A Sticky End (14 page)

Since we were
chez moi
, so to speak, there was lubricant within easy reach—a trusty jar of Vaseline in my toilet kit. So, unwilling to break the contact, I pushed Tippett across the floor with my cock. We would have appeared comical to
any onlooker, like contestants in a depraved variation of the three-legged race, my ankles hobbled by my pants, Tippett trailing clothes behind him, one shoe off, the other still on, his nose nearly touching the carpet. But we weren't laughing; we just shuffled toward the washbasin, and I found what I was looking for. I unscrewed the lid and took a small gob; I wanted this fuck to be possible, but not easy.

It didn't take long before I was inside him, and God, his ass was tight. He was making noises as if he were in pain, but at the same time he was reaching around, grabbing me, pulling me in. I steadied myself, bent my knees for extra stability, and forged ahead. Soon I was buried up to the hilt, the dark hair around my cock pressing against Tippett's lily-white ass cheeks. I gave one last shove, and suddenly he shut up, as if he were holding his breath. Give him a moment to get used to it, I thought, and then fuck the living daylights out of him.

Which is precisely what I did. It was just as well that my fellow residents were either at work or fast asleep; anyone nearby and awake would have had no trouble identifying the nature of the rhythmic thumping that came from my room. Tippett braced himself against the oversize wardrobe, which banged against the wall. There was a dirty, somewhat decayed mirror on one of the doors, which afforded me an excellent view of what I was doing—and just how much Tippett was enjoying it. His face, so close to the glass that his breath was misting it, expressed nothing short of rapture.

He was close, and I wanted to finish with us both naked in bed. To that end I withdrew, raised him to a standing position—he was a little shaky on his legs, just as he should have been—and kicked off my shoes. He followed my lead, and soon we stood naked, facing each other, both stiff, both breathing heavily. Tippett made the first move, pressing himself against me, rubbing the hair on my chest and stomach, kissing my neck. We walked, almost waltzed, to the bed,
and I laid him down. He knew what he wanted, whether by instinct or experience, and drew his knees up to his chest. After a minute of shifting and thrusting, I was back inside him, delivering the final movement of this sexual symphony. Tippett's eyes were open, but how much he saw, I do not know. I fucked him deep, slow, and hard for a while, and then, feeling my orgasm approaching, I lifted myself onto my toes, put my whole body weight onto the fulcrum of my prick, and pounded him like a jackhammer. His hand stole to his groin, working in between my thrusts, and he started tugging. It did not take long before he was thrashing around underneath me, but I knew how to hold him in place, fucking him through his climax, knowing that the last few merciless thrusts up his tender ass would stay with him for many days to come.

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.

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 usually 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.