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JAMES MCCULLOUGH WAS not a big man, but he had a solid frame and wide shoulders. His face was angular and his neatly trimmed sideburns met his firm jaw line. In the light of day, Stiles also noticed that McCullough’s hair was nearly the color of his amber eyes. McCullough didn’t waste time on small talk. When Stiles sat down across from the man in his office, it was precisely eight the next morning. Mr. McCullough immediately began to explain the situation.
“A local club called the Velvet Rope is owned by a wealthy local politician. His name is not important.” There was an air to those words that said don’t even ask.
“There have been three murders in the vicinity of the establishment. All three were young men who worked at the club.” McCullough didn’t elaborate. He must have assumed Stiles would get his meaning.
“So three prostitutes have been killed; most people would say so what,” Stiles commented. “This doesn’t sound the type of case that the Pinkertons would be interested in. More like one for the local constabulary.”
“That’s normally true, but the owner,” McCullough emphasized, “has asked us to look into it.”
“Ah, so it’s a personal job.”
McCullough didn’t admit to that. “It doesn’t matter why. Three men are dead and someone does care.”
“All right, McCullough. What does this have to do with my petition to become a Pinkerton agent?” Stiles asked, relaxing into the chair.
“Considering the letter of recommendation from Scotland Yard and the way you handled yourself last night, I can see no reason why the agency would not accept your petition.” McCullough opened a cigarette case and lit one.
“And you feel I would be able to help on this case because...”
“Because it’s clear you have wealth and breeding. You are just the type of customer who would visit the Velvet Rope. Of course, if such a place offends you, then I suppose we could try...”
“No. Neither the place nor the clients nor the employees bother me in the least. If that's what the agency needs from me, I'm willing to do the job.”
“I didn’t want to presume.” McCullough lifted the cigarette to his lips, drawing a long puff of the tobacco and then releasing it into the air above his head.
“What does the agency want me to do?”
McCullough opened the lap drawer in his desk and removed three folders. He slid them across to Stiles.
“Inside each of these is the limited amount of information we have on our three top suspects. Each man is a frequent guest at the club. All of them are apparently wealthy and quite used to getting what they want. Please take a look.”
Stiles opened the first folder. The man’s name was Alexander Lykin, reported to be the son of a bank magnate living in New York. Alexander traveled the world but owned a home on the outskirts of St. Louis and lived there a large part of the year. When in town he visited the club weekly. He had a need to see boys with blond hair and blue eyes who were on the younger side. One of his frequent boys, Joshua, was the first who had been found dead. He had been strangled with some type of wire, which cut his throat as well as suffocating him.
The next folder Stiles opened described Michael O’Leary. His family had come to the Americas from Ireland, where they established themselves in the Chicago area. There was no record of how they made their money, but when his father had been murdered by his mother, Michael inherited a vast fortune. His mother was hanged for the murder, and Michael used the money to go to college. After graduating, he became a professor at a prep school near Chicago. He visited St. Louis and the Velvet Rope during school breaks and during the summer. One of his favorites, a boy named Lucas, was found in much the same condition as the first victim.
The last folder was probably the most interesting. Stiles raised an eyebrow and stared at McCullough. The look on McCullough’s face seemed to say that he felt the same way Stiles did about the information.
Francis Rossi was a priest. A Catholic priest. A Catholic priest from Italy, no less. According to the file, Father Francis was on a sabbatical here in the United States. He had been whisked away from his parish after one of his flock, a young lad only seventeen years old, hanged himself in his family’s barn.
Stiles wasn’t shocked about the priest’s apparent tastes. He’d known a vicar or two whose tastes followed the same suit. What did surprise him was the documented fact that Father Francis often requested partners who enjoyed or didn’t object to pain; that is to say, to receiving pain.
There were no pictures in the files. Only vague descriptions of each man, including height, approximate weight, and hair and eye color. All three men were young. Not one was over thirty. McCullough interrupted his thoughts.
“Each of the three suspects has hired at least two of the victims, but none of them had used all three. The last victim was not underage, but looked it. Fresh-faced, pale blond hair, not a hint of a beard, and a tiny frame. Lykin and the priest both had hired Cole Barton the night before we found his body.” McCullough leaned back in his seat and turned his face to a window near his desk. He stared through it for what felt like a long time.
Stiles got the impression that McCullough had a personal interest in this case. The question was, did he ask what that was? Deciding against it, Stiles closed the last folder and tapped his knuckles against the arm of the chair.
“What do you want me to do,” he asked.
McCullough’s attention returned to Stiles. He looked forlorn, but determined.
“Catch the man who is doing this!”
STILES HURRIED BACK to his hotel, excited about the assignment, and couldn’t resist opening the boxes stored on the shelf of his room’s closet. Inside one was a round bowler hat, and the other contained a long leather coat. He hadn't taken them from their boxes since he had purchased them back in New York. He had been looking forward to getting back into some kind of uniform, even if it wasn’t the same one he wore as an English constable fighting on the side of right. It would be much the same now that he was a Pinkerton agent. He was a bit disappointed that he wouldn't be wearing the hat and coat yet, but he decided that didn't really matter. He’d wear them on another assignment someday and in the meantime he would carry his uniform in his heart.
The plan was quite simple. All Stiles had to do was visit the brothel and try to get acquainted with the three suspects. Watch them. Follow them when they left the establishment. Interview the boys they hired. Make written reports to Lawrence after every visit to the Velvet Rope. And find a killer before he killed again.
The first evening was spent getting accustomed to the layout of the Velvet Rope. It was a large facility with several exits, a number of regular rooms, a few rooms with special equipment and, of course, gentlemen for hire. The Velvet Rope spared no expense when it came to entertaining the paying clientele. The best wines and whiskeys were made available as soon as you were ushered into the parlor. It was also made known that other forms of vice were available as well, though Stiles never used the stuff. He’d seen what opium had done to other men, and he did not want that particular addiction.
One thing that did surprise him after he was offered a seat in the parlor and given his drink of choice was the photo album with which he was presented. Inside the book were pictures of all the staff available, clothed and unclothed. There were approximately twenty pictures of different young men in the album. Stiles did come across the picture of one young man who whetted his appetite.
His name was Paul, and he appeared slightly older than most of the other offerings. Dark hair, dark eyes, and very muscular. Not overly so, but nicely filled out. He also had a large cock lying semi-hard against one of his legs in the picture of him naked. Stiles was just beginning to wonder what it would look like stiff when the butler who had ushered him in opened the doors to the parlor.
Stiles looked up from the pages of the album and watched as two other gentlemen entered the room. One was tall and very slender. His suit was slightly out of style but clean and neatly pressed. His reddish-brown hair fell in loose curls about his collar, and his eyes were the palest blue Stiles had ever seen. Almost like ice on a pond. From the description in one of the folders he had read in McCullough's office, this could be Michael O’Leary.
The second man could have been either of the other two, or someone else entirely. Whoever he was, he was already drunk and disorderly. The butler caught him as he leaned forward and lost his balance. He nearly knocked over a table in the center of the room with a vase of roses on it.
“Stop it! Just take me to my usual room and send me someone. Anyone! I don’t care which one,” the man screeched at the butler.
“Yes, Mr. Lykin. Would you like me to... ” The butler didn’t get to finish his sentence.
“No, you idiot! I can do this myself.” Lykin pushed past the butler and through a curtained arch at the back of the room.
Stiles noticed that O’Leary hadn’t said a word while Lykin was making a fool of himself. He was looking about the room, never making eye contact with Stiles. The man was more than nervous. He wiped his hands on his trousers several times as he paced the room. Why would he be so flustered? Finally he stopped moving, and Stiles caught his eye. He smiled at the man. O’Leary nearly jumped out of his skin and began to walk backward out of the room, as if he was ready to flee. The butler returned and addressed him just before he slipped out.
“Sir, Sam is waiting for you in suite two.” The butler offered a hand in the direction of where he had just disappeared with Lykin.
“Thank you, Henson,” O’Leary said with his head bowed. He hurried through the curtained doorway and vanished.