by Lucy Wild
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found Homes in animated sex with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frockcoat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Homes, pulling her mouth from Peter’s cock for a moment. “Get over here will you Watson and help complete my three pipe problem.”
It took no little manoeuvring but then we resolved ourselves. I lay on my back on the floor and Homes was lowered onto me, my cock burying itself deep in her pussy. Peter laid on top of Homes, squashing her between us and easing himself into her arse as she gasped loudly. When her mouth opened to moan the stranger in the frock coat shoved his cock into her mouth and at that moment the three pipe problem was solved.
We fucked her as hard and fast as we could manage, all the while our bodies growing hotter, our breath becoming laboured. The man in her mouth came first, spraying spunk over her face as she let out a cry of satisfaction, reaching her own orgasm a moment later. The feel of her pussy contacting around my cock sent me over the edge and I shot my cum into her at the same instant that Peter did, her arse filled with spunk whilst she sighed with happiness.
Soon after Homes was buttoning up her peajacket and taking her heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in tonight’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful woman for starting a chase. All she wants is an old dog to help her to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Miss. Homes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “She has his own little methods, which are, if she won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but she has the makings of a detective in her. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Shitter insertion and the Anal treasure, she has been more nearly correct than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber johnny. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber johnny on my cock.”
“I think you will find,” said Shelly Homes, “that you will fuck for a higher sensation tonight than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning.as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you tonight. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Shelly Homes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which she had heard from Jane Wilson. I tried to relax myself with indulging in a light masturbation and to my surprise Homes lowered herself to her knees on the floor of the carriage and took me in her mouth, her cool lips feeling delightful on my burning hot flesh. Her tongue circled the bulbous head of my prick until a shot of spunk flew from me and hit the back of her throat whilst we rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked as she wiped the side of her mouth. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Homes remarked as she held up the lantern and gazed about her.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Homes severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Homes fell upon her knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones, her bottom visible under her dress as I stared at her. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy her, for she sprang to her feet again and put her glass in her pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” she remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps until the good porn shop owner is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor — as no doubt you have divined — in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.”
“It is our French porn,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French porn?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 specialist magazines from the Bank of France, each worth a sovereign. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the porn, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 filthy magazines packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of porn is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Homes. “And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of condoms in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have your rubber johnny after all. But I see that th
e enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about whacking them down.”
I placed my dildo, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Homes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness — such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Homes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”
“l have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff as was my cock, for I feared to change my position whilst Homes stroked me through my trousers; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. In the silence Homes reached into my trousers whilst moving my hand up her dress. Together we masturbated each other whilst our companions remained oblivious. She came first, her pussy twitching around my fingers as she let out a low moan which she hid behind a cough. For my part I grew close to coming a minute later and whilst pretending to fumble for the lantern, Homes lowered her mouth to my cock and caught the spunk as it flew out of me, swallowing it quickly before resuming her place across the vault.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Shelly Homes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Homes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Homes blandly. “You have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Homes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Homes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ “
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, get on your back so my colleague here can fuck you.”
“Very well,” said the prisoner as the lantern shone on his smirking face. His expression changed when Homes bent over him and pushed his cock into her arse, calling for my dildo and guiding it into her pussy once I’d handed it over. Almost in celebration of victory she sank onto him, wincing slightly as he stretched her insides, the dildo helping to bring her to a powerful climax in minutes. The prisoner thrust up into her as she came and his cheeks coloured, clearly reaching his climax and spunking into her arse a moment later. “Perhaps now,” said Jones, “we may march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us as he put his cock away and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really, Miss. Homes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Homes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-pubed League.”
“You see, Watson,” she explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Erotica, must be to get this not over-bright pawn shop owner out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of her accomplice’s hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must draw her, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the woman to apply for it. and together they manage to secure her absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come in her for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been young women or men in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The woman’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in her house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for erotic photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar -something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, o
nce more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His crotch and knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the lesbian show I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt tonight?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Miss. Jane Wilson’s presence — in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the porn might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come tonight.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” she answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
