Fraternity of the Gun

by J. R. Roberts

  “I’d like to know the answer to that.”

  She put her glass down, stood up, and approached him. She stopped about a foot in front of him. He could see the outline of her nipples beneath the silk.

  “You’re supposed to see to my every need while we’re here, isn’t that right?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  She took his glass from his hand and set it aside on a nearby table. Then she spread her legs and dropped down into his lap. Her weight was pleasant as she leaned forward and kissed him. That was even more pleasant. It went on for a while. He put his hands on her thighs, felt the warmth of her skin through the silk.

  She cupped his face in her hands and sat back.

  “Open my robe,” she told him.

  He did. Her breasts were small, but her skin was flawless and pale, her nipples pink.

  “This is why you annoyed me,” she said. “Because I wanted you.”

  “Wanted?”

  “Want,” she said, “still.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “You’re an uneducated American, and a Westerner,” she said. “You’re not my equal.”

  “You think not?”

  She stroked her own breast with her hand, cupped his chin with the other.

  “Do you want to prove me wrong?” she asked.

  “I think we’re talking about it too much,” he said. He stood up, lifting her in his arms. He carried her to the next room, set her down on the bed. Then he peeled her robe off, flipping her as he did so, removing it and tossing it to the floor.

  She was naked on the bed, the tangled hair between her legs as auburn as the hair on her head. He stroked her breasts, her belly, her flanks. Her nostrils flared as she bit her lip. His hand moved between her legs, probed, came away wet. He lifted his fingers to his nose for a sniff, then licked them.

  “Oh, my . . .” she said. “You’re a nasty man. I knew it.”

  He reached for her again, but she closed her thighs tightly.

  “Undress,” she said. “You can’t touch me again until you are naked.”

  “Have it your way, my lady.”

  He stepped back, began to undress. He set his gun down on the night table, within easy reach.

  “Are you ever without a gun?” she asked.

  “Never,” he said, taking off his boots.

  “Why not?”

  “If I’m ever caught without a gun, I’m a dead man,” he said, stripping off his shirt.

  “Who wants to kill you?”

  “Every young pup who thinks he’s good with a gun,” he said, removing his britches. Now he was naked.

  “Oh my,” she said, taking in his naked body, “you are a lovely man.”

  “Thank you.” His cock stood straight up, swelled by the feel of her in his lap, and the smell of her on his fingers.

  “Come here.”

  He moved closer to the bed. Lying on her back, she reached out and took him with one hand, stroked him so that he swelled even more. A bead of liquid appeared on the head of his cock. She smeared it with her fingers, then lifted them to her nose to sniff, and her mouth to lick.

  “See?” she said. “I can be as nasty as you.”

  “And here I thought you were a lady,” Clint said.

  “Oh, I am,” she said. “On stage, in public, I am ever the lady. But here, in my bedroom, I’m a whore, like most women.”

  She reached for him again and continued to stroke him. Then she tightened her hand and pulled him.

  “Come,” she said, “on the bed with me.”

  He climbed into the bed beside her. She moved over to allow him room, and turned to face him. He kissed her, stroking her again, her thigh, her ass, her back. She held tight to his cock, which was now between them.

  “I hope,” she whispered against his mouth, “that you are ready to give a command performance tonight, Clint Adams.”

  “I’ll certainly do my best,” Clint answered, “my lady.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Henry Irving pulled on his dress trousers, then his boots, shined until they reflected light. He was wearing a fresh white shirt. He stood, reached for his black jacket, and donned it. He looked at himself in the mirror and nodded. Next he took up his top hat and set it atop his head as a rakish angle, attached his black cape, then picked up his silver-tipped walking stick.

  Time for another late-night walk.

  * * *

  As Irving left the hotel, Mr. Green said, “There’s the actor.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Gray said.

  “Where’s he going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We should follow him,” Mr. Green said.

  “He’ll be back.”

  “But . . . we might have a chance to kill him,” Mr. Green argued.

  “Not here,” Mr. Gray said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not in Washington.”

  “Why not?”

  “It will look better if he’s killed in the West,” Mr. Gray said. “By some crazed gunman.”

  “But this is our chance—”

  “And what about the actress?” Mr. Gray asked. “If we kill the actor tonight, the actress will go back to England.”

  Mr. Green took a moment, then said, “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I am,” Mr. Gray said. “You can turn in, Mr. Green. I’ll keep watch here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Mr. Green nodded, turned, and walked away into the shadows.

  Mr. Gray settled himself in the doorway, leaning, arms folded, and continued to watch the front door of the hotel. He doubted very much that the actress would be coming out before morning. He’d keep watch until the actor came back, and then turn in himself.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ellen Terry pushed Clint down onto his back and mounted him. She rode him slowly, up and down, up and down, his hands on her hips, his eyes watching her breasts as they bobbed in front of him.

  “Don’t move,” she said, “just don’t move. I want to enjoy this for a while . . .”

  “As long as you like, my lady,” Clint said.

  She opened her eyes and smiled down at him.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  She increased the tempo then rode him hard, grinding herself down on him each time she came down. He lifted his hips to her, matching her tempo, confident that he would outlast her, because he’d been with many women before, and he knew his own stamina well.

  She began to perspire, and to glisten with it, and finally she fell upon him, exhausted.

  “You bastard!” she said, her face against his chest.

  “You said a command performance,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, I did,” she said. “I just need . . . to rest.”

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t.”

  He grabbed her, flipped her onto her back, and mounted her.

  “Wha—”

  “Quiet!”

  He used his knees to spread her thighs, then drove his hard cock into her. She gasped, her eyes going wide then closing.

  “Oh, God,” she said as he fucked her, taking her hard and fast.

  He slid his hands beneath her smooth ass, gripped it tightly enough that he knew he’d leave finger marks on her. She wrapped her legs around him and held on to him with her arms, her nails raking his back.

  Her breath came in gasps as he took her, grunting as he drove into her. The room filled with the mingled scent of their sex and sweat, with the sounds of their grunts and groans.

  Clint knew this night that if he had an audience, he’d be earn
ing his own standing ovation.

  * * *

  Mr. Gray straightened and dropped his arms to his sides. Henry Irving was coming back down the street, two hours after he left. Mr. Gray watched as Irving walked with a bounce in his step, obviously pleased with whatever he had done or seen during his walk.

  The actor exchanged a greeting with the doorman and entered the hotel. It was so late Mr. Gray felt sure Irving would go to his room and go to bed.

  That was what he intended to do.

  * * *

  Ellen Terry lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest.

  “You’re wearing me out,” she said.

  “I thought that was the point,” Clint said. “Or am I wrong?”

  She stole a look at him over her shoulder. He was lying behind her, admiring her smooth ass.

  “The point was for me to exhaust you,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, “I’m sorry if I disappointed you.”

  “I didn’t say I was disappointed,” she said, “just exhausted. Let’s get some sleep.”

  “All right.” He started to get up from the bed.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “You said you wanted us to go to sleep. I’m going to my room.”

  “I want you to sleep here,” she said. “I may be tired, but I’m not finished with you yet.”

  He got back into bed.

  “I just need a couple of hours of sleep,” she said, cuddling up to him.

  She closed her eyes and was asleep almost immediately.

  Clint figured this was a good way to secure Ellen Terry’s safety. On the other hand, Henry Irving could have been out roaming the streets, even though he’d been in his room when Clint checked.

  He closed his eyes. It would probably be easier to keep an eye on them when they went west, where he was more at home.

  He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Ellen Terry woke him twice during the night and they went at it again. She still insisted on trying to exhaust him, but only succeeded in exhausting herself. Finally, she fell asleep for the rest of the night, which he appreciated.

  He was much more tired than he wanted her to know.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the morning, Clint slipped from the bed without waking Terry and went to his own room. He washed and dressed, went down to the front desk to see if any replies had come in from his telegrams.

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “We sent a bellman to your room, but there was no answer.”

  “I’m a sound sleeper,” Clint said. He accepted the telegrams the clerk gave him.

  It was 8:30 a.m. They had a 2 p.m. train to catch, which left plenty of time for breakfast, time to read the telegrams and, perhaps, a local newspaper.

  He went to the dining room and got a table for four, just in case Irving or Terry came down.

  “Steak and eggs,” he told the waiter, “and a newspaper, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “Comin’ up.”

  Drinking coffee, he read the telegrams. His three friends had all responded, but to no avail. They hadn’t heard a word of a hired killer taking a job to kill two visiting actors from England. Each promised they would keep their ears open and report to him when they heard anything.

  He folded the telegrams and put them in his pocket. His breakfast came and he started to eat. As he did, Henry Irving came walking into the dining room.

  “Ah,” he said, “I thought I was the first to awaken. May I join you?”

  “Of course.”

  Irving sat down and told the waiter, “I would like some . . . what do you call them here . . . oh yes, some flapjacks.”

  “Comin’ up, sir,” the waiter said.

  “Thank you.”

  Irving poured himself some coffee, looked across the table at Clint.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “I had a very . . . satisfactory night,” Clint said.

  “Good, good,” Irving said. “I slept soundly myself.”

  “That’s good,” Clint said.

  When the waiter brought Irving his breakfast, he also brought a newspaper for Clint.

  “Hot off the presses, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint spread the paper and saw the story right away. A woman killed on the streets—stabbed.

  Could he accuse Henry Irving simply because the man liked to take walks? Had he taken a walk last night? He decided to broach the subject as a curiosity.

  “This is strange,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Irving asked.

  “This story in the newspaper.” Clint folded the paper so that it featured the story of the murdered girl, and then passed the newspaper to the actor.

  Irving scanned the story, his face impassive, and then passed the paper back to Clint.

  “Terrible, terrible thing,” he said.

  “I’ve noticed,” Clint said, “that this sort of thing is happening quite a bit here in the East. Boston, Philadelphia, and now Washington.”

  “All of the cities we’ve performed in,” Irving pointed out. “Yes, that’s very odd.”

  The waiter came and set Irving’s flapjacks down in front of him. The actor covered them with copious amounts of maple syrup and dug in.

  “You know,” Clint said, “I thought I noticed you going out for a walk one night. Was it Boston? Or when we were in New York?”

  “Probably all of them,” Irving said. He picked up a napkin and wiped maple syrup from his face. “I often go for walks at night.”

  “I wonder if you were anywhere near these locations,” Clint said.

  “If I was,” Irving said, “I didn’t see or hear anything. Quite a shame. Perhaps I could have been of some assistance to these poor women. Or even to the police.”

  “That’s true.”

  Irving looked at the door.

  “Ellen should come down and have breakfast,” Irving said. “We must get ready for our train.”

  “It doesn’t leave until two,” Clint said. “We have time.”

  “I knocked on her door as I passed. She didn’t answer, but perhaps I managed to wake her.”

  “Well, if she doesn’t come down soon, we’ll have to go and get her.”

  They were finishing their breakfast when the desk clerk suddenly appeared at their table.

  “Excuse me, sirs.”

  They both looked up at him.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a policeman in the lobby. He would like to come in and talk to you.”

  “To me?” Clint asked.

  “No, sir,” the clerk said, “to Mr. Irving.”

  “A policeman?” Irving asked. “Whatever for?”

  “I—I don’t know, sir,” the clerk said. “He asked for you, and I told him you were in here. He asked me to come in and ask if you would like to come out, or should he come in?”

  Irving looked at Clint, who simply shrugged. He could think of only one reason a policeman would want to talk to the actor. Maybe somebody saw him during his walk the night before.

  How would he explain it to Trehearn and the two governments if Henry Irving was arrested for murder?

  “By all means,” Irving said, “let the gentleman enter. The least we can do is offer him a cup of coffee.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said. “I’ll tell him.”

  As the clerk left, Irving looked across the table at Clint once again.

  “What can this be about?” he said.

  “Damned if I know,” Clint replied as another man entered the dining room, “but we’re about to find out.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The man approached the table, a bowler hat in his hand. He
wore a gray suit, had a large, carefully manicured mustache, and a shock of gray hair.

  “Mr. Irving. Sir?” the man asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Irving said. “How can I help you?”

  “Uh, sir . . .” The policeman looked curiously at Clint.

  “My name is Clint Adams,” he said as the man studied him.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the man said. “I’m Inspector Lester.”

  “Inspector,” Irving said, “why don’t you sit down and join us. May we offer you some coffee?”

  “Coffee would be good,” the inspector said. “I’ve been up most of the night.”

  “And is that what brings you here this morning?” Irving asked, pouring the policeman a cup of coffee while the man seated himself.

  “Yes, sir. It is. Thank you.” He picked up the coffee and sipped it gratefully.

  “Why don’t we get you some breakfast as well?” Irving offered.

  “I am hungry, but no thank you, sir. That will have to wait, I’m afraid.”

  “All right, then,” Irving said. “Why don’t you tell us what is on your mind?”

  “Well, there was a murder on the streets last night,” the inspector said. “A young woman was stabbed to death.”

  “Yes,” Irving said, “we read about it in the newspaper.”

  “It made the newspaper already?” Lester asked. “That was fast. Well, this is Washington. Word gets around very fast.”

  “But what brings you here, to talk to Henry?” Clint asked.

  “Ah, well,” Lester said, “we have a witness who described the killer.”

  “How fortunate,” Irving said.

  “Oh, they can’t identify him. Didn’t see his face. But they did describe how he was dressed. He wore a dark suit, a cape, a top hat, and carried a cane.”

  “Ah,” Irving said, “your killer seems to have similar tastes in attire to me.”

  “Yes,” the inspector said, “that’s what brings me here. Someone saw you going out last night for a walk, dressed that way.”

  “Who would that have been?” Clint asked. “Who saw him and got the information to you so fast?”