The Secret Tunnel (15 page)

Access to the conductor’s car was not easy. There was a door at the end of the third-class carriage, and beyond that, just the couplers, the track visible beneath them. To get into the car, one had to step carefully over the gap and through a wooden door—which, of course, was securely closed.

“There’s nothing through there, pal,” said one man, a laborer by the look of him, perhaps traveling to London to look for work. “Just a load of boxes and trunks, and a couple of soldiers. On guard duty, they said.”

“Thank you, sir. I need to speak to them.” I opened the carriage door, and thumped on the wooden end of the car. “Open up! Let me in!”

I could hear nothing above the roar and clatter of the wheels on the track, but if there was anyone in there, they would certainly have heard me knocking. I banged again, harder this time.

There was no particular reason why they should let me in—but, to my surprise, the door opened an inch and I saw the sergeant’s face in the crack. I forged ahead, taking my life in my hands: if he’d slammed the door and I’d missed my footing, I might have fallen down between the cars and lost a leg, at the very least. Fortunately, the sergeant was well disposed to me, and he opened the door fully, extending a strong hand to pull me in.

The car was lit by storm lanterns, swaying around from hooks in the ceiling, casting crazy shadows from the luggage piled up and roped in place. One trunk had been placed in the middle of the floor, in the brightest pool of light. Over that trunk, lying on his stomach, his clothes pulled up and down to reveal the midsection of his body, from chest to knees, was Bertrand. He was facing away from me—the first thing that struck me was his widespread ass, the hole wet and open. I guessed that I had just disturbed the sergeant,
who had pulled out, leaving Bertrand gaping. Just beyond the main circle of light stood the other soldier, the one they had called McDonald, his hands clasped around the back of Bertrand’s head. He was completely naked, apart from his black leather shoes and long wool socks. His body, as it moved in and out of the light, was thickset and hairy. The sergeant wore his kilt, shoes, and socks, but no shirt.

“Come to join the party?” he asked, his voice low and gruff. He bolted the door behind me.

“Bertrand! Are you okay?”

“He’s doing fine, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”

“Have you hurt him?”

The sergeant laughed. “I don’t hear him complaining, do you?”

Bertrand was wriggling now, trying to move his head away from the cock that filled his mouth—he must have heard my voice.

“Now,” said the sergeant, slowly unbuckling his kilt, never taking his eyes off me, “where was I? Ah, yes.” He dropped his kilt to the floor, and his cock sprang up. “I remember.” He spat in his hand and wiped it over the head. “Fucking the French boy.”

Bertrand made a sort of grunting noise as McDonald’s prick thrust into his mouth; surely he wasn’t still trying to assert his Belgian nationality at this critical moment?

The sergeant turned and positioned himself between Bertrand’s spread legs, aiming his thick, long dick at the target. Then, with one slow, firm thrust, the whole thing disappeared into the warm tightness that I knew so well. The sergeant sighed, closed his eyes, and started fucking. From the way Bertrand’s hips were moving, I could tell that he was enjoying himself. He raised his ass to meet the sergeant’s thrusts, bracing himself on the trunk with his elbows. Soon the sergeant, McDonald, and Bertrand had established a rhythm; each shove from the rear pushed Bertrand down
onto McDonald’s dick, each thrust from the front rammed his buttocks against the sergeant’s hairy thighs.

I stood for a while watching in stunned silence, but that couldn’t last long; my dick was eager to join in. Bertrand had no holes left to fuck; I would have to wait my turn. Judging by the way the pace was accelerating, I would not have to wait long. In order to waste no time, I started undressing. It was cold in that car, I suppose, but three naked men were warming it up nicely, and I was ready to add my body heat to theirs. I slipped off my shoes and jacket, pulled my shirt over my head, and started unbuttoning my pants.

“Come here,” ordered the sergeant, never breaking the rhythm he was beating into Bertrand’s ass. “Let me.”

His hands were huge, his fingers thick but surprisingly deft as he opened my fly and started feeling the bulge in my underpants. Then, to my surprise, he started kissing me full on the mouth. I must have made a very good impression at York station, I thought, rather smugly.

The sergeant drew my cock out—it was, of course, fully erect—and started squeezing and stroking it while never breaking the kiss. His mouth tasted of tobacco and whiskey and—yes, I was certain—cock and ass. He must have prepared Bertrand for fucking just as a gentleman should.

My pants dropped around my ankles and I stepped out of them. I heard McDonald groan, and out of the corner of my eye saw him pumping hard into Bertrand’s face, groaning as he shot his load. His cock withdrew from Bertrand’s mouth with a plop, and before I knew it McDonald was on his knees sucking me. Bertrand raised himself on his elbows and craned his neck to watch.

“Oh, Mitch…”

“I can’t wait to hear… Oh, yeah… How you got yourself into this mess.”

“They… They made me… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” I could say no more, as the sergeant
pulled me back into a kiss. His stubbly face was setting my skin on fire. From the ardor of his kisses, I guessed he wasn’t far off either.

But before he reached the point of no return, he broke the kiss and pulled out of Bertrand’s ass. “Turn over,” he commanded. “I want to see your face when I fuck you.”

Bertrand obeyed, and in the light of the lantern I could see how the rough wood of the trunk had pressed into his hairy belly. But his cock was as hard as could be, and had already oozed a sticky load of precum. He’d obviously not yet been allowed to come, despite the fact that the other two soldiers had already taken their turns with him.

The sergeant slid his big dick back into him, and Bertrand sighed and closed his eyes. I watched the big man’s muscular buttocks rippling as he pumped away, holding Bertrand’s ankles in his strong, hairy hands. McDonald was still slurping on my cock; he was obviously not the type to give up just after coming. I looked down on the top of his head, which was remarkably bald for one so young, and grabbed his ears.

The sergeant grunted, pulled out of Bertrand’s ass and shot one huge load of semen right over his body; it landed with a splat on the floor behind Bertrand’s head. The rest—and there was a great deal—was soon glistening on his belly, running down his sides, matting the hair. The sergeant buckled at the knees, and put an arm around my shoulders for support.

“Just you two to go now, then,” he said. “How are you going to do it?”

I was ready to pump a load down McDonald’s throat, but I could not bear to see poor Bertrand left unattended, so I disengaged my dick and took the sergeant’s place. Bertrand was not quite as tight as he had been the first time I fucked him, and he was well lubricated. I slipped in easily, and set about fucking him as hard as I could. The two soldiers watched and offered crude encouragement, smacking
Bertrand around the face with their sticky, half-hard cocks. Bertrand started jerking himself, hard and fast. I felt his ass ring tighten around me, and soon he was adding his own load to the sergeant’s. I kept fucking him as he squirmed and moaned on his uncomfortable bed, then I leaned forward, pressing my belly against his, lifting his ass into the air and pumping another load inside him. The soldiers applauded.

It was a rather quiet procession that made its way through the third-class carriages toward the front of the train. The sergeant went first, then me, then Bertrand, then McDonald. It must have looked as if we were under arrest. I hope nobody had a keen sense of smell: the aroma of sex must have been strong on us, but fortunately a good many of the passengers were smoking. The sergeant and McDonald rejoined their brothers in arms, and started passing around a bottle of whiskey. I would have liked to join them, but there was a small matter of a murder to solve.

“What have you found, Mitch?” asked Bertrand in a half-whisper, as we walked forward.

“Plenty,” I said, thinking of the interviews that Dickinson and I had conducted. “Plenty.”

“But what, exactly?”

We had reached our compartment, and sat down, closing the door.

“Well…” I began. And then I realized that I did not have the slightest idea who had killed David Rhys. I was still in the dark.

OUR RECENT EXERCISE IN THE CONDUCTOR’S CAR, AND THE steady jogging of the train, made both Bertrand and me very comfortable when we finally reached the safe haven of our carriage. He was complaining of a headache—the soldiers had plied him with whiskey, he said, but he would say no more (for now) of his “ordeal”—and my head was splitting for different reasons. I couldn’t understand what was happening here, under my very nose, on this train. I was confused and in shock, I suppose. The discovery of the body, the distress of Andrews, the muddle of assumed identities, and, above all, the brutal methods of Superintendent Dickinson, had been too much for me. We exchanged a little desultory conversation, and then, I’m ashamed to say, we both fell asleep.

The next thing I knew, Bertrand was tugging on my sleeve.

“We’ve stopped again, Mitch!”

My eyes were dry and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth; I don’t like sleeping in the afternoon. I had had strange, vivid dreams, and for a moment or two I couldn’t
remember what was real and what was fantasy. But there was Bertrand—very much flesh and blood—and outside the window were the lights of Peterborough station. It was dark outside. The snow had given way, as we traveled south, to a nasty, wet sleet, making the platforms glisten.

I heard the slam of carriage doors and the tramp of feet, and saw the unmistakable dark blue of a British policeman’s uniform. Looking up and down the platform, I could see that the station was crawling with cops. How they had got there I did not have time to figure out—but their purpose was all too clear. They swarmed aboard the train at each end, while each door was guarded. We were surrounded.

I heard the sound of running feet and quickly stepped out into the corridor, where I almost collided with Mr. Andrews. His eyes were wide, his brow damp with sweat. He almost screamed when he ran into me, but then a look of wild hope crossed his face.

“Can you hide me?”

“I don’t know—”

“You must believe me, I didn’t kill him. I loved him. You understand. Please, help me. I did not kill him.”

Tramp, tramp, tramp came the heavy police boots along the corridor.

Andrews’s eyes scanned our compartment for hiding places—under the seats, up on the luggage racks.

“Please…”

“There is nothing I can do. What can I do?”

I wanted to help him, but I was neither willing nor able to pit myself against the full weight of the law.

They were nearly upon us. Andrews took one last desperate look at the window, calculated his chances of escape at zero, and suddenly relaxed.

“It’s quite all right,” he said, more himself again. “I understand.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. The police were at the compartment
door, and Andrews had no time for explanations. He dropped the paper behind him and held out his hands.

“William Andrews?”

“Yes.”

“I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of David Rhys.”

Andrews was handcuffed and led away. The tramp, tramp, tramp of boots receded, doors slammed again, the train was quiet.

Bertrand and I looked at each other and ran to the window, just in time to see Andrews’s blond head being pushed into a waiting police car. I saw Peter Dickinson, immaculate as ever, shake hands with a uniformed colleague, before the bells rang and the car pulled away.

The engine puffed and hissed, and we were on the move again. Dickinson remained on the platform. I watched his figure recede as we moved onward to London.

Bertrand was poring over the scrap of paper that Andrews had left behind him.

“What does it say?”

“It is an address in London.”

“Where?”

Bertrand handed me the paper—torn from the top of a letter, a printed address in curly type.

“The Rookery Club, 43 Russell Square,” I read. “Why do you suppose he dropped that?”

“An accident?”

“That was no accident. That was a message. When we get to London, we’ll go to the Rookery Club, 43 Russell Square.”

“You do not believe that he is the killer?”

“No.”

“But why? The police believe he is.”

“There is something wrong.”

“What?”

“The smell.”

Bertrand looked confused, as well he might; I barely knew what I was thinking. “Something does not stack up. Why would Andrews kill Rhys, the man he loved?”

“
Quoi?
”

I explained, briefly, what Andrews had confessed in the dining car; Bertrand was wide-eyed. “Perhaps, after all, you are right—all British men really are this way.”

“Certainly on this train that seems to be the case.”

“But, after all, this Monsieur Dickinson, he is a detective, no? And he has his reasons for believing the Andrews is the killer.”

“You said yourself that you didn’t like Dickinson.”

“
Pff
. I do not like the police. That does not mean to say that I think they are necessarily wrong.”

“But in this case I think they are. I think there is something going on that we don’t know about. The smell…”

“Always this smell. What are you talking about?”

“When Andrews came back into the dining car after the blackout, he smelled of lemons, limes, something like that. A very distinctive citrus perfume. Only one other person on this train smells the same.”