A Sticky End (26 page)

“Well?”

“If there has been an error, sir, I'm sure it is just that. An error.”

“This Morgan—is he on the level?”

“Sir, the agents of the London Imperial Bank are absolutely—”

“Save your breath. I asked you a question. We're on the verge of pulling the account. Tell me straight: is Morgan on the level?”

“When Mr. Moore returns with the file…”

I stood up. “If I suspect for one moment that there has been some kind of wrongdoing here, I will have the law down on you. Mitchell and Mitchell is a respected name in Boston. You should know that. Your Mr. Morgan—he better not have done anything wrong.”

“I'm sure there is a perfectly simple explanation, sir.”

“Let me talk to him. I want answers.”

“I'm afraid that will not be possible,” said Sturley. “Mr. Morgan is no longer working for us.”

That took the wind out of my sails. “What? As of when?”

“As of this morning. Pending…investigations.”

To play my role to the full, I should have started yelling blue murder at this point, but I was so distressed to learn that Morgan had been fired that I could barely breathe. What had happened? Was the breath of scandal enough to lose a man his position? Or was there more? Had Mr. Sturley of the London Imperial Bank good reason to dismiss his employee?

The door opened, and Moore came in empty-handed.

“We don't seem to be able to lay our hands on a file for the Mitchell account just at present, sir. Would you be able to supply us with any details?”

Moore and Sturley exchanged a glance, and then both looked at me. I reached into my jacket pocket, then thought better of it.

“To hell with you!” I barged past Moore and out the door. “You'll be hearing more of this!” I yelled, and got out of the London Imperial Bank as quickly as I could.

The net was closing around Morgan. Tippett was right—if I could not prove that someone else had caused Bartlett's death, there was an overwhelming weight of suspicion that would send my best friend to his death, or at least to a lifetime of imprisonment, and disgrace for his family.

Everything depended on one person: Jack McDermott. A gigolo.

It was nearly four o'clock.

I ran all the way from the City across Blackfriars Bridge and along the embankment to Waterloo, glad of the pounding of my heart, which sent blood racing around my body, clearing my mind. Anything was better than the horror of what was forming there.

McDermott was waiting for me on the street outside the Forces and Reserves Club.

“Come on up, sir,” he said. “It's not busy. We can talk.”

“I hope you've got good news for me, McDermott.”

“I don't know about that,” he said, leading the way up a narrow staircase. “But I'm going to tell you the truth.”

“AS YOU PROBABLY KNOW, WE DON'T MAKE A LOT OF MONEY in the guards.”

“So I've been told. At least, that's the excuse most of you use for hustling, right?”

McDermott sighed. Away from the barracks, dressed in civilian clothes, he looked less obviously like trade. Less desirable, perhaps, but certainly more likable. We were seated in the corner of the Forces and Reserves bar, a shabby room that hadn't been decorated since the turn of the century, by the look of it. The fancy print wallpaper was faded and peeling, the green velvet upholstery had a tired, dusty look. At night, packed with servicemen, the air thick with smoke, illuminated by the yellow glare of electric bulbs, it would look inviting, exciting. Now, in the fading light of the afternoon, it simply looked depressing. But it was empty, apart from the obviously alcoholic old barman who was repeatedly wiping the same pint glass with the same dishcloth while staring into space. And McDermott clearly felt at home here, sufficiently relaxed to speak without the
cringing fear of discovery that marked our earlier interview.

“I won't deny that I like it,” he said. “What you did to me earlier. Being with another fellow. All that stuff. But you don't let on.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I'd be drummed out of the army so fast my feet wouldn't touch the ground. Do you know what they do with queers? Military prison and a dishonorable discharge—and they're the lucky ones.”

“So why not leave? You could make a good living on civvy street. You've got what it takes.”

“I could never make as good a living as I do with a guard's uniform on my back. That's the other thing. The kind of gentlemen that I go with—they like you to be a real man. They like the uniform and all that goes with it. They don't want to think that you're like them; it's all part of the game. We pretend that we're just doing it for the money, that we're putting up with them for the few quid that we get at the end. Don't ask me why, but that's how they want it.”

“So if you rolled over and told them that you liked a cock up your ass—”

“Shh!” Even here, with no one to hear us except one red-nosed old fart who was half asleep on his feet, McDermott was wary of plain speaking. “Look, what I might or might not like is neither here nor there. I'm trying to tell you how things really are.”

“I understand. You play the man, and you make the money. The guards regiment looks after you pretty well, I guess. Barracks, companionship, three meals a day, clothes on your back, orders to follow. All the basic necessities of life. The bread and butter, so to speak. And for an enterprising young man with a handsome mug and a nice piece between his legs, the rest is gravy.”

“Exactly.”

“And don't tell me—you're saving up for the day when
you leave the army, so you'll have a nice little nest egg with which to start a new life.”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Why not, indeed. I can see why gentlemen would be generous to you, Jack McDermott. You're very good. If you can give it as well as you can take it…”

“I can.”

“I believe you.”

“Want to find out?”

It was a generous offer, but I was exhausted enough to overlook it. “What I want to find out, McDermott, is why a good-looking, popular young man like you would turn to blackmail. Prostitution I can understand; you've got something to sell, and I'm sure you get a good price for it. Blackmail, however…”

The words hovered in the air for a while. I waited.

“You don't just wake up one morning, discover that your wallet is empty, and think, I know—I'll blackmail some old queer.”

“What, then?”

“You don't know what they're like, some of them. They take you for granted. Especially the rich ones. They haven't got a clue what it's like to be poor.”

I looked at McDermott's fine, clean shirt, his handsomely tailored blazer and sharply creased trousers, and wondered just how poor he thought he was.

“They think they can get away with murder, some of them.”

Murder? Just a figure of speech, I suppose.

“Once they've had you a couple of times, they think they should get more for their money—or they think they qualify for a discount. I tell 'em all, it's the same rate for everyone. But they're clever, that sort. They ‘forget' their wallets. They say they'll take you out for dinner instead of giving you hard cash—and then they can't find a date in their diary. They
offer you presents instead of money—and while presents are all very well, they don't pay off your bookie.”

“Ah. Gambling debts?”

“One or two. No more than any of the other chaps.”

“You won't have much of a nest egg if you throw it all away on the horses.”

“I know that. But sometimes I need a bit of cash in a hurry, and so… Well, I have to remind the gents that I'm doing them a favor.”

“And how precisely do you remind them of that fact?”

“A word here and there.”

“A threat, you mean.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“But I would. Is that how you ‘reminded' Frank Bartlett? Was he getting a bit stingy with his payments?”

“Mr. Bartlett was always very generous,” said McDermott, “and what's more, he was one of the few that I really enjoyed going with. And he didn't seem to mind. I could be myself with him, more than the others. If I liked it, he liked it. I even let him do it to me. You don't usually.”

“I'm sure. And you enjoyed it?”

“Yes. 'Course. Why not?”

“You don't have to explain to me, McDermott. I like a big hard cock inside me as much as you do. And, from what I've been told, Bartlett was very good at it.”

“He was.” McDermott's fingers plucked at the front of his fly; he was obviously getting hard.

“And now he's dead.”

His fingers stopped plucking. “Yes.”

“And I have to ask myself why.”

He hung his head. Was this the moment I'd been waiting for—when McDermott would blurt it all out and let Morgan off the hook?

“I can't believe it,” he said. “Dead. I just can't—” He looked up, and to my astonishment there were tears in his
eyes. Morgan's reprieve receded a little.

“I think you'd better tell me everything, McDermott. And don't bother lying. I know you and your type better than you think.”

“I won't lie, I promise.” He rubbed his hands over his face, surreptitiously wiping away the tears; he didn't like being seen like that. “I met Frank Bartlett at the Parthenon Club. That's where I got a lot of them.”

“Yes. You have quite a reputation down there.”

“At first, he was just like all the others, except for the fact that he was younger and better looking than most of them. I couldn't understand at first why he would need to pay for it—but then, there's a lot I don't understand. You learn not to ask questions, and after a while you learn not to wonder much at all. Perhaps he was just one of them that likes the uniform. Married, wasn't he?”

“Yes.”

“That's the usual explanation. They want what they're not getting at home.”

“And that's what you gave him?”

“At first, yes. He sucked me off a couple of times down there, and when I asked for money he didn't put up a fight. Next time we met, he took me to a hotel in Euston.”

The same place he'd taken Morgan. I disliked the fact.

“And what did you do that time?”

“Fucked him,” murmured McDermott. “Good and hard. He liked that.”

“And he was generous?”

“Like I say, flat rate for everyone. He paid up.”

“And he came back for more?”

“He did.”

“And then—the tables were turned?”

“One day, he started touching me back there. Saying what a nice bum I had. Trying to slip a finger inside me. I told him to get off, but he wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“So you negotiated?”

“Yes. I named my price, and he agreed.”

“Worth every penny.”

“Didn't feel right, taking money from him after that.”

“But you forced yourself, no doubt.”

“Look, I—”

“It's okay, McDermott. I'm not judging you. Go on.”

“Well, after that we saw a lot of each other. He was very generous. He took me out for dinner, to the theater, even took me on weekends out of town. He never forgot to pay me for services rendered, but there was an awful lot of extra gravy, as you would say. I thought for a while I was very nicely set up there. Thought we might have some sort of a future together.”

“Did he speak to you about that?”

“Not in so many words. I suppose we both knew that the barriers between us were too great. Him a married man with an important job in the City, me a guardsman, stuck in the army. How could we ever have a life together?”

“You could have found a way.”

“He could have bought me out, I suppose. That's what I used to dream about sometimes. He'd pay my way out of the regiment, and set me up in a nice house somewhere, and we'd be together as much as we could.”

“A kept man.”

“Maybe. But sometimes I thought… There might be… Well, not much point in dreaming about that now, is there? That came to an end a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“He changed. I don't know why. Nothing sudden. Just gradually he stopped wanting to see me all the time. There were no more weekends, then no more nights out, no more dinners, just occasional meetings in that bloody hotel room. And then that stopped as well.”

“How long ago?”

“A year. Eighteen months. I don't know. Like I say, it was a gradual thing.”

“So you started blackmailing him?”

“I didn't want to lose him.”

“I don't suppose you did. The goose that laid the golden egg.”

“That was part of it, I won't deny it. I'd got used to the money and the perks. It was nice. But there was more to it. I'd grown fond of him.”

“You? A male whore?”

“Laugh at me if you want. I'd laugh at anyone else. But for a moment I thought this might be a chance for me. A different life—an opportunity I never thought I'd get. And when he took that away—when he didn't want me anymore—I was angry.”

“So you got your own back?”

“I suppose so. I thought it was just a way of holding on to him at first. I told him that he had to see me at least once a week. When he said he couldn't promise that, I reminded him that I had letters from him.”

“That's the oldest line in the book, McDermott.”