The Secret Tunnel (27 page)

“So his friendship with Hugo is the least of their worries.”

“Yes, you’d think so. But apparently, they’ve taken against him.”

“Why?”

“I’m not entirely sure, my dear. It all seemed to be going so nicely, and I’m sure it’s not Hugo who’s rocking the boat. He’s no fool, and he knows a good thing when he sees it. George is a very generous man, you know. Nice little prezzies. A diamond here, a Bentley there, a house in Hampshire, a holiday on a yacht…”

“Maybe I should make a move on him myself.”

“You’ll have to work your way up. Through me. Start at the bottom.” He put a hand over his mouth and giggled.

“So what’s changed? And what’s this got to do with what happened on the train?”

“I haven’t a clue, dear, but I’ll tell you this. Suddenly, a lot of people want to stop George from seeing Hugo. It all started before Christmas. Hugo was philosophical. I mean, he has plenty of other fish to fry.” Frankie sighed deeply. “I thought at one point he might be interested in frying me, but no such luck. He’s got his eyes set on Hollywood. He could do well out there. But suddenly, everyone was buzzing about how deeply distressed the Queen was by her son’s friendship with an actor. Oh, it was all over town, like a rash. Someone was spreading the rumor. And you know what the palace is like; they deny these rumors till they’re
bleu au visage
, but it usually turns out that they started them.”

“You mean Queen Mary herself takes an interest?”

“I can’t prove it, of course, but I believe it. And of course you know who her number one gossipmonger is, don’t you?”

I didn’t, but I had a horrible feeling that my suspicions were correct. “Lady Antonia.”

“Yes, dear old Antonia, Lady Petherbridge. Her teeth may have gone, but there’s poison dripping from her tongue.”

“And she has the ear of the Queen?”

“My dear, didn’t you know? She was a lady in waiting for years, simply years, and that’s the nearest thing that the Queen has to a friend. Isn’t it ghastly?”

“She turned the Queen against Hugo?”

“Probably.”

“Why? Because of the company he keeps?”

“Charming!”

“I didn’t mean you, Frankie. I was thinking of Daisy.”

“Oh, Morphine Mary!”

“And through her, Herbert Waits and the whole British-American operation. If I’m right, then the fascists have been digging the dirt on what goes on in Wardour Street, and they’ve reported back to the Queen.”

“How thrilling! You mean that Queen Mary is just one step away from the grindhouses of Soho?”

“Yes. Small world, isn’t it?”

“Perversion makes the strangest bedfellows, does it not? It all makes sense. If the fascists were looking for a way to get rid of Hugo, then that sort of smut would do the trick.”

“And if that wasn’t working—bang! They’d kill him.”

“Quite possibly.” Frankie shuddered. “They could do away with any one of us.”

“I still don’t understand why, though.”

“Think about it, dear. Now, I don’t pretend to understand politics—there’s only room in this pretty little head for one thing at a time, and I think you know what that is—but put yourself in their position. If you were a member of a political party, what could be better than having a member of the royal family on your side, as a sort of spokesman, a figurehead.”

“You mean they’re grooming Prince George?”

“Well, I would, in their shoes. Not that I’d ever wear those ghastly clodhoppers that Lady A. stomps around in.” He shuddered again. “But look at it this way: they want Prince George’s patronage, and if he’s not willing to give it freely they will use other means of persuasion. So they dig up all the dirt they can find.”

“And nobody else must know, or they could discredit him.”

“Precisely. Top secret. Highly confidential.”

“But surely everyone knows about Prince George’s affairs. You said so yourself.”

“There’s a big difference between gossip and truth, dear, as you must surely know.”

“Truth has to be proved. Oh, my God.” Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place. “David Rhys had proof. That’s why they killed him.”

“You see why I play dumb?”

“Frankie, I could kiss you right here and now.”

“Go ahead. No one’s looking at us. They’re all watching Tallulah.”

He was right: every head had turned to witness the arrival of Miss Bankhead, strategically timed for maximum impact. She burst through the doors like a drowsy tornado, a fur-draped bundle of potential energy, her heavy-lidded eyes belying the fact that she could drink and screw every man in the place under the table. Hugo Taylor hovered behind her. Every breath was held. Tallulah Bankhead, in her pomp, made Daisy Athenasy look like a very second-rate piece of goods.

The star and her retinue swept up the stairs. Frankie waggled his fingers at her.

“Frankie,” she said, in that much-imitated deadpan voice, “thank God you’re here. I’ve been duchessed and marquissed to death.”

“Tallulah, let me introduce you to a very good friend of mine, Mitch Mitchell. He’s like you, Talloo.”

“Bisexual?”

“American, I mean.”

The exquisite hand shot out from the furs, the bangles fell back to the elbow, and I was permitted to squeeze the fingertips.

“Chaaaawmed, I’m sure,” she said, in her native Alabama accent. “You an’ me gonna raise a little hell, Yankee Boy?

“Sure, ma’am.”

“This is the man who saved my life!” Hugo Taylor put an arm around my neck and squeezed. “Without Mitch, there might not have been a first night.”

“God, darling, how many more people are going to try to murder you? First you were blackjacked on the train, now you’ve been poisoned in the dressing room. It’s a bore. A girl doesn’t like to feel that her leading man might just drop dead.”

“Darling,” said Hugo, “I’m sure they wouldn’t even notice. It’s you they come to see.”

“How terribly sweet of you, Hugo, and how terribly true. Oh, God, look out, here’s that wicked old witch Antonia Petherbridge. God, how she stares at me! I swear she’s a dyke.”

“You think everyone’s a dyke, Tallulah.”

“Honey, you’d better believe it. Give ’em a couple of drinks and—well, in vino veritas, as the dear Romans said. Which makes me the truthfullest gal in town. And speaking of vino, Frankie, I need a goddam cocktail. Sniff me out something gin-based, there’s a dear.”

A uniformed waiter happened at that moment to pass by, bearing a silver tray full of drinks. Frankie relieved him of it with a single deft movement, leaving the poor boy gaping with shock. (Hugo Taylor comforted him, I noticed, with a few quiet words, and the lad scurried off, his cheeks aflame, for fresh supplies.)

“Here,” said Frankie, “dinky-donkies all round. I do hope they’re cold.” He tested a glass with his little finger. “Ooh! Lovely and chilly! One for Talloo, one for Hugo, one for Mitch, and—well I never!—two for Frankie. Here’s how.”

We toasted each other. The martini was cold and smooth and powerful, and bitter, so bitter…

I WOKE UP IN TOTAL DARKNESS, A BLINDFOLD AROUND MY eyes, cords cutting into my wrists and a burning sensation in my ass. Someone was trying to fuck me.

My first impulse was to struggle, but I knew that would be dangerous. Something big was working its way into me—it was the pain that had woken me—and if I moved I would be in big trouble. I could not see what it was, but I assumed from the shape, texture, and warmth that it was a human penis, albeit a very large one. My hands were tied, so I could determine nothing through touch. I could hear steady breathing, and I could smell a mixture of sweat and tobacco smoke and…was it?…could it be?… lemons.

I was lying on my back on a blanket or rug, over a hard surface that felt like wood; it was not cold enough to be stone. My arms were secured at the wrist and held in an upright position, pointing toward the ceiling. My legs were also raised, knees bent and pulled in toward my chest, the calves resting on some kind of support. I tried to move them
and felt the restraints that bound me at the ankle. I was blindfolded and gagged, but I could breathe quite easily despite the discomfort of the position. Fortunately, I have spent quite a lot of time in this position—voluntarily, I might add—and therefore I am used to the strains that it places on the body. I am also used to taking things up my ass, be they cocks, fingers, or inanimate objects, so I knew how to relax my sphincter and reduce the pain.

There was a foul taste in my mouth—something sour, metallic. My tongue was dry and my gums were stinging. I remembered the cocktail at the Café Royal, how bitter it tasted… The cocktail that had been handed to me by Frankie Laking…

Whoever was fucking me knew what he was doing, and was not hell bent on causing me unnecessary pain, which came as a relief. Some lubricant had been used, and nothing was being forced in. As I concentrated on relaxing my ass, it slid in a couple more inches…a couple more…a couple more. This was a very large cock indeed, and despite the unpleasantness of my predicament I could not help but register the fact. My own cock had woken up, it seemed, and was swelling fast.

This had not gone unnoticed.

“Look,” said a deep, gravelly voice, “he is getting stiff.” There was an accent there, something non-European. Russian, perhaps.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I knew that voice: Francis Laking, bart. “Some people have all the luck.”

“I suppose you’d like to be in his position, Laking.” Dickinson, of course; I knew he would be behind it all. But his was not the cock that was fucking me; his voice came from somewhere way over to my right. There were at least four of us in the room, then.

“It’s not fair,” said Frankie. “Nobody ever fucks me.”

“I’m sure Joseph will oblige, for a consideration.”

“Oh, I can’t afford him. I’m sure he charges by the inch.”

I felt hands on the backs of my thighs—large, rough hands, pushing my legs back. So it was Joseph who was inside me—Joseph, whose reputation for size was apparently well deserved. No wonder he’d been employed to keep Daisy Athenasy quiet. His hands moved down to my ass and pulled the buttocks further apart.

“I’m all the way in,” he said, and he was—I could feel his wiry pubic hair rubbing against my skin. “Now I fuck him.”

“Hold on a second, Joseph. Let’s see if he’s conscious.”

Footsteps, hands on my head, the blindfold removed, the shock of bright light. I squinted against the glare, then tried to see where I was. Looking between my bound arms and legs I could dimly make out the huge, hairy bulk of Joseph. Turning my head, I could see a large, dingy room, heavy drapes, some old pieces of furniture, a single overhead bulb.

Hands gripped my head from behind and stopped me from looking around.

“Ah, Mr. Mitchell. Good of you to join us.” It was Dickinson.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I thought you might enjoy our little private party.”

“Where am I?”

“You were so keen to get fucked earlier on. I’m going to let Joseph break you in. If you can take him, you can take anyone. Then we’ll turn you over to the other guests. After we’ve given you something to…well, to ease your passage, shall we say.”

I didn’t like the sound of this; it sounded suspiciously as if Dickinson meant to kill me.

“You won’t get away with this, Dickinson,” I said, but my wavering voice belied any attempt at bravado. Richard Hannay, the daredevil hero of John Buchan’s novels, would
somehow have worked free of his bonds, leaped to his feet, and felled his captors with a single blow. I lacked his courage—although I doubt that he was ever pinned down by a huge Albanian dick up his ass.

“Why don’t you use your mouth for what it was meant for, Mitch?” Dickinson replied. His fingers fumbled with his fly, and soon I saw his cock looming into view over the top of my head. “Come on—you couldn’t wait to suck it when we were on the train. Now’s your chance.”

Before I had a chance to reply, he pulled my head back over the edge of whatever piece of furniture they had me strapped to, and I was staring straight up at his balls. He slapped me a few times around the face with his cock, which was fully erect, and then rubbed it around my lips.

“You can’t do—mmmmf bbblllgggh mmmble—” His fingers pried my mouth open, and his prick filled it. There was very little I could do except try not to choke. I opened my mouth wide, breathed through my nose, and let them fuck me at either end. Dickinson’s hands roughly caressed my ears, my face, my lips, while Joseph’s huge paws kneaded and slapped my ass. My cock was hard, leaking sticky precum over my stomach. Dickinson took hold of it, squeezed it.

“I’ve never seen a man go so happily to his death.”

That took the wind out of my sails.

“Oh, dear, Mitch. I’m so sorry. You seem to be losing interest.” My dick had swiftly deflated, and he gave it a contemptuous flick. “And I thought you were such a stud. I’m sure Frankie would be more appreciative.”

The pace of fucking picked up at both ends, and the sheer friction brought my cock back to life.

“That’s better. Let’s see if we can make him come, shall we? That would be amusing.”

“Let me!”

“Go on then, Laking. Have a go.”

I recognized Frankie’s supple fingers and soft mouth on
my cock. He soon had me fully hard again. There was nothing I could do but surrender to the sensation—and if this was going to be my last fuck, it might as well be a good one. My balls were tightening—Frankie squeezed and caressed them as he sucked me—and I was close to coming. My ass tightened, Joseph picked up the pace of his fucking, and then, grunting, started spewing a load into me.

“Ow! You fucking beast!”

Dickinson had pulled Frankie off my cock by yanking his hair.

“I want to see him come.”

He didn’t have long to wait, and soon I was shooting jets of spunk over my sticky belly, my ass clamping around Joseph’s still hard cock. Dickinson pulled out of my mouth, rested his nuts on my forehead and squirted his own load. The first jet hit my stomach, the second my chest, and the rest was dropped on my face.