A Sticky End (17 page)

“Did he introduce himself?”

“Let me think. No, I'm not sure that he did. He asked if I was Sean Durran, and when I said I was he shook my hand and sat down beside me. Very cocky, I thought he was, but I didn't mind because he looked like he had money. Didn't even offer to buy me a drink, which I get most of 'em to do, the price of beer being what it is.”

“And what did he say?”

“Said he had a business proposal to make. I thought it was going to be the usual—come home with me, screw my wife while I watch, come up to my hotel and fuck me or let me fuck you, come into the bog for a quick suck.
Could have knocked me down when he pulls a fiver out of his wallet and tells me that there's another where that came from if we can find a quiet place to talk. So we come up here.”

“It all happens up here, doesn't it?”

“And what did he do, Sean?” asked Bert, eager for the juicy details.

“Nothing.” Durran looked disappointed. “Just talked.”

“I know the type,” said Bert.

“Yeah, but not like that. He said there was a job needed doing and I was the right man for it if I could keep my mouth shut and follow orders.”

“I see. So it was something he wanted to be kept secret?”

“It always is, ain't it? That's the name of the game. You don't get very far in this business if you start shooting your mouth off.”

“Shooting off in your mouth's what most of 'em want,” said Bert, rubbing himself. Of all of us, he was the only one still anticipating an orgy.

“Anyway, he says there's a delivery that needs to be made. What sort of delivery, I says, no funny business I hope, I don't want to get into trouble with the police. No, he says, just a letter. A letter, I says, yes a letter, he says.”

Durran's narrative style was, to say the least, elliptical, but I gathered that his Douglas Fairbanks look-alike had told him to deliver a package to a gentleman he would find in the Wimbledon area, that he would have him pointed out to him, and that he had to “make friends” and “win his trust,” and so on—all of them euphemisms for what Durran, Morgan, and Bartlett had spent last night doing. Then, when he had Bartlett alone, he was to deliver a package and a simple verbal message: “Don't forget.”

“And that was all?”

“I swear. I've done nothing wrong.”

“Apart from buggery, gross indecency, soliciting for an immoral purpose, and living off immoral earnings,” said Stan, still standing by the door.

“And blackmail,” I added.

That was the only thing that Durran took the trouble to deny. “I never blackmailed no one! I fucking hate them bastards! I wouldn't. Never. Tell him, Bert. I wouldn't.” He sounded close to tears.

“Honest, Mitch,” said Bert, his voice trembling with concern, “he's not like that. If he's done wrong, he never meant to.”

“What was in this package?”

“I don't know.”

“A letter?”

“S'pose so.”

“Did Bartlett open it?”

“Not while I was there.”

“Did he seem surprised when you gave it to him?”

“Not 'specially.”

“He didn't say anything? Ask anything?”

“No. He just said thanks, or something like that, and he gave me some money like I said, then I says good night, and he says good night, and I go downstairs to get my clothes.”

“So your clothes were downstairs but you had the letter with you upstairs.”

“Yes. Took it with me. Didn't want to forget.”

“I see. You planned it.”

“Look, sir,” said Durran, a belligerent gleam in his eye, “ten quid probably means nothing to you, but it means a lot to the likes of us. I don't know what you think I've done. Your little friend over there sounds like he's ready to lock me up and throw away the key. But when you're poor, and someone offers you that kind of money, you don't ask too many questions.”

“I understand. And believe me, I wouldn't say no to an
extra tenner myself. Did you ever see the man in the pub again? Douglas Fairbanks?”

“Yes. Just now.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. Up in town. Gave me another five quid for a job well done, he said.”

“You'd arranged to meet him?”

“Told me to come to such and such an address at such and such a time and tell him what happened. So I did.”

“Where?”

“Lyons Corner House on Tottenham Court Road.”

“And he still didn't tell you his name.”

“No. But at least he bought me a cup of tea this time.”

“Sounds like you did very well out of this little arrangement, Durran. You got ten, no, fifteen pounds, you got good and fucked, you got the best shave you've ever had in your life, and you even got a cup of tea.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

I was familiar with the expression; this wasn't an offer, but an accusation. Durran thought I was making fun of him. “Not me. It was you who took the piss, I understand. You and Morgan. In the bath. Ring any bells?”

“Hey,” said Bert. “What's your game? You seem to know a lot about this all of a sudden.”

“I certainly do,” I said, “and so does my friend Stan. I'm not sure that I introduced you properly, did I? This is PC Stanley Knight of the Metropolitan Police.”

“You fucking bastards!” Durran jumped to his feet. “This is a put-up job! You fucking framed me! I deny it all! I made it all up!”

“Calm down, Durran. Nobody's going to arrest you. This is all strictly off the record. Look—you've been honest with me, so in return I'm going to be honest with you. Harry Morgan, whom you met last night with Frank Bartlett, is a good friend of mine. He's in trouble, and I'm trying to help
him. Stan, here, is trying to help me. So we're all in the same boat, right?”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I'm not asking you to believe me. The choice is yours, Durran. We can work together to try to right a great wrong, or we can work against each other. In which case, you're back in the shit.”

“So, your friend's in trouble. What's that to me? If he's done something—”

“He hasn't.”

“Then he's got nothing to worry about, has he? Posh blokes like him always get off the hook.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Durran. But when I said that a great wrong has been done, that's not what I was talking about.”

“Oh? What then? A couple of queers pick up a bit of rough and it doesn't work out the way they planned. What's the matter? You had a quarrel with your mate? Is that what this is all about?”

I kept calm. “Oh no, Mr. Durran. This goes far beyond my hurt feelings, or even my concern for my friend.”

“Go on.” Durran was getting cocky again. It was time to take the wind out of his sails.

“Frank Bartlett is dead.”

Job done. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped in midbreath, and turned as white as a sheet.

“Dead?” asked Bert. “What the fuck—”

“He was found in the bathroom in the early hours of this morning.”

“The bathroom?” said Durran. “The bathroom where—”

“Yes. The bathroom where you had sex last night. The bathroom where you gave Bartlett the letter.”

“What happened?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out. And that's what the police are trying to find out too.”

“You're not going to pin anything on me. I didn't do nothing. I gave him the letter. That's all, I swear. On my baby's life, I swear.”

“Nobody thinks you killed him. Morgan was the last person to see him alive—after you left the house. Unless, of course, you got back in after you left.”

I was testing him, pushing him—but I wanted to see how observant he'd been. If he came up with a glib excuse, an explanation, I might suspect him. “I didn't. I swear I didn't. I left. I went home. Straight home. Ask my missus.”

Good—nothing about routes of access to the house, windows in the bathroom, and so on. He didn't have a ready-made story. I was glad—for his sake. But in the pit of my stomach, a cold feeling told me that this was one more link in the chain that led Morgan to the scaffold. Unless…

“We have to find out who gave you that letter,” I said, “and what it contained. That's the key to the mystery.”

There was a knock on the door. Had we been overheard?

“It's all right,” said Bert, noting my alarm. “It's Vinnie. The landlord. Open the door.”

Stan let the foxy little man in. He was wringing his hands nervously. “I'm closing up, gentlemen,” he said. “Are you going to be much longer? It's gone eleven.”

“We're staying,” said Bert, decisively.

“All of you?”

“All of us.” He didn't consult.

“Well, I don't know,” said Vinnie. “I shouldn't really leave the place unattended…”

“Don't worry about us,” said Durran, digging in his pockets and producing, to my astonishment, a ten-shilling note. “We'll keep an eye on things.”

“Well, as it's you, I suppose it's all right.”

“And no peeping,” said Bert. “I know what you're like.”

“Me?” said Vinnie, backing out of the room with the
ten-shilling note clutched in his skinny paw. “I never—”

“Get out of it,” said Bert. “If we need anything, we'll help ourselves.”

The door closed, and we heard the landlord descending the stairs.

“Dirty old bastard,” said Bert. “He's one of them as likes to watch. Doesn't get much himself. Doesn't want it, from what I can make out, 'cos there's plenty that would give it in exchange for free beer. He's a whatchamacallit.”

“A voyeur?”

“Yeah. And a wankeur an' all.” Bert got up and bolted the door. “Now we won't be disturbed,” he said. “I think it's time for bed.”

“But Morgan—”

“Look, Mitch,” said Bert, “there's nothing we can do before morning. Your friend will spend the night in the cells, even if there's the slightest suspicion that he's done something wrong. Eh, copper? I'm right, aren't I?”

“He's right,” said Stan.

“And there's not much we can do to find Sean's mystery man until tomorrow, is there?”

“I suppose not. But I still want to know—”

Bert stepped toward me and held a finger to my lips. “You've talked enough, mate. We've all talked enough. Now it's time to fuck.”

I couldn't fault his reasoning, and I liked the directness of approach. We were four horny men in a room with two beds, a couple of chairs, and ample floor space, and the hours of darkness ahead of us. Such a God-given opportunity was not to be missed. It was a Sunday night. Anything that could be done had been done. I had tracked down my star witness, hadn't I? I'd found out all I could about Bartlett from the man who knew him best. I'd even enlisted the unofficial assistance of a young police constable, who at this moment was licking his lips, blushing like a virgin bride, and
wondering which of us three was going to fuck him first.

I was wondering the same thing. Did I want to take his cherry? Or did I want to watch as Bert shoved his mammoth meat up Stan's tight white ass? I was spoiled with choice, like a hungry man in an expensive restaurant. I wanted everything on the menu. Every dish looked delicious, and though I'd eaten well, even excessively, in the last 12 hours, I was hungry again.

Not as hungry as Bert, however, who wasted no time in getting to the hors d'oeuvres. He knelt at my feet, placed a hand on each of my thighs, and started caressing me, feeling the muscles through my black pants. I leaned back on my elbows and let him set the pace. He buried his face in my crotch, breathing deeply, sucking at my fly—if he could have drawn me out by suction alone, he would have. I was quickly hard, and Bert could feel it, rubbing the sides of his face against the stiffening length, his stubble making a rasping noise as it sandpapered the wool. Sean watched, squeezing his groin, while Stan looked anxious, thinking that the prize he'd waited for was going to be snatched from him.

“Don't worry, Stan,” I said. “There's plenty for everyone. Why don't you help Sean get undressed while you're waiting?” I had a sudden desire to get everyone naked—we were behind closed doors, and there was no need for anything other than complete nudity.

Bert wasted no time in getting me back down his throat, picking up exactly where we'd left off when we were interrupted in the toilet. His interest in helping me help Morgan was entirely self-serving, but that didn't worry me—especially as the great lunk was such an accomplished cock-sucker. He made none of the mistakes of the novice, instead shielding his teeth with his lips, keeping his mouth wet, applying just enough suction to bring me to full hardness but not so much that I thought he was trying to suck my brains out through my dick. I've had a lot of mouths on
my penis over the years, and of all the common errors in cocksucking that I've encountered, I'd say that overenthusiasm is the worst. A blow job should be a pleasure, not a contest of wills. It should certainly not resemble some kind of industrial process. Bert struck exactly the right balance between smoothness and firmness. I wanted to tell him so, but the most I could manage was a hoarse “Suck it.” That was all the encouragement he wanted, and he went down as far as he could, tightening his lips around the base of my shaft and holding me in his throat for 20 seconds, until he had to come up for air.

Stan was making a good start on Durran, who seemed very content to be undressed. He lay back on the other bed, his hands behind his head, while Stan unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. The body that was revealed was fine, the skin pale, a little fan of hair on the top of the chest, a pair of rosy pink nipples that I couldn't wait to pinch. His underpants were frayed and worn, but clean. His cock was stretching them, sticking straight up toward the ceiling. Stan, unlike Bert, was uncertain how to proceed.