Free A Sticky End by James Lear Page B

above all, what had happened after the wild enjoyments of the bathroom to pitch Frank Bartlett into suicidal despair? Morgan isn’t the most sensitive of souls, but even he would have noticed something that dramatic.
    But, as it was, there were no witnesses. At the time of his death, Bartlett was alone in a locked room without other means of access. Nobody could have spoken to him after Durran left, after his last indistinct communication with Morgan. Certainly, nobody could have snuck into the bathroom and murdered him. It was suicide, all right—but why? The obvious interpretation, and the one the police
would surely jump to if they even sniffed the truth, was that Bartlett had killed himself out of remorse for his shameful, unnatural actions. But that was not consistent with the behavior of a man who introduced his male lover to his wife, who made extravagant monetary gifts, who cheerfully picked up Sean Durran in a pub and enjoyed him so fully. A remorseful man wouldn’t indulge in shaving and pissing and sharing his boyfriend, as Bartlett had done. He would be furtive and hectic in his behavior: I should know, I’d fucked the type often enough. So what secret had driven Bartlett to this ghastly death?
    I wanted to ask Morgan a lot of questions—and I wasn’t the only one. The doorbell rang, and I looked out the landing window.
    â€œIt’s the police, Morgan.”
    Sergeant Godley was back, with his handsome young blond sidekick, PC Knight, and this time they were accompanied by a man in a well-cut suit and a brown herringbone overcoat.
    â€œYou answer it. I need to—you know.”
    If ever a man looked as if he had something to hide, it was Boy Morgan at that moment. He was pale, his eyes red and shifty, and for a second I wondered if he’d told me everything. Well, it was too late now—the cops were back, this time with a detective, and they meant business. I’d have to make the best of what I’d got. I went down to let them in.
    Godley looked at me as if I were something he’d just stepped in; he may not have liked Americans, plenty don’t, but I wondered if there was something else behind his obvious hostility.
    â€œThis is Detective Sergeant Weston,” said Godley. The plainclothes officer took off his hat, observed me coolly, but at least shook my hand. He looked like a university man, the type of highflier one encountered at Cambridge or Harvard, clean cut, bespectacled, hair neatly parted, a glint of
icy intelligence belying the rather eager-beaver manner. He must have been in his mid-30s, his hair slightly receding at the temples, the parting a little wider than it might once have been.
    â€œIs Mr. Morgan at home?” he said in a friendly tone, as if his call were purely social.
    â€œI’ll get him.”
    I showed them into the dining room; Godley and Weston sat, while Knight, once again, stood sentry by the door. I looked back at him as I ran up the stairs, and found myself wondering if, somehow, I could get him alone.
    But there were more important matters than satisfying my taste for uniformed junior police officers. Morgan was standing on the landing looking as if he’d just shit in his pants.
    â€œWhat do they want?”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Morgan, pull yourself together! They just need to ask you some more questions. It would help if you could try looking a bit less guilty.”
    â€œGuilty?” said Morgan. “Guilty of what?”
    â€œHey! Calm down!” Something was wrong, and I think if Morgan could have shinnied down the drainpipe without being caught, he would have done it. “They’re taking it seriously. It’s a good thing. They want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.” I bit my tongue; that wasn’t the most sensitive way of putting it, given what Morgan had just been telling me. I took him by the shoulders, forced him to look at me. “Come on, Boy. I’m