Summon Up the Blood

by R. N. Morris

  ‘I don’t see how you can ensure that. They must see one another.’

  ‘Of course, the members themselves would not reveal one another’s identity, if it were known to them. However, our members – and their guests – are masked, and refer to one another by assumed names. Naturally, some of them recognize each other from outside. It is largely a formality . . .’

  ‘Another of your quaint traditions?’

  ‘You could say that. But it serves a useful purpose. There is a symbolic significance to the masks.’

  ‘Mr Stannard, I am investigating an event that took place on the outside. If, as you say, your members behave impeccably when they are not here, then they have nothing to fear.’

  ‘But they are not my members! I am employed by them. I am their servant. I cannot betray their trust.’

  It was at this point that Quinn realized the man was afraid. ‘I could arrest you. Are you prepared to go to prison for them?’

  ‘If that is necessary . . . then so be it.’

  ‘Very well. I understand. In that case, I shall return. With men. To raid the premises.’

  The major domo screwed up his face as if he was about to burst into tears. ‘No, no. No – please! You mustn’t do that.’

  ‘Naturally, I would prefer not to. I hate to be a nuisance. But I can, you see. That’s the point. Look at it this way, Mr Stannard. I am looking for one man. A vicious killer who has committed an act of such wildness and depravity that even the founders of the Panther Club would have recoiled in horror from it. One man. One very vile and nasty man. The last thing I wish to do is inconvenience everyone here. Believe me, the most likely outcome of your furnishing me with that list is that nothing more will ever be heard of this matter. I will be gone and you will never see me again. Your members will be left alone to live their exemplary lives. I will no doubt discover that there is no connection between the members of the Panther Club and the crime I am investigating. No one need ever know – that is the point. But if you choose not give it to me, there will be a raid. Your members will be unmasked, their identities revealed and I will personally see to it that their names are known to every editor in Fleet Street. I can destroy this club and if necessary I will.’

  The look of impending tears returned to Stannard’s face. In her cage, Bertie started as if disturbed by a bad dream. She lifted her head and gave a querulous growl.

  Voices in the Darkness

  Quinn stepped out. The panel of liquid blackness slipped back into place behind him. He lifted his face up to the night and sniffed the air, a strangely animal gesture. The stench of Bertie’s cage was replaced by the familiar street smells of horse droppings and automobile exhausts.

  He felt restored by his success at the Panther Club. The major domo had undertaken to deliver a copy of the list of members to New Scotland Yard the following day.

  He lit a Set cigarette and began to retrace his steps to Piccadilly Circus.

  But at the sight of the Criterion’s revolving doors, all his renewed confidence left him. The snatches of laughter that escaped in the turn of the doors were harsh and braying, as if the crowd assembled was made up of savage, dog-headed deities.

  Perhaps Inchball had been right. He should dispense with all the subterfuge and simply show his warrant badge. How quickly the bar would empty then!

  He peered in, trying to locate the satin-clad woman he had noticed earlier. He told himself that if he saw her, he would go inside.

  ‘Don’t be shy, dearie.’

  Quinn turned to see a young man – a youth really, no older than seventeen, probably not even that – grinning rather foolishly at him. The youth was dressed in a flashy, though poorly tailored, suit. A pale grey bowler, or billycock hat, with the brim rolled tight to the sides, was set back on his head. It seemed to be several sizes too small for him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Quinn, his voice charged with hostility.

  ‘I can see you want to go in. Yer first time, is it?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ Quinn bridled to think that this effeminate creature had mistaken him for one of his own type. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘You get all sorts here, you know. You might think that it’s not for you, but I know what it’s like. Get lonely, don’t yer?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Got a lady friend, have yer?’ The question was delivered with a loathsome sneer.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is someone.’

  ‘A lady friend?’ The incredulity in the youth’s voice was positively insulting. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Miss Dillard,’ said Quinn, without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Well, if you’ve got your Miss Dillard, wha’cha doing ’ere? Like it both ways, do you? Best of both worlds. My friend tole me about men like you.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Aw’wigh’! Aw’wigh’! Keep yer hair on. It’s jiss the way you was looking in there. Like you really wanted to go in but were afraid to.’

  ‘No, I . . .’ Quinn winced at his own stupidity. He had forgotten the role he was supposed to be playing. ‘Yes, you’re right. I came here because I’d heard that one could meet fellows, sympathetic fellows.’

  ‘Wha’ about your Miss Dillard?’

  ‘There is no Miss Dillard.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘I met a fellow once,’ ventured Quinn. He drew too deeply on the cigarette and began to cough.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  It was a moment before Quinn could speak, his voice high-pitched and out of control. ‘He gave me his picture.’ Quinn dropped the stub of the Set and ground it into the pavement with his heel.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘His name’s Jimmy.’ The portrait of the unknown youth pulsated in the intermittent brilliance of Piccadilly Circus at night.

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Jimmy, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hard to say, ain’t it? You sees a lot of people in this game.’

  ‘He . . . has . . . one . . . very distinguishing feature, which you may have heard talked about.’

  ‘Oh yeah, wha’s tha’?’

  Quinn swallowed. ‘He’s very well-endowed. In the genital area.’

  ‘Gentle area?’

  ‘He has a big cock.’

  ‘Oh, why din’ you say so. You like that, do yer?’

  ‘No. It’s not like that. You misunderstand. We were friends.’

  ‘I know. I know. There’s no need to be coy wiv me, mister.’

  ‘Do you know him?’ insisted Quinn.

  The youth took a step closer to Quinn. ‘I know where to find ’im. Come wiv me an I’ll take yer to him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I wouldn’t lie to yer, mister.’ The youth jerked his head encouragingly.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’ The young man turned slowly, keeping Quinn fixed with his gaze for as long as possible. At the last moment, he gave a suggestive hoist of his eyebrows and began to move away with sauntering steps.

  Quinn waited for the backward glance with a pounding heart. When it came, it was poised and confident in its power to compel.

  He followed at five paces. The youth led him away from the twinkling lights of Piccadilly Circus, back along Piccadilly. His pace was unhurried. Quinn had to slow his step to avoid catching him up.

  Eventually they reached the entrance to the Ritz Hotel. He was in amongst the crowds he had looked down upon from the top deck of the omnibus. The glamorous women, he saw now, could only be prostitutes. They cast their mercenary gaze on him, only to quickly dismiss him. Evidently, he passed muster as a renter’s client.

  In a moment of panic, he wondered if it was the youth’s intention to take him into the Ritz and insist on a room. Of all the objections to this
scheme that clamoured in his head, the loudest was the question of expense. But no. He was relieved to see the young man continue past the hotel.

  Then suddenly, inexplicably, he vanished. One minute, he was there ahead of him, his stroll shimmering beneath the lights of Piccadilly. The next, he was gone.

  Quinn drew to a bewildered halt.

  ‘Psst, mister, over ’ere!’

  The night fell away to nothing. The young man’s voice came from the void.

  A flare of orange light as a match was struck. The grinning face briefly revealed. He was holding out a hand to Quinn. ‘Take me ’and. Then we won’t get separated.’

  The match burnt out. The youth vanished again.

  ‘This way!’

  Quinn groped towards the impatient hiss. A hand gripped his. A violent yank and he was pulled down from the pavement into the darkness of Green Park at night.

  Quinn wrested his hand out of the other’s. He heard the youth’s footsteps ahead of him, cried out, ‘Stop!’

  ‘Shhh! You wanna bring the Ole Bill down on us?’ The youth spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘I tole yer to hole on to me.’

  ‘It’s just that you nearly pulled me over.’

  ‘Would you rather I pulled you off?’

  Quinn was all at once surrounded by the sniggers of unseen men.

  ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘You don’t arsk questions like that, mister.’ It was the youth’s voice. ‘Let us get away from the thoroughfare so we can be about our business. ‘’Ere, put yer hand on me shoulder. I’m right in front of yer.’

  Quinn’s hand came down on something solid.

  ‘That’s it.’

  The youth set off again. By now, Quinn’s eyes were getting used to the darkness. He could see the moving silhouette in front of him. ‘Are you taking me to Jimmy, or not?’

  The youth stopped. There was some business in the darkness, as if he were pushing aside a curtain. All that was revealed was a deeper darkness. ‘In ’ere. You first.’

  Quinn stepped forward. The darkness closed around him. ‘Where’s Jimmy?’

  ‘You don’ need Jimmy. You got me now. I’ll be your Jimmy now.’

  Quinn felt the breath of another close to his face. Then a hand on his cheek. Another hand rummaging below. His own hands flew out to ward off the contact. The same hands, tensed into fists, lashed out wildly. One blow met bony resistance. There was a cry of surprise and pain.

  ‘Whacha do that for?’

  ‘Do you even know who Jimmy is, you bloody pervert?’

  ‘I ain’t no more a pervert’n you, mister. Why d’ya come wiv me if that ain’t what you wanted?’

  A different voice came out of the darkness, somewhere to Quinn’s left. ‘Will you two pipe down? Are you trying to get us all arrested?’

  ‘I got me a time-waster, ’ere. That’s what it is,’ said the youth. ‘A time-waster an’ a bully.’

  ‘You wan’ us to sort him out for yer?’

  ‘I’m not a time-waster,’ whispered Quinn. ‘I’ve got money. I’ll pay you money. I’m sorry I hit you. I couldn’t see. It’s so dark here.’

  ‘That’s the idea, mister. We carn’t very well carry on like this in broad daylight, can we?’

  ‘Pipe down!’ urged another voice again.

  ‘Lissen,’ said the youth. ‘Let’s make this quick. Unbutton yer flies an’ I’ll suck you off fer half a crown.’

  The youth must have been on his knees now. Quinn felt him groping at his groin.

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘You can imagine it’s Miss Dillard doin’ it, if it’ll make yer feel better. All the same in the dark, ain’t it?’

  For Quinn, this was the last straw. He spun on his heels, pushed through the resisting curtain of branches and ran back towards the lights of Piccadilly.

  Behind him he could hear the darkness hiss in urgent outrage. After a few paces, he crouched down behind a thickening of the night. He felt the unseen twigs of another bush scratch his face.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Shall we go after ’im for yer? Sort him out?’

  ‘Are you all right, dearie?’

  ‘Did he hit you, the brute?’

  ‘What was his game?’

  ‘He was asking for Jimmy.’

  ‘Ain’t you ’eard? Jimmy’s dead. Leastways that’s what Tommy Venables said. He said he heard it from some copper who was going about with Jimmy’s picture, asking questions.’

  ‘This feller had a picture.’

  ‘That’ll be him. The copper.’

  At the mention of that word, there was a sudden agitation in the darkness. Figures broke away, dark outlines running back towards the light.

  ‘Now see what you done! You scared off all the gentlemen!’

  ‘They’ll be back.’

  ‘Mine’s still here, ain’t cha, lover?’

  A more educated voice, groaning with the strain of delayed gratification, answered: ‘Would you mind terribly finishing me off? There’s a good chap.’

  The sound of an energetic pumping action gave a brisk rhythm to the speaker’s words: ‘According to Tommy Venables, this copper says someone done for Jimmy. Cut his throat.’

  A moan of ecstasy was drowned out by a squeal of horror. ‘No-o-o-o? Ooh, that’s horrible!’

  ‘You gotta be careful who you take in the bushes, dearie.’

  ‘The coppers’ll be crawling all over us now.’

  ‘That’s a pretty picture!’

  ‘Seriously. Very bad for business.’

  ‘So is getting yer throat cut, dearie.’

  A cigarette was lit. Quinn recognized the aroma as Set. The more educated voice spoke again, calmer now: ‘This boy that was killed. Jimmy. What was his full name, do you know?’

  ‘Why do you wanna know?’

  It was very much the question Quinn wanted answering.

  ‘Listen, the police won’t help you chaps. As far as they’re concerned, if someone starts killing the odd renter here and there, that’s one less pervert on the streets. Doesn’t it strike you as fishy that a young man has been murdered, and yet there hasn’t been a word about it in the papers? Now I don’t know why that is, but I can tell you that if the police keep something like this out of the papers they usually have a damn good reason for doing so. The only way we’ll get to the truth of what happened to your friend Jimmy is by shining the torch of independent inquiry. But look, we shouldn’t talk about it here.’ The speaker raised his voice pointedly: ‘You never know who might be lurking in the bushes. And that fellow with the picture, you know, we can’t be sure he’s a policeman.’

  His meaning was swiftly taken, and in silence.

  The darkness stirred around Quinn. He heard footsteps on gravel. Then, with startling speed, the midnight park emptied and he felt himself alone.

  A Place Beyond Fear

  He could not believe it was so easy. Really, it should not be so easy.

  They ought to see it in his eyes. There should be something in his eyes alerting them to what he was about.

  Blood.

  He imagined his eyes were filled with blood, as the eyes of victims of strangulation are reputed to be. He imagined the whites of his eyes turned a deep crimson.

  A colour beyond beauty and ugliness, just as his acts were beyond good and evil. It was the colour of pain and joy, the colour of truth.

  It amazed him that his eyes were not flooded with that colour.

  Was it really possible that his eyes were indistinguishable from other men’s?

  As before, he had given this one every chance to get away. There would be no restraints, no binding, until the very last moment. By which time it would be too late. He would have made his choices. His fate would be decided. There would be nothing he, or anyone, could do.

  When the first one had given him that imploring look at the last, mutely pleading for mercy as he took the blade to his throat, he reminded the boy that he had come with him willingly. He had not force
d him into the cab. A gentle guiding hand, perhaps, but if he had pulled away from his grip at any moment, he would have let him go. The operation required that both parties entered into it willingly.

  The boy took that badly. Tears – of regret, no doubt, and self-recrimination. For it had to be said, he had no one to blame but himself.

  And when they had reached the house, he had not held a gun against his head to force him inside. If the boy had refused to get out of the cab, he would have willingly paid his fare home for him. But he knew – they both knew – that there was never any question of that. The boy was always going to get out of the cab and follow him inside.

  ‘This is your doing as much as mine,’ he had said as he slid the steel into skin and allowed the hot gushing of blood to begin. He remembered the exultant shock against his naked tingling skin, his body tensed in anticipation, as he was bathed in the hot shower of the first boy’s dying.

  He did not create these situations – these works – so much as allow them to occur.

  It began with the cigarette. That was the first test. He had decided that if they accept the cigarette – the symbol of our Lord Set, the Great Lord of Chaos and Confusion – then the work may be considered to have begun. If they decline the cigarette, they may go on their way. And so, that first choice, the choice that determines everything that follows, will always be theirs, and will always be freely made.

  He had offered the cigarettes for a second time tonight. Once again, he had chosen his subject well. Just like before, this boy had taken one. These hungry, greedy boys could not resist. They would take anything offered to them. It was in their nature.

  The work was simply the perfection of their nature.

  As death is the perfection of a man’s fate.

  ‘Look at me,’ he commanded, sitting up in the filthy bed. He held the lantern up to his face.

  The boy, already stripped and sodomized, stirred in the bed. He was sleepy and confused, not used to the heavy smoke of the Set cigarettes.

  The sheets had not been washed since he had entertained the first one there. The excrement stains had at first disgusted him. But now he accepted them as a necessary part of the work. And he knew that he would be washed clean by what was to come.