Beyond the Pale

'We don't allow Jews in here.  You will have to leave.'

'I beg your pardon?' asked Hutchinson.

The salesman turned, and smiled at Hutchinson. It was a smile that showed too many teeth. 'Oh, not you, sir,' he said.  'I was speaking to these Jews.  We don't allow them in our store, I assure you.'

'I see,' said Hutchinson.  He looked the salesman up and down, then stepped past him, and bowed to the lady and gentleman who were being so rudely dismissed.  'I apologize for this person's behaviour,' he said.  'On behalf of polite society.  I'm sure you do not wish to stay here, where you are treated in so infamous a fashion, but I will see what I may do to prevent such a thing from ever happening again.'

The lady curtseyed.  'The behaviour of this person is not your fault, sir,' she said.  'And we are so treated in many places.  We have become accustomed to it by now.'

'That is a pity, Ma'am,' said Hutchinson.  He bowed to the couple once more, then turned to the salesman.  'I wish to speak to your manager,' he informed him.

'That is not possible, sir.  Perhaps you should leave, as well.'

'If you persist in telling your customers to leave for no good reason, soon you will have none,' said Hutchinson.  'I imagine your manager is back here?'

'Sir!  You can't go in there, sir.'

'That is your opinion,' said Hutchinson.  'I have my own.'

There was an imposing looking door, labelled 'Mr. Oswald Jones, Esquire'.  Hutchinson gave one tap upon it, then walked in.  'Mr. Oswald Jones?' he asked.

'Yes,' said the man behind the desk.  'Who are you?'

'He just walked in, sir,' said the salesman. 'I couldn't stop him.'

'Very well, Peters.  I will speak to you about that later,' said the manager.

'I prefer that we both speak to him now,' said Hutchinson.

Jones got to his feet. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and it revealed his large belly in a most unpleasant fashion.   'When and where I speak to my staff is my affair, sir.  I ask you again, who are you?'

'I am Detective Inspector Hutchinson, of Scotland Yard, at your service.'

'I see, sir.  And have you discovered a crime on my premises?'

'I have, Mr. Jones.  Your salesman told two customers to leave your store, because they were Jews.'

'That is not a crime, Inspector.  It is store policy.  Now that I have cleared up that small matter, you should leave as well.  Leave by the back door, if you please.'

Hutchinson laughed.  'The trade entrance?  I think not, Jones.  And I should inform you it would be wise for you to change your store policy, as soon as possible.'

'I have no intention of doing so, Inspector.  It is the policy of the owner of the store, and I happen to agree with it.  The Jews are a pestilence.  They bring nothing but trouble.  We don't want them here.  I don't need some low-born police officer to tell me how to run my business.  Good day to you, sir.'

'Don't try to tell me later that I gave you no opportunity to change your mind, Jones.  I will be back.  Oh, and by the by, Jones.  The titles on your door are superfluous.  Mister is sufficient.  Or, if you prefer, so is Esquire.  Good day to you, sir.'


**********************

'Is Howard in his office, Austin?'

'Certainly, Mr Hutchinson.  Please.  Go right in.  I know he isn't busy at the moment.'

'I'm about to change that, Austin.  You might be busy soon enough, yourself.'

'That is fine with me, sir,' said the secretary.  He smiled at Hutchinson, and folded his hands behind his elegant head as he leaned back in his chair.

Aloysius Howard looked up as Hutchinson entered his office, and favoured his visitor with a grin.  'You are paying me a personal visit, sir,' he said.  'To what do I owe this all but unprecedented honour?'

'To bigotry, Howard.  In the form of anti-Semitism.'

'I despise anti-Semitism to be sure, Hutchinson.  But why come to me in your fight against it?'

'I wish you to buy out a store for me, Howard.  Milton and Sons, in Mayfair.  Do you know it?'

'I do indeed.  Are they anti-Semitic?  I was not aware.'

'Nor was I.  Perhaps it is a new policy.  Find out for me, will you?  Merely as a point of historical interest.  When I am the new owner, it will be the store's old policy.'

'Of course, Hutchinson.  Any other instructions?'

'Not at the moment.  How is the studio coming along, financially?'

'Well enough.  It has only been in business for a few weeks.  Do not be so impatient.  And it might do better if you would let me....'

'Not on your life, Howard.  The studio must be a success, but on Mr. Starsky's terms.  If I were to interfere, even with the best of motives, and he should learn of it, I might lose his trust.  Trust is a valuable commodity, Howard, when you have never possessed it, and then are offered it with an open heart.'

'True enough.  But I don't think you need to worry.  I am no great expert on photography, but from what I can tell, your friend's photographs are as good as anyone's.'

'They are not, Howard.  They are far superior to any other photographs ever taken.'

'Of course, sir,' said Aloysius Howard.  'That is what I meant.'

'Never mind the bootlicking, Howard.  Just buy out Milton and Sons for me.  I am looking forward to firing the staff.'

'Far be it from me to deprive you of any pleasure, Hutchinson.  Do I have a free hand?'

'As long as you do nothing strictly illegal, so that we end up in adjoining cells at Newgate, yes.  You are quite free. Enjoy yourself, Howard.  I will expect your message in a few days, that I am the proud new owner of a furniture store in Mayfair.  Now, I must get to work myself.  Scotland Yard is waiting.'

'I pity them, Hutchinson.  Do they know what sort of blackguard they have employed in you?'

'I've dropped one or two hints, Howard.'


**********************

'You wished to see me, Superintendent Laidlaw?'

'Yes, Inspector Hutchinson.  Please shut the door.'

'Certainly, sir.  What seems to be the problem?'

'Have a seat, Inspector.  The problem is, that I've had a visit from a Mr. Jones and a Mr. Milton.  They say that you threatened them, and tried to use your authority as a Scotland Yard detective to interfere in their business practices.  What do you have to say for yourself, Inspector?'

'I, sir?  Nothing, sir.  They are the ones who should be explaining their actions, sir.'

'I don't agree, Inspector.  You will go to them and apologize, is that understood?'

'Yes, sir.  It is understood.  Do you happen to have an Almanac handy?'

'An Almanac, Inspector?  Why do you need an Almanac?'

'To check on the weather in Hell, sir.  When it is a cold day there, Mr. Jones and Mr. Milton may expect an apology from me.'

'I beg your pardon, Inspector Hutchinson.  I see that you have managed to misunderstand me after all.  That was an order, Inspector.'

'It is an immoral order, sir, and so one that I will not obey.  I will not apologize to anti-Semites for pointing out their errors, lest I endanger my immortal soul, sir.  That is final.'

'Who do you think you are, Hutchinson?  Do you think you have the right to put your own judgement above orders from your superiors?'

'Yes, sir.  You may fire me, of course, for refusing to obey orders, but I won't go quietly.  I will make public what orders I was given, and commanded to obey, and subsequently fired for not obeying.  I imagine there will be questions in the Press, sir. Is it now the policy of Scotland Yard to support anti-Semitism?  Are we now to stand by and watch during any future pogroms, as do the police in Russia and other such nations?  Will Queen Victoria award you the Victoria Cross for helping to save Great Britain from Jews who wish to shop for furniture?  When you have determined what will be your answers to these questions, call upon me again, and give me your decision on my future with this Department.  In the meantime, I have work to do.  Sir.'

Superintendent Laidlaw was breathing rather heavily by this point, and his face was scarlet. Hutchinson was about to suggest he see a doctor, but the Superintendent forestalled his advice, by silently waving him out of his office, and shutting the door in his face.


***********************


'I'm buying a furniture store.  In Mayfair,'  he told Starsky as they drove home.

'Yes?' said Starsky.   'Why?'

'I liked the store.  I didn't like the manager.  Or the owner.  Or the salesman.'

'I see.  So they are going to be out of work, just before Christmas? What did they do to you?'

'They tried to make me use the trade entrance, merely because I am a police officer.'

'Hutch!  Do you expect me to believe that you would buy out a store over such a minor insult?'

'Tis true.  They did.   Now, I can give you, and Lady Barbara, a discount on any furniture you may need in future, for your studio.'

'I sold more pictures today.   To a newspaper.  One of them may be printed on the front page.  It's an experiment the paper is trying.  They want to make the front page more entertaining, so they say.'

'That's wonderful news.  When you are a famous photographer, will you still remember me?'

'Of course,' said Starsky, lovingly.

Nicholas cleared his throat.  'When my brother is a famous photographer,' he said.  'He will be so old he will barely remember his own name.'

'Thank you, Nicky.  I have great faith in you, too.'

'What's that up ahead?  Slow down, Starsky.'

Starsky pulled on the reins, slowing the horses.  'It looks like smoke, Hutch,' he said.

'It is,' said Hutchinson.  'That house is on fire.'

At that very moment, flames shot out of the windows, and the roof caught fire.  Starsky pulled the chaise to a halt.  

'We have to alert the neighbours, and the police,' he said.

'Yes.  You alert the neighbours.  Nick, you drive to the nearest police station, and give the alarm.'

'What are you going to do, Hutch?' asked Starsky, with some alarm of his own.

'I imagine there are people inside the house, who don't know they're about to burn to death.'


*******************


Hutchinson woke the landlady, who had been dozing by her fire.  At first, she refused to believe her house was burning, but he dragged her out into the hall, and from there, they could smell the smoke.

'The fire is on the upper stories,' he told her.  'They could collapse upon us at any moment.  How many people live above?'

'About... about a dozen, sir.  Two families.  One on each floor.  I can't leave.  Everything will burn.'

'Everything will burn, Ma'am, whether you are here or not.  Human flesh burns quite nicely, I've noticed, and has a peculiarly offensive odour.  The choice is up to you, but I suggest you leave.'

Smoke had already begun to invade the first floor, and that was worrying.  It probably meant the second floor was about to be engulfed by the flames.  Also, no one had answered to his shouts of warning.  It might mean everyone was out at a Christmas party.  It might mean they were asleep, though it was rather early for that.

He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, and wet it with water from a vase on a hall table.  Then, he began to open doors.  Door after door, with no one behind them.  It seemed his first guess was the correct one, and everyone was away from home.  That was well enough, as far as it went.  Now, he must attempt the second floor.

He poured the vase of water over his head.  It was not much, but even a small amount of protection was better than nothing.  The smoke on the second floor was thick, and he could see little past his nose.

'Is there anyone here?' he called.  'If you can hear my voice, come toward it.'  There was no answer, but he could hear a child crying down the hall.

'Mama!  Mama, wake up.'

Hutchinson started toward the voice.  In the room at the end of the hall, a little girl was shaking her mother, who lay unconscious on the sofa. A strong smell of whisky was apparent, even over the smell of the smoke.  He grabbed the child by the hand and pulled her away.

'Hold onto my neck,' he told her.

'Mama.  My mama won't wake up.'  The child began to scream.

'Hold on,' Hutchinson repeated.  'I will bring your mama with us.'

He could not carry both the child and her mother, so he dragged the unconscious woman with him.  Flames were pouring down the hall, now.  There was no time to look for other inhabitants.  He wrapped the water soaked handkerchief over the child's face, and started for the stairs.

The child was crying, and calling for her mother.  The woman was heavy, and Hutchinson was beginning to wonder if she were dead, or close to it.  There had been no time to check, and he could not have left her to burn.  He imagined the effect on the child, of being dragged away from her mother's side.   For all the rest of her life, she would be blaming herself over her mother's death.  No.  But the situation was becoming more dangerous by the moment, and at some point, he must make a decision.  He was feeling dizzy from the smoke, and thought he could hear bells, and voices calling his name.

'Hutch!  Where are you? Hutch?'

So, it was not the voices of angels he heard.  It was his own beloved saviour.  'Starsky!  I'm here.  So is the fire.   I'm coming.  You must leave.'

'Leave?  Are you mad?'

'Stop arguing.  Get out before the whole house goes up.'

He bumped to the bottom of the flight of stairs.  Starsky was waiting, with a man wearing the magnificent brass helmet of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade.  The fireman threw the woman over his shoulder, and Starsky supported Hutch as they made their way down the last flight of stairs to the ground floor.

Outside, it was organized chaos.  Several fire trucks.  Uniformed firemen, carrying hoses.  The fire flickered luridly on their helmets, and the brass couplings of the hoses.

'Your Highness,' called one of the firemen.  'We have the hoses hooked up to the hydrants.  We're ready.  Better get out of the way.'

Your Highness, thought Hutchinson.  Ah, so his other rescuer was Prince Edward.  The Prince of Wales loved fire fighting.  He was a friend of the head of the Fire Brigade, Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, and was often seen fighting interesting fires.  Hutchinson didn't think this fire was so interesting, but perhaps the prince was bored.  Also, Madame Tussaud's Waxworks was just down the street, and if that went up, it would be interesting enough.  All those wax effigies, burning like candles.  He laughed at the image.

'Hutch?  Hutch, are you well?'

'Well, enough,' he told Starsky.  'I managed to avoid catching fire, at least.'

'The smoke can be more dangerous than the fire,' Prince Edward told him.  'Did you breathe much of it?'

'I don't think so, Your Highness,' said Hutchinson.

'Your friend tells me you are a detective, with the Metropolitan Police.  Good work, Inspector.'

'I was only doing my job, Your Highness.'

'Of course, Inspector.  But it was a good job, nevertheless.'

They had been standing still for a moment, catching their breaths, after the excitement of their escape.  Hutchinson still clutched the child, her head resting upon his shoulder. Starsky kept his arm around them both. Prince Edward stood beside them, with the child's mother slung over his shoulder.  Hutchinson looked around for Nicholas, wondering where the young man had disappeared to.  But he was waiting by the chaise, one of Starsky's cameras in his hand, and it seemed that he had just taken a photograph with it.

'That will make a good picture,' Nicholas announced.  'And I didn't even have to pose you.'


*********************

'Well, Inspector Hutchinson, you have been creating quite a stir, have you not?'

'Have I sir?  I was unaware of it.'

'Indeed, Inspector? Are you so very unaware?' said Chief Commissioner Munro.  'I thought you were in the business of creating stirs.'

'No, sir.  I am not.  I am in the business of detecting crimes, and saving lives.'

'That is not what I hear from Superintendent Laidlaw.'

After a moment of silence, Hutchinson spoke up.  'Is the Criminal Investigation Department holding a Christmas party this year, sir?  For the detectives who must work on Christmas Day, I mean.'

'How would I know, Inspector?' asked the Chief Commissioner, clearly bewildered by the question.

'I thought you would, Commissioner Munro, since you run the department.'

'I run the department, yes.  But I don't deal with such minor matters.  And what has Christmas dinner to do with the subject we are discussing?'

'What are we discussing, sir?  Forgive me.  I have forgotten.'

'We are discussing the reports of you which I have received from Superintendent Laidlaw, Inspector,'  shouted the commissioner.

'There is no need to shout, sir,' said Hutchinson, calmly.  'I merely asked about the Christmas party, because I was thinking of contributing to the entertainment.  Perhaps a roast goose?  A plum pudding?'

'I begin to understand the Superintendent's difficulties, Inspector.'

'Do you sir?  And what might those difficulties be?  Besides bigotry and moral cowardice, I mean?'

'Inspector Hutchinson!  That is enough.  How dare you speak so of your superior officer?'

'If he were my superior, sir, I would not dream of it.  But he is not.  What was it that he told you about our confrontation the other day?  If you don't mind my asking.'

'He told me that you threatened some respectable shopkeepers, and when he ordered you to apologize, you refused.  He brought the matter to me, and I was intending to sever your relationship with the Metropolitan Police.  And then this came to my attention.'

The commissioner tossed a newspaper down on his desk.  It was that day's Telegraph.  On the front page was the photograph Nicholas had taken the day before.  Hutchinson, emerging from the burning house, Starsky and Prince Edward at his side. Starsky had his face turned toward Hutchinson, so he was unidentifiable. Which was just as well, he thought.  His father read the Telegraph.

'You are a hero, Inspector,' Munro continued. 'You saved lives, working beside the Prince of Wales.  How can we fire you at this moment?'

'Bad timing indeed, sir.  But bad judgement as well.  It seems the Superintendent did not tell you the whole story.  I threatened no one, sir.  I suggested that a shop keeper change his anti-Semitic policies.  That is all.  I have not altered my opinion on that matter, and I will not do so.  If you want to fire me, go ahead.'

'I see, Inspector.  That puts a different light on the subject, if you speak the truth.'

'I do, sir.  Talk to the shop keeper yourself, if you like.   Ask him his opinions of Jews and… and Aryans.'

'No.  I'll take your word for it.  Why didn't you say so, at once?'

'I don't like to explain my actions, sir.  Unless they have something to do with police business.  This matter was personal.'

'If you carry on personal campaigns, whilst working for Scotland Yard, you may be required to explain your actions from time to time, Inspector Hutchinson,' the commissioner informed him.

'Then I will do so, sir, when it is required, and not a moment before.'

'Damn you, Inspector Hutchinson.  Who do you think you are?'

'A man, sir.  A Scotland Yard detective, sir. Not a cringing slave, who must perforce express the opinions of his masters' as his own.  I believe that the Metropolitan Police are a force for good in the world.  We are supposed to stand for justice, are we not?  I protested the policies of the shop keeper because they were unjust.  His sort of attitude is the sort of attitude that leads to pogroms.  Do we want pogroms here in England?  I thought we did not.  Was I wrong?'

'No, Inspector, we do not want pogroms.  But must you be so outspoken on the subject?  And so disrespectful of your superiors?'

'Yes, sir.'

There was a moment of silence, then the commissioner sighed.  'Very well, Inspector.  Return to your duties.  I will mollify Superintendent Laidlaw with some story or other.  Try to keep your mouth shut for a time, and maybe all this will blow over.  Dismissed!'

'Sir,' said Hutchinson.  'Shall I buy that goose?'

'The goose, Inspector?  Oh.  Yes, of course.  Buy a goose, by all means.  Just make sure it is dead before you bring it around here.  I think you have caused enough fuss for one week.'


*********************

'Good evening, Madame Starsky,' said Inspector Hutchinson.  He kissed her hand, which made her giggle like a young girl.  David Starsky rolled his eyes, and continued down the hall to their bedchamber. Nicholas Starsky snorted in a rather ungentlemanly fashion, and headed for the kitchen.  Hutchinson ignored them.  He offered his arm to the lady, to escort her to her sitting room.

'How are our guests tonight?' he asked, when they were seated together on the sofa.

'Asleep at the moment,' said Madame Starsky.  'They were awake for a time, and had something to eat.  The little girl, Celia, she was up for a while.  But her mother, Madame Robinson, that woman is sad.  She won't talk to me very much.  I asked about her husband, and she said he'd gone away somewhere.  She doesn't know how to find him.'

'Hmm. The landlady tells me she last saw him a few days ago, when he gave her the rent money.  She told me they have two sons, as well.  None of these gentlemen have appeared at the house expressing shock that it has burnt to the ground.  Very strange.'

'I asked her about the whisky.  She told me she does not drink alcohol.  Not even wine.  She cannot account for why she was intoxicated.'

'A mystery, to be sure,' said Hutchinson.  'But one I cannot solve tonight.  How are the preparations for Hanukkah progressing?'

'Quite well, sir.  And truly, Hanukkah is a simple festival.  Not like your Christmas.'

'Ah, but that sounds pleasant to me.  A simple festival with candles.  We British spend far too much time eating far too much rich food at Christmas.'

'We were not in your country last December, so I know nothing of that, sir,' the lady told him.

'How fortunate for you,' said Hutchinson.


****************


'I think you are in love with my mother,' said Starsky.  'And seducing me was a ploy to attract her attention.'

'All has been discovered,' Hutchinson murmured in reply.  'I am quite undone.'

'Yes, you are,' said Starsky, eyeing the dishevelled condition of Hutchinson's clothing.  'How does ravishing me as soon as you enter our bedchamber advance your plot?'

'I am distracting you, so you will not discover the truth.'

'But I have discovered the truth,' Starsky pointed out.

'Oh, well,' said Hutchinson.  'Foiled again.'  He sighed, and closed his eyes, feeling the peace that came with consummating his love.  Then, in a moment, that peace turned to renewed desire.  It was a delicious feeling, and one he wished to share with his companion….

'Are you happy?' Starsky asked him, after a time of silence.  Or rather, a time of listening to the soft sounds of breathing, and heartbeats, and tender sighs, until they reached another consummation.

'Yes,' he answered.  'How could I not be happy?  I have everything that I ever dreamed of.  It frightens me, once in a while.  I fear that something will happen to take it all away.  But then you give me your body, and your heart, and I feel whole again.  When I am whole, and complete, nothing frightens me.'

'That is good,' said Starsky.  'But something is troubling you.  I can always tell.'

'It is nothing important, I assure you,' he said in reply.

'But if it troubles you, even if it is unimportant, I wish to know about it, so that I may help.'

'It is merely that I have noticed something disturbing lately.  An increase in the sort of bigoted remarks, and actions, against people of your race and religion.  That is what troubles me.  You see, you can do nothing to fix that, can you?'

'No,' Starsky agreed.  'No one can fix that.  It is like a fire that springs back to life, after you thought you had put it out.'

'Don't worry,' Hutchinson told him.  'I have been assured that Scotland Yard is not in favour of pogroms, and will not stand by and watch while they break the windows of your place of business, and lynch you and your family.  I will not stand by helplessly, at least.'

'That, I already knew,' said Starsky.  'Do you think there could be pogroms here, though?  We came here, because we believed we would be safe from them.'

'I think there is not the sort of hatred here that leads to pogroms.  Not yet.  But hatred can be created, and built upon.  When it builds up enough heat, anything might light the spark.'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'I have seen that with my own eyes.'



**********************

'Do you feel up to talking with me this morning, Mrs. Robinson?'

'Certainly, sir.  I am feeling much more myself.  I have spoken with my sister in Southampton, and she has invited my daughter and me to come live with her there.'

'That should be a comfort to you,' said Hutchinson.  'But do not feel that you must leave immediately.  You are no trouble, to be sure, since we have plenty of room here.  And please, do not forget to give me your new direction when you do leave. Now, can you tell me about the fire?'

'I suppose I must, sir,' said Mrs. Robinson.

'Must?  I'm not sure I would use the word "must", ma'am,'  Hutchinson told her.  'You are not being charged with any crime, for there is no real evidence of a crime.  It is likely the fire was an accident, after all.'

'Crime?  You think the fire may not have been an accident, sir?'

'That was rather quick off the mark, was it not?  I merely observed, the fire was likely an accident, ma'am.'

'But you are not certain, Inspector?' asked Mrs. Robinson.

'Is there some reason I should not be certain?' asked Hutchinson.

Mrs. Robinson stared at him for a moment.  Her bemusement seemed genuine.  Then her eyes grew dark, with new understanding.

'The fire started on the top floor.  I was alone, with my daughter,' she said.

'It spread quite quickly,' said Hutchinson.  'You were passed out on the sofa, drunk.  I could smell the whisky the moment I entered the room.'

'But... but I do not drink, sir.  I swear to you.  I cannot abide even the smell of alcohol, for I grew up in a town where there was a brewery.  I know I did not drink any whisky that night. Even if I had been drinking, however, that would not mean I set the fire, either by accident or by purpose.'

'What is your last memory before the fire?'  Hutchinson asked her.

Mrs. Robinson considered his question for a moment.  'I was very sad that night,' she said at last.  'My husband went away, and refused to tell me where he was going. He said he was tired of me, and he took his sons with him.  I cried for a while, then I fell asleep, I suppose.  The next thing I remember, I woke up here.  And a doctor was checking me over.'

'His sons?' asked Hutchinson, narrowing the narrative down to the one point that was news to him.  'So… the boys were not your children?'

'No.  They were his sons by a previous marriage.'

'Ah.  Mr. Robinson was a widower.  Do you know what happened to his first wife?'

'No.  Only that she died, of course.  My parents would not allow me to marry a divorced man,' said Mrs. Robinson.

'I see,' said Hutchinson.  'How well did you know Mr. Robinson before you married him, if you do not mind my asking?'

'I did not know him well, but my parents liked him, and approved.'

'That is the important thing, is it not?' asked Hutchinson. 'Would you mind, ma'am, if I checked into your husband's background, with the resources at my disposal?  I am curious about the advent of this fire, so soon after the exodus of your husband.  I am curious about your apparent intoxication on that very evening, when you swear you do not drink. Indulge me, by allowing me to satisfy my curiosity?'

'Indeed sir, you may.  For  I must confess that I am curious also.  But do you suspect that my husband may have had something to do with the fire?'

'I suspect nothing,' said Hutchinson.  'I am merely curious, as I said.  You are not angry that I wish to investigate your husband?'

'No,' said the lady.  'I would wish to know more about him, for my own part.  I did not like the way he behaved that day, when he left.  He seemed not to care if I lived or died, once he walked out the door.'

'Not a manner for a loving husband to behave, I agree.  And if I find the fire was a mere accident, and your husband is guilty of nothing but desertion, I will see what may be done to force him to support you, and your daughter.  He has responsibilities, and cannot merely walk away from them.'

'I told him that,' said Mrs. Robinson.  'But he laughed, and dared me to stop him from walking out.  Then he pushed past me, and slammed the door in my face.'

'Did he now?' asked Hutchinson. 'He might find me to be more of an obstacle.'



******************

'A telegram has arrived for you, Mr. Hutchinson.'

'Thank you, Jeffreys,' said Hutchinson, taking it from the silver platter which his butler held out.

'Why don't you just hand it to him, Jeffreys?' Starsky asked, as he poured out another cup of tea.  'Does it need its own plate?  Will the words leak out and stain the carpet?'

'Just hand it to me, Starsky?' said Hutchinson, with mock horror.  'That would be unbutlerish.'

'I perceive I am going to be the butt of ridicule from now on, and I might seek employment elsewhere,' Jeffreys informed them.

'Would you send this telegram for me first, Jeffreys?' Hutchinson asked, handing him a slip of paper.

'Of course, sir.  Any other last requests?'

'No, Jeffreys.  That will be all for now.'

'Very well, sir.'  The butler closed the breakfast room door behind him with great gentleness.

Starsky was giggling.  'Do you think he's really going to leave us?' he asked.

'No.  Never.  I think he has become quite fond of you.'

'Not too fond, I hope.  What is in that telegram?  It cannot be bad news, since you are smiling.  It's a smile that makes me shudder, though.  You look like the cat that ate the canary.'

'I own Milton and Sons,' said Hutchinson.

'You do?  Are you allowed to own human beings in this country?'  asked Starsky.  'Children even?'

'No.  But Milton and Sons is the furniture store I told you I was buying.  Remember?'

'And it makes you so happy to own a furniture store?  But, no… it makes you so happy to fire people.'

'It is going to make me happy to fire these particular people, Starsky,' Hutchinson told him.  'And it is not because they tried to make me leave by the trade entrance.'

'Of course not.  What else did they do?'

'They are anti-Semitic.  I was there, when one of the salesmen told a Jewish couple to leave, because they were Jewish.  I am going to change the policy of that store, you may rest assured.'

'You won't end anti-Semitism, my darling.  Not with one decree.'

'I know that, Starsky.  No one person can end all prejudice.  But does that mean we should give up fighting against it, in despair?'

'No.  But do you want to know what I think?'

'Always,' Hutchinson told him.

'I think one reason you are fighting this particular act of prejudice, is that you cannot fight the prejudice against men like us.  You cannot change the laws against what they call Gross Indecency. You cannot make speeches against the laws even.  All because of me.  Your father would eventually discover the truth about us.'

Hutchinson took his hand.  'All that is true,' he said.  'I want to fight the world, so that we can live together openly.  But that is not possible.  Not now.  It would endanger your life, and I will not do such a thing.  But the prejudice against the Jews is just as despicable to me.  And if I can only change it in one place, such as Milton and Sons, I will do so.'

'Very well,' said Starsky.  'But I will come with you today, when you go to fire these people.'

'Why?' asked Hutchinson.  'Don't you have better things to do, at your studio?'

'Nothing very important this morning.  You are firing them this morning, are you not?  And why don't you want me with you?  I thought you liked my company?'

'I love your company, and I want you with me at all times and in all places.  I'm not sure if it would be wise for you to be there, however.  The scene might become unpleasant.'

'I have witnessed many unpleasant scenes.  And I want to be there, to keep you from losing your temper too seriously.'

Hutchinson sighed.  'If you like, you may come along,' he said.


********************

Aloysius Howard had drawn a diagram.  'You see!' he crowed.  'I set the companies up like this.  And then I gave a little tap.  Like this.'  He tapped the paper in front of them.  'And they all fell down.  Right into your maw, Inspector Hutchinson.'

'I was unaware that I possessed a maw, Mr. Howard.  But I appreciate your efforts on its behalf, nevertheless.  Shall we inform the staff of Milton and Sons that they are about to be disgorged from it?'

'When you are ready, sir.'

'I'm ready now.  No better time than the present.  Starsky?'

'Oh…  Oh, yes. Let us go, by all means.'  Starsky looked up from his fascinated perusal of Howard's diagram of falling companies.  'And people accuse the Jews of being cut-throat business men,' he added.

Howard laughed.  'Don't feel bad,' he said. 'I've met some Jews who were excellent at cutting throats -- purely in business terms, of course.'

'Of course,' said Starsky.  'And thank you.  But how sad, that I need reassurances on that matter from someone who is not a Jew.  We used to be the bankers, and the businessmen of the world.  It was out of necessity, of course, because most nations had laws forbidding us to own land, and to enter many other professions.  Though we were despised for our business practices, we were needed, and we could move about freely, crossing borders, and forming alliances.  Other races saw money-lending and trade as degrading.'

'All that changed,' said Hutchinson, they climbed into his chaise, and Starsky picked up the reins.

'Yes,' said Starsky.   'Now trade has become respectable.  The banks are in other hands, most of them.  And then, there is the Pale.   So much of Jewry was trapped there, becoming more and more impoverished with each generation.'

'You were born inside the Pale?' asked Howard.

'Yes, and I grew up there.  I was fortunate, for my family was well off, compared to so many others.  I was not forced to work at hard labour to survive, and we left Russia, after the pogroms.  Many were not so lucky.  Not only because they died in the pogroms, or because they lost all they had, but also because they were caught in that trap, for so long.  Almost a century of being trapped in the Pale of Settlement.  We became poorer and poorer, and less and less able to handle the outside world.  Now, some despise us as inferior and unintelligent, and I think I would rather be hated as evil and sly.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'I don't blame you,' he said.  'But, that reminds me, Howard.  Were you able to discover why Milton and Sons imposed its embargo on Jewish customers?'

'I believe so,' Howard answered.  'It seems that a few months ago, the owner, Mr. Milton, and the manager, Mr. Jones, became involved with an anti-Semitic organization that has its origins on the continent.'

'In Germany?' asked Hutchinson.  'Adolf Stocker?'

'That is correct.  There are those who would like to import that ideology to our fair shores.  They've been using all the uproar over Jack the Ripper to increase their ranks.'

'Is there an actual organization now based in England?' asked Hutchinson.  'If so, Scotland Yard would be interested.  I would be interested.  Prince Edward would be interested. He has Jewish friends, I have heard.  I don't think Britain wants to go the way in which Germany seems to be tending.'

Starsky drove for a while in silence.  'What are you going to call it, Hutch?' he asked, at last.

'Call it?  Call what, Starsky?'

'The store, you idiot.  Unless you want it to continue being referred to as Milton and Sons, it will need a new name.  And a new staff, since you are firing them all.'

'Well, I cannot call it Hutchinson and Sons, in all conscience.  Hutchinson's Fine Furniture?  How does that sound?'

'Unimaginative,' said Starsky.

'Must the name of a furniture store show imagination?' asked Hutchinson.  'Tis probably better if it does not.  And as for the staff, I might not fire them all.  The manager and the rude salesclerk, to be sure.  But perhaps there are those among the staff who did not agree with their policies.  I will need some new people, though, and I was hoping you might have a few suggestions.'

'Me?' asked Starsky, with surprise.

'Yes.  You.  You must know worthy people from Whitechapel, who could sell furniture, or manage the store?  They used to have their own businesses, but they've lost everything, and now....'

'Shnook!' said Starsky.

'There!' said Hutchinson.  'You have found the perfect name for our new store.  Shnook.'

**********************

Milton and Sons had a sign on the door:  Closed for Business.  The door was locked.  Starsky opened it, easily.  Howard raised an eyebrow, and Hutchinson laughed.  'It's my door,' he said.  'Therefore it's Starsky's door.'

The staff was huddled in the manager's office, reading a telegram, most likely a message from their former employer.  Their faces were white.

'Good morning,' said Hutchinson.  'I am your new master.  My first order to you, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Peters, is to pack up your things and leave.  It's also my last order.'

'Sir!' said Mr. Oswald Jones.  'I must protest.  That is very unfair.'

'Is it unfair indeed?' asked Hutchinson.  'And might I ask why?'

'Because... because sir, we have worked here for years, sir.  We know the business.  We have families to support.'

'I see, Mr. Jones.  Well, it is hard, I know.  But I am running a business, and I require that my staff be suitable.  When I was in here the other day, you and Mr. Peters did not strike me as suitable.  This store will no longer turn away customers because of their race, or their religion.  You gentlemen believe that it should do so.  I don't think we will suit.  I'm sure you should be very unhappy working here.  Your former employer might be persuaded to give you references.  Don't ask me for them.'

'Are you firing us because of our beliefs, sir?'  asked Jones.  'That is bigotry, sir.'

'Bigotry?  Bigotry against whom, sir?  Enlighten me.'

'Why, against people like ourselves, who believe in the future of the human race, sir.  The Jews will not be part of that future, for they are not part of the Aryan race.  It is the Aryan race, that will create the future.'

'The Aryan race?'

'Yes.  People like you, and like me, sir.  All civilization, throughout history, has been created by men like ourselves.  The Jews have done nothing of value in their entire history.  Their sole purpose in this world, is to destroy the Aryan race.  Take as an example that Jew standing beside you.   Why are you friends with him, as you appear to be?  Look at him, and look at us.  He is clearly a degraded form of life.  Physically, mentally, and morally.'

'I suggest you leave this building now, Mr. Jones, while you are still capable of doing so under your own power,' Hutch informed him.  'You too, Peters.  Oh, and one more thing.  Leave by the back door.'

The salesman, Mr. Peters, had been silent, up to this point.  He had also been watching Hutchinson carefully, his eyes darting back and forth between him and Starsky.  Now, he stepped up to Hutchinson, and spat in his face.

'Jew lover,' he said.

'That will be all, Peters,' said Hutchinson.  'We will send you your last pay cheque in the mail.  Don't come back here, please.  It would not be wise.'

There was a long moment of silence after Jones and Peters left, which Hutchinson broke with an apology.  'I am sorry for that, Starsky,' he said.  'It was why I didn't want you along.'

'You are sorry?  You are the one he spat upon.'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson, very softly, as he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face clean. 'That's why he walked out the door on his own feet.  If it had been you....  But never mind.'  He turned to the rest of the staff, who were huddled in the corner of the office, watching Hutchinson as rabbits might watch a cobra.  'You three gentlemen are on probation, until the end of the year.  I expect perfect manners, whenever I am around, or when my friends enter the store.  Many of my friends are Jews.  The new manager of this store will be a Jew.  If you cannot abide by that, leave now, and spare us all a great deal of trouble.'

'I am sorry, sir,' said one of the salesclerks.  'I would not mind Jewish customers, but I cannot work for a Jew.'

'Thank you for your honesty, sir. The rest of you find my orders satisfactory?'

'Yes, sir,' the two remaining clerks chorused.

'Very well.  Please take the Closed sign down, and open the store for business.  Mr. Howard is in charge today.  Tomorrow there may well be a new manager.  Whoever it is, obey his orders to the letter.'

'Yes, sir,' chorused the clerks, again, and they left the office to open the store.

'Well,' said Hutchinson.  'That was amusing.'

'You have very strange notions of what is fun, Hutch,' said Starsky.  'And that Mr. Peters worries me.'

'Why?  Because he spits?  I think I'll survive.'

Starsky took out his own handkerchief, and wet it with water from a jug on Mr. Jones desk.  He cleaned Hutchinson's face very carefully.  'He worries me because of the hate-filled way he looked at you,' he answered.  'There was something about it.  Something... dangerous.  He looked at me very oddly, too.  I think he suspects the relationship between us.'

'How could he, Starsky?  Why should he suspect anything? Simply because we're in the same room together?'

'There are some people like that, Hutchinson,' said Howard.  'They can sense these things.  Maybe he enjoys other men, as well, and he knows when he's in the presence of those like himself.'

'Perhaps,' said Hutchinson, slowly.  'Still, he has no proof.'

'I'm sorry, Hutch,' said Starsky.  'I might be wrong, but if I'm right, and he threatens us in some way, then it's my fault.  I shouldn't have come along.'

'None of this is your fault, Starsky. And we can't hide in the house, just because someone might see us together and suspect something.  That would be even more suspicious, wouldn't it?  Howard, why don't you investigate these men in more depth?  Find out more about that anti-Semitic group they belong to, for one thing?'

'I'll do that,' said Howard.  'I'll be busy here today, making sure Jones and Peters don't return and burn the place to the ground, but I'll put Austin on it.  He'll enjoy that.  I'll let you know what we discover.'

'Good,' said Hutchinson.  'I have to make an appearance at Scotland Yard.  Starsky, why don't you look into some suitable people for our new staff?'

'Certainly,' said Starsky.  'The poorer the better.  Am I right?'  The question was directed to Howard, rather than Hutchinson.

Howard laughed.  'I could tell you stories,' he said.

'So could I,' said Starsky.  'We'll have dinner some time.'

'When the two of you are finished discussing me as if I weren't there, let me know,' said Hutchinson.  'We have work to do.'


********************

David Starsky strolled through the streets of Whitechapel, thinking about the first time he had surveyed them.  It was a warm spring day, but Whitechapel seemed cold, and dark, and almost frightening to Starsky.  They had settled in Whitechapel because they spoke little English, and so they sought out others of their own race.  It was a relief to hear Yiddish, and to see the signs in the shop windows written in Hebrew letters.  But Starsky had no intention of spending the rest of his life in a ghetto.  Ghettos were evil, he thought, whether they are forced upon us, or we build them ourselves.  In fact, the latter sort are the worst, and we Jews have often been guilty of designing our own imprisonment.

Yes, we have been hated and despised, and forced inside the Pale.  But haven't we despised other races, and built walls around ourselves?  Haven't we believed we were superior to others?  Sometimes with justification.  Sometimes not.  But look how we have been rewarded for our pride.  We are as good as any other race of people, thought Starsky.  No worse, and no better.

With that thought constantly in his mind and heart, he set out to build a new life for himself, and his family.  They were not going to be slaves in the factories, he declared.  Even if they had to scrape for every penny, they would not stoop to that.  Surely, even in this age, there was still a need for the work of artisans?  He had made boots, and taken them around to the stalls in Cheapside.  He hadn't made a lot of money, but it had been enough.  Then, he began selling them door to door in some of the better neighbourhoods of Whitechapel and Spitalfields.  A few people ordered boots made to fit.  He mentioned that his mother was a seamstress, and did beautiful embroidery.  Soon, they were earning enough money to move out of the filthy, smelly, windowless room they shared with two other families and assorted vermin.  They moved into a room that had a tiny window, and the rats still showed a reasonable respect for humans.  Starsky threw out most of the furniture, which was in a deplorable state, and prowled London looking for furnishings of a better quality.  The back alleys were often treasure troves.  A table here.  An armchair there.  The trick was, to find them before the junk dealers got to them.

And so, life went on.  Until the night he had walked home from a pub with friends.  They had been slightly tipsy, and laughing, and Starsky was not watching where he was going.  He bumped into a man.  A tall man, with hair of pale gold.  In Russia, or in Germany, he might have feared such a man, but this was England.  The English were usually polite.  He apologized, and the man turned to him, and smiled.

'Certainment,' said the blond man.  Their eyes met.

Yes, Starsky had thought.  Certainment.

A few days later, he was arrested, on suspicion of being Jack the Ripper.  In Russia, they would have tortured him, until he confessed merely to stop the pain.  But the English were polite.  They had taken him to their police station, and searched him for weapons, or signs of blood.  Finding neither, they tried to question him, but the little English language he had picked up seemed to have deserted him in his greatest hour of need.  He was sure that soon the policemen would lose their patience, and begin the torture, in their polite English way.  He wondered what methods such gentlemen would use.  Little had he known.

Two men came stalking into his little cell, where he sat at a bare table, trying to stay calm, and regain his powers of English speech.  Ah, he thought, here they are.   The Torturers.  And what sort of ironic punishment is this for my sins?  One of them is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.  Tall, with pale gold hair.  And it seems that the English police dress their torturers as if they are going to an evening party, at one of the fancy homes in Belgravia.  What a charming idea.  Would a maid show up to offer him tea, before they tied him to the rack?  Would she stay to mop his brow?

No.  None of these things. The beautiful blond man stared at him, in astonishment.  'You!' he said.  'What are you doing here?'

'I'm sorry,' Starsky asked him.  'Do we know each other?'

Well, they hadn't known each other then, but they certainly knew each other now.  His beautiful torturer was called Inspector Kenneth Hutchinson, of Scotland Yard.  Inspector Kenneth Hutchinson, of Scotland Yard, took him home, and dumped him in a bath.  Starsky suspected the man had motives other than merely making him fit for human society.  Starsky was looking forward to uncovering those motives.  But when he dropped his towel, and let Hutchinson have a good, long look at his naked body, the man ran away, muttering about breakfast.  That frustrated Starsky for a time, but eventually he persuaded Hutch to stop running, and stand still long enough to be kissed.

The kiss had been a revelation.  Starsky had expected a night of passion.  Perhaps two nights, if he was lucky.  He had not expected his tall, cold, golden torturer to break down in his arms, and sob like a heartbroken child.  Starsky rocked him in his arms, bewildered and frightened.  What had he done to cause this?  He had only kissed the man.  Did one kiss have the power to bring this strong, seemingly invulnerable warrior to his knees?  Clearly this Englishman had hidden depths.  Starsky sometimes feared he hadn't the strength to explore them all.  But he would not let fear run his life.  Whatever Hutch needed of him, he would give, until his strength ran out.

Here he was today.  Searching Whitechapel for those Hutch might consider poor enough, and worthy enough, to run one of his businesses for him.  Who else on earth would look in such a place for new employees for a store in Mayfair?  But if that was what Hutch wanted, that was what Hutch would get.  And perhaps Hutch's policy was wiser than it might appear to the average businessman.  Hutch's personal staff were former whores and murderers and thieves.  They would die for their master, to a man, and to a woman.

And who am I to be so arrogant, thought Starsky?  I was a whore once myself.  I would die for Hutch.  I would kill for him.


***********************

'Rabbi Cohen?'

The Rabbi looked up from his book and smiled a polite, professional smile.  'Yes?' he asked.  Then, his smile changed.  'David?  David Starsky?  Is it truly you?'

'Why, yes, Rabbi.  It has only been a few weeks since last we met.'

'Has it?' the Rabbi laughed.  He came, and pulled Starsky into his arms for a hug, and a kiss on the cheek.  'You look prosperous, my son.  Is the bootmaking business so good all of a sudden?'

'Not exactly, Rabbi. I have opened a new business.  A photographic studio, on Baker Street.  I have two partners.  Lady Rebecca Lorimer, and Inspector Kenneth Hutchinson.  You remember him?  We were at his house, back in October.'

'Ah, yes.  Inspector Hutchinson.  What a very interesting young man.  So, you are now partners in a business?'

'Do you have some recent newspapers?  Ah, thank you.  Here.  Have a look at this.'   Starsky showed him a photograph he had taken in Piccadilly on a rainy day.

'You took that photograph?  David!  You are quite talented.  It is beautiful.'

'Thank you, Rabbi.  And Nicky took this one.  That is Inspector Hutchinson, and Prince Edward, rescuing some people from a fire.'

'And that is you, beside the Inspector.  Now, I can recognize you, even if I can't see your face.'

'Yes, Rabbi.  It is me.'

'You love this man, do you not?  I can recognize that in the picture, as well.'

'Rabbi....'

'No, no, David.  It is no shame to love.'

'Not everyone would agree with you, Rabbi.  And my love endangers the Inspector, if I hide it so badly that it is obvious even in a grainy photograph in a newspaper.'

'Not so obvious, David.  Not so obvious to others, I am sure. Only so obvious to me, because I know you, and I witnessed your interest in the man that evening, and his interest in you.'

'Yes.  We are not hiding our feelings as successfully as I had hoped we might.'

'The world is in need of ministration by the angels, when one must hide love, my son.'

'I agree, Rabbi.  But you know, my Inspector is an angel, himself.'

'An angel, David?'  The Rabbi smiled, indulgently.

'Yes, Rabbi.  An angel.  Not one of those repulsive cherubs with flowing hair and robes, playing on a harp.  My angel carries a flaming sword, and has a tongue that cuts like ice.  He has a lot of money, and very little sense.  He bought a furniture store, this very morning, because the owner is an anti-Semite.  He fired most of the staff, and wants me to find replacements for them, from among the population of Whitechapel, and Spitalfields, for a store in Mayfair.  I was hoping you could recommend a few worthy people.'

Rabbi Cohen stared in astonishment.  'An angel, indeed, my son.  But what sort of people is he looking for?  I have no idea whom such a man might consider suitable.'

'What sort of people would my Inspector consider suitable?  That is easy, Rabbi.  There must be hundreds of such people walking about outside in the streets of Spitalfields this very moment.  Poor, but good business men.  Former criminals, but honest.  Willing to put up with his savage tongue, but not subservient, otherwise they would shortly become useless.  Do you know any men like that, Rabbi?'

'Not just at the moment, David.  Give me a little time.'

'Certainly, Rabbi.  I'll come back in the twentieth century.'

'Now, now, David.  Don't give up so easily.  Perhaps your friend would be willing to compromise on one or two points.  For example, there is Simon Weisman.'

'Simon Weisman?  No, no.  Rabbi Cohen, he is a Zionist.'

'Is that so very bad, David?'

'Not bad, Rabbi.  Not bad from our viewpoint, at least.  But I will not subject my Inspector to his endless sermons on the subject.  Hutch would lose his temper eventually, and flay him alive.  Verbally, I mean, of course.  Though I've heard him threaten.... But never mind.  It is as I said.  The matter is hopeless.'

'Hannah Levinsohn,' said the Rabbi.

It was Starsky's turn to stare.  'Hannah?' he said at last.  'Hannah Levinsohn?  You know, Rabbi, you are a wonder.  Why didn't I think of Hannah?  Hutch will be thrilled.  A Jew.  Not only a Jew, but a Jewess.  She is perfect.  We have found our manager.  Now, for a couple of salesclerks.  We could wait outside Newgate, and interview the newly released prisoners, I suppose.'

'Is he that bad, your Inspector?' asked the Rabbi.

'That bad?  No, he is that wonderful.  But he needs me to watch out for him, and I will, Rabbi.  I would do anything for him.  I will make it clear to anyone we hire, that if they cheat Hutch, they will answer to me.'

'And to me, as well, my son,' said the Rabbi.


**********************

'You think the fire was deliberately set, Captain Shaw?' asked Hutchinson.

'I do indeed, Inspector.  Why are you not surprised?'

'I had my own suspicions, Captain.  But, may I ask a somewhat personal question, sir?'

'That depends on the nature of the question, Inspector,' said the Fire Captain.

'It is not too personal a question, sir.  Only that I am curious that you are so interested in a minor fire, such as this one.  One home was destroyed, and no lives were lost.  Why are you here today, personally inspecting the fire site?'

'Ah.  My friend, Prince Edward, was visiting the local department, when the alarm came.  He borrowed a jacket and a helmet, and came along.  He developed his own suspicions about the fire, and shared them with me.  And truly, it is no minor fire, Inspector.  There was the photograph in the paper, for one thing.'

'Yes.  That photograph.  If I'd known, I would have stopped the printing of it.'

'It was a stroke of luck for your department, Inspector.  Sure, and you needed some good Press, did you not?'

'That I did, Captain.  I was about to be fired, when the picture saved my job for me.'

'Fired, Inspector?  Why ever would they fire you?'

'I tend to speak my mind, sir.  And I cannot abide bigots.'

'You are a man after my own heart, Inspector.  If you ever do find yourself without employment, come and speak to me.'

'I will do that, sir.  But why do you suspect arson?'

'The matter has gone past suspicion now, Inspector.  Look!  There.  And there.  And over there, as well.'

Captain Eyre Massey Shaw pointed around the burnt out shell of what had been a respectable rooming house on Baker Street, only a few blocks from Starsky's studio.  In several places, inverted V's of blackened brick wall indicated the spots where the fire had first begun.
'How often, Inspector, does a fire start in three places at once?' he asked.

'You tell me, Captain.  You're the fireman.'

The captain laughed.  'Not very often, sir.  Not in a house like this.  Did three men fall asleep smoking cigars, all at the same time?  I have my doubts, Inspector.  But why did you suspect the fire, sir?'

'It seemed to spread very quickly, Captain.  There was no one at home on the second floor. Mrs. Robinson, the lady on the third floor, was unconscious, and I smelled whisky.  She tells me she does not drink, and that her husband left her, only that evening.  I spoke to her daughter.  The child tells me that she heard her parents arguing, and ran to hide in a closet, where she fell asleep. She was awakened by her father's voice, calling her name.  She thought she was going to be punished, and so she remained hidden.  Later, she smelled smoke, and came out of hiding.  Her father was gone, but she found her mother, asleep on the sofa, and could not awaken her.  What do you think, Captain Shaw?'

'A damnably suspicious chain of events, to be sure, Inspector.  You believe the man planned to kill his wife?'

'Yes, Captain Shaw.  He waited until almost everyone else was out of the rooming house.  He left his wife -- probably by the front door, so that later, there might be witnesses to his exit.  Then, he sneaked back into the building, found his wife asleep, poured whisky down her throat in large quantities, to render her intoxicated, and then proceeded to set the fire.  He could not find his daughter, and so left her to her fate.'

'That story sounds reasonable to me, Inspector.  But you would need more evidence to convince a jury.'

'I've sent telegrams to the police in Leeds, Captain.  Mrs. Robinson tells me that was her husband's former place of residence.  I am curious about how his first wife died.'

'Ah!  The man was a widower, was he?  And you think his first wife might have died in a fire such as this one?'

'A jump to a conclusion on my part, Captain, I must admit.'

'But hardly a conclusion without precedence, Inspector.  I ran the police and fire departments in Yorkshire.  I remember one case where a man lost three wives, all by drowning.  And a woman whose four husbands all died of stomach cramps.  They protested their utter innocence to the very end, until the evidence was so overwhelming they could not preserve their facades any longer.'

'It makes you wonder, doesn't it, Captain?'

'Wonder?  Wonder what, sir?'

'Why anyone gets married, Captain.'

'Ah, lad.  Most people are happily married.  Don't let the evil you see in your work drag you down.  There is a lot of good in the world, even so.'

'I know, Captain.  I've found some of my own.  But what is that dog doing, scratching in the ashes?'

The small, black border collie gave a yelp of pain, and jumped back from the pile of smouldering rubble she was investigating.

'Careful, Trooper!' shouted one of the firemen.  'Captain Shaw.  Trooper's found something.'

'Good girl, Trooper.  Trooper likes to explore fire sites, Inspector.  She's saved lives, and found bodies buried under tons of bricks.  And she's found evidence.  Like this.'

Captain Shaw led Hutchinson to the spot under one of the blackened V's.  A fireman was poking into the rubble with a stick.

'Looks like material of some kind, Captain.'  He lifted the material with his stick, and sniffed at it carefully.  'Kerosene, Captain,' he announced.

'There you are, Inspector.  Another link in the chain.'

'A chain to hang a man with, Captain,' said Hutchinson.


********************

'Davey?   Davey Starsky?'

Starsky turned at the call of his name.  The person who was so addressing him brought back memories, none of them pleasant, and for a moment, he could not react.

'Davey?  It is you, is it not?'

'Ah.  Hans. Yes.  Forgive me.  I did not expect to see you here in London, that is all.  Why are you here?'

'That is no greeting for an old friend, is it?  And the way you are dressed!  You've really come up in the world.  I am beneath your notice, now, I suppose?'

'No, no.  Hans, I'm sorry.  It was just a surprise to see you. Like a ghost.  I thought I'd left all that behind me.'

'I know.  I'm sorry.  You want to forget.'

'Forget all that, yes.  But not you.  What have you been doing with yourself?  And why are you here in London?  You liked Paris, I thought.  That's what you always said.'

'I did.  I do.  But I got into trouble, and had to run.  I thought a big city like London was a good place to hide.  But look at you.  You are not hiding here, are you?  Dressed like that.  What have you been doing with yourself?'

'I have a photography studio, with a couple of friends of mine.'

'Ah. A photography studio.'

'Yes.   A nice place on Baker Street.'

'A genuine photography studio?  You are serious?'

'Hans!  I told you, I am finished with that life.  The moment I left Paris, I never looked back.  It is not safe, and even less safe here in England.  It is against the law, for a man to lie with another man.  Did you know that?'

'Oh, that!  Who pays any attention?  And I'm not walking the streets any more.  I've found a job.  As a telegraph delivery boy.  With another job on the side.'

'Hans!  Here, let's get a drink in this pub, and tell me about it.  But keep your voice down, in case someone else speaks French.'

'Lots of men speak French, Davey.  They like my French accent, at least.  Do they like yours?'

'Quiet!  We'll get a table in the corner, and we'll talk there.'

Starsky ordered drinks, and found a table in a shadowy corner.  'Now!' he said, in a low voice.  'Let me make it clear to you one more time, Hans.  I am not a whore any longer.  Don't suggest such a thing again.'

'There is no need to be so offended, Davey.  You were a whore. One of us.  You'll always be one of us.'

'Perhaps.  And what you do with your life is up to you.  But stop assuming that I am doing those same things.  I have a respectable business, now.  Are you going to destroy my business out of jealousy?  Ruin my life, because I walked away from our former one?  You were happy for me, when I left Paris.  You said I was doing the right thing.  Have you changed your mind?  Do you hate me now, Hans?'

'No, no.  Davey!  I'm sorry.  I did feel jealous, when I saw you on the street.  You look so different.  So happy, and confident.  Oh, you always had that strut.  It was what attracted so many customers to you.  As if you had the power, and you were doing them a favour.  But now, you look as if the earth belongs to you.'

'I did have the power, and I was granting them favours, Hans.  But, let us drop the subject.  I have a different life, now.  If you truly want us to stay friends, that is acceptable to me.  But you must never speak of my former life again.  Not even to me.  Agreed?'

Hans sighed, but agreed, and sipped his ale.  'You always were a good friend, Davey.  You helped me out, many a time.  I'd never repay you by spoiling your new life.  I have a respectable job, too.  As a telegraph boy.  But sometimes, I get called to deliver special telegrams.'

'Oh, yes?' asked Starsky.  'And what is in these telegrams?'

'I am,' said Hans, with a grin.  'Usually, I deliver the telegram to the gentlemen at a house, on Cleveland Street.  That's in the West End.'

'A brothel?' asked Starsky.

'A brothel,' Hans agreed.  'But sometimes, I make deliveries to the gentlemen's homes.  This very morning, for example.  I delivered a telegram to a man in Belgravia.'

'No!  You are joking, surely?'

'Not a joke, Davey.  Sometimes the gentlemen have special interests, you see.  Interests the house on Cleveland Street doesn't want to supply on the premises.'

'Interests?' asked Starsky, with a shudder.

'Yes.  You see, this gentleman wanted to tie me to a chair, in a bare room, and then do it to me.  You know, from behind.  He wanted to hear me squeal, really loud.  They don't like that, in Cleveland Street.  They're worried the neighbours might hear.  The house in Belgravia is huge.  Mr. Hutchinson has a room, in the cellar.  No one could hear.  It scared me.... Davey?  Are you well?'

'Mr. Hutchinson?  Are you sure about the name?'

'Quite sure, Davey.  Look.  Here's the telegram.  He never asked me for it. Why?  What's wrong?  You know this man?'

Starsky stared at the slip of paper, addressed to Mr. William Hutchinson, at an address on Sloane Street, in Belgravia.  'You bastard,' he whispered.  'You filthy, filthy bastard.'


*****************

'Davey!  Davey, what's wrong?  Let go of my arm, Davey.  Where are we going, Davey?'

'Shut up, Hans.  I'll know where we're going when we get there.  Stop trying to get away.'  Starsky looked around.  The alley was dark, and dirty, and best of all, deserted at the moment.  A doorway that was obviously used as a toilet looked promising.  Starsky shoved Hans up against the wall, and glared at him.

'What's wrong, Davey?  Why are you so angry?  You know this William Hutchinson?'

'Not in person.  Not well, at least.  I was introduced to him once.  He's a filthy bastard.'

'Anything you say, Davey.  Let me go.'

'Not yet,' said Starsky.  He looked Hans up and down.  The man squirmed under the scrutiny.

'What's wrong, Davey?' he asked again.  'I've never seen you like this.'

'You're tall, and you're blond,' said Starsky.

'Yes? I've always been tall and blond.  Why is that so bad now?'

'He tied you to a chair?  And he fucked you?'

'Yes.  But there's no need to be so crude.'

'Shut up, Hans.  Has he done this sort of thing before?  Do you know?  Well, do you know?'

'What are you, Davey?   A policeman?  What business is it of yours, what I do?'

'I don't care what you do, Hans.  I told you that.  I care what Mr. Hutchinson does.  Has he done this sort of thing before?'

'Yes. With me, once.  With other boys, many times.'

'What do the other boys look like?  Do they look like you?'

'I suppose so.  He likes blond boys.  Why?'

'The filthy bastard,' said Starsky.  He let Hans go, and the man shook himself, and laughed, nervously.

'You're strong, for your size,' said Hans.  'You could make a lot of money, with that act.'

'Shut up!' Starsky screamed.  'I told you never to mention such a thing again.  Is this how you keep your promises?  Are you a liar and an oath breaker, as well as a whore?'

'I'm sorry, Davey.'  Hans crumbled, all of a sudden.  He landed on the filthy ground, and sobbed.

After a moment, Starsky crouched down beside him, and put his arm over his shoulder.  'I'm sorry, too, Hans.  I didn't mean that.'

'He scared me, Davey.  And he hurt me.  My arse hurts, I mean.  He was really rough.'

'Do you need to see a doctor?  Are you bleeding?'

'No.  No doctor.  Davey, he'd tell someone.  I'd get arrested, for sodomy.  And I'm not bleeding.   Not much.'

'Hutch might know a doctor who wouldn't tell.  Or if he doesn't, Howard might.'

'I don't want anyone to know, Davey.  I'm fine, really.'

'If you say so.  But let me know if the pain gets worse.  Stand up.  There.  Did that hurt?'

'No,' said Hans.  'I am well.  These people you mentioned?  Hutch?  Howard?  Who are they?'

'Friends of mine.  Why do you ask?'

'Davey.  You've been acting so strangely.  Dragging me out of the pub, into this alley.  Screaming at me.  What is going on?'

Starsky paced up and down in the alley for a few minutes, trying to regain his calm.  Calm, he thought.  Be calm, like Hutch.  'Mr. Hutchinson,'  he said at last.  'He is what is wrong.  He is what is going on.  He is a hypocrite.'

'So are most people, Davey.  We talked about it, remember?  About how men used us, and treated us like scum after.  Why is this Mr. Hutchinson so much worse?'

'That is my business.  But I have a suggestion for you.  You said I helped you, when you needed the help.  You told me you could never repay me.  Would you like to help me, now?  I would pay you well.  You wouldn't lose, I assure you.'

'I don't know, Davey.  I don't like that look on your face.  You've changed, and I'm not sure I like the change.'

'Yes, I've changed, Hans.  I can still be a good friend to you, if you're a friend to me.  Turn on me, hurt my friends, and you'll wish you'd never been born.  Help me, and I'll see that you find that better life you always said you wanted.  Do you want to go on being fucked by men like Mr. Hutchinson, until you're too old?'

Hans shuddered.  'No,' he said. 'I thought it wasn't such a bad life, until this morning.'

'Good,' said Starsky.  'Then it wouldn't break your heart, if you managed to hurt Mr. Hutchinson, as well?'

Hans looked down at the ground for a moment.  'No,' he said at last, and when he raised his face, it had turned hard, and cold.  'I think I'd like that.'

'Then here's what I want you to do,' said Starsky.



******************

Hutchinson looked up at the tap on his office door.  Chief Inspector Swanson stood in the open doorway.  'Come in, Chief Inspector,' said Hutchinson, cheerfully.

'I am welcome in your office, Hutchinson?' asked the Chief.

'Of course you are, sir.  Unless you are here to fire me.'

'Fire you, Hutchinson?  Why would anyone fire you?'

'If I chose to answer that question in detail, Chief Inspector, I might surprise you.  Besides, I am hardly important now that I am not working on the Ripper case.  I am a workhorse, merely, attempting to deal with the minor crimes that plague our city.'

'Minor crimes?  Yes.  Well, good luck.  But I wanted to pass along a piece of news that might interest you.'

'Yes, sir?' asked Hutchinson, as his chief stared at him quietly for a moment.

'I had a visitor this morning, lad.  Well, he didn't visit me, precisely, but he wanted to speak to someone in charge, and I was available.'

'Who was this visitor, sir?' Hutchinson prompted, as Swanson fell silent again.

'A Mr. Peters, Inspector.  Do you know him?'

'Peters…  Peters…,' Hutchinson snapped his fingers.   'Oh, yes.  Peters.  I fired a Mr. Peters this very morning, right after I bought the store where he worked.  It had slipped my mind, I've been so busy dealing with all the minor details of police work in London that have been neglected since Jack the Ripper took over the city.  How is the case getting on without me, by the by?'

'Not very well, Inspector.  You may return to working on that case at any time, I assure you.  No hard feelings.  But, to get back to my story, this Mr. Peters told me you had fired him.  He was angry about that.'

'Of course he was.  But why was that your business, Chief Inspector?  It is not a police matter.  Scotland Yard has always been aware that I had money, a great deal of money, and many business interests.  I keep my business interests separate from my police work, and vice versa.  If I choose to fire an employee, that is my affair.  Never Scotland Yards.'

'I know that, Inspector.  What Mr. Peters told me in further confidence, was that he suspected you were a Sodomite.'

Hutchinson dropped his pen, and stared.  'A what, Chief Inspector?  Now, that is arrant nonsense.  What possible reason would he have to make up such a story?  No, wait.  He would have a reason, wouldn't he?  Revenge, because I fired him.'

'Of course, Inspector Hutchinson.  I divined that fact immediately.  I told him that Mr. Starsky was a colleague, who was working with you to hunt Jack the Ripper, and that was why he was with you, when you visited Milton and Sons.'

'Mr. Starsky?  Peters knows his name?'  Hutchinson felt a chill begin to creep up his spine.  He tried to find a word to describe the chill.  Terror?  No, not strong enough.  Horror?  Perhaps.  Madness!  That was close.

'I am sorry, Inspector.  He described to me a Jewish man, who accompanied you to the store.  He said that he thought you were involved in sodomy with this man.  Of course, he had no evidence to back up his claim, but he thought we should know of his suspicions.  I said merely, that he must mean Mr. Starsky, and that we knew you were colleagues, and not Sodomites. My assurances appeared to satisfy him, and he left.'

'Thank you for your support, sir.  But I would rather that Peters had not learned of Starsky's name.  Peters is an anti-Semite. He belongs to an organization of anti-Semites, and now, my treatment of him has fuelled his hatred further.  I hope he will not take his revenge on Starsky.'

'As do I, Inspector.  But you are warned now.  You have made an enemy, it seems.  Be on your guard, and tell Mr. Starsky to be careful.'

'Thank you, Chief.  I will do so.'


*******************

Hans was a nuisance, Starsky decided.  First he had shown up out of nowhere, reminding Starsky of a time in his life he wished to forget.  Then he had revealed information about Hutch's father, that Starsky could have lived without, quite nicely, for all time.  Starsky made plans to deal with the revelations, turn them to his own advantage.  Hans agreed to help, then insisted on knowing more of Starsky's plans.  He insisted on accompanying Starsky on his mission, and recommended they go by Underground.  Which was why Starsky was trapped in the inner circle of Hell, far too early.

The other day, Hutch had told him about Dante's Inferno, a book Starsky could have lived without, also quite nicely, for all time.

'But why are we the very worst of sinners, Hutch?  Sodomites worse than murderers, and rapists?  No.  Not at all.'

'Of course we aren't,' said Hutch.   'But Dante believed we were.  That was what he'd been taught, you see.'

'No.  I don't see.  Wasn't he supposed to be intelligent?  He was a great writer.  Couldn't he think for himself, and see what he was taught was wrong?'

Now, here he was, riding the Circle Line to the Thames, and the docks.  Hurtling through a dark tunnel, far below the city streets.  Starsky liked driving fast, but this was lunacy.  And the air in this carriage was putrid.  Though not as putrid as the air which Hutch's father expelled with every breath, he thought.  Every foul fart.

My love, forgive me my doubts.  There were times I wondered if you exaggerated your father's evil.  I didn't think you lied to me, but that you remembered nightmares, and gave them your father's face.  Now I am the one living a nightmare.

Did he touch you?  Those nights when he came to your room, and lectured you for having an innocent, boyish erection, did he ever.... No.  You have never flinched when I touched you.  And the first time I penetrated you, your body was so tight, and so sweet, and yielding.  There was no fear in your eyes, only desire, even when I hurt you a little.  You said it was a sweet pain, because it meant that no one else had ever been there.

'Here we are.  Davey, wake up.'

'Oh.  Sorry, Hans.  I think I passed out from lack of air,' said Starsky.  'How do people ride in this machine every day?'

'One becomes accustomed to it,' said Hans.

'Thank you for that information, but I believe I prefer to remain accustomed to breathing.'

The Turkish Parlour was much as Starsky remembered.  It had taken him some time to find it, for his one previous visit had been weeks ago.  But now they stood in front of the Boss's door, confronted by Arnold.

'I must speak to the Boss, Arnold,' said Starsky, in his shaky English.  'Tell the Boss David Starsky wants speak to her.'

'The Boss is busy,' growled Arnold.

'I not busy now, Arnold,' said a voice from the door behind him.    'You may go.'

Arnold vanished, and revealed the Boss.  The tiny Oriental woman was dressed in a flowing silk robe.  Her hair was loose, and it fell almost to the ground.  Starsky could hear Hans gasp in astonishment at her beauty.

'David Starsky.  I remember you.  You were here with Kun-Ning.  He is well?'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'He is very well.  This is friend of mine, Hans. Hans, this is... the Boss.  I am sorry.  I cannot say the name.'

'Xin-Qian,' the Boss informed them, with a bow.

Hans bowed in return, seemingly speechless.

'Thank you.  Xin-Qian,' said Starsky.  'May we speak with you.  About Kun-Ning?'

'Yes.  Come into humble office.'

The beautiful Asian woman bowed once more, and opened the office door to admit them.  'What is this trouble?' she asked, as they sat on the sofa.  'You say Kun-Ning is well, but you must speak to me?'

'Kun-Ning trusts you.  I must trust you.  Silent Sam is about?'

'Yes.  He is in orgy room,' she said with a musical laugh.

'Truly?  I am sorry to interrupt orgy, but I pay for my time.'

Xin-Qian laughed again.  'I think Silent Sam is worn out,' she said.  'He is sleeping in orgy room.  That is not good for business.  I will go wake him.'  She flowed out of the room, her tiny feet scarcely touching the ground.

'She is Chinese?' asked Hans.

'That is what someone told me.  Why?'

'I don't think I ever saw a Chinese before.  I thought they were ugly, with yellow faces, and slanty eyes.  That's what I was told.  But she is beautiful. And I thought they cut off the feet of the women, so they can't run away.'

Starsky laughed.  'They bind their feet, very tightly, so they are small. Too small to walk on properly, yes.  It must be very painful.  But someone told me that Xin-Qian's feet were never properly bound.  They are small, but she can still walk.'

'That is good,' said Hans. 'I like to see her walk.'

Xin-Qian came back into her office.  Silent Sam trailed behind her, rubbing his eyes, and complaining.

'Be quiet,' said Xin-Qian, like a mother scolding a fractious child.  'Time to wake up.'

'Yes, Boss,' said Silent Sam.  He poured himself some tea, and sat down.

'Don't go back to sleep,' said Xin-Qian.  'Someone is here wanting to see you.'

Starsky stood up, and held out his hand.  'Silent Sam. Remember me?  David Starsky?'

'Oh, yes.  The Inspector's friend.  Nicky's brother.'

'That is who I am.  But I am also an honest man.  Remember?  I not… I will not cheat you.  I pay all money Nicky stole from you.'

'Yes,' said Silent Sam, slowly.  'So what?'

'You can trust me.  You trust the Inspector?   He is like a friend?'

'A friend, yes.  Of a sort.'

'Would you like to hurt his enemies?  I will pay you for your time.  Perhaps you have the chance to steal. I cannot promise, but perhaps.'

'I'm not sure I follow you,' said Silent Sam.

'Follow me?'

'What is it you want me to do.  Give me details.'

Starsky drew a deep breath.  'I want to break in a house.  I can open a lock, but I never break in a house before.'

Silent Sam shrugged.  'There's always a first time' he said.  'Where is the house?'

'Belgravia,' said Starsky.

Sam whistled.  'Whew.  That might be worth breaking into,' he said.  'This looks interesting.  Is that all you want to do?  Break in and steal something?  That won't hurt him much. Anyone living in Belgravia has lots of money.  He won't miss a few trinkets.'

'No,' said Starsky.  'I also want to take pictures.  Pictures of a man, with this man here.'

'Pictures?  Of a man with.... Oh!  Pictures.  You mean....'

'Pictures of him fucking this man here, yes.  Hans is a whore.  He fucks men for money.'

'And you want to blackmail someone?  You didn't strike me as a blackmailer.  I am disappointed.'  

'Not for money, Mr. Silent Sam.  For revenge.  He hurt the Inspector.  I want to hurt back.  But I need to know.  Can I trust you?  I was honest with you.  The Inspector was honest with you.  Will you be honest back?  Or will you try to make money on the side?'

'Cheat you?  No. I am offended.  I stick to the deal I make.  What is the deal exactly?'

'I want you to show me how to break into a house.  Into the cellar of a house.  That is where this man fucks boys.  I want to see how we can take pictures.  Maybe you can steal something small from the man, on the side.  That would be a good idea, in fact.  If it is noticed the house was broken into, there will be the explanation, and no one will look the closer. I will pay you for your time.  It might take a while, but I will pay you.'

Silent Sam shrugged.  'Don't worry about that,' he said.  'I will steal something to make it worth my while, never fear.  Whose house are we breaking into? Just out of curiosity.'

'Mr. William Hutchinson, of Belgravia.'

'Mr. William Hutchinson?  But that is....'

'Yes.  Are you still interested in the deal?'

'Does the Inspector know what you are up to?' asked Sam.

'No.  And I am not telling.  He would try to stop me.'

'Yes, he would,' said Sam.  'The man has some sense.  I must be a lunatic to agree.  But I love challenging work.  The Inspector would kill me if he ever found out.  Never mind.  I'm in the plot.  God forgive me.'  He crossed himself, smiling happily at the same time.

*******************

'All righty, mates.  I think it's dark enough out there.'  Silent Sam pushed the manhole cover over, to allow them to escape their subterranean hide out.

'I not your... mate,' said Starsky, as he climbed out, into Sloane Street.

'No,' said Silent Sam.  'You are the Inspector's mate.  I have that much figured out.  But mate, in English vernacular, means pal.  Friend.  Chum.'

Starsky glowered at him, unimpressed.  'I not speak English,' he said.  'It is not your business, what the Inspector is.  It stinks down there.  He will make me take bath when I get home.  That is your fault.  Couldn't we hide somewhere nicer?'

'For someone who doesn't speak English, you sure speak enough of it,' was Silent Sam's comment.

They were dressed like workmen, in rough, smelly clothes, and work caps.  Starsky was sure his borrowed clothes had fleas. His own business suit was stored in a bag, along with Silent Sam's housebreaking tools, and would probably suffer from the experience. It was amazing how quickly one became accustomed to living in clean houses, and wearing nice clothes, he thought.  In fact, the idea of a bath was becoming more and more attractive, the longer he scratched.  It was the fact that Hutch would be so arrogant about it, that annoyed him.  'How did you get so dirty?' Starsky imagined Hutch saying, in his icy, aristocratic tones.  'Into that bath immediately.'  

Perhaps Starsky could convince Hutch to wash his back.  If he were being perfectly honest, which Starsky was not inclined to be at the moment, Hutch's icy, aristocratic tones excited him.

They trudged up the road, toward William Hutchinson's house, like tired workers, on their way home.  Silent Sam in the lead, Starsky and Hans following.  Sam ducked behind a hedge.  'Come on,' he whispered.  'We haven't got all night.  The house seems pretty quiet.'

'Hu... the Inspector says the man has no dogs.  Few servants.'

'Likes to save his money, does he?  All to the well and good.  Makes it easier for us.  Now Hans, you say you think the room in the basement was near the back of the house?'

Hans nodded nervously.  He had not been pleased about the housebreaking expedition, but both Starsky and Sam insisted he must come along.  

'We don't want to be stumbling around, trying to figure out which room is which,' Sam had stated.  'We need you to point that out.  I'll give you a cut out of my profits.  You too, Starsky, if you like.'

'No thanks,' said Starsky.

Now, Silent Sam began to slither, around to the back of the house.  Starsky and Hans followed as best they could.  'Amateurs!' said Sam.  'If this bloke kept dogs, they'd have raised the alarm by now.  Here we are.  This looks like it leads to the basement.'

Sam opened his bag, and took out his tools.  Starsky watched his lock-picking technique carefully, while he oiled the hinges. 'You are pretty good,' he said at last.

'Ah,' said Silent Sam.  'You approve.'

'Humph,' Starsky replied.  'Not approve.  Whatever that means.  But you will do.'

'Thank you,' said Silent Sam, with tones of irony in his voice.  The door opened.  It did not creak.  'You are pretty good at oiling hinges,' Sam commented.

'Thank you,' said Starsky.

Hans had been playing look out.  He'd done it before, he said.  Starsky imagined he meant for men having sex in the bushes, but it was all the same concept.  'Someone is coming,'  he murmured.  Good, thought Starsky.  He knows better than to whisper.  A whisper travelled further and attracted more attention.

They slipped into the cellar, and Silent Sam closed the door carefully.  Just in time.  Outside, they could hear footsteps.  'Old Billy might not have many servants,' said Silent Sam.  'But they're still alive.  You're pretty good too, Hans.  I might take you on as my crow, after this.  Now, let's find the dungeon.'

'I don't remember this part of the cellar,' Hans told them.

'That is too bad,' said Silent Sam.  'But I suppose it was too much to hope we'd bump into the right door, the moment we stepped inside.  The middle of the house is that way.'  He pointed to the left.  'We will stroll there -- very quietly, I might add -- and see if anything looks familiar to Hans, here.'

'Yes, sir,' said Starsky.

'Now, now,' said Silent Sam.  'You hired me as the leader of this excursion.  What do you know about housebreaking?  Eh?'

'Nothing,' said Starsky.

'Then keep your mouth shut.'

'Wait!' said Hans.  'The room is down that hall.'

'Is it indeed?'  said Starsky.  

So, it is down that hall, that my love was tortured, he thought.  And now, his torturer returns to the scene of the crime, to carry out his fantasies to their fullest extent.  To imagine my love utterly subjugated to his will.  But I will set a trap to catch him.  And then I will spring it.  And then we will see who is subjugated to whose will.

'Starsky?' Sam murmured.  'Are you coming with us?'

'I am with you,' said Starsky.  'Lead on.'

'There.  That's the door,' said Hans, after a moment.  'I think.'

'Well, that's definite enough,' said Silent Sam.  He turned to Starsky, and raised an eyebrow.  'Supposing your friend here is right, how do you propose to take pictures of the master at his wicked work?  Just open the door and tell him to look at the birdie?  What is he going to do?  Smile and pose with his cock up the boy's ass?  Let you walk out with the evidence?'

'Of course he will not,' Starsky admitted.

'Then how are you going to do this?' asked Silent Sam.  'You didn't really work out all the problems, did you?'

'Of course I did not.  What was point, until I had seen what problems were?  But, there has to be way.  I saw, the moment I knew what he was.  This is key.'

'Key to what?' asked Sam.  'Not the key to riches, surely.   It's a funny thing about rich folk.  They like to hang on to their money.  They might let some get away, out of necessity.  But try to bleed them dry, and they will turn on you, and rend you limb from limb, no matter what the cost.'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'I do not want his filthy money.  He may keep it.'

'Are you quite sure you are a Jew?' asked Silent Sam.

'I am sure,' said Starsky, absently.  Silent Sam's jokes did not trouble him, nor did they interest him. He studied the locked door before him.  'We must get in this room,'  he said.  'I wish I had my own tools. They are at home.'

'Well, a hint is as good as a nod to a blind horse,' said Silent Sam.  'Move over.'  He picked the simple lock quite easily, and the door swung open, on its oiled hinges.

Starsky stood frozen at the entrance to his love's torture chamber.  It looked just as he had pictured it from Hutch's descriptions.  I told you I could open any lock, he thought.  I told you I would set you free, and I will do so, no matter the cost.  Remember?  We vowed we would never again count the cost.   Not to ourselves.  Not to each other.  Not to anyone else.  Love is primal.  It must have free rein.  Once you stop and say, I will not love, lest someone be hurt, love will begin to die.  And love must not be allowed to die, for it is all that stands between us, and the death of the soul.  If your father is allowed to continue in his attempts to kill love, one day you will begin to fear again.  Fear is the enemy of love.

Starsky stepped through the doorway, and entered the room.  He looked around, at the grey stone walls.  The small iron bed.  The worn wooden chair.  Ropes dangled from its arms.  It was a chamber designed to destroy all hope.

'Pleasant place,' said Silent Sam.  'What about that window?' he asked, pointing to a tiny window set high in the wall.

Starsky shook his head.  'Too high.  Too small.  Not a good angle.'

Sam shrugged.  'Then, I don't know,' he said.

'But there is this door,' said Starsky. He pointed to a door, set in the side wall of the chamber. It was a small door, made of dark wood.  Its lock looked rusty, and Starsky couldn't see how they could possibly pick it in under an hour.

Silent Sam agreed.  'Too much work,' he said.  And it only leads to the room next door.'

'Of course it does,' said Starsky.  'That is the point.'

'So, we can get in from the hallway, one would think.'

It turned out they could.  The next room was a storeroom, used for old furniture.  It was rather full, probably because the furniture from Hutch's torture chamber had been moved here.  Starsky studied the connecting door from the other side.  'Do you have a drill?' he asked Silent Sam.

'Naturally,' said Sam.  'How many peep holes would you like?'

'Several,' said Starsky.  'Different highs, different places.  You understand?'

'Oh, yes,' said the burglar.  'You want to get pictures from many angles.  There might be a market for those sorts of pictures.  I can investigate for you.'

'Mind your business.  Pictures are not for sale.  Not for money, I mean.'

'For what, then?'

'For power,' said Starsky.  'He has power now.  I will take it from him.'

'It's a funny thing about rich folk,' said Silent Sam.  'Power means as much to them as their money, and might be as hard to steal away.'

'It's a funny thing about Jews,' said Starsky.  'We know how to drive a hard bargain.'


**********************

'It's late,' said Starsky, as they made their escape from Belgravia.  He was beginning to worry that the police might stop them, and ask their business in such a fashionable part of town, long after nightfall.  He found a dark alley, and changed back into his good suit, as fast as he could.

'I will leave you now,' he said.  'I must get home, or my family will be wondering.  You can call me at my studio.  You have the address?'

'Yes,' said Hans, looking rather down-trodden.

'What is it, Hans?  Having second thoughts?'

'Third thoughts,' said Hans.  'Or fourth.  I don't think I can do it.  Go into that room again, I mean.  Let him touch me.'

'I don't know how you could let him touch you in the first place,' muttered Silent Sam.  Both Hans and Starsky ignored him.

'I would do it myself, but he does not like Jews, I think,' said Starsky.  'I will pay you well.'

'I don't know if there is enough money in the world,' said Hans.

'No,' said Starsky.  'And I won't force you to do this.  It would not be good for you.  Not good for me, either.'

'I am afraid we'll be caught.  What would happen to us, then?'

'I don't want to think about that,' said Starsky.

'I do,' said Hans.  'I have heard things about what happens to boys like me in prison.'

************************

Hutch was still at work, when Starsky got back to the villa.  It seemed like days, since they left that morning for Milton and Sons.  The world had been a simpler place, thought Starsky.  Now, I have stepped into a snake pit.  At least I don't have to face Hutch, looking as if I've been crawling through a sewer.

'Monsieur!' said Jacques.  'You look as if you've been crawling through a sewer.'

'That is what I've been doing, Jacques,' Starsky told him.  'Please, is it possible you can clean my suit by tomorrow?'

'Of course, Monsieur.  Would you like a bath, sir?'

'That would be a mercy, Jacques.  May I ask you not to mention my underground adventures to Monsieur Hutchinson?  He has enough to worry about.'

'It is not my business to discuss your private affairs with my master, sir,' said Jacques, rather stiffly.

Starsky laughed.  'I was not carrying on an affair, Jacques.  Not in a sewer.  Not anywhere.'  He studied Jacques.  Tall, with light brown hair.  A French accent.  'Jacques?  How far would you go to help Monsieur Hutchinson?'

'I would die for the Monsieur, sir,' said the valet.

'So would I, Jacques,' said Starsky.  'I hope that will not be necessary, for either of us, but it's good to know we are in agreement on this matter.  What if I were to ask you to do something illegal, immoral, and disgusting?'

'How disgusting, Monsieur Starsky?'

'Repulsive, Jacques.  If Monsieur Hutchinson were to learn of it, he'd be furious with us both.'

'If it would truly help him, I could live with that, sir.'

'So could I, Jacques.  I hope that will not be necessary, as well, but it's best to be prepared.  Also, you must bleach your hair.'

'Bleach my hair, sir?  Is that the disgusting part?'

'No.  It gets worse, Jacques.  Perhaps you should begin to call me David?  Before this is over, we will either be good friends, or bad enemies.'


*****************

'Is Monsieur Starsky at home, Jeffreys?'

'Yes, sir.  He is in your chamber.  Would you like some supper, sir, before you retire?'

'Thank you, Jeffreys.  Monsieur Starsky is likely to be hungry again, by now.  Have it sent to our room.'

Monsieur Starsky was sitting by the fire, reading.  Hutchinson closed the door, and leaned against it, watching him.  Watching the firelight play with his hair, and dance in his eyes.

'You may come inside, if you like,' said Starsky.

'May I indeed?  How deeply inside?'

'As deeply as you can fit.'

Hutchinson laughed.  He took off his jacket, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.  There was a jug of water, warming on the hearth.  Starsky was always performing caring little tasks like that for him.  As now, when he got up to pour him a cup of tea.

'I am sorry that I am so late home,' Hutchinson told him, as he washed his face and hands.  'I will try to be home earlier tomorrow.  Maybe in time to be here for the candle lighting.'

'That would be nice,' said Starsky.  'But don't worry if you can't.  I do understand.'

'I want to be with my family more,' said Hutchinson, accepting the cup of tea, and sitting in his own chair, across the hearth from Starsky's.

There was a tap at the door. It was the maid, bringing in a tray with a late supper.  She placed it on a table by the window, and curtsied.  'Will that be all, sirs?' she asked.

'Yes.  Thank you, Jeanne,' said Starsky.

Hutchinson waited until the maid closed the door, then held out his arms.  Starsky came to him, nestling against him, kissing his face and hands with an unusual show of tenderness, even for him.  Hutchinson relaxed in his chair, enjoying the attention for a time.  At last he drew a deep sigh.  'What is wrong?'  he asked.

'Nothing is wrong,' said Starsky.  'I met an old friend, today.'

'A friend?' asked Hutchinson, feeling a chill of apprehension.

'Not that sort of friend.  Not a lover.   A friend from Paris.  We knew each other when... when I was a whore.  We planned to escape, to have a better life.  But he could never quite bring himself to take that step.  Now, he is in London, running from the Paris police, I think.  He won't tell me everything.  I want to help him, but I'm not sure he wants help.  Or that he would know how to use it, if he did.'

'There are people like that,' said Hutchinson, sleepily.  He missed Starsky's company.  Missed his footsteps mingling with his own.  Missed hearing his voice, as they worked side by side.  But this was pleasant, too.  To come home to their companionship.  To sit in one chair, wrapped in Starsky's arms, and listen to him talk about his day.  To feel the tension slowly drain from his body, until he was relaxed enough for love.

'I talked to Rabbi Cohen, though, and we have several candidates for managing your new store.'

'Do you?  That is wonderful, Starsky.  Tell me about them in the morning.  We can't interview them tonight.  Go on about your friend, for now.  I know there is something still troubling you.'

'I cannot hide a thing from you, can I?  It is just that seeing him reminded me of things I'd rather forget.  Hans, and some of the other boys I knew, had such sad lives.  Hans ran away from home, when he was very young.  His father died, and his mother married again.  His stepfather, well, interfered with him.'

'Raped him?' asked Hutchinson, calmly.

'Yes.  His story troubled me.  And today, I started thinking about you.  About how your father treated you.  Is there something you haven't told me?'

'About my father?  Many things, I am sure.  But my father never raped me, Starsky.'

'Perhaps not, but he might have touched you, or used you in some way, when you were small, and you didn't realize what was happening.'

'That might be true, but I think not.  And what would be the point of remembering it after all this time?  Anything that happened in the past, is in the past.  We are here now.'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'I'm sorry.  I don't want to bring any pain or sorrow into your life.'

'You don't,' said Hutchinson.  He kissed Starsky's eyes, and his mouth.  'You bring me happiness.  I never thought that love could be free of fear.  That I could drift on love, like a boat upon the sea.'

'Is that how you feel?' asked Starsky.  'Drifting in happiness, free of fear?'

'That is how I feel,' said Hutchinson.  And I feel gratitude, he thought.  The need to prove my love, and my worthiness to be loved by you in return.  That was what I wanted to prove to you this very morning, I think.  I endangered the sanctity of our love, with my display of its power.

Starsky murmured something in Hebrew.

'What did you say?' asked Hutchinson, as he drew him down upon the hearth rug.

'I said that I will protect our little boat, and we will drift forever.'

'Pray the weather doesn't turn stormy,' said Hutchinson.  'Lest we are forced to find a safe, new harbour.'



********************

Starsky was wearing the wine velvet smoking jacket Hutchinson had given him.  ('But Hutch, I don't smoke!' had been his bewildered comment, when he first laid eyes upon it.) Under that, he wore a pale linen shirt and dark wool trousers.

Soft textures of velvet and linen on Hutchinson's hands.  The roughness of wool.  His lover's skin, warm and silky.  The roughness of hair.  The sweet, moist roughness of his lover's tongue against his own.

The rustling of cloth tickling his ears, and hastening his heartbeat.  Breath and heartbeat of his lover, hastening under the urging of his hands. The sighs of relief, as his lover's penis was released from its prison of clothing.  The moans of pleasure as it was stroked and licked and sucked.  The almost audible throbbing as it pulsed in his mouth.

He had never sucked a man's penis until he met David Starsky.  The taste of it, so intimate, shocked him the first time he took it in his mouth.  Now, he hungered for it throughout the day.

Starsky moaned, and struggled under his hands and tongue.  'Please, Hutch.  Please!'

Hutchinson knew what his lover wanted, and knew to deny him.  He let Starsky go on struggling, let him move as he wished, until his body began to fall into a rhythm. Then, he took Starsky's loins in his hands, and held them tightly.  Now, his lover protested his bondage.  Hutchinson laughed, and his laughter drove Starsky to wilder and wilder protests.

He found the tiny slit at the end of Starsky's penis, and worked at it with his tongue, as if to make it wider. As if to force his tongue inside.  Starsky gasped, and his body tensed.  Hutchinson felt the first taste of liquid on his tongue, and he hummed in appreciation.  Semen flooded his mouth.  The sound of his name on Starsky's lips, flooded his ears.  Starsky's body relaxed under his hands, but Hutchinson held his penis in his mouth for a while, until it grew quite soft and lax.

Hutchinson drew a deep breath.  'Are you well?' he whispered against his lover's groin, as if afraid to look up into his face.

'Well?' said Starsky.  'No. I am shattered into a thousand pieces. But all the pieces are growing back together.  I wonder what I will look like, when they have done so.  Like some strange fantastical creature, born on the dark side of the moon?'

Hutchinson looked up, at last.  'You are beautiful,' he said.  'I should untie you.  Your hands must hurt.'

'Oh, yes. Such tight knots, my hands have turned gangrenous, and will soon fall off.'

Hutchinson's hands were shaking, as he untied the knotted scarf, which was not at all tight.  The knots were symbolic, Starsky had told him.  They had not felt symbolic, as he had tied them around the flesh he adored.

'See,' Starsky remarked, as the loose knots fell apart.  'I am quite well, and you have not turned into a ravening monster.  There is no evil in you, waiting to emerge.'

'There is evil in everyone, waiting for its chance.'

'That is not true,' Starsky told him.  'If it were true, everyone would be evil, for everyone has been given the chance at least once in their lives.  I allowed you to tie me up, and have your evil way with my body.  And what did you do?  A babe in arms could have broken free of your knots.  You are a shnook, I keep telling you.'

'I admit it.  I am a shnook.  Are you happy now?'

'I am very happy,' said Starsky.  'And now it is my turn to be evil.'

'What are you going to do to me?' asked Hutchinson.

'I am never going to tie you up,' said Starsky.  'But, I think I will kiss you to death.'

'I told you, everyone is evil, given the chance,' said Hutchinson.


******************************



Hutch was asleep.  No mean accomplishment that, thought Starsky, with a certain pride.  He smiled, as he considered that perhaps he truly was earning the gifts Hutch insisted on buying him.  Perhaps the life of a kept man wasn't so easy after all, nor was it so valueless.  But that life was not for him.  He must be independent, or he would lose Hutch's respect eventually, to say nothing of his own self respect.

He shifted slightly away from Hutch's warm body, and Hutch stirred, almost waking up.  Starsky stroked his hair, and he relaxed again.  They would play this game for a time, until Hutch was deeply asleep, and lost in dreams.  Then Starsky could safely slip out of bed, though he would not go far away.  Hutch seemed to sense the distance between their bodies, even in the deepest of deep sleeps.

Starsky often wondered what Hutch dreamt about.  Sometimes he would have nightmares, and these he would reveal. But the happy dreams were secrets, though Hutch did say that Starsky was always a part of them.  In fact, he seemed surprised when Starsky asked about them.

The workings of Hutch's mind were a mystery to Starsky.  Most people were simple enough, he had discovered.  They had simple needs: food, shelter, sex.  You could predict how they would behave if you offered them these things, or took them away.

But Hutch?  Who knew?  Certainly not Starsky.  How could anyone predict the behaviour of a man who was so wealthy he could live in luxury the rest of his days, and yet who worked eighteen hours a day, at a dangerous job, in the poorest districts of the City?  How could anyone understand a man who thought watching prostitutes have sex before his eyes was a suitable entertainment, and yet was so romantic in his soul that he wept at the touch of his lover's lips?

Starsky sighed, and moved another fraction of an inch away from Hutch.  The man barely stirred at all, this time.  Over the weeks they had slept together, Starsky had developed a deep physical understanding of his lover.  He hoped the physical understanding would lead to a deeper mental and emotional understanding.  He often thought he should consult with Hutch's friend -- that Herr Doktor Freud.  Perhaps he would be capable of plumbing the depths of Hutch's psyche, and would honour Starsky with some of his observations.  

Hutch, he knew, would laugh at such a suggestion.  

'The man is intelligent, Starsky,' he had said, once.  'He has some good ideas.  But the human mind cannot be reduced to a formula, and that is the essence of his theories -- reducing the mind to a formula, and a formula which leaves too much out.  People have many layers, like onions.  They have many reasons for doing the things they do.  For example, why do you like to lie with me?'

'Why?' asked Starsky, in bewilderment.  'Why, because I love you. Because it is pleasant to lie beside you.  You are beautiful, and warm.  You are affectionate.  You give me great pleasure, and you seem to know just what I want from you. I like this bedroom, for it is by far the most comfortable bedroom I have slept in for many years.  I must admit, Detective Inspector Hutchinson of Scotland Yard, that though I would lie with you if you were as poor as a church mouse -- in your odd English vernacular saying -- I do appreciate the wealth of your home.  You always have very good English biscuits in that jar by the mantle.'

'Yes,' said Hutch, with an ironic smile.  'My attractions are endless, are they not.  Especially the English biscuits.'

'Endless,' said Starsky, with a pointed look at Hutch's very attractive groin.  'They never end, they never give up.'

'But, you see, were you to ask the good Herr Doktor Freud why he thought you liked to lie with me, he'd be sure to offer some fascinating theory of his own, which had nothing to do with the case.'

'Such as what?' asked Starsky.

'I've never asked him that question, so I would not know,' Hutch had answered.  'But it might have something to do with your childhood.  Perhaps your father didn't love you enough.  Or your mother loved you too much.'

Starsky said nothing, but he stared at Hutch in consternation.  

'Yes,' said Hutch, again.  'You see, that is the story of my childhood.  My father didn't love me at all, and my mother loved me very much indeed.  I enjoy lying with other men.  Freud would decide these things were all connected, somehow, and he would also conclude that all men who loved other men were the same.  That's what I mean when I say he judges people on far too simplistic terms.'

'My parents loved me, I suppose, about as much as usual.  Neither too much, nor too little,' said Starsky.

'Exactly,' said Hutch.  'But Freud would ignore that complication.  It wouldn't fit his formula.'

Still, Starsky had been fascinated by some of Freud's ideas.  He was Jewish, but an atheist.  An atheistic Jew.  That was not unheard of, but rare enough in Starsky's experience to be interesting.  He also seemed not to hold the usual prejudices against Sodomites.  Another point of interest.  

Starsky edged closer to his side of the bed, and Hutch slept on.  Starsky slid out from under the coverlet, and stepped down onto the warm sheepskin rug that covered the beautiful Turkish carpet that covered the even more beautiful hardwood floor.  He wrapped his velvet smoking jacket around himself, and sat down before the fire.  It was necessary that he think and plan his campaign against Hutch's father in careful detail, and it was very difficult to do that, while he lay within the circle of Hutch's arms.  The warm proximity of Hutch's beautiful body aroused his anger against a father who could act as Mr Hutchinson senior had acted.  Anger was not conducive to careful planning.  He must be cool, and careful, like Hutch, he thought, glancing over at the bed.  

Hutch slept on.

****************************

'Jacques, why is your hair blond?' asked Hutchinson of his valet.

'I have met a new man, Monsieur,' said Jacques.  'He very much likes the blonds.'

'Jacques, if he's only interested in the colour of your hair, he's not much of a prospect as a lover.  But, never mind.  Such affairs are no business of mine.  Forgive me for my interference.'

'Ah, no, Monsieur.  You are good to be so interested.  And of course you are right. I doubt it will come to much in the end.  Just a little fun, n'est ce pas?'

'Yes.  A little fun is good, once in a while.  But be careful.'

'I will, Monsieur,' said Jacques.  'Certainement.'

********************************

'Starsky, I think Jacques is not quite right in the head,' said Hutchinson, at the breakfast table.

'And why is that?' asked Starsky, as he buttered his second muffin of the morning.

'He has bleached his hair blond,' said Hutch.   'He tells me it is because of some new man he has met.'

'Well, we all go a little crazed because of love,' said Starsky.  'Look at me.'

'I am looking at you,' said Hutch.  'And I see that you have not dyed your hair so far.  I pray you will not ever do so in the future.  Not that I wouldn't still love you, but….'

'I promise I will not,' said Starsky.   'But I have allowed you to bathe me, and clothe me, and rearrange my whole life for me.  All because I love you.'

'Are you so very unhappy?' asked Hutch.  

Hutch truly appeared to be worried.  Starsky leaned forward across the breakfast table, and kissed his lover, gently.  'No, I am not at all unhappy,' he said.  

'That is good,' said Hutch with a wide smile.  'I think I will order more clothes for you.  The tailor has your measurements.  That will make you even happier, will it not?'

Starsky groaned.  Hutch got up from the table, and ruffled Starsky's hair on the way to the door.

That's it, thought Starsky.  That will keep your mind occupied in your few moments of leisure today, so that you will not attempt to check on my movements.  I pray God you will allow me enough time.

He went to find Jacques.  

*****************************************


The telegraph boy was young and blond, and earnest.  He reminded Hutchinson of himself, a few years ago.  It was rather odd,  thought Hutchinson, the way he looked at me.  As if he believed he knew me, for some reason.  Perhaps he saw my picture in the paper, and thinks I'm a hero, or some such rubbish.

The telegram was succinct.  It informed Inspector Hutchinson that the late wife of Mr. Balthasar Robinson, formerly of Leeds, had died in a tragic fire, eight years ago.  Eliza Robinson, nee Hartwell, was not Mr. Robinson's first wife, however.  He was listed in the church marriage register as a widower.

I wonder how his first wife died, thought Hutchinson.  Perhaps a visit to Leeds was in order….

'I agree that a visit to Leeds is in order, Inspector,' said Chief Inspector Swanson, when Hutchinson consulted him on the possibility.   'But I suggest sending a Constable to perform the initial investigations.'

'If you insist, Sir,' said Hutchinson, nothing loathe.  He had not been looking forward to searching ancient church registries in Leeds, in the off chance Mr. Balthasar Robinson's name would appear. Leeds was too many miles away from home and Starsky.  'If the Constable does discover the name of Robinson's first wife, I do want to take over the investigation, however,' he told the Chief Inspector.   'I think this is an important case.'

'Yes.  The death of one wife by fire is a tragedy.  Two such deaths could perhaps be a terrible co-incidence.  But three?'

'Sir, that would be evidence of murder in itself, I should think.  Even without the forensic evidence at the fire on Baker Street, I believe a jury might convict the man.'

'Might, Inspector.  They might convict him. It is better for us to have more solid evidence.  However, I wish to congratulate you on your instincts in this case.  I've told you before, you will make a great detective, if you apply yourself.'

'Thank you very much, Chief,' said Hutch.  He smiled, and went to find a suitable Constable to send to Leeds.  


***************************

Starsky could not remember ever being so reluctant to enter a door in his life.  He had waited for ten long minutes, but Jacques had not been evicted from the house.  It seemed Mr Hutchinson had accepted his story, that Hans was ill, and had found Jacques an attractive enough replacement. Starsky pulled out his burglar tools, and cracked the lock on the cellar door.  The door swung open without a sound.  Starsky stepped into the dark basement.  

He remembered the hallway clearly enough.  The door to the torture chamber was locked and no sound escaped.  Silently -- as silently as Silent Sam -- he opened the door to the storage room next door.  Silently he slipped through the pathway they had cleared to the door between the rooms.  He opened his camera case, and set the lens of the camera against one of the holes Silent Sam had drilled.  At the same time, he glanced through one of the other tiny holes.  

Oh, yes, he thought.  Mr. Hutchinson was engaged, and would never notice the slight click of the camera shutter.  Fiercely, he shut down his own feelings of nausea, and went to work.

*******************************

Starsky held Jacques' head, while he threw up, again and again.  When it seemed there was nothing left in Jacques' stomach, he slid down the wall, and sat in the alley, his eyes closed as if trying to shut out the pictures of his own degradation.  

'I'm sorry, Jacques,' Starsky said.  'I didn't know it would be so bad.  Believe me, I didn't know.  I would never have asked it of you, if I'd known.  That was far worse than I'd imagined, from what Hans told me.'

'I will survive,' said Jacques.  'Just give me time.'

'I will give you anything you want,' said Starsky.  'Listen to me.  You can't go home tonight.'

'But Monsieur will be needing me,' Jacques protested.

'No.  Listen.  I will tell him I gave you the night off to meet your new lover, and that I will be his valet.  He likes that.  He won't be angry. If he saw you now, he would be angry.  He'd demand to know who had hurt you.  What would you tell him?  He'd have the whole story out of you, and demand the pictures from me next.  All this suffering would have been in vain.  Believe me, I'm angry too.  But that man needs to be stopped.  He must be punished, and this is the only way. Do you agree?'

'Yes,' said Jacques.  'I agree.  I don't blame you for what happened.  I had some idea beforehand.  I know what such men can be like.'

'So did I,' said Starsky.  'But still, it was all I could do not to go charging into that room to stop him.'

'That would have been a disaster,' said Jacques.  'Mon Dieu!  What might he have done to us both, if he discovered our plot?'

'I don't want to think,' said Starsky.  'Come back to my studio with me.  You can sleep there, if you like.  By the morning, you might be feeling more yourself.  Come home, and tell Hutch you spent the night with your lover, but you didn't suit, and you are ending the relationship.  That will account for any strangeness in your manner.  What do you think?'

'I think you are good at this sort of thing,' said Jacques.  'Too good.  You should be a spy, or something.'

'Thank you,' said Starsky, with a wry smile.   He helped Jacques to his feet, and dusted his clothes off for him.  It wasn't much, but all he could do for now.  Jacques seemed to pull himself together, and they headed for the Underground, back to the City, and home.


********************************


'Are you well, my dear?' asked Hutch, at dinner.  

Starsky smiled at the endearment.  'I'm quite well,' he said.  'Don't I look well?'

'Yes,' said Hutch, considering.  'But you're a little pale, and you're not eating much.'

'You sound like Mother,' said Starsky.  'Eat my son.  Eat!  How are you going to grow up big and strong if you don't eat?'

Madame Starsky pretended not to understand a word of English, though only a short time before, she had been quite capable of telling Hutchinson the story of Hanukkah.  As they lit the candles, she had told him of the victory by the Jews over the Syrians.  How they had rededicated the Temple in Jerusalem.

'We needed oil for the dedication,' she said.  'And we found only one jar of oil.  It should have lasted only one day, but what happened?'

'It lasted eight days, Mother,' Starsky answered.  'And so we light candles every night for eight days, in commemoration.'

'And we eat foods fried in oil,' Nick added.

'And dairy foods, to remember Judith, and her triumph over Holofernes,'  Madame Starsky noted.

'Ah, yes.  Judith,' said Hutchinson.  'I know that story.  He was an enemy general, and Judith cut off his head.  When the enemy saw their general was dead, they gave up the war, and fled.  All this talk of war and beheadings has given me an appetite.'  

He had smiled at Starsky a secret smile.  Starsky had smiled back, but his face still looked a little strained.  Something was wrong.  Perhaps he was worried about his business, thought Hutchinson.  If that was the case, he might have to reconsider his policy of not interfering.  There must be some way to help, without being caught.  It was important to keep Starsky's trust, but Starsky's happiness was even more important.  If Starsky wasn't happy….

Starsky's foot touched his under the table, lightly.  That was odd, thought Hutchinson.  He looked at Starsky, questioningly.  Starsky pretended not to notice.  A moment later, his foot brushed against Hutchinson's again.  Ah!  This was a sort of game.  Their feet could touch, in a restrained act of love, hidden by the table cloth, and no one would know.  

Hutchinson studied the nine candles, closely.  

'Why are there nine candles?' he asked Madame Starsky.

The lady recovered her powers of English language.  'We have nine candles, one for each day of Hanukkah, and the centre one from which we light the others.  We light one more candle every day until Hanukkah is finished.'

Hutchinson listened to this speech with a solemn attention.  All the time, he was teasing Starsky, brushing his foot against one leg, and then the other.  Nudging his foot under Starsky's pant leg, then pressing down on top of Starsky's shoe.  Once he thought he heard Starsky choke, but he recovered quickly.  When he looked at Starsky again, his lover's face looked brighter.  

'I'm going to taste one of those latkes,' Hutchinson declared.  He reached across the table, ignoring Madame Starsky's gasp at his rudeness, and snagged one of Starsky's latkes off his plate.  'Hmm.  Delicious,' he said.  'If you aren't going to eat them, I will.'

Starsky looked suitably worried, and started eating with more enthusiasm.

'Are you truly well, Starsk?' Hutch asked him later, in the privacy of their own bedroom.  'Are you certain?'

'Yes. I am certain.  I miss you, when we're apart all day.'

Hutchinson considered this piece of news, as he washed his hands and face in the water Starsky had warmed for him by the fire.  Starsky seemed so strong, almost invulnerable in some ways.  He rarely asked for anything, and gave so much in return.  

Hutchinson dried his hands, and looked over at Starsky, who was sitting in his usual chair, reading the newspaper.  

'How is your reading coming along?' Hutchinson asked his lover, in English.

'I am reading about Father Damien,' Starsky told him.  'He is not well, and maybe close to dying.'

'A brave man, but a little foolish,' said Hutchinson.  'When he dies, who will take so good care of the lepers?  If he had been a little more careful, he wouldn't have caught leprosy, and might have lived many more years.'

'Are you always so careful?' asked Starsky.  'I think when you love, you lose all… all sense of carefulness.'

'One becomes reckless, yes,' said Hutchinson, sitting on the carpet at Starsky's feet.  Usually their positions were reversed, Starsky leaning against Hutchinson's legs.  Tonight, Hutchinson wanted to make Starsky feel strong.  'When you love, only the one you love matters.  Father Damien loves the lepers.  But that is why, if you love someone, you should take care of yourself, too.  If you were to become ill, what would become of me? Who would love me, as you do?  Take care of yourself.  Please?'

'Hutch?' Starsky whispered.  'Oh, Hutch.  Hutch.'

Starsky joined Hutchinson on the sheepskin carpet before the fire.  Usually when they were in that position, they were naked, and entwined in passionate acts of sexual intimacy.  But tonight, Starsky seemed to wish to kiss, and caress, and whisper Hutch's name, and in other sweet ways, make tender love.

'You are so beautiful and good,' he said.  'You don't even know how beautiful you are, do you?'

'I think you need a good pair of spectacles,' Hutchinson told him.

'Yes.  Yes, I do, so that I may see you more clearly.  I wish I could make you see yourself, as I see you.'

Hutchinson smiled, as Starsky proceeded to outline his charms, in great detail.  He seemed to have forgotten his worries, whatever they were.  It would be no use to ask, as Hutchinson knew too well.  Starsky would brush off his concerns, with a laugh.  That would change over time, as he persuaded the man to trust him more.  But for now, he could not let him get too far ahead, in this game of making love.

'What is all this hair?' he asked Starsky, as he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his chest.  'You are like a sheepskin rug, yourself.  Mmm.  So warm. I could bury myself in you.'  He kissed first one hard, flat nipple, and then the other.  'Is there more hair, further down?'

'You know the answer to that, very well,' said Starsky.  

But Hutchinson insisted on exploring nevertheless.


****************************

'It looks as if your instincts were indeed right, Inspector,' said Chief Inspector Swanson, studying the telegram Hutchinson handed him.

'Why do you sound so surprised, Sir?' asked Hutchinson.

'I am not surprised, Inspector.  You mistake me.  But never mind.  I suggest you travel to Leeds, posthaste.  Constable Lightoller is good at handling physical evidence, but hasn't your remarkable facility at dealing with people.'

'You think I am remarkable with people, Sir?'  Starsky certainly would agree with that assessment.

'Remarkable, Inspector.  Your powers of vituperation are famous throughout the Yard.  Any sane suspect would confess immediately, just to shut you up.'

'Thank you, Sir,' said Hutchinson, seriously.  'I'm working on ways of dealing with insane suspects, I assure you.'

'You terrify me, Inspector.  Go, go.  Catch the bastard. Three dead wives is two too many for the Law to allow.'

'Yes, Sir.  I'll pay my own train fare, and rent a carriage at Leeds, and if need be, I can pay for my own hotel room, so the trip won't cost the government a pence.  I'm sure that will reassure the Queen, if she's worried.'

'What about your valet, Inspector?'

'No, my valet is taking a short holiday.  I'll take Higgins to drive me, but otherwise, I'll manage on my own, Sir.  I'm sure the hotel will have competent staff.'

'Any hotel you consider worthy of your notice should do so, yes,' said the Chief.

Hutchinson had indeed insisted that Jacques take a short holiday.  He'd come home that morning, after a very disappointing night with his new friend, looking rather the worse for wear.  Hutchinson had threatened to track the man down and whip him, but Jacques had insisted his friend hadn't abused him.

'He… he was a bit rough, Monsieur, but it was with my consent, I assure you.'

'Rough?  I wasn't aware you liked rough trade, Jacques.  I thought you were the romantical kind.'

'I am, Monsieur.  Last night was an experiment, I suppose.  I wanted to please him, but I've decided it is not to my taste.  Don't worry about me.'

'I will worry about you, Jacques, until you are yourself, again.  Take a few days off. I will survive on my own for that long. Go somewhere peaceful, and find a more gentle lover.'

Rough, thought Hutchinson.  Did a little roughness put such dark circles under a lover's eyes?  Once or twice, he had been rough with Starsky, and Starsky had reciprocated.  They had left bruises and bite marks on each other's flesh.  But not such expressions of fear and sorrow. Hutchinson found such violent pleasure a bit draining, but Starsky had been an enthusiastic participant.  Indeed, his eyes had twinkled mischeivously for days afterward.

No. There was more to the story than Jacques had been willing to confess, -- but then, what was the use of forcing a confession?  When Jacques had time to consider, perhaps he would tell his master everything.  Or maybe Starsky would be a better confidant?  Perhaps Jacques was embarrassed to talk to his employer.  When he got home, he'd suggest that idea to Starsky.

***************************

'There you go, sir,' said Constable Lightoller.  'Mrs. Judith Robinson.  Nee Judith Fourtney, Spinster.  Mr Balthasar Robinson.  Widower.'

'Do you know what that means, Constable?' asked Inspector Hutchinson.

'Aye, sir.  It means my work isn't over, yet.'

'Well, the work of Scotland Yard is never over, Constable.  Get to it.'

'Aye, sir.'

It looked as if he might be here for longer than one day, thought Hutchinson, and the realization was rather disturbing.  He didn't like the idea of Starsky being alone right now, without Hutch to cheer him.  Starsky had seemed rather depressed after Jacques returned home.  Come to think of it, perhaps Jacques had already confided in him.

Hutchinson found a suitable hotel, and checked in.  He called home, to let them know he might be here a day or two.  Then, he called Starsky's studio.  Starsky was out at the moment, Lady Rebecca informed him.  

'He said something about speaking to Mr. Howard,' she said.  'Would you wish me to give him a message on his return?'

'Thank you, Lady Rebecca,' Hutchinson said.  'Tell him I'm in Leeds, on a case, and I'll call him at home this evening.  If he needs to speak to me, he can call me at my hotel.'  He gave Lady Rebecca the number.

Howard?  Why would Starsky need to speak to Howard?  Perhaps he really was experiencing financial difficulties?  Or, legal difficulties?  

Starsky was a man, a grown man.  He could handle himself.  He'd done so for years now, and survived so much.  I trust him, thought Hutchinson.  Truly I do.  But the studio is not just a business, it's all our happiness.  If his business is a success, and I reveal that I invested money in it, no one will remark upon our friendship.  It would make sense for me to spend time with him, to visit the studio, to drive about with him while he takes photographs.  If the studio should fail….

Hutchinson discovered that he had been walking about his hotel room, in an agitated manner. This is insupportable, he thought.  He called for Higgins, and the carriage, and started to get to work.  

As they drove down the street, approaching a bridge, Hutchinson noticed someone by the side of the road, taking photographs with an unusual camera.  He asked Higgins to stop, and climbed down to speak to the man.

He was a tall man, taller than Hutchinson by several inches.  He introduced himself as Louis Le Prince.

'It is my invention, Sir.  It uses the new film, that comes on a spool.  See.  The film moves very quickly.  It takes a series of photographs quite closely together.  I'm working on a projector, and then, it will be much easier to show the resulting film.  Why, it will be amazing.  Imagine being able to see moving pictures so much like real life.'

Yes.  Amazing, thought Hutchinson.  The developments in photography were coming at an astounding rate.  He imagined being able to watch a film of his lover walking, smiling at him, lifting those eyebrows.  He pulled a picture of Starsky out of his jacket pocket and studied it for a moment.  A picture was not like the real thing, but it was a comfort all the same.

Surely Starsky's studio would be a success, he thought.  He must stop worrying, and let Starsky handle his own problems, if there were any.  He had his own job, and his own problems.  The first thing he must do to solve those problems, was to speak to the Leeds Police Department.  Perhaps someone there had his own suspicions about the deaths of Balthasar Robinson's wives.


**********************************

'Balthasar Robinson?  No, Sir.  Can't say as I've ever heard the name, and it's not the sort of name you forget.  You think he killed two wives, and tried to kill a third?  Well, Sir, that be a scandal, right enough.  When was this?  His first wife was here in Leeds?'

'Second wife, Sergeant.  At least, I hope only his second wife.  That was in 1869.'

'1869, Sir?  Nearly twenty years on.  No wonder I don't remember, Sir.  I was only a lad then, you see.  You were too, I reckon.  Tell you who you need to talk to, Sir.  Old Fitzroy, that's who.  He was one of our Founding Fathers, if you like.  He was on our force for nigh on forty years, from 1836, or Year One, to our reckoning, here at the venerable Leeds Police Department.'

'Ah!  I would like to speak to him, yes.  Is he still alive, by any chance?'

'Still alive?  Ah, you Scotland Yard types like your little jokes, I know.  Yes, Sir.  He be still alive, but retired, like.  Let me ring him up, ask if he be willing to talk with you.'

Hutchinson nodded his acquiescence, and waited while the Sergeant talked on the phone.  Forty years, he thought.  The man must be in his dotage, even if he'd started his career before he was twenty.  However, some old men had sharp memories of things that happened in their youth, even if they couldn't remember what they had for dinner the night before.  

The Sergeant returned, interrupting Hutchinson's visions of sitting around the fire discussing the hunt for Jack the Ripper with Starsky, forty years into the future.  

'Aye, Sir.  Old Fitzroy says he's willing to talk to you.  And talk he will, I warrant you.  Talk your ear off, and some of it might even be to the point.'

'I hope so, Sergeant,' said Hutchinson.  He said goodbye to the helpful police sergeant and headed for his carriage.

In forty years, he and Starsky would be old men in their late sixties.  No one would remark if they lived together, he thought.  Who knew what the world would be like by then? 1928.  Well into the twentieth century.  Perhaps it would be no longer a crime for men to lie together.  Hutchinson thought it probably wouldn't be.  Surely by then, the human race would have better things to worry about.  He hoped….

Someone came up behind him, and touched his arm.  Hutchinson wasn't usually so taken by surprise, but his dreams of a happy old age with Starsky had been occupying his mind.  He turned to see who had so accosted him.

'You!' he said.  'What are you doing here in Leeds?'

***************************

Starsky stared at the telephone, willing it to ring.  It was a devilish invention, he thought.  It led you to believe that your lover would call you at any time, that you could hear his voice whenever you wished.  But, the truth was, most of the time the stupid thing just sat there, as useless as tits on a bull.

'Patience, my son,' said Madame Starsky.  'I am sure he will call when he has a moment.'

Starsky sighed.  He needed to hear Hutch's voice.  

He heard, instead, a carriage driving up to the front door.  Footsteps.  Running.  That didn't sound like Hutch.  Hutch never hurried, unless speed were of the essence, as he said.

The front door was opened by Jeffreys.  Starsky stepped out into the hall, in time to hear the butler berating the person at the door.

'Higgins!  What is this?  Servants do not use the front entrance.'

'Get over it, Jeffreys!' said Higgins, astonishingly.   'Where's Mr. Starsky?  I need to speak to him, and there's no time.  Pay off the hansom, will you?  I didn't have enough for all the fare, and the driver's mad as a wet hen.'

'Really, Higgins!' said Jeffreys.  'You've got too far above yourself.'

'Get stuffed, Jeffreys.   This is important.'

'Higgins?' asked Starsky, thinking it wise to interrupt.  'I'm here.  What's the problem?'

'It's the guv, Mr. Starsky.  He's in trouble.  I need to talk to you, alone.'

'Come into the library, Higgins,' said Starsky.

'I don't know, Mr. Starsky.  The guv wouldn't like that.'

Starsky ignored this piece of news, and pulled Higgins into Hutch's sanctuary.  'What's wrong with Mr.  Hutchinson?' he asked, as soon as the door was shut.  'Is he ill?'

'No.  Least he wasn't when I left him.  He looked ill enough, but that was from what his father said to him, I gather.'

'His father?'

'Yeah.  The old coot.  He shows up at Leeds.  Comes up to the guv, right there in the street like.  Outside the police station.  I hates those places, to be honest.  Nothing but trouble, I think.  Anyway, the guv's father, he comes walking right up in the street, like I said, before I can see him and warn the guv.'

'What did the old coot say?' asked Starsky.

'Something about you,' said Higgins. 'I heard your name, and the guv turned white.  White as a sheet, he did.   White as a ghost. Then, he came up to me, told me to go home, asked if I had my train ticket, and money for a cab.  I said I did.  The old coot looked at me, actually looked at me, like he saw me, but I was a bug, but not worth stepping on right then, you know?'

'I know,' said Starsky, blankly.

Higgins went on.  'The old coot said, and I quote, "I'll see you later, Higgins.  Tell Jeffreys I'll be stopping by tonight." And then he laughed.'

So, he'll be stopping by, will he?  Starsky felt cold, as cold as the snow that was falling outside the window.  For the first time this year, the snow lay heavy in the branches of the trees.  It would have been a beautiful scene, he thought, if his own soul were not now as cold as ice.  But with the cold, came anger.

Starsky went to the door of the library.  Jeffreys was waiting, just outside the room, but not close enough to have overheard the conversation.  Such tactics were beneath him, his face said clearly enough.

'Jeffreys, Mr. Hutchinson Senior will be paying us a visit this evening.  Please let him in, and show him into the drawing room.'

'Sir?  I don't think Mr. Hutchinson would like that.' By the tone in his voice, Jeffreys was referring to his own Mr. Hutchinson.

'That is not our immediate concern, Jeffreys.  Please tell the rest of the staff to stay out of the way.  I will take care of Mr Hutchinson Senior.'

Jeffreys studied Starsky's face for a moment, in silence.  Then he bowed, with more respect than he'd yet shown to his master's lover.

'Sir,' he said.  And that was all.

Starsky turned to Higgins.  'Take the fastest carriage,' he ordered.  'Do you know where Mr Howard lives?'

'The lawyer cove?  Yes, Guv'nor,' said Higgins.  'That I do.'

'Good,' said Starsky.  'Take him this note.'  

Starsky scribbled a note in French.  He knew Howard could read French, and Higgins could not.  

Higgins took the note, and stuffed it in his pocket, scarcely glancing at the paper. 'Should I wait for a reply?' he asked.

'Wait at Mr. Howard's house,' said Starsky.  'All should go well, and it will be safe to come home.  If not, Howard will help you.  Hutch told me he made arrangements for you all.  I hope they will not be necessary.  Hurry now.'

Higgins sped off, without another word.

'Sir?' said Jeffreys.  'May I ask what is afoot?'

'Afoot, Jeffreys?'

'Something is wrong with Mr. Hutchinson, is it not?'

'Something is wrong, Jeffreys,' said Starsky.   'I think his father has used trickery to gain control of him, somehow.'

'Then, what can we do to fight him, Mr. Starsky?'

'How cold blooded are you, Jeffreys?' Starsky asked.  'How far will you go?'

'For my master?  As far as needs be.'

'Good man, Jeffreys.  Just let Mr. Hutchinson in when he knocks.  He'll be sorry he decided to pay us a visit.'

Starsky stalked back to the sitting room.  'Nicholas!' he said.  'What have you done?'

'Done?  Davey, I don't know what you mean.  I haven't done anything you don't know about.  Lately.'

'Are you certain?  Certain, for example, that you haven't paid a visit to Mr. Hutchinson's father?'

Nick looked truly horrified, thought Starsky.

'Merde!' he said, earning him a reproof from their mother, which he ignored.  'I wouldn't visit him, if he were the last person left alive on earth.  Why would you think that?  What's wrong?'

'Mr. Hutchinson -- my Hutch -- that was Higgins at the front door.'

'The front door?' asked Madame Starsky, as horrified as Jeffreys had been.

'Forget that now, Mother. That's the least of our worries.  Higgins tells me Hutch went off somewhere with his father.  I can't imagine why he would do that, unless his father had found some power over Hutch.  I thought perhaps you might have told him about us.'

'No,' said Nick, quietly.  'I might have tried that once, but not now.  I don't approve of you and Mr. Hutchinson, but this is a better place to live than Whitechapel was, by far.  We have carriages, and good food, and I have money in my pocket.  I am going to make something of myself.  I didn't like his father.  He looked at me, as if I was dirt under his feet.'

'He will treat us worse than that, if I don't do something, and soon,' said Starsky.  'He's coming to the house, this evening.  Only the Lord knows what he intends to do, but it is best to assume his intentions are not good. Hutch told me once that he would have us all murdered, and his wealth is such that he could get away with it. I want you to stay here, in this room, and let me deal with him.'

'You will deal with him?' asked Madame Starsky.  Her face was white.  White as paper.  White as a ghost, thought Starsky.  'How can you deal with such a dangerous man?'

'I have dealt with dangerous men before, Mother.  It all comes from having some power over them.  One way or another.'



**************************

The carriage pulled up at the door of the Belgravia house.  Hutchinson had vowed he would never enter that door again, but now, what choice did he have?  Well, he did have a choice.  He could choose not to believe his father, in fact he didn't believe his father, but what if he were wrong? When he had asked for evidence, or the chance to make a phone call to check for himself, his father had been angry.

'It's up to you,' he had said.  'Come with me now, do as I say, and I'll let the man live. Argue with me, and he dies.'

His father stepped down from the carriage, and started walking toward the door, without glancing back.  Hutchinson followed, slowly.  The front door opened, by the invisible hand of a servant, and closed behind him.  His father was striding down the hall, toward the back of the house.

'Come along,' he said.  'He's downstairs.'

'In the basement?' asked Hutchinson, with horror.  'You put him in the basement?  Like a wild animal?'

'He is my prisoner, not my guest,' said his father.  'Do you want to see him, or not?'

Hutchinson followed.  

This was his own fault, and he should be the one to suffer, as he had known all along.  He had no right to happiness, and it had been foolish to try for such an impossible dream.  His desire had been great, almost impossible to resist.  But he could have resisted it, if he had tried hard enough.  And now look at the consequences.  The family he cared for, his servants, the one he loved more than life itself.  All, all would suffer because of his desire.  

The dark staircase led down to his old torture chamber.  Had his father put Starsky in that room?  Please, dear God, no, he thought.  If he saw his dearest love tied in his chair he would go mad.  But his father led him down the hall, toward that terrible room.  His father opened the door, and waved Hutchinson inside, with an insanely cheerful smile.

Someone sat tied in the chair, his back to the door.  He had short, dark curly hair.  For a moment, Hutchinson thought it was Starsky, and stepped forward to free him.  But the face that turned toward the doorway was not his lover's.  It was the face of a woman. She was bound and gagged, just as he had often been in childhood.

Hutchinson turned on his father, angrily.  'That is not Starsky,' he said.  He strode up to the woman, and pulled down her gag.  Then he started to untie her.  She smirked up at him, and giggled.  Clearly she was no unwilling prisoner.  He decided to leave her tied up, if she liked it so much.

'I want to see Starsky,' he told his father.  'If I don't see him, our agreement is off.'

'Our agreement?' asked his father.  'We have no agreement.  I call all the shots.  Do you see that woman, there?  You will strip, and mount her, and prove to me that you are no eunuch, and I will let the Jew live.  Otherwise, he will die.'

'Do you think I am a fool?'

'You are a fool, yes, if you waste your seed on such fallow ground.  Can any man give you a child?  Even if Starsky were a woman, do you think I would allow it?  A Jewess, the mother of my grandchildren?  Never.'

'So, you want grandchildren?' asked Hutchinson.

'Of course I want grandchildren, you fool!' said his father.  'I have told you that many times.'

'Well, if you want them from me, you will accede to my terms.  Otherwise, you will die without them.'

'I could force you to lie with a woman.  Get you drunk.  Have her climb on top of you.  Unless you truly are a eunuch, you will perform.'

'I am no organ grinder's monkey,' said Hutch.  'Any woman who attempts to rape me, will end up deformed for life.  There is only one way you will have grandchildren from me.  I want to see David Starsky, alive and well.  I want to arrange for him, and for the rest of my household, to emigrate to France.  I want to be allowed regular telegrams from him, until I am assured they are alive and well.  Then I will marry any decent woman you choose, and copulate with her until she is with child.'

'And you believe I will agree to such outrageous demands?' asked Mr. Hutchinson.

'If you don't like my terms,' said Hutch.  'Kill me.  Start over from the beginning.  Maybe you will like your next son better.'

Mr. Hutchinson looked at his current son for a moment, as if considering the possibility.  But he must know that his options were limited at his age.  Yes, he could start a new family.  But it would take at least twenty years before a son would be old enough to take over the family business.  For a man in his fifties, such a prospect was daunting.

'There is one problem with that plan,' Hutch pointed out.  'Perhaps my mother cannot have more children.  Then, you will have to get a divorce, or kill her, so that you can remarry.  That will take time.'

Mr. Hutchinson looked at him strangely.  'Your mother?' he said.  'Your mother is dead.  I told you that long ago.'

Hutch was silent.

His father studied his face, and shrugged.  'Very well,'  he said, at last.  'I will bring Starsky to you, and you will see that he is still alive.'

'Take that female away,' Hutchinson demanded.  'I prefer to wait here alone.'

His father called to a servant, and the man picked up the chair with the woman in it, and carried it out of the room.  

Hutchinson watched the door close on his father's triumphant face.  It seemed the man thought he had won, and Hutchinson was forced to agree he had a point.  It was not a point, however, on which Hutchinson was willing to admit defeat so soon.  

For the moment, he had bought himself some time.  His father swore he had not yet killed Starsky, or any of his family.  That was the sword he was holding over Hutchinson's head.  All to the well and good, thought Hutchinson.  First he would get them out of the country, then look for a way to escape himself.  Once free, he would join his family, and look for a way to render his father toothless.  There were ways and means.  Not all of them perfectly legal, to be sure.  But this was war.

Hutchinson looked up at the tiny window high in the wall.  He could climb the wall, he thought, but he was far too large to squeeze through the window.  There was the adjoining door between this room and the next, but it was locked, or welded shut.  He ran his hands over the wood, wondering if there were some way he could batter it down.  

That was odd, he thought.  There were tiny holes in the wood, and they were not natural holes.  Drilled holes, that was what they were. On the floor, below the drilled holes, he found fine sawdust. He picked it up, and ran it through his fingers.  Had his father drilled the holes for some reason?  Perhaps to watch him when he thought he was alone?  Why would he do that, however?  A need for power?  To watch his every movement?  If he wanted to do that, wouldn't he also want his surveillance to be known?  Otherwise, what would be the point?  His father never did anything without a point.

'Mon enfant….'

Spies, thought Hutchinson.  This was the work of spies.  Whoever drilled these holes, wanted to spy on what went on in this room. Why would my father need to spy on me?  There is nothing for me to do in this room, but to walk up and down, and stare at the wall.  What possible interest could that hold for anyone, least of all my father?  He'd never waste his time, watching me do that.

'Mon enfant….'

Now, who else would do things rather more interesting in this room?  Perhaps my father has had other guests here?  Perhaps one of his servants watches him, for reasons of his own?  Perversion?  Blackmail?  

That's it.  Blackmail.

'Mon enfant….'

There it was again, thought Hutchinson.  That soft whisper.  Full of love.  His mother's voice.  He'd heard it before.  In his dreams.  In his madness.  But this was no time to go mad.  He must be sane, so that he could save Starsky, and the others.  So that he could save himself, though that was less important….

'Mon enfant….'

'Mother,' he whispered back.  'I do not hear you.  You are not here.  I know that you are not.'

'Here,' whispered the voice.  'I am here.  Mon enfant.  I am here.'

'No,' said Hutchinson.   'You are not here.  It is my madness.  Don't do this to me.'

'To me.  To me.  He is doing this to me….'


**************************

A carriage drove up to the house.  Starsky prepared himself, listening with a growing dread, as the butler knocked upon the drawing room door, then opened it.

'Mr. Starsky?' asked Jeffreys, sounding uncertain. 'There is a gentleman to see Mr. Hutchinson.  It is his superior officer, Chief Inspector Swanson.  What should I tell him?'

'Swanson?  Mon Dieu!  Let him in, Jeffreys.   We can't have him waiting around outside the house, when Mr. Hutchinson shows up.  I'll get rid of him, as fast as I can.'

'Yes, Sir,' said Jeffreys, sounding more than a little dubious.

A moment later, Chief Inspector Swanson entered the drawing room.

'Mr. Starsky, sir,' he said.  'Is your friend, Hutchinson, about?  The butler won't tell me a thing.'

'Hutch… Mr. Hutchinson is away, sir.  In Leeds.  On a case,' said Starsky.

'A case, sir!' said Swanson.   'Not according to this letter.  Look!'   The Chief Inspector waved the missive in question under Starsky's nose.  'Mr. Hutchinson sent a letter by messenger, to my office at Scotland Yard, only this afternoon,' he said.  'It informs me that he is resigning from Scotland Yard, because he has decided that such degrading work is beneath him.  He is about to be married, he says, and joining his family business.'

'Merde!' said Starsky.

'My sentiments exactly, Mr. Starsky.  I came to ask the man what he meant by such a letter.  Sending it without any warning, Mr. Starsky!  The man is cold, I grant you.  He is capable of much.  But to leave us in the lurch like this.  I never thought him to be so completely without honour, and courtesy.'

'He is not,' said Starsky.  'Chief Inspector, does anyone else know of this letter?'

'No,' said Swanson.  'I have not accepted his resignation, until I talk to the man in person.'

'Good. Listen, Inspector.  Go home, and forget about it.  Mr. Hutchinson will be back at work, tomorrow, or the next day. I promise.  This is all a misunderstanding.  Let me handle it.'

'You know this, Mr. Starsky?' asked Swanson. 'You know so much about your friend's business?'

'I know that letter is a mistake.  That is all you need to know.  Why don't you go home, and put it out of your mind?'

'How can I do that, Mr. Starsky, now that you have roused my curiosity? What are you up to?'

If he did not say something, something would be said for him, at any moment.  Mr. Hutchinson was coming, that Starsky knew.  He could feel it in his bones.

'I am up to something not legal,' he said.  'But not truly bad, not illegal in dangerous ways.  I am trying to save my friend, Kenneth Hutchinson.'

'Is Hutchinson in danger?' asked the policeman.  'We can save him together, with the help of the law.'

'No, no. You must understand, there are times the law cannot help.  I cannot tell you, cannot explain.  Some people think themselves above the law, and they are right, because they are rich and powerful.  You know, do you not, that when there were pogroms, inside the Pale, the police stood by and let them happen? The Russians, they were above the law, when it came to the Jews.  They were the ones with power.  Even here, even without pogroms, the English have power I do not.  If it came to my word, as a poor Jew and an immigrant, against the word of a Englishman with money and power, whose word would have the weight?  Not mine.'

'I see,' said the Chief Inspector.  'And you want me to listen to your words, and not this rich Englishman's?'

'I hope you will,' said Starsky.  'Or, if you cannot, I hope you will leave now, before it comes down to that.  If you leave now, you don't need to know, to see, or to hear.  I will harm no one, and I will save Kenneth Hutchinson.  He will come in to work at Scotland Yard, tomorrow or the next day, and all will be well.  All will be as before, and I will have committed no terrible act, I promise you.  What more do you need to know?'

Chief Inspector Swanson appeared to be entertaining deep thoughts about how much he needed to know, and how much he could let slip past him in the name of saving his friend and colleague from some unspecified threat.  At any moment, he might turn one way or the other.  

Starsky rallied more arguments in favour of his own side of the equation, but it was too late, for at that moment, yet another carriage approached the house.  More footsteps up to the door. Now, he must trust, trust that Hutch's friend would take his word over a rich Englishman with power.  A moment later, those powerful footsteps strode up to the drawing room, and the door opened.  Mr. Hutchinson senior pushed past Jeffreys and walked in as if he owned the house.  He saw Starsky standing by the fireplace, but didn't appear to notice Swanson, at first. Starsky glanced over at the Inspector, and noticed that he had quietly stepped back, out of the Englishman's line of sight.  

Mr. Hutchinson looked Starsky over, coldly.  'Starsky, isn't it?   My son's… friend.  You will be coming with me, as soon as I take care of the servants in this house of sin.  I hope you have made your peace with God.'

'Long ago,' said Starsky, politely.  'And you?'

'That is none of your business,' said Mr. Hutchinson.  'Does your mother know about your relationship with my son?'

'Why, yes,' said Starsky.  'She lives here.  She knows everything.'

'I've heard about the vileness of the Jew,' said Mr. Hutchinson.  'But this vileness is difficult to credit.'

'My feelings to the letter,' said Starsky.  'When I learned of your vileness.'

'I beg your pardon?' said Mr. Hutchinson.'

'My pardon is for sale,' said Starsky.  'It cannot be demanded.  I like to hear you beg, though.'

Mr. Hutchinson now regarded Starsky with rather more interest.  Starsky ignored this, and turned once more to Chief Inspector Swanson.  

'Mr Hutchinson and I have personal business,' he said.  'Please leave us alone.'

'I think not,' said the Scotland Yard detective.  'Your business interests me.   Mr. Hutchinson's remarks interest me.  Especially the remark about making your peace with God.  What did you mean by that, Mr. Hutchinson, sir?'

'What did I mean by that?'  Mr. Hutchinson now noticed the presence of the Chief Inspector.  That discovery did not appear to make him happy.   'Why, sir, what business is it of yours?'  he asked.

'It is my business, because I make it my business,' said Swanson.  'I am Chief Inspector Swanson, of Scotland Yard, and it is my business to prevent criminal acts, as well as solve them.'

'You are from Scotland Yard?  Then, I have a crime to report.  A man came to see me today, name of Peters.  He told me something about this Jew here.  Arrest him.'

'Arrest him?' asked Swanson.  'Do you have any evidence Mr. Starsky committed a crime?'

Starsky reached into his pocket and drew out a photograph.  'Before you answer that question, Mr. Hutchinson,' he said.  'Kindly look at this picture.'

Mr. Hutchinson took the photograph, and glanced at it, casually.  Then he looked again.  'What is this?' he asked, angrily.

'What does it look like?' asked Starsky.  

Mr. Hutchinson ripped the photograph to pieces. 'Trash!' he said.  'And now it is gone.'  He strode over to the fireplace, and tossed the pieces into the flames.

Starsky drew another photograph from his pocket.  'Don't worry,' he said.  'I have more.'

'Give them to me,' said Mr. Hutchinson. 'All of them.'

'Not on your life,' said Starsky.  'But you will give your son back to me.  Otherwise, I will give the photographs to the police, and to the newspapers.  All the world will see them, and know what you do in your spare time.'

'What does he do in his spare time?' asked Swanson.

'It is best that you do not know, for now,' said Starsky.  'I will keep my knowledge secret, Mr. Hutchinson, on certain conditions.'

'You vile, filthy Jew,' said Hutch's father.

'Call me whatever names amuse you,' said Starsky.  'But do as I say.  I have more than one copy of each photograph.  They are all in safe hands.  If you do not take us to Kenneth Hutchinson, if he is not alive and well, if anything should happen to me, or to my mother, or to my brother, or to anyone in this house -- and now, if anything should happen to Chief Inspector Swanson -- those photographs will be sent to the newspapers, as I said.'

'Where did you get the photographs?' asked Mr. Hutchinson.

'A man brought them to me,' said Starsky.  'A man by the name of Peters.'

**************************

The voices were whispering all along his nerve ends, now.  Now he remembered.  When he was a boy, he had heard those whispering voices, late in the night, when he lay here in the cold and the dark, alone.  

'alone, alone, alone….'

Had he always been mad, then?  And had he not known it until now, because he had known nothing else but madness?  Madness had been sanity, to him.  Madness had been his mother's milk. The voices that whispered to him in the dark, had whispered to him of love.  

'love, love, love, love, love….'

Yes.  He was mad, and he had always been mad.  Mad to want love.  Insane to want the love of a man.  That was the judgement of the entire world, was it not?  

'not, not, not, not….'

'Stop!' he shouted.

'stop, stop, stop….'

'Starsky?' he whispered.  Starsky believed in him, believed that he was sane.  Starsky should know, shouldn't he?  Starsky was the very soul of sense and sanity, himself.  

Hutchinson sifted the sawdust through his fingers once again.  The mad idea came to him that Starsky had drilled those holes.  Truly a mad idea, he thought.  Why should Starsky do such a thing?  And yet, as he ran his hands over the door, he could almost see Starsky standing on the other side.  The image brought him comfort.  Soon, he would see Starsky one last time. It would be a short visit. They would not kiss, or maybe even they would not touch at all.  He would see his lover's face, and hear his voice.  Then nothing.

'nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing….'

He would insist on those letters from Starsky, every day, perhaps.  They would not be a foolproof method of knowing he was well.  Letters could be faked.  It was too bad the telephone lines didn't travel between Britain and the continent.  Then he could hear Starsky's voice, as often as he wished, and be sure.  But no, Starsky would know the right things to say in the letters, to reassure him all was well.  He would know the sort of words that couldn't be faked. What more could he do, but to trust in Starsky's cleverness, until he could make his escape?

'escape, escape, escape….'

Yes.  He would escape.  He must escape, because he could not live without Starsky.  So he must escape.  

'Hutch?  Hutch?  Are you awake?'

It was not the ghostly whispering voices, but Starsky's voice, calling to him from beyond the door.  Through the tiny drilled holes, Starsky was calling to him.  So small an escape route.  Could he make himself so small?

'I can't crawl through the holes, Starsky.  I'm too big.  You must drill them larger.'

'Yes. Yes I will. Come here, come closer.  See?  I have made the holes much larger, now.  Can you climb through.  Have a look.'

Hutchinson had a look.  He thought he could manage, maybe, with Starsky's help.  

'Help me?' he whispered.

'I will help you.  Can you see my hand?  Take my hand, and I'll pull you through.'

Hutchinson looked.  He could see Starsky now, but very far away, very small, like a candle flame in the midst of a blizzard.  He needed Starsky's strength to pull harder, but he reached out, and touched Starsky's hand, not close enough, not hard enough, but better than before.  He drew a deep breath, and stepped up to the door, trusting that the holes would be big enough, if Starsky said they were.  For a moment, he thought the door was still too solid, that he would never escape, but then he was through, out into the world again, and Starsky was pulling him close for a long moment, then pushing him gently away.  

'No,'  Hutchinson begged.  'Hold onto me. Don't let go.'

'I'm not letting go,' said Starsky.  'I'm here, but there are people coming, we're only alone for a moment.  Listen, can you hear the people coming?'

Hutchinson listened.  Yes, he thought, he could hear footsteps coming.  What could he do about the people?  What should he do?

'I hear people coming,' he said.  'Starsky, I don't know what to do.'

'Let me handle the people,' said Starsky.  'I'm here.  Just follow me.  Do as I say.'

Hutchinson managed to nod.  He could hear Starsky talking to the people, people whose faces he didn't know, but Starsky knew them.  He let Starsky talk, while he nodded and said 'Yes,' when it seemed the right thing to do.  Then, they were in a carriage, and Starsky was driving, and they were going somewhere, somewhere far away, that Starsky told him was home, but it didn't feel like home until he was lying down, and Starsky's arms were around him.

***************************

The deep swell of the ocean was more felt than seen, in the darkness.  The little ship swung at her moorings, calmly at first, but then she felt and heard the songs of the whales and began to complain.  Her tack shivered and rang in the cold darkness.  All around the harbour, the ship's lanterns twinkled, almost as bright as the stars, but the lanterns on his ship sputtered and burned low and fitfully.  

Hutch laughed.  'I get the message,' he said.  He pulled on the anchor, hand over hand, until it lay, wet and dripping, upon the deck.  He took the tiller, and steered her safely, out toward the open sea, keeping the wind over his shoulder, and taking care not to gybe her, lest the boom swing round and sweep him from the deck.

The current was demonic, and it tried to wrench control of the tiller from him, but strong hands, hands that he knew, closed over his own, adding their own command to obey.  The ship stayed  on course.

'Now you're talking!' he told the old girl.  

They were far from sight of land now, and the creatures that lived beneath the surface of the wine-dark sea began to rise.  Dolphins leapt over his bow.  Whales spouted, and drenched him with sea water.  A giant squid tossed its tentacles across the deck, as if about to board.

'Where are we headed?' asked the beloved voice in his ear.

'Straight as the crow flies,' he answered.  'Toward the New World.'

'Ah.  We have been there before.  I remember.'

'Yes,' he told his beloved companion. 'But not at night.'

'Can you steer the ship at night, in the darkness?'

'With more ease than in the daylight,' he answered.  'Look!  Look up, into the night sky.  Watch the stars.  They are my compass.  The stars, almost as bright as your eyes.'

The green land lay under darkness, lit only by the moon and the stars.  The white sand was cold, but high upon the ridge, a horsewoman appeared, riding a black horse.  Her long black cloak billowed behind her, as she rode down the hill toward them.  As she rode nearer, they could see the hawk upon her wrist.  She drew rein, and stopped before them.  The hawk wore no hood, but its jesses rang in the darkness.

'Why does your hawk ride unhooded, Mother?' asked Hutch.

'We are in darkness, and the hawk is not a nocturnal bird, so she needs no hood.  But she can hear the songs of the whales, and steer by the moon and the stars.  She is like you, in that,' said his mother.  'As well as in other things.  She is a Hunter, like you.'

His mother was unveiled tonight, as well.  Her face was pale, but not as careworn as it had been the last time they met.

'That has been long and long,' she said.  'Since last you sailed to these shores.  The Companion of your heart, does he not speak?'

'I speak,' said Starsky.  'You call to my beloved, and he hears you.  It troubles him.'

'I do not mean to cause him trouble,' said his mother.  'It is not my doing, that my son can hear the whispers of those who suffer.  That comes from his soul, and his deep knowledge of pain.  Walk with me, my sons, and listen to the sea.  The sound of the sea will soothe his soul.'

They walked upon the sand, listening to the waves.  He kissed Starsky, as they walked beneath the moon.  They found a little cove, and lay together in its shelter, while his mother rode her horse in the surf, and her hawk screamed challenges to the sharks that swam beneath the waves far out beyond the rocky shore.  The sounds of the waves and the cries of the hawk drowned out his own cries, as Starsky loved him with the full force of his body.

But the tide was high and about to turn.  

'We must go back,' said Hutch.  'Or we will be trapped here, until the next turning of the tide.  Do you want to wait, or leave now?'

'Let us leave now,' said Starsky.  'Or we will have to steer by day, instead of by the stars.'

His mother rode back up the beach and the hawk upon her wrist raised her head and spoke.  'He is fleeing you,' she said.

'Who is fleeing us?' asked Hutch.

'The one who kills his mates with fire.  He is heading for the sea, himself.  But he must await the turning of the tide.  Sleep when you return, there is no immediate need for haste.  He sails for the New World, and the first ship does not leave until the noon bell.'

She closed her eyes, and nodded on his mother's wrist.  Her jesses rang. Once.  Twice.  Three times.

They climbed aboard the little ship, and let the songs of the whales carry them home.


********************************


'The voices are gone,' Hutchinson confided to the warm darkness.  'All the whispers are gone.'

'Are they?' asked the beloved Voice that drove away fear.

'Yes.  Everything is quiet, now.'

'That's good.'

Hutchinson reached up, and touched the face so close to his own.  It was wet.

'You've been crying again,' he said.  'Don't cry.'

'I won't,' said the Voice.  'I'm happy now.  You're home, and you're awake, and the voices are gone.'

'I was away, wasn't I?  And then I slept a long time.  I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry.  It wasn't your fault.'

'Wasn't it?  Whose fault was it, then?'

'Never mind.  It doesn't matter now.'

Hutch lay thinking for a while.  'It was my father's fault,' he said, at last.  'I remember.  My father. He came to me, in Leeds. He told me…. He said he'd discovered we were Sodomites.  What's funny?'

'Nothing.  Nothing is funny, Hutch.  Go on with the story.  Tell me everything.'

'He said that he had you prisoner in his house, and if I didn't come with him, and do what he told me to do, that he would kill you.  What choice did I have?'

'What choice I would have had, in your place,' said Starsky.

'But you had a choice.  You did something else,' said Hutch.  'You set me free.  What happened?  What did you do?'

'Does it matter?' asked Starsky.  'I don't want to think about it right now.'

'No.  It doesn't matter.  Only this matters.'

Hutchinson kissed Starsky's eyes, and his throat.  Starsky was still weeping, his tears falling     softly and steadily.  Hutchinson understood.  To think they had almost lost this, made him weep too.  

'I don't need more than this,' he said.  'I don't think I can do more  than this. Just touch you, and kiss you.'

'Yes,' said Starsky.

'When the sun rises, so must we,' said Hutch.  'I am going hunting, for a man that kills his mates by fire.  Then you will tell me how you set me free.'

'Yes, I will tell you then,' said Starsky.


***********************

The Port of Southampton was busy on any ordinary morning.  The Port Police were not happy to be bothered by an Inspector from Scotland Yard, especially one so persistent as Detective Inspector Kenneth Hutchinson.  

'If the man escapes us, I will make you row me after him, while I lie back at my leisure,' he told them, when they quibbled at his requests.

'Will ye now?' asked one of the officers.

'Aye, that I will,' said Hutchinson, with a soft smile.  Starsky smiled too, and so did the Constable with them.  The Port Police officers thought about their options for a moment, and decided discretion was the better part of valour.

Balthasar Robinson was booked to sail at noon, upon the SS Stella.  That was in two hours.  He had not yet boarded the vessel.

'Constable, you stay here to watch for Robinson's arrival.  If he shows his face, arrest him on suspicion of murder.  Starsky, will you come with me?'

'Of course,' said Starsky.  'Do you have another idea where he may be?'

'I do, and we should have gone there first, but I wanted to make sure he had not managed to escape already.'  Hutchinson gave Starsky an address in French Street.  

The house was an old, wooden, medieval structure -- beautiful, but rather unsafe, thought Hutchinson, considering it was where Robinson's wife currently lived, with her sister and daughter.  Starsky parked the carriage across the street.  

'All looks well,' he said.

'No, he is here, I can feel it.  He didn't kill this mate, you see.  We foiled his plans. His work is left undone, a challenge to his manhood.  There!  Who is that?' Hutchinson indicated a man walking down the street, toward the house, a package under his arm.  

Starsky consulted the photograph of Balthasar Robinson his wife had given them.  'There is your murderer,' he said.

Hutchinson smiled.  'He is my murderer,' he said.  'Let us make the arrest.'

They climbed down from the carriage.  Starsky went on ahead, as if in a hurry to catch the omnibus pulling in to the stop.  He bumped into Robinson, knocking the package to the ground.  

'Excuse me,' he said.  'Oh, dear.  I've ripped the paper.'  He tore open the package to reveal a tin of kerosene.

'You fool,' said Robinson.  

'No, you are the fool,' said Hutchinson.  'To try this again.  Balthasar Robinson?'

The man turned in surprise.  'What is that to you?' he asked.

'I am Detective Inspector Hutchinson from Scotland Yard.  You are under arrest for attempted murder, for a start.  We'll go on from there, believe me.'


*****************************

'Has he confessed as yet?' asked Chief Inspector Swanson.

'Not as yet, no,' said Hutchinson.  'But we are working on him.  We have so much evidence, that eventually we will wear him down.  I spoke with that retired detective, from Leeds, by telephone.  Old Fitzroy.  He told me he did have suspicions about the fire that killed Robinson's wife, all those years ago, but not enough evidence to make a case.  He's coming here to talk to Robinson tomorrow.  I keep telling the man it is better to confess.  Better for his soul.'

'His soul, yes.  Supposing that he possesses such an organ.  Not so good for his neck, eh?'

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'But his neck should be the least of his worries.  He burned several women alive -- his own wives, whom he promised to love honour and cherish, until death parted them.  He promised that in church, sir.  Before God!  How many centuries will he burn in the eternal fires of Hell, until he can purge his soul of that terrible sin?  He should confess, sir, and welcome the punishment the Crown will graciously give him.  Thus he might be better prepared to stand before God on Judgement Day.'

'You speak with passion, Inspector,' said his Chief.  'You should give the closing speech for the prosecution at his trial.'

'I really would rather not, sir,' said Hutchinson.

'I can understand a man killing one wife in anger, perhaps when he learns of her infidelity,' said the Chief Inspector.  'But to murder several wives in succession….  For what?  Their money?'

Hutchinson smiled.  'None of them were rich,' he said.  'Merely comfortably off.'

'Then he was bored, and wanted a new wife?  Or did he kill the first by chance, and the rest by force of habit?'

'Who knows?' said Hutchinson.  'When he confesses, perhaps he will explain.'

'And when are you going to explain, Inspector?' asked the Chief.

'Explain what, sir?' asked Hutchinson.

'Explain yesterday, Inspector.  I  received this note from your hand….'

'I was forced to write that note, sir.  I will rescind it now, if I may.'

'Of course you may, Inspector.  I travelled to your home in St. John's Wood, to speak with you about the note.  You were not at home, but your friend, Mr. Starsky….'

'Starsky was at home.  He knew I would not act so precipitously.  My father made his appearance, in order to further his plans.'

'Which were, Inspector?'

'Which were to force me to resign from Scotland Yard, marry and raise a family, and join the family business, Chief Inspector.'

'Ah, yes.  But your friend foiled your father's plans, with the aid of some mysterious photographs to which I am not privy.'

'That is for the best, Swanson.  Trust me.  My father is wealthy and powerful.'

'But he has his vulnerabilities, does he not?'

'Yes, but if his back were to the wall, he might be forced to fight. That would not be ideal, Swanson.  The ideal here, is to let things lie as they are.  How would it profit you to know what was in the photographs?'

'Clearly the photographs were of some criminal act,' said the Chief.

'Perhaps,' said Hutchinson.  'But I will see to it that the act does not take place again, whatever it was.'

'And I must accept such an assurance, Inspector?  We are officers of the law.'

'Yes, we are.  But not all-powerful officers.  Trust me in this, for now, and you will not regret it.'

'Tell me that at least it was not murder,' begged the Chief.  'Tell me that your father is not Jack the Ripper.'

'The photographs were not evidence of murder, Swanson.  As far as I know, he is not Jack the Ripper.  Put your mind to rest on that score.  If he were Jack the Ripper, I would arrest him myself.'

'Very well, Inspector.  I do not like the situation, but I agree it is difficult to deal with such rich and powerful men in the proper manner. It is wrong, but the world has always been thus, and is likely to remain thus.  And what of you?  You looked unwell yesterday, when we found you in your father's house.  You look well enough today.'

'I am well,' said Hutchinson.

'Your Mr. Starsky is a faithful friend, and a desperate character indeed, to chance blackmailing your father, under the very eyes of the law.'

'Yes.  I suppose he is,' said Hutchinson with feigned indifference.

'He surely is a good friend, Inspector. You should not be so cold about it.  Show him rather more gratitude.'

'Gratitude?  Very well, Swanson.  I will be grateful for his interference in my family affairs.'

Starsky, Starsky, Hutchinson said to himself. What were you thinking?  You have no sense at all. What am I going to do with you?

*************************

'You may beat me if you wish,' said Starsky.  'The offer still stands.'

Hutchinson took Starsky's face in his hands, very gently, and studied his lover's shadowed eyes.  He felt another of those waves of love and fury, tenderness and terror.  Starsky didn't flinch from his regard.  

'I should beat you,' said Hutchinson.  'But what good would it do?  The deed is done, and I suppose the consequences were worth it.'

'Ah, so you finally admit it.  I am in the right.'

'I admit nothing.  It is a statement of fact, merely, and not of a fact of which I approve.'

'It is something of which you do not approve?  You mean I should take it back?  I should destroy the photographs?'

'They are obscene,' said Hutchinson.

'You insisted on looking at them,' Starsky pointed out.  'I warned you.'

'I didn't believe they existed,' said Hutchinson. 'I still cannot believe his rash behaviour lately.  Perhaps he is suffering from syphilis, and has gone insane.  The one thing I trusted about my father, was that he was predictable.'

'No one should see photographs like those of his father,' said Starsky.  'I warned you.'

'I am sorry,' said Hutchinson, leaning over the breakfast table and kissing his lover's cheek, affectionately. 'You did warn me, and I am the one at fault.'

A tap at the breakfast room door interrupted their affectionate kisses.

'Sir, your father is here to see you,' said Jeffreys, with one of his long-suffering sighs.

'Then let him in, by all means,' said Hutchinson.  

Starsky started to get up from the  table, but Hutchinson put his hand on Starsky's arm, gently.  'You may of course leave if you wish,' he said.  'And I wouldn't blame you.  But don't leave merely to please me. We have nothing to hide.'

'Not any longer,' said Starsky.  'So, I will stay.'

Mr. Hutchinson strode into the room with most of his old arrogance.  He made no comment on Starsky's presence at the table.

'I see that you are continuing your activities at Scotland Yard,' he said, laying a newspaper down on the table.  It was open to a story in which Hutchinson was identified as the arresting officer in a the case of The Crown versus Balthasar Robinson.

'Yes,' said Hutchinson. 'Since men will continue to murder their wives, I suppose I must.'

'Aren't there enough police officers in this country?  Must you use your fine education on such low-born employment?'

'And for what particular purposes have you been using your fine education?' asked Hutchinson.

'That is none of your business,' said his father.

'Now, there we are in agreement,' said Hutchinson.  'It should be no one's business but your own, if you copulate with women, men or farmyard animals, but the law makes it their business… Don't interrupt me, Father.  I hold all the cards, at the moment.   I care nothing for what you do with your phallus, if only you would grant me the same courtesy.'

'I want those photographs,' said Mr. Hutchinson.

'Certainly,' said Hutch.  'We will give you copies, and you may enjoy them at your leisure.'

'I want all the copies.'

'Now, Father, I have had, as you just pointed out, the benefit of a fine education, and one of the things I was taught, was the folly of surrendering all your weapons to an enemy.  I will not make the mistake of doing so.'

'Enemy?  I am not your enemy.  I am your father.'

'Are you?' asked Hutch.  'Then I will give you a piece of advice, as your son.  Don't push me too far.  Don't threaten me, or my family, ever again.  Live your own life, as you see fit, and allow me to do the same.  The photographs are safe.  They will not be released to the police, or anyone else, unless you attempt to destroy my happiness once again.  Is that simple enough for you to understand?'

'I do understand,' said Mr. Hutchinson.

'I hope so,' said his son.  'Try to be more discreet.  I don't think that setup with the telegraph boys is safe.  If something goes wrong, and you get caught, it will not be my fault.  All will be on your own head.'

'I understand that I will take you down with me, if that happens,' said Mr. Hutchinson.

'Then, as I perceive it, you are my enemy, not my father,' said Hutch.  'I will make my plans accordingly.'

'Explain your words, boy.'

'I mean that if I fall, I will take you down with me.  Tit for tat.  You should pray, Father, for my continuing good health and happiness, and that of my friends.'

'I will pray,' said Mr. Hutchinson.   'I will pray that God will strike you down, since I am currently unable to do so.'

'Well,' said Hutch.  'We will leave the choice up to God, then.  Let us wait and see whose side He is on.'

'He will be on my side, of course,' said Mr. Hutchinson.  'I at least am no Sodomite.'

Hutch choked on his tea.  'We have photographs which argue you are,' he said.  'Several of them show your face quite clearly -- among other things.  How can you deny it?'

'Deny it?  I do deny it.  I might have performed those acts, but that does not make me a Sodomite.  I am above such things. I do not live with a man, and lie with him, as you do.  It is simply a matter of control.  I tried to teach you that, when you were a boy, but I failed.  If you can control your organ, and the person you use it on, you are the one with power.  If you can use your organ on another man, that is a greater sign of your power than if you only use it on a weak, emotional woman.  God has rewarded my virtue with wealth and power far above your own, so I may use my organ on whomever I please.'

Hutch smiled, blandly. 'We understand,' he said.  'You are not a Sodomite, your cock is.  If we were to publish those photographs, however, you might find that the world saw things differently.'  



******************************


'I thought you were going to name the store Shnook,' Starsky observed.

'I changed my mind,' said Hutchinson.  'That name seemed too sweetly personal.  I'd blush every time I saw the sign.'

Starsky shook his head over the unimaginative name of the new store. 'You should blush,' he said.  'Hutchinson's Fine Furniture, indeed.'

Hannah Levinsohn laughed happily.  'Seems like a fine name to me,' she said.  

'Thank you, Mrs. Levinsohn,' said Hutchinson.  'It is good to know that someone approves of my choices.'

She bowed, and walked into the store, to take over as manager.

Starsky snorted.  He was wearing the new clothes Hutch had ordered for him, as punishment for his interference.  Hutch had made him take a bath last night, as well, and insisted on washing his back to make sure it was quite clean.  Most of the bath water had ended up on the floor, and the maids had been horrified, which had amused Hutch even more.  They had been laughing when they fell into bed, as if all were well.  As if nothing terrible had just happened to threaten all their hard won happiness.  As if the threat were not still hanging over them, about to fall at any moment.  

It was the only way to live, thought Starsky.  Begin as you mean to go on.  Live as though you have the right to your own life, and as though you were going to live forever. Don't apologize for breathing, or for loving.  It was dangerous to live and to love, but well worth the danger.

'I'm thinking,' he told Hutch, now.  

'Thinking?  You?  What is the world coming to?'

'Yes.  Even I can think, occasionally.  And at the moment, I am thinking we should go to Temple tomorrow.  It is the Sabbath.  Then, the next day, we should go to your church.  Pray to God to thank Him for deliverance from evil.'

'Do you think God will listen?   Do you think He's on our side?'

'Of course He is on our side?  Why shouldn't He be on our side?'

'Why not?  Because of all the crimes we've committed lately.  Such as breaking and entering.  Blackmail.'

'Oh, yes.  Blackmail, breaking and entering.  All in a good cause.  Where would we be now, if we hadn't committed those crimes?'

Hutch shuddered to think.  'Yes,' he said.  'I suppose God will forgive us.  This time, at least.'

'You are the one to talk,' said Starsky.  'You have been blackmailing people for years.'

'All in a good cause,' said Hutch.

'And perhaps the experience has been good for your father.  Perhaps he has learned his lesson.'

'Do you think that is true?' asked Hutch.

'No,' said Starsky.  'But I must live as though it is.'


*****************************


'Deck the halls with boughs of holly.  Fa la la la la, la la la la.  Tis the season to be jolly.  Fa la la la la, la la la la.  Don we now our gay apparel.  Fa la la, la la la, la la la.  Toll the ancient yuletide carol.  Fa la la la la, la la la la.'

The carollers under the street lamp finished the last chorus, and their audience applauded.

'What does fa la la la la mean, Hutch?' asked Starsky.

'I'll tell you when we get home,' Hutch whispered in his ear.

'I'm sure you will,' said Starsky.

An arm was flung around Hutch's shoulder, from behind.  'Well,' said a voice in his ear.  'How are my two favourite blackmailers?'

Hutch turned in mock affront.  'Howard!  You're drunk.'

'Yes, yes,' said Austin, beside him. 'That's always the reason for his offensive behaviour.'

'We've been to a party,' said Howard.  'Now we're on our way home.  Where have you been?'

'To Temple,' said Hutch.  Nick had driven Madame Starsky home after the service, but he and Starsky had decided to walk about the City, and enjoy the sights.  'Starsky wants me to become Jewish,' he added.

Austin choked.  'Excuse me for laughing,' he apologized.  'But wouldn't that mean you'd have to be… be….'

'Be circumcised?' Howard contributed.   'Yes, dear Austin.  That's what he'd have to be. Circumcised. Ouch!'

'Are you mocking my religion?' asked Starsky.  

'Not at all,' said Howard.  'We wouldn't dare.  You men are dangerous.'

'All men are dangerous,' purred a new voice.  'I wouldn't have it any other way.'

Hutchinson turned to see the speaker.  He was dressed in a rather foppish fashion.  It went with the voice, he thought.

'Who are your charming friends, Howard?' the stranger asked.

Howard made the introductions.

'Hutchinson, Starsky.  Meet Oscar Wilde.'

'Ah.  Mr. Oscar Wilde,' said Hutchinson.  'I know some of your work.  You have published the poems of a friend of mine.  Miss Amy Levy.'

'Yes, yes.  Amy Levy.  An excellent poet.  Are you an aspiring writer yourself, sir?'

Wilde made the term "aspiring writer" sound obscene. A bit like the term "solitary abuser", thought Hutchinson. He laughed.  'No,' he answered.  'I'm with Scotland Yard.  The only things I write are my police reports.'

'A policeman!'  Wilde looked him up and down.  'You certainly do not look like one, nor do you dress like one. The only policemen I've ever known were rough brutes.'  From his tone, Wilde approved of rough brutes.  'Howard and Austin insist they are going home, but I'm off to another party.  Do you want to come along?'

'Not tonight,' said Hutchinson.  'Maybe some other time.'

'Come on, Hutch,' Starsky spoke up.  'I'd like to go to a party.'  Hutch needed cheering up,  Starsky thought, before he became a recluse.

'Would you, my dear?' asked Hutch.  'Very well, we shall go.'

'Ah.  I see,' said Wilde.  'You are together?'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson, quite firmly.  'Have you changed your mind about inviting us, now?'

'No, no.  Of course not.  You are very welcome.  If you aren't too shocked by the festivities, that is.'

'Nothing shocks me,' said Hutchinson.

Wilde laughed.  'A man after my own heart.  What of your friend?'

'That depends upon what you and your friends will be doing that is so shocking,' said Starsky.

*****************************

The party was an orgy.  Not the rather tame orgy Starsky had witnessed that day in the Turkish Parlour, but the real thing.  Hutch was amused, both by the orgy, and by Starsky's distress.

'I was worried your friend might be shocked,' said Wilde.  

'Don't worry about me,' said Starsky.  'I'll survive.  Are those men really having fun?'  Starsky was sitting very quietly in a corner, trying hard to avoid looking at the naked men, and the half-dressed men, who were attempting to copulate with each other in the most bizarre positions.  It was very unpleasant to watch.

'Don't you enjoy such things, Mr. Starsky?' asked Wilde.

'Yes.  I do.  It is simply that this is a party.  There are so many people here.  Watching.'  Starsky felt foolish, and he knew he had no business criticizing these people for their behaviour.  Who was he, to do that?  A prudish whore.  Ridiculous.

'My friend is a romantic,' said Hutch.

'No, I am not,' Starsky protested.

Hutch ignored him.  'My friend is a romantic,' he said again.  'He believes in love.  Not this sort of… pleasure for the sake of pleasure.'

'And what do you believe in?' asked Wilde.  He seemed fascinated by Hutch, and his contradictions.   Too fascinated, thought Starsky.  He wondered if Wilde believed Hutch to be one of his rough, brutish policemen under all his polish, and thought he had a chance with him besides.

'I believe in love, also,' said Hutch, in answer.  'I crave pleasure, and I used to enjoy it for its own sake, anywhere I could find it.  But no longer.'

'Because you have found a consuming love,' said Wilde, making it a statement, and not a question.  Hutch didn't bother answering, and Wilde went on.  'You are fortunate,' he said.  'I want to find such a consuming love as well, and with another man.  I am married to a woman I love, and I have two children, but it is not enough.'

'Why not?' asked Starsky.  'Why risk such happiness for this?'  He waved his hand at the room full of rutting men.

'Women are good, and safe, and kind,' said Wilde.  'Or they try to be.  Most of the time.  But men are dangerous, and I like that.  What is the use of a life that is good, and safe, and kind?  Men grow old, but they never become good.'

***************************

'Do you think I am dangerous, Hutch?' asked Starsky.  He sipped his mulled wine, and tried to look as dangerous as possible.

Hutch smiled.  He opened the piano, and began to play something ominous.  It sounded like a funeral march, thought Starsky.  'I think you are very dangerous,' he said.  'When you need to be.  But not to me.'  The music changed, to something romantic and gentle.  'This is how you seem, to me.'

'Mr. Wilde,' said Starsky.  'I think he is dangerous.  But to himself, more than to anyone else.  Why marry and have a family, if you know you like men so much that you cannot stay away from them?'

'Perhaps he didn't know he liked men, in that way, before he married,' said Hutch.

'Perhaps,' said Starsky.  'There are such men. I have met a few. But I think Wilde just likes danger, as he told us.'

'He may get his wish,' said Hutch.

'You may get your wish, Hutch, if you have made one,'  said Starsky.

Hutch got up from the piano, and locked the door to the library.  'Here,' he said.  'Now.'

'You said something that was not true,' said Starsky, as Hutch walked toward him.

'What is that?' asked Hutch.

'You said I was not dangerous to you. If you had looked at those men with desire, I would have become dangerous.'

'Ah.  So you are jealous?'

'Yes.  I can be jealous.  Mr. Wilde, for example.'

'What of him?  You seem interested in him.'

'Not that way,' said Starsky.  'I didn't like him.  He was interested in you.'

Hutch laughed.  'Is that so very bad of him?' he asked.  He took off his shirt, and stood only in his trousers.  

'Perhaps not,' said Starsky.  'Perhaps I understand his interest.'

'Perhaps?' asked Hutch.  'Perhaps?'  He began to unbutton his trousers, slowly.

'Hutch!  You are teasing me,' said Starsky.

'Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  Perhaps I will go back to that party with Mr. Wilde.'

'No! I won't allow it,' said Starsky.

'You won't allow it?  How are you going to stop me?'

Starsky wrestled him to the floor.  They were evenly matched.  Hutch was taller, but Starsky more muscular.  They rolled about for a few minutes, fighting for dominance, first one on top and then the other, until Hutch wrapped his long legs about Starsky's waist, and they began to move in a different rhythm.

Starsky gasped.  'You win,' he said.

'Do I, indeed?' said Hutch.  'What is my prize?'

************************

Hutch was asleep.  Sometime during the night, they had progressed from the library to their bedroom, and now Hutch was asleep.

Starsky sat very quietly for a time, simply holding his hand, but Hutch never stirred.  When he was sure it was safe, Starsky moved to the chair by the fire, and opened the parcel that had arrived that morning.  It contained the books Xin-Qian had promised him.  He looked inside one book, and blushed a little.  Certainly he must not allow Hutch to have a glimpse, or they would never get any rest.

'You look weary, Friend of Kun-Ning,' Xin-Qian had observed.  

They were sitting in her Humble Office.   Starsky had taken one of the packages of photographs to her for safe keeping.  She assured him they would be 'most safe of all photographs ever'.  Starsky suspected she would have a good look inside the package, despite her assurances she would never peek.

Then she had made her observation on his weariness.

'Kun-Ning is very passionate man,' she said.

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'I can handle him.'

'Handle him, yes.  But, to handle him takes a toll. I have seen him wear out several of my best girls, one after the other.  And girls are more able to keep going, hour after hour than are the men.  Most men.  Kun-Ning can keep going longer than anyone I ever know.'

'When he has the time,' said Starsky.  'But I can handle him.'

'In China,' said Xin-Qian.  'The father is the lord of his family.  He must be obeyed, in all things.'  She smiled.  'Wife and child must obey.  His mother really rules the family, and the house belongs to her.  A woman's bed belongs to her, and her husband comes to it as a guest. The man should respect the wife and the child, especially the son. A man who does not respect his own wife, his own child, what is he?  What damage does he do to them?  These are not good relations, when he treats them like prisoners.'

'Do all Chinese men respect their families, Xin-Qian?' asked Starsky.

'No. Of course not.  We had a hard year, at home.  My father lost his business, and he sold me to a Flower Boat.'

'Flower Boat?'

'A brothel.  In China, women are not as free as here, in England.  Parents can sell girls to be prostitutes.  But prostitutes are not treated so badly as here.  They are not looked down on, but respected. I treat my girls as I was treated on the Flower Boat.  Any man who wants to come back to the Turkish Parlour, must be a gentleman with my girls.  Kun-Ning, he was the best of all the gentleman.  All my girls liked him.  He is a generous lover.  He gives a lot.  But he takes, too.'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  

'Yes.  You can handle him.  I know. You tell me so.  But why not look for better way to handle him?'

'What do you mean?' asked Starsky, suspiciously.  'I will not share him with anyone.'

'No.  That is not what I mean.  I mean, there are ways -- ways a man may satisfy a passionate woman, for example.  Most men can only achieve so many times.  Women are more able.  They can reach their peak, over and over.  When a man can hold back longer, he can satisfy a lover more times.  That should work with a man like Kun-Ning, as with a woman.'

Starsky certainly hoped so.  He opened another of the books, and saw, with gratitude, that it was written in French, not Chinese.

'I still have trouble reading Chinese, Xin-Qian,' he had told her.

'How much trouble?' she had asked.

'I cannot read a word of it.'

'You can look at the pictures.'

The pictures in the Chinese books were of Taoist sexuality, she explained.  The books in French were about Tantric sexuality, in India.  They were similar practices.  Controlling the orgasm, to prolong sexual intercourse.

Starsky thought this sounded suspiciously like the bizarre practices Hutch's father had tried to force upon him, and said so.  But Xin-Qian had disagreed.

'This is a matter of choice,' she had said.  'That was not.  This is an ancient practice.  That was torture.  This is about breath control.'

Hutch had been given no choice, thought Starsky.  With such a father, it is wonderful he is as sane as he has managed to be.  But he has his limits.  I have witnessed those limits, several times.  I cannot deny him what he needs.  But I must be the one to take control.  Not to control him, for he could never bear that, but to control our life together, and our mating.  Otherwise, he will soon be unhappy.

He began to read.

"...in the spirit there was an inward and sensible gladness
shed over the whole body... it was shown in a consummate
manner how it all issued  --from God -- and ended -- in the genitals. It
flew up (abouterade) in a manner, and hid itself
in an infinitude, as a center. There was love itself. And it
seems as though it extended around therefrom, and then down
again; thus, by an incomprehensible circle, from the center,
which was love, around, and so thither again.
This love, in a mortal body, whereof I then was full, was like the
joy that a chaste man has at the very time when he is in actual love
and in the very act with his mate; such extreme pleasantness was
suffused over the whole of my body, and this for a long time…."

Goodness, thought Starsky.  And all that without sexual intercourse.  I don't think I'm capable of such a feat.

"...conjugial love, or that which exists between two conjugial
partners who love one another...is the inmost of all loves,
and such that partner sees partner in mind (animus) and mind
(mens), so that each partner has the other in himself or herself,
that is, that the image, nay, the likeness of the
husband is in the mind of the wife and the image and likeness
of the wife is in the mind of the husband, so that one sees the other
in himself, and they thus cohabit in their inmosts…."

Now that I understand.  I don't know what controlling my breath has to do with it, but who am I to judge?  

Hutch stirred.  He was beginning to awake.  That had been a short rest, and it looked like being a long night.  Starsky climbed back into bed with his congugial partner.

Hutch looked up at him.  His eyes were dark with pain.  'I hear the voices again,' he said.

'Tell me,' said Starsky.  'Tell me what the voices say.'

'I can't,' said Hutch.  'I don't understand them.  A word here, another word there.  They make no sense.   Starsky.  I am going mad.  I went mad before, remember?  It's happening again.'

'No.  No, my darling.  You're not going mad.  I won't let you. Tell me what the voices say.   Tell me everything.'

Hutch was silent for a long time, gazing into Starsky's eyes.  His own eyes held such trust, that Starsky felt a thrill of fear.  How could he live up to that belief?

'My father told me my mother is dead,' said Hutch, at last.

'When did he tell you this?' asked Starsky.

'The other day, when I was in his house.  But he told me that before.  Several times.  I know she is not dead, Starsky.  I know, because I hear her voice.  Hers is not the only voice.  I hear other voices.  But she speaks to me the most clearly.'

'What does she say to you?'

'She calls me "mon enfant".  She says "dark"  and "escape".  Over and over again. The other voices -- I'm not so sure what they're saying.  Not this time.  They're farther away.'

'Do they tell you to do things?' asked Starsky.  'Do they tell you to kill people, or steal?'

'No.  No, of course not.   Why would they do that?'

'Then, they are not evil beings, whoever they are.  So you should not fear them.  Joan of Arc heard voices.  Remember?'

'And they burnt her at the stake for it,' said Hutch.  

'Ah.  You remember that.  Do you know who you are, and who I am?'

'You are David Starsky,' said Hutch.  'I am Mary, Queen of Scots.'

Starsky stared at him for a moment, then saw that Hutch was laughing.  'This is odd,' he said.  'Your head is still attached to your shoulders.  And where did you get this?'  Starsky wrapped his hand around Hutch's cock.    'Hutchinson's Fine Furniture?' he suggested.  

Hutch laughed.  He laughed until the tears streamed down his face.  'What would I do without you?' he asked. 'But Starsky, I do hear voices.  It's not the normal thing, for people to hear voices no one else can hear.'

'No.  It isn't. That doesn't mean you are insane.  It only means you hear things others can't.  You told me you heard them before, and that you listened to them, and did what they insisted you do, and all was well.  Why do you fear them now?'

'Because I don't understand what they're saying,' Hutch shouted.  'I need to understand.'

'I'll help you understand,' said Starsky.  'We'll figure it out together.  I promise.'

Hutch sighed, and laid his head on Starsky's shoulder.  'When you hold me, and talk to me, the voices stop,' he said.

'Then we'll go away somewhere.  A place we can be alone, and I'll never take my hands off you,' Starsky suggested.  

'I wish there were a place like that,' said Hutch.  'In my heart, there is.  It is an island.  My mother is there, and no one else.  But no one can live in such a paradise forever.  We live in this world, and I know that.'

'If you know that,' said Starsky.  'Then you are not insane.'  


*******************************

'Mr. Milton?'

'I have that honour,' said the former owner of Milton and Sons.  

'I am William Hutchinson.  My son is the new owner of your store.'

'Indeed, sir? And why have you come to trouble me further?  Hasn't your family punished me enough?'

'I think we have,' said Mr. Hutchinson.  'I was not in agreement with my son's actions, but he is a grown man, and the master of his own destiny.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Yes indeed.  However, I was thinking we could go into business together, in some fashion.'

'I, sir?  Go into business with the likes of you?  We are hardly on the same level, now are we?  Do you think I am a fool, sir?  You could ruin me with one word.'

'I do not think you are a fool, sir.  Nor am I, sir.  The business I speak of, the business I am most interested in, involves a group of intelligent and interested men to which I believe you belong.  I would like to contribute to their activities.'

'Group, sir?  Which group is that, if you please?'

'I believe they are in favour of, and support the arguments of, Adolf Stoker, and his Christian Socialist Party.'

'The Christian Socialist Party is dead, for the last several years.  It has been disbanded,' said Mr. Milton.

'That is a shame,' said Mr. Hutchinson.  'What this world needs, is a few good men to speak the truth.'



*** The End ***

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