The Secret Tunnel (26 page)

“Bill Shipton? I don’t believe it!”

“You been corrupting young officers in public toilets again, Mitch?” He grinned, and I remembered our first encounter in that faraway pisshouse on the Norfolk coast. “I may have to take you in for questioning.”

I shook his hand warmly; he was even more handsome than I remembered. I was at a loss for words; his sudden presence, here, in the middle of London, at the critical turning point of the entire case, had knocked my sense of reality dangerously sideways—just like that moment when we lurched into the secret tunnel. And once again I was groping in the dark.

But Sergeant Shipton had a light.

“You’re looking for a body, I understand from young Godwin here.” He laid a fraternal hand on the young constable’s shoulder. “No surprises there, I said; my friend Mitch is always looking for a nice body. But in this case I understand it’s a stiff. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“Very stiff, and very cold.”

Shipton pulled out his notebook. He and Connor eyed
each other suspiciously—and with a certain curiosity, unless I was much mistaken. Bertrand would have laughed at me again for assuming that everyone shared my tastes, but I had been right about Shipton, and I’d trained him very nicely during our previous acquaintance…

“Who is this?”

“Mr. Connor, from the—which paper do you represent, Mr. Connor?”

“The
Daily Beacon
.”

“Right,” said Shipton. “This is strictly off the record. Do you understand me, sir? If you reveal your sources for this information, you and your editor will regret it very much indeed.”

“You’re safe in my hands, constable.”

I was not mistaken.

“What can you tell me, Bill?”

“Godwin says you’re interested in one David Rhys, found dead on the Edinburgh-to-London express yesterday, correct?”

“Correct.”

“The death was reported to the Peterborough Constabulary at four P.M.”

“That’s when Dickinson left the train.”

“And an arrest was made shortly after. Mr. William Andrews, on suspicion of murder.”

“So what’s happened?”

“Well, Mitch, this is where things don’t add up. Andrews is in custody, but he’s already been moved down to London before any kind of hearing in Peterborough.”

“Is that normal?”

“No. It’s highly irregular.”

“I see.”

“And then there’s the question of the body.”

“What about it? Has there been an autopsy? Have they established the cause of death?”

“No.”

“Why not, for Christ’s sake?”

“Because, if you’ll let me get a word in edgeways, the body has gone missing.”

“What? What do you mean? How can a dead body go missing?”

“Good question. The paperwork was signed at the Peterborough police morgue. The body should be there. But when I called them just now, the place was in uproar. There was nobody.”

“What—nobody to answer the phone?”

“No, Mitch. No body. No corpse. In short, no David Rhys.”

 

Morgan and Belinda were waving frantically above the throng. I pushed my way through the crowd to meet them.

“Where have you been, Mitch?” Morgan demanded.

“Never mind that. What news?”

“They were watching him like a hawk, Lady Antonia and her pals.”

“Who?”

“The Prince, of course. Couldn’t take their eyes off him. But thanks to my intrepid wife, they didn’t get near him.”

“Just a little womanly ingenuity,” said Belinda, looking quietly pleased with herself. “I told Lady Antonia that my father had a vast amount of money to invest, and that he was, shall we say, sympathetic to their cause.” She shuddered. “None of which is true. Poor Daddy is broke, and he would rather cut his own throat than support that gang of crooks, but there you go. Needs must.”

“They seemed frightfully interested in money, didn’t they?” said Morgan.

“You can be sure of that. All these crackpot political parties are in it for the money. No doubt they’ve got Lady Antonia to hock her entire estate.”

“Well, those diamonds she’s wearing are paste,” said Belinda. “A woman notices these things.”

“Not surprised, the way you were examining them, old girl,” Morgan said. “You practically bit them.”

“And didn’t she love showing them off? Oh well, kept them busy throughout the interval. No harm done. Hugo and Tallulah got standing ovations. No bullets rang out above the crowd. And, judging by the squeals coming from around the corner, I imagine that they have emerged to face their adoring public.” Belinda had a sardonic streak; she was a good foil to the eager, trusting Morgan.

“Oh, I say! Can we go and have a look?” Morgan said enthusiastically. “I’m dying to see them at close quarters.”

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do that later,” I said. “We’re going to the party.”

“I say, are we really? How ripping!”

Sometimes, Morgan was just too preposterously English for his own good. I longed to slap his beaming face with my cock, before stopping his mouth with it. But that would have to wait.

I looked around the corner for just long enough to confirm that Hugo Taylor was alive and well and not covered in hideous burns. He and Tallulah were busy signing autographs and posing for photographs, and I saw the gilded locks of Frankie Laking hovering behind them.

“Let’s go and stake out the Café Royal,” I said. “I want to watch everyone come in.”

We stepped off the pavement—and as we did so, I heard the approaching roar of a car, the screech of breaks, a thump. A black sedan sped away toward the river.

“Oh, my God! Belinda!”

Morgan crouched over his wife, who was sprawled in the road, one leg pointing out at a crazy angle from the knee.

She was alive. Her head had hit the curbstone, but fortunately she’d broken her fall with her hand. Her wrist
may have been broken and her leg badly sprained.

“That bastard!” Morgan ran down the road in pursuit of the car, but I called him back.

“Someone call an ambulance! Boy, stay with her.”

Simmonds ran into the theater, while Morgan peeled off his coat and jacket to cover his wife, who was cold with shock. His eyes were full of tears. “What happened, Mitch?”

“It could have been an accident.”

“But it wasn’t, was it? They were aiming at us.”

“I don’t know, Boy.” But I did know. I could see it all too clearly. They had been aiming at me.

 

I positioned myself at the head of the stairs, where I could watch the guests arriving at the Café Royal. Undoubtedly there was a rear entrance as well, but now I was working on my own, and I couldn’t cover it. Bertrand had disappeared, and Simmonds had gone to look for him—pointlessly, I thought, but I could hardly stop him. Morgan was with Belinda at the hospital. Shipton and Godwin had gone to dig out all they could on the Rhys case, while Connor and Scott had returned to the
Beacon
to file what they hoped would be the scoop of the century.

I felt vulnerable. If they—whoever “they” were—were looking for me, I was a conspicuous target. I kept my back to the wall; at least I’d see any attack coming.

“Mitch, you fascinating creature!” I felt a hand on my ass; so much for not being taken from behind. “How delicious to find you here.”

“Hello, Frankie.”

“And all alone! Don’t tell me my luck has changed at last.”

“That depends, Frankie.”

“Ooh! Sounds promising. What do you want? Money? I don’t carry a great deal of cash, but I can usually rustle up something.”

“Not money. Information.”

“Go on then. Pump me.”

“Well, first of all—”

“I said, pump me.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Fair exchange, and all that.” He pouted and started talking like a baby, an affectation of his set that I found utterly disgusting. “If ’oo want Fwankie to spill beany-weanies, ’oo let Fwankie pway wiv your willy.”

“For God’s sake, Frankie—”

“Otherwise,” he said, snapping back to his clipped Mayfair tones, “my lips will remain sealed. In more ways than one. Oh, I say! That’s rather witty! I shall have to tell Noël. Perhaps he’ll put it in a show.”

“Come on, then,” I said. “This had better be worth it.”

“It will be, dear, on so many levels.”

Seldom have I gone to a sexual encounter with so little enthusiasm. It wasn’t that Frankie Laking was particularly unattractive; he was good-looking enough, for all his dandification, and I even liked his company in an odd sort of way. But I found his ridiculous air of sophistication extremely off-putting, not to mention the indiscreet way in which he rolled his eyes at all and sundry as he led me to the lavatory.

“Turn a blind eye, Stephanie,” he trilled to the attendant, pushing me into a cubicle.

“Yes, Sir Francis.” The Royal was known as a haven of tolerance, but I didn’t realize just how tolerant it had become.

“Now then, let’s see what we’ve got,” said Frankie, dropping to his knees in the cramped confines of the cubicle. I’ve sucked, and been sucked, in many public conveniences in my time—but this was certainly the most luxurious. The fixtures were marble, the fittings gold. “Oh, I say. What a handsome piece.”

He pulled my dick out through my fly, his long, slender
fingers running up and down my shaft as if he were about to play the flute. This was one instrument he certainly knew his way around, and I prepared myself for a virtuoso recital.

“Is naughty man going to stick gweat big fing into ickle Fwankie’s gob?” he said, looking up at me and batting his eyelashes.

“Frankie, can the baby talk, or there will be no cock for anyone.”

“Hey ho,” he sighed. “I suppose I’d better get on with it, then.” He sounded so world-weary—it was the fashion among his set to be so—but he went about his business with more enthusiasm than I’d seen him muster for anything. Yes, Sir Francis Laking, baronet, had certainly sucked cock before. He started off with a few preparatory trills and arpeggios, kissing the head, nibbling up the shaft, flicking my balls with his tongue. I shut my eyes, sighed and let him bring me to full erection. And then, when he could see I was ready, he began to play love’s old sweet song, a melody of which I never tire. He swallowed me to the hilt, and I gave myself over to him entirely, forgetting even the information that I was supposed to be getting in return. For a moment, I feebly wondered if Frankie had been dispatched by Dickinson or Lady Antonia to get me out of the way. (I really should not have come, I should stop now, protest, resume my watch…) And then his tongue swirled around my helmet, his lips glided down my length, and I stopped thinking altogether.

After several variations on a theme, Frankie squeezed my balls and, sensing that I was about to come, relinquished my cock from his mouth and pointed it straight into his face. One, two, three firm tugs and I was spewing a heavy load into his hair, his eyes, over his nose, mouth, and chin. It dripped off him, and he licked his lips, savoring the taste.

“Well,” he said, producing a mauve silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, “that was marvelous.” He mopped
up the worst of the semen and then, to my astonishment, refolded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket.

I left first, splashing my face with cold water, and resumed my position at the head of the stairs. Frankie said he’d follow, with information—but would he?

The guests were arriving thick and fast. What had I missed? Who was here? Why had I been so stupid…?

“I suppose you’ve figured it all out by now, haven’t you?”

“Frankie! I thought you weren’t coming.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five minutes!”

“Oh, I’m sorry—”

“Yes. They all say that. Happy for Frankie to take a facefull, but what do they do for Frankie? Fortunately, I’d saved something to remind me of you.” He patted his breast pocket, where the ends of the damp mauve silk square stuck out, rather bedraggled. “A fragrant memory…”

“Next time, I’ll remember my manners.”

“Next time, indeed. Promises, promises. Anyway, speaking of promises, I never break mine, so here goes. You know all about Hugo and you-know-who, I take it.”

“Prince George?”

“The very same, but we call her Princess Saltylips, on account of her distinguished naval career.” He rolled his eyes skyward and ran a hand through his golden tresses. “Now, he and Hugo have been carrying on recklessly for years, dear. It’s the talk of the palace. I mean, it’s hardly the greatest love affair of the twentieth century, because,
entre nous
, they are both complete sluts. But in between
affaires de coeur
, they keep coming back to each other for a bit of how’s your father. And when your father happens to be the King of England, and your mother is the divine Queen Mary, that sort of thing is taken rather seriously.”

“So the family disapproves.”

“Mitch, dear, that’s rather like saying that we disapproved of the Kaiser in 1914. It’s a thorn in their side, according to my sources, but what can they do? He’s never going to be king. Queen perhaps, but… Well, you know what I mean. And as long as he doesn’t do anything stupid, they prefer to keep their own counsel. I mean, it’s far more worrying when the Prince is running around with Kiki Preston, who can’t keep her mouth shut, she wants everyone to know all the details—and, my dear, she knows the mostly ghastly people, drug dealers and spies and communists and God knows what. And the dear Maharani of Cooch Behar, lovely girl, but, well, you know, rather obviously brown. Oh, and of course poor Florence Mills… And his own cousin, so they say, dear Louis Ferdinand…”

“My God. He’s a busy boy.”

“Well, darling, there have to be some advantages to a title. He can have anyone he wants. Even my own humble baronetcy has gained me a certain cachet among social-climbing queers.”