A Sticky End (20 page)

“Come on, Belinda,” I said, “let's get you home and leave Mr. Trent”—I almost spat the name—“in peace.”

We piled into a cab, much to the children's delight. There was much that I wanted to ask Belinda—what had been said, was there any mention of the will, did anyone suspect Morgan of wrongdoing? But, since the children demanded our attention, and I failed to think of ways of broaching the subject that did not implicate her husband in Bartlett's death, we reached Wimbledon without a single question being asked.

The children were taken upstairs by the maid. As soon as they were out of sight, Belinda's demeanor changed.

“Mitch, what's happening? Where is Boy?”

“He's at the police station. Helping with their inquiries.”

“But…he's not—”

“No. Of course not.” I was never sure just how much Belinda knew or suspected of her husband's true nature; perhaps, like many wives, she imagined that a certain amount of extramarital activity took place with male friends, she accepted it and found it to be no threat, and focused her mind on the good things about her marriage—of which there were many, this elegant house among them.

“I'm so worried, Mitch.” Her eyes held mine, looking for answers or reassurance—neither of which I could give.

“Look, Billie,” I said, “I can't do anything by hanging around here. You need to rest. You look exhausted.”

“I didn't sleep. Poor Vivie was in a state.”

“I'm going to find out what's going on. Stay here. If Morgan comes home, tell him Mitch is on the case.”

“I will.” She put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “Good old Mitch. You've been very good to us, you know. We both love you very much.” She kissed me on the cheek and followed the children upstairs.

I took the train back to town, washed and changed in my hospital quarters, and wondered what the hell to do next.

IF I WERE A REAL DETECTIVE, AS OPPOSED TO A BUNGLING amateur with a supercharged libido, I would by now have formed some kind of overall picture of the case, and would be charging from one address to another asking seemingly irrelevant questions about minute details, much to everyone's bafflement. Then, suddenly, the pieces would cohere and I would finger the villain while leaning against a mantel-piece in an elegant drawing room, shaking my head in regret at the wickedness of humanity while all around offered me congratulations.

Unfortunately the “Mitch Mitchell Method,” such as it is, involves blundering in a thick fog of confusion, from which cocks and asses occasionally emerge to demand my attention, until I trip over something so obvious that I should have noticed it right away.

I was pondering my general uselessness and lack of mental acuity, picturing that thick fog of confusion punctuated by male sexual parts—and this led me naturally to think about steamrooms, of which London is so gratifyingly full.
My first instinct was to visit one forthwith and see what was offered; my second thought was that Morgan had mentioned the steamrooms at the Parthenon Club as a regular haunt of the late Frank Bartlett—the place where their mutual attraction had first been revealed. Now, if anyone knew anything about the private pleasures of Frank Bartlett, it would be the patrons and staff of the Parthenon Club, one of those exclusive establishments where the pillars of the British Empire relax and unwind, without women, secure in the knowledge that what goes on behind that mock-Classical facade will never be spoken of beyond the Doric columns that guard the door.

Fortunately for me, my professor at the hospital is well connected in London social circles, and had equipped me with a letter of introduction to the Parthenon which would give me limited access as his guest; if he suspected what I would use it for, he did not let on, being the type of tight-lipped Scot to whom any mention of the physical, outside a strictly medical context, is unthinkable. Perhaps he, too, got his rocks off in the comforting obscurity of the steamrooms; if so, he would never tell, and I would never ask. But that letter stood me in good stead, and within minutes of presenting myself at the front desk I was being directed down a dark wooden staircase, flanked with portraits of prominent members, to the moist areas in the basement. It was barely noon, but already the place was busy; in the changing room, a Spartan arrangement of benches and coat hooks, there were perhaps 20 men, all of them over 50, dressing and undressing, or simply sitting wrapped in towels discussing the issues of the day. My arrival caused a discreet flurry of interest, and as I removed my clothes I was conscious of several pairs of eyes flickering in my direction. If I were a gigolo, I think I could turn a tidy profit in the lower regions of the Parthenon Club.

“Say, where can I get a massage around here?” I said to
a plump, rosy-faced gent who had been watching me more intently than most. It was a redundant question; I could see clearly into an adjoining room with four tables, only one of which was currently occupied by a man, facedown, who was being roughly handled by what looked like a Turkish wrestler. But I wanted to engage him in conversation; he looked like a regular, the type who would notice all the comings and goings, and would not be too discreet to pass on a bit of local news to a curious, attractive, and naked young stranger.

“I'm sure Tabib will be delighted to be of service, as soon as he's finished the Judge.” The man nodded toward the tables.

“Is he good, this Tabib?”

A hand went up to his chest. “Oh! The best. Really, it's very lucky that you dropped in today. He's only here Mondays and Thursdays and he's much in demand. By about three o'clock they'll be queuing up to be manhandled by Tabib.”

“This is my lucky day.” I sat opposite the man on a slat-ted wooden bench, a white towel wrapped around my waist but otherwise naked, just as he was. This way, he could see just as much as I chose to show him. “Should I go next door and wait?”

“No! Stay right where you are.” My plan, such as it was, was working. “Tabib! Customer for you! What's your name, sir?”

“Mitchell.”

“Mr. Mitchell,” he shouted again. “A visitor from the United States, I believe.” I nodded, and he pursed his lips in satisfaction. “Tabib is a good friend of mine. He'll give you every satisfaction, I am sure.”

“I sure look forward to that.” I stretched my arms above my head, allowing him to see my hairy armpits. “I'm sore after a game of soccer. I need some steam, I guess.”

“Let Tabib work his magic, and then relax through there.” He pointed to a pair of double doors with glass port-holes. “The Parthenon steamroom is the best in London.”

“So I hear.”

“Ah. You have…friends here?”

“Sure.” There was no point in beating around the bush. “Do you know Frank Bartlett?”

“Oh.” He rolled his eyes, narrowed them, pursed his lips again—a whole repertoire of facial tics to express knowing-ness. “Mr. Bartlett. Yes. We all know…him.”

I thought for a moment he was going to say
her
. Perhaps, if we knew each other better, he would have.

“Great guy,” I said, and then extended my hand. “Edward Mitchell, by the way. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He took my hand. “Gerald Osborne, MBE, at your service.” He tittered. “I'm sorry. I never can resist mentioning my order.”

“I'm impressed.”

This time he adjusted his features to express an unconvincing modesty. “Oh, really! No, don't be. Just for services to war veterans. One does what one can.” I felt sure that Gerald Osborne, MBE, had done a great deal for war veterans in one way or another, though “another” was probably not what he'd gotten his medal for.

“So, you known Frank for long?”

“Oh yes. He's a regular. Always down here.”

“Well, it's a swell place. Looks like a man can get just what he needs.”

“Indeed.”

“Massage. And steam.”

“Absolutely.” Osborne sucked his cheeks in, moved his lower jaw from side to side and did something complicated with his eyebrows. This telegraphed “understanding,” possibly tempered with constipation.

“So, Frank…”

“Hmmm?”

“He enjoys the…facilities?”

“To the full.”

“As it happens,” I said, “another fellow was telling me recently what a great place this is. His name is—”—I made a pretense of searching my memory—“Oh God, what is it? I was talking to him only just the other day. How ridiculous.”

“What does he look like? I know most of them.”

“Tall, well-made guy,” I improvised. “In the guards. Knows Frank, or knew him at any rate.”

“Oh,” said Osborne, with a look of disgust. “The person to whom you refer is no longer a member.”

“You're kidding! He told me that—”

“Whatever that man has told you is not to be believed.” Osborne crossed his arms over his ample chest. “I'm afraid that with the best will in the world, sometimes the Parthenon slips up and admits…a wrong'un.”

“Gosh,” I said, all hurt surprise, “and he seems like such a nice guy.”

“So we all thought. At first.”

“Oh well.” I made a pretense of wanting to change the subject. “I wonder how much longer Tabib will be.”

I knew that Osborne wanted to gossip, and would spill the beans much quicker if he thought I was slipping out of his grasp. “Actually,” he said in a whisper, “he attempted to blackmail some of us.”

“Who? Tabib?”

“No! McDermott.”

“That's it!” I clicked my fingers. “McDermott. Of course. Met him in a pub on Shaftesbury Avenue.”

“That sounds about his level.”

“So, he's a blackmailer. Wow. I'd never have thought it. He seemed such a nice, genuine guy.”

“Appearances can be very deceptive, Mr. Mitchell. Alas
for those of us who try to maintain some faith in human nature. All too often it's the most beautiful containers that conceal the most putrid rottenness.”

This was getting a little too poetic for my liking, so I put one foot up on the bench, crooking my leg and revealing a bit of scrotum as I did so. “Well, he sure has one hell of a nice container, rotten or not,” I said. “Good thing I didn't—you know.”

“Come now,” said Osborne. Was this a request, or simply a turn of phrase? “A young chap like you would never need to avail yourself of the services of a McDermott. If anything,” he murmured, almost dreamily, “one would expect you to be on the other side of the coin. As it were.”

His metaphors were muddled, but telling. McDermott, the blackmailing guardsman, was charging for what I give away for free. Judging by the glint in Osborne's eyes, he would drop a few pounds if I would drop the towel. The thought was not unpleasant; I often think that if I hadn't succeeded in my medical career, then prostitution would be the obvious path to follow. And though Osborne wasn't personally attractive to me, I found his keen interest arousing. My cock started to stir, and he watched it like an owl watching a vole.

“So, imagine that,” I said.

“Mmmm?”

“McDermott a blackmailer. A disgrace to the king's uniform.”

“Absolutely.” Osborne was getting distracted.

“I don't recall which regiment he said he was in now.”

“No…”

This wouldn't do; he was no longer paying attention, at least not to my words. I crossed one leg over the other, barring his view of the vole. He almost hooted in dismay.

“Oh well, I'd better go and talk to Tabib—”

“Scots Guards. Don't recall which battalion.”

“Of course.” I uncrossed my legs, and his eyes widened again. “McDermott. Scottish. How could I forget. And of course he's stationed at—” I made my cock jump a little under my towel.

“Wellington Barracks.” The words tumbled from his lips.

“That's it. I've got a good mind to report him. Can't believe no one else did.” I stood up, and my towel stood out, lifted by my now semierect cock.

“People are too scared,” said Osborne with a sigh. “We've all got too much to lose.”

“Not me,” I said, and I was so grateful to the old boy that I readjusted my towel, opening it completely to give him a full flash, before fastening it around my waist again. “Well, looks like my massage awaits.” Tabib was standing at the doorway, a big grin beneath his splendid black moustache. “Been nice talking.”

“Yes.” Osborne blinked and swallowed. “Perhaps I might—”

“Sure,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “See you in the steamroom.”

As I followed Tabib to the table, Osborne positively glowed, and nodded at various acquaintances to make sure that the whole world knew of our “date.”

Tabib was huge: at least six feet tall, and at least 220 pounds, all of it solid, and most of it covered in dense black hair. He was wearing what looked like a long white cotton skirt, secured around his waist with a drawstring, and hanging to his shins; his upper half was bare, apart from his own natural pelt. His shoulders, arms, and hands were massive, his chest like a barrel, and his stomach a great convex mound, the muscles beneath shoving their way forward. I could only imagine what lay beneath his flimsy garment; if everything was built to scale, here was a man more than capable of scratching my inner itch, though getting my asshole
fucked in the basement of the Parthenon Club would not help matters much. However, if Tabib gave satisfaction, I would make sure that we exchanged numbers, if nothing else.

I lay facedown on the table, as instructed in heavily accented English, and Tabib whipped the towel off me in one deft move.