar face—and yes, there was the Prime Minister himself, just as Frankie had said, in earnest conversation with a woman who looked about 100 years old, so encrusted with jewels that she might have been wearing armor.

  And there, in another box, was another familiar face, beneath a turban and a plume of feathers, above a treasure chest of jewels—Lady Antonia. So she was here. Of course. She would be. The chickens were coming home to roost.

  A sudden hush fell over the auditorium, there was a certain amount of pointing and craning of necks, and the orchestra struck up the National Anthem. Everyone turned toward the royal box—just two doors up from us, as it were—and awaited The Presence. Who would it be? King George himself? Queen Mary? The Prince of Wales? Even a good American like me could not suppress a thrill of excitement.

  Everyone stood. In the royal box I saw a glitter of jewels, a flash of brass. A handsome young man in naval uniform advanced to the front of the box, waved to the crowd a few times, then took his seat next to a beautiful young woman in a chic silver sheath dress, a diamond necklace at her throat, a white fox fur around her shoulders.

  The audience, taking its lead from the royal personage, sat down.

  “Who is it?” I asked Morgan.

  “Prince George, isn’t it? Belinda?”

  “Yes, of course it is.”

  “Which one is he, then?”

  “The fourth son,” said Belinda. “The bad one.”

  “Oh!” I began to take more interest. “In what way?”

  “Oh, you know. Affairs left, right, and center. They say he dopes.”

  “No kidding! And who’s that with him?”

  “Oh, it’s that ghastly girlfriend of his, Kiki Preston.”

  Simmonds and Bertrand practically pushed us out of the way to get a look.

  “Non! Is that really her? She is quite beautiful,” said Bertrand, rather grudgingly. “But you can tell, I think, by her eyes…”

  “Tell what?”

  “Ah, she is a notorious drug addict! She is known in your newspapers as the Girl with the Silver Syringe.”

  “You’d kidding.”

  “She’s an American,” said Belinda. “Rich as Croesus, of course, but aren’t they all?”

  “Not this one.”

  “But for some reason she’s taken a fancy to the theater.” Belinda lowered her voice. “Apparently, she’s appeared in revue.”

  “And what’s the connection to Prince George?”

  “Well…the obvious one, I suppose,” said Belinda. “Although I’m not sure if she isn’t barking up the wrong tree, if you know what I mean.”

  “What, you mean he’s—?”

  “Mais oui,” said Bertrand, who seemed to know all the royal scandal while purporting to despise the kind of prurient interest that fostered it. “He is also said to have been the lover of the Maharani of Cooch Behar. Who, perhaps, provided the diamonds that adorn the neck of Miss Preston.”

  “You don’t say. That’s an awful lot of sparklers,” said Morgan, clearly impressed. “I hope you don’t expect me to give you trinkets like that, old girl.”

  “I wouldn’t be seen dead in them,” said Belinda, loyally, casting a lingering look at said sparklers. “I’m quite content with what I’ve got.” She waggled her ring finger, where a tiny diamond shone.

  “One day I’ll buy you a diamond as big as a plum.”

  “I don’t want jewels, Harry. I just want you.”

  This was starting to
make me feel rather unwell, so I turned my attention to the stage. It was well after eight o’clock by now, and the curtain should have been up. The orchestra was getting fidgety; the conductor was in earnest conversation with someone. I sensed a hitch, as did much of the audience.

  People were starting to get restless, when a harassed man in a dinner jacket walked in front of the curtain.

  “Your Royal Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen!” He held up his hands, and the audience was silent. “We apologize for the late start to tonight’s show. This is due to the indisposition of Mr. Hugo Taylor—”

  His next words were lost. Groans and cries of “no!” rang out from the top of the balcony all the way down to the front of the orchestra.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen! Mr. Taylor assures me that he will be able to go on, and craves your patience.”

  There was a burst of applause; again the manager begged for silence.

  “We will have the curtain up in approximately half an hour. In the meantime, the orchestra will entertain us with a medley of light operatic airs. And finally, ladies and gentlemen…”

  There was a pause, a hush; surely he was not going to announce that Tallulah had gone AWOL?

  “Is there a doctor in the house?”

  I stood up immediately—one is trained to do so—and announced my presence to the stage. For a moment, all eyes were on me. Even from the royal box.

  Hugo Taylor looked ghastly. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was shaking.

  The stage manager left us alone.

  “What appears to be the matter, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I’m not sure. I suddenly got taken very ill… Hello, don’t I know you?”

  “We were on the train together.”

  “Thought so. I never forget a handsome face. So you’re a doctor, are you? Any good?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone yet.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Because I rather think that someone is trying to kill me.”

  “What gives you that impression?”

  “You may remember I was attacked on the train.”