A Sticky End (10 page)

That did it. The blue eyes turned to me, the rose-pink lips parted.

“Don't tell anyone I told you this, sir.”

“It's okay, Knight. You can trust me.” I almost added “I'm a doctor.”

“The thing is… I mean, Mr. Morgan's really lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Damn right.”

“I've had a friend like that myself.”

Oh yes? I would have to find out more about this mystery friend—later. “I bet. You're the kind of guy any decent fellow would want to—help.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure.” This was developing nicely; should I ask him in for a further discussion of Anglo-American relations?

“And I'd hate to see an innocent man go to the gallows.”

The gallows? Fuck, that took the wind out of my sails. But I kept a poker face and said, “You're right, there, Knight.”

“The weird thing is, sir—I mean, it was Mr. Bartlett's, wasn't it? It's not like it was something that Mr. Morgan had given him.”

“What was?”

“The mouthwash.”

“What about the mouthwash? Spit it out.”

“That's what they sent to the lab, you see.”

“Bartlett's mouthwash? Why the hell would they—”

“And when the lab called back at lunchtime, that's when Sergeant Godley contacted DS Weston, and—”

“What the hell did they find?”

“I shouldn't tell you this, sir, but—” He leaned close; I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Strychnine.”

Holy shit. Strychnine.

“And do they think—”

“I don't know, sir.” He was closing down, aware that he'd said too much. But the damage was done.

“Do you have any idea what strychnine does to a man?”

“Kills him, sir.”

“Yes, Knight, kills him—eventually. But first it causes agonizing convulsions, starting with the head and neck, then moving through the body until, finally, the backbone is arching continually and uncontrollably. What kills you isn't the poison itself—it's exhaustion or asphyxiation. It's the most horrible way to die.”

Knight was pale. “Right.” He ran a finger inside his collar. “I see.”

“And don't you think that if Mr. Bartlett had died of strychnine poisoning, then Morgan would have heard something? He'd have been thrashing around on that bathroom floor like a landed fish. Morgan's a heavy sleeper—trust me, we used to share rooms at Cambridge, and he could sleep through a lot. But I think he might have heard a man dying of strychnine poisoning in his bathroom, don't you?”

“I suppose so.”

“And how do you explain the razor cuts?”

“I don't—”

“Surely Godley doesn't think that Bartlett attempted to shave after taking strychnine, and the razor got out of control and accidentally slashed his wrists?”

“I couldn't—”

“Why are you looking for a secondary cause when it's clear that Bartlett bled to death?”

Knight was gaping, and looking puzzled; this one would never get beyond the rank of sergeant, I thought. But it wasn't his intellect that attracted me. I needed help, and I wanted to fuck him. Not a bad basis for a beautiful friendship.

“Another cup of tea?”

“What I really need is a drink,” he said, clearly rattled by my melodramatic account of strychnine poisoning, something I've never actually witnessed, thank God, but have read about in medical textbooks, not to mention Conan Doyle.

“A brandy?”

He frowned. “I'm on duty.”

“You won't be for much longer if you don't pull yourself together. You look as if you're going to faint. What is it? The idea of the razor slashing into the flesh, the blood spurting out of the wound, or the horror of the convulsions?”

That did the trick. “Perhaps just a very small one.”

“You'd better come inside. It wouldn't do for anyone to see you drinking out on the street. Come on. It won't take a moment.”

He followed me down to the kitchen with uncertain footsteps, like a stray dog that can't quite believe it's been adopted. I wasn't going to pounce; I know enough about the male mentality to realize that a precipitate move can spoil any hope of winning the ultimate prize. But to have him alone in the house, with a drink in his hand, was a big step. He'd disobeyed two important orders in order to please me;
I'm a great believer in starting at the thin end of the wedge and working my way in.

The brandy worked its magic, and two spots of red appeared in his cheeks. That English coloring always appeals to me. I'd make that flush spread all over his face, down his neck, onto his chest—

“Good stuff, huh?”

“Yeah. That's better. Sorry about that, sir, I felt a bit—”

“Call me Mitch, please.” I gave him a hand. “Dr. Edward Mitchell to my enemies, but Mitch to my friends.”

“Mitch.” I could see that he liked the Americanness of the name. “Right.” He finished his brandy at a swig and looked toward the door, eager to get back to his post. This I could not allow.

“So what are these ‘inconsistencies' they're talking about?”

“I don't know, Mitch.”

“I think I do. There's poison in the mouthwash, but that's not what killed Bartlett, right?” I poured Knight another cup of tea; he took it without thinking. “There's an indication of foul play, but no actual evidence. The strychnine did not enter Bartlett's body.”

“Maybe.” He frowned over his teacup.

“So they're thinking—suicide, or murder? Looks like suicide—locked door, slashed wrists, razor. But they don't want that, do they? You cops want an arrest and a conviction and a nice neat line drawn under it. Case closed.”

“I don't think that's—”

“So you're looking for ways to implicate Morgan. You've ruled out the obvious theory, the ‘mystery intruder'—because nobody entered the house. So now you're suggesting that Morgan's prints are on the razor, or he put poison in Bartlett's mouthwash. In short, you're trying to frame him.”

“No!”

“And why? Why not just let it be what it appears to be—suicide? Because if a prominent man like Bartlett commits
suicide, then a lot of unpleasant questions will be asked. Who knows what will come out? No—easier to close ranks, find a culprit, and be done with it. What are they doing now? Trying to scare Morgan into a confession?”

“I don't know.” Poor Knight looked close to tears—just as I meant him to.

“I bet you'll find they're all Freemasons,” I continued, warming to my theme. “They're covering up for a brother in trouble, so Morgan gets the chop. It's wrong, Knight. It's evil.”

Knight's voice was shaky. “I need the toilet.” He stood up, and headed for the stairs.

“Not that way. The upstairs bathroom is locked—and covered in blood.”

He stopped in his tracks, his face pale. I took him by the shoulders and steered him to the scullery. “There's one in there, for the staff, I guess.”

“Thanks, Mitch.”

“That's okay, Knight. Hey—that's not fair. What's your first name?”

“Stan.”

“Go ahead, Stan.” I opened the lavatory door. “All yours. Though, now that we're here, I need to go, myself.” I started unbuttoning. “You don't really believe this was murder anymore than I do, do you, Stan?” I started pissing. “Come on, step up. There's room for two.”

His bladder got the better of his scruples—that's tea and brandy for you—and he took his place beside me. “No, I don't.” He pulled out a nice-looking piece, very pale against the dark material of his uniform, fringed with a little golden fuzz.

“And if it was suicide,” I said, in midflow, “there was a reason for it.”

“Must have been.” He was pissing too, our streams mixing.

“And it's up to us to discover the reason, and save Morgan from the gallows.” I looked him in the eye. “Isn't it, Stan?”

Silence for a while, broken only by our liquid duet.

“Isn't it, Stan?”

“Yes, Mitch.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

He thought for a while, as our streams ran dry. Would he break all the rules in the police book, and help me with my investigation? Or would his training win the day?

I needed leverage. So, instead of putting my cock away, I kept shaking it until it started to grow.

Stan did not look away.

I HAD A POWERFUL SENSE OF DÉJÀ VU—ME, A YOUNG policeman, a pissoir… Were all my encounters with the forces of law and order destined to be played out against the tinkle of urine on porcelain? Well, there has to be some excuse for these boys to expose their private parts, and what could be more natural and explicable than airing your hose in order to pass water?

But now—well, there was no need for both of us to be standing in the pisser with our dicks hanging out, mine half hard, his stirring.

I had to get him over to my side before he had a chance to think about the step he was taking.

“Looks like you needed that,” I said—a totally fatuous remark, but it did the trick.

“Yeah.”

I swung my hips from side to side, making my cock wave and rise. “Hey—wanna fight?”

“What?”

“A cock fight.”

“You mad?”

“We do this all the time in America.” That seemed to persuade him, and he stepped up to face me. “Yeah—looks like you're nearly ready.”

His cock was fully hard now, and he blushed again.

“Two out of three?”

He had no more idea what I was talking about than I did, but he understood enough. We stood a foot apart, hands on hips, waving at each other. It took a bit of coordination, but then—baff!—my cock hit his, broadside. After that it was easy to make it happen again and again, until we slipped into a rhythm, swaying our bodies, our cocks getting stiffer with every contact. He was grinning like a kid with a brand-new toy, and would have continued with this “traditional American” game if I had let him. But I decided it was time to make the rules a bit clearer, and, as our cocks collided once again, I reached down and grabbed them both in one hand, pressing them together so he could be in no doubt that one was just as hard as the other.

“Looks like I win,” I said. “You have to do a forfeit.”

He didn't ask by what recondite scoring I'd “won,” but just said, “What?”

“The loser has to kiss the winner.”

“Kiss?”

I pointed down. “Yeah. There.”

“On the…”

“Exactly.” I mashed our pricks together again, then stroked the two shafts. “Go on.”

I let him go, and he knelt, just as obedient as I could wish. I must write a letter of commendation to the Police Training College.

“You want me to…kiss it?”

“That's the rules, Stan.”

“Where?”

“Doesn't matter.”

He frowned, as if deciding whether to plant his lips on the flower or the stem—and then, some decision obviously reached, he pouted his mouth into a small
O
and placed it right on the end of my cock. It fitted neatly into the little pucker of his lips, until his lips parted in a kissing noise, and he drew back. But now we were joined by a thin, glistening string of precum that hung for a moment like a skipping rope, then snapped, leaving viscous drops on his mouth.

“How was that, Mitch?”

“That was good.”

“Want me to do it again?”

“Sure. It's all yours.”

This time it was an open-mouthed kiss, and my cock, touching for the first time the wet, firm softness of his tongue, forged ahead. I rested a hand on Stan's bristly blond head, feeling the warmth of his scalp, and gently drew him in. He looked up for reassurance, his bright blue eyes troubled, as young men's eyes so often are at the first taste of penis. I smiled back down.

“That feels good, Stan. Really good.”

That did the trick; he closed his eyes, and concentrated on the new sensation of cock in his mouth. It's a long time since my lips first parted to admit a man, but I still remember the shock of the size, the stiffness, the salty taste, the strangeness of taking one body part into another. I looked below Stan's head to see if he was enjoying this as much as I was. He was.

After sucking ineptly on my cock for a while, Stan came up for air with a look on his face that clearly said
What now?
This is always a difficult question for me, especially when faced with the prospect of a handsome young convert to whom I want to do everything in a limited time. Top of my list was fucking him, but it was a high-risk strategy—I didn't want to send my new friend running, or rather hobbling, back to the station and busting me in a fit of postcoital
remorse. I had to keep this first encounter lighthearted and, above all, pleasant. So I cupped his chin in my hand, feeling the wetness of his saliva where it had smeared against his handsomely molded chin, and raised him to his feet. His cock was as hard as it could be. It was time for a little reciprocation.

I took him in my hand and jerked him off slowly; he let out a loud sigh, and for a moment I thought he'd come. I had to check my hand for sticky evidence to make sure he hadn't. I maneuvered him to the toilet and sat him down, taking care to lower the seat first. Then I dropped to my knees between his spread legs and got to work. My hands felt firm, muscular, football player's thighs through the rough blue material of his uniform pants, and my tongue tasted a fresh, hard cock. I gave one good, slow lick along the underside of his shaft and then, when I reached the top, opened up and swallowed him whole. He groaned as if someone had winded him, and his hips bucked upward, leaving the seat and allowing me to slip my hands around and cup his ass. So PC Stan Knight got his first blow job, and I could tell by the rigidity of his cock and the way his fingers clamped down into my hair that he'd be back for more.