The Sartorial Senator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 3) Read online

  The Sartorial Senator

  A Nick Williams Mystery

  Book 3

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  Nick Williams Mysteries

  The Unexpected Heiress

  The Amorous Attorney

  The Sartorial Senator

  The Laconic Lumberjack

  The Perplexed Pumpkin

  The Savage Son

  The Mangled Mobster

  The Iniquitous Investigator

  The Voluptuous Vixen

  The Timid Traitor

  The Sodden Sailor

  The Excluded Exile

  The Paradoxical Parent

  The Pitiful Player

  Nick & Carter Stories

  An Enchanted Beginning

  Golden Gate Love Stories

  The One He Waited For

  Their Own Hidden Island

  © 2016 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.

  Be the first to know about new releases:

  http://nickwilliamspi.com/

  NW03-K-20170918

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Notes

  More Information

  Sartorial

  sär-ˈtȯr-ē-əl

  1. Of or relating to a tailor or tailored clothes

  Senator

  ˈse-nə-tər

  1. A member of a senate

  Chapter 1

  Aboard the Jules Verne

  Newport Harbor

  Newport Beach, Cal.

  Friday, May 29, 1953

  Just past 3 in the afternoon

  We sailed into Newport Harbor around 3 in the afternoon on Friday, May 29th. I stood on the deck with Carter Jones, my lover and partner, and enjoyed the view as our ship's captain expertly piloted the craft through the channel and into the marina where we tied up for the day.

  Carter was a big man, standing just about six inches taller than me at 6'4". He had sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a seductive Georgia drawl.

  We'd sailed up from San Diego earlier that day. The ocean had been smooth. It was quite a change for both of us to spend so much time doing so little.

  Mike Robertson, my best friend and first lover, had been busy. He finally came above deck at noon to give his new boyfriend, a small, compact guy and member of the crew, some time to recover and to actually do his job.

  Mike was an inch taller than Carter, had dark black hair, and what was best described as monster good looks. When he was happy and smiling, he was handsome. But when he was unhappy, it made me want to look around for innocent villagers who were about to be attacked by the monster.

  Earlier in the day, the three of us, Mike, Carter, and myself, had a picnic lunch at the table aft that had become my favorite place to sit and eat outside of San Francisco.

  We said little. We were each handling the bad memories of the day before in different ways.

  Mike was having as much sex as he could.

  Carter had his nose in his dwarves and dragon book.

  I kept looking for more dolphins.

  . . .

  After we tied up at the marina, Carter and I disembarked in search of a phone. I needed to check on what was happening at home.

  We found a payphone just outside the marina store. While I dropped my dime, Carter wandered in to pick up a few things.

  I dialed the Operator.

  "Number, please."

  "Long distance."

  "Thank you."

  There was a click on the line and I waited.

  "Long distance."

  "San Francisco. Prospect 7777. Charge the call to that number."

  She repeated this back to me to confirm. I confirmed.

  I waited for a long moment.

  "Private investigator." It was the service.

  "Hi, this is Nick Williams."

  "Yes, Mr. Williams. Good afternoon."

  "Yeah. Do you have any idea why my secretary isn't at the office?"

  "No, sir. I do have messages for you, if you would like them."

  "Yeah."

  "The first one is from Mr. Klein. He has sent the wire to France."

  "Good."

  "He also says that the two best days to own a boat are the day you buy it and the day you sell it."

  I laughed. "I suppose that's probably true. Anything else?"

  "A message from Washington, D.C. It's from a Roger Young. He works for the Senate. He wants to talk to you about an investigation." She paused.

  "Does he mention what kind of investigation he wants done?"

  "Yes, he does. But I prefer not to repeat it."

  I sighed and put my hand over my eyes. "I see. Lemme guess. It's me they're investigatin' and it may have to do with the reason I was in the paper a couple of weeks ago."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Beyond that, is there anything else he says?"

  "He says to call him as soon as you get the message, regardless of the time."

  By this time, Carter was standing by the phone booth with a small bag and a handful of newspapers. I put my hand on the receiver. "Have a pencil?" Normally I carried one, but I was standing there in swim trunks and a cotton t-shirt.

  Carter said, "Be right back," and disappeared into the store.

  I spoke down the phone. "I'm waiting for a pencil. Any other messages?"

  "One last one. From Mr. Klein again. He wants you to call him as soon as you can."

  "He called again?"

  "Yes, sir. After Mr. Young."

  "I see. Well, I'm sorry you had to be the bearer of bad news. I'm sure it's not nice."

  "No, sir."

  Carter handed me a small notebook and a pencil. I smiled up at my husband and winked. I got a nice southern smile in return and began to notice the hazard of wearing such tight swim trunks.

  "I have a pencil. Go ahead with that number."

  "The number in Washington is Capitol 2400. Ask for room 122. The name again is Roger Young."

  "Thanks. Anything else?"

  "No, sir."

  "Have a good afternoon. Thanks."

  "The same to you, Mr. Williams."

  With that, the line went dead.

  I looked up at Carter and said, "Two more calls." He nodded and then asked, "Do you want me to wait?"

  "Yeah. I'm not sure how well this'll go."

  I took the dime ou
t of the return slot and dropped it again.

  "Number, please."

  "Long distance."

  I waited and looked at Carter's long, muscled, and hairy legs. They deserved to be looked at.

  The same operator, or so it seemed, came back on the line.

  "Long distance."

  "Washington, D.C. Capitol 2400. And I want to charge this call."

  "To what number?"

  "San Francisco. Prospect 7777."

  She repeated all this and I confirmed.

  "Please hold."

  There was a brief pause and then the line began to ring. A friendly voice answered. "United States Senate."

  "Room 122."

  "Thank you."

  There were a couple of buzzes.

  A male voice answered and simply said, "Yes?"

  "I'm calling for Roger Young."

  "This is he."

  "This is Nick Williams returning your call."

  The voice on the other end spoke. "Yes, Mr. Williams. Thank you for calling me back. Can you be here on Monday?"

  I replied, "I don't know. What's this about?"

  "Didn't your secretary tell you?"

  "I want you to tell me."

  There was a pause while some papers shuffled in the background. "The Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations would like to ask you some questions about the infiltration of San Francisco by homosexuals."

  "I see. And why me?"

  "Well, you are an admitted and avowed practicing homosexual, are you not?"

  "I'm not sure that's relevant. Do you have a subpoena?"

  "Yes, of course we do. And we decide what's relevant."

  "I see. So, you serve the subpoena and then I'll respond. Isn't that how this works?"

  "Mr. Williams. I happen to know you can be here by Monday. Why don't you come out here for a friendly conversation with the subcommittee?"

  "There's nothing about that subcommittee that's friendly. You serve the subpoena and we'll take it from there."

  I dropped the receiver on its hook.

  Carter said, "Well, that was fast."

  I looked up and asked, "What do you mean?"

  He handed me a folded-over copy of the Los Angeles Examiner, a Hearst paper.

  McCarthy To Investigate Homos

  Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin announced early today the beginning of a new phase in his investigations. Front and center is wealthy Nicholas Williams, notorious scion of the Williams family of San Francisco's Nob Hill. Just recently released by Mexican police for his possible involvement in the murder of M-G-M star Taylor Wells, Williams is expected in Washington on Monday for an appearance before Senator McCarthy's committee. An avowed homosexual, Williams is expected to tell the subcommittee how homosexuality is putting the nation's defense at risk.

  "For Pete's sake," was the best I could come up with.

  . . .

  After talking to Jeffery, Carter and I decided to go to Washington. Jeffery hadn't seen the subpoena but he had seen The San Francisco Examiner and the coverage there was more sensational than in L.A.

  The Hearst papers were going after me, and hard. After a nasty article where they'd published the names and addresses of several men caught in a police raid at The Kit Kat Club on Polk Street, I'd stood up to George Hearst, son of William Randolph Hearst, and nominal publisher of that yellow rag called The San Francisco Examiner and told him exactly what I thought about it. We'd been out at the Top of the Mark for dinner that night, had our pictures taken on the way out the door, and ended up on the cover of all the papers the next morning, except the Examiner, of course. Ever since then, the Hearst chain had been taking pot-shots at me whenever they could. I didn't care much. I had a thick skin and was rich enough not to.

  We walked back to the slip where the ship was tied up. As we boarded, I saw that Mike was stretched out on the top deck. I pointed that out to Carter. We slowly crept up the stair.

  As we did, Mike said, "I can hear you two plotting from a mile away. So, whatever it is, cool it."

  I laughed. We sat down next to him. I looked at his pale skin getting some much-needed exposure to the sun. After a couple of days of laying around the ship, I had started to turn brown, just like I remembered happening in the south Pacific. Carter's skin hadn't turned brown as much as it looked toasted, which, as with anything, made him even more handsome.

  Carter threw the Examiner on Mike's bare midriff. "Here. Read this. Nick's in the papers again."

  Mike leaned up on one arm and shielded the sun from his eyes with his other arm. "Again? When aren't you in the paper these days?"

  I just shrugged. He turned his attention to the front page and scanned it briefly. "'Avowed homosexual?' When did you take that vow?"

  I looked at him for a long moment. Carter seized the opening and said, "You should know, Mike."

  We all laughed.

  Chapter 2

  Aboard the Jules Verne

  Newport Harbor

  Friday, May 29, 1953

  About half past 4 in the afternoon

  I walked to the front of the yacht to speak with Captain Jennings. The door to the bridge was open, but I knocked. Old habits died hard. I still felt a hesitation to go anywhere without asking permission first. It was a holdover from serving on a ship in the Navy.

  "Mr. Williams! Come in! I just received a radiogram from Mr. Deladier informing me that you now own the ship. Congratulations!" He reached out his hand and I shook it.

  Buying this ship, currently carrying the name Jules Verne, would be the biggest purchase I'd made since inheriting the massive trust left me by my Great-Uncle Paul Williams, the infamous rake who'd put the word "Gay" in the phrase, "Gay Nineties," that San Francisco was legendary for. He'd had the Midas touch and had taken his own inheritance of gold-rush wealth and multiplied it many times over, managing to even make money because of the Depression, not in spite of it.

  We were on board because a state police captain down in Baja had stowed Mike, Carter, and myself here while he tried to flush out a killer.

  On the previous Monday, Carter and I had flown down to Ensenada in Baja California to help out my friend and ex-lover, Jeffrey Klein. He also happened to be my lawyer.

  The week before that, Jeffery had run off down to Ensenada with Taylor Wells, a very handsome leading man who was on the verge of marrying his co-star, Rhonda Starling. She was of the Brentwood sweater set and had a girlfriend of her own. The wedding was being staged by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to cover up their natural proclivities.

  Early Tuesday morning Taylor had been murdered in his hotel room. Carter and I had been the first to find the body. When the hotel's owner had called in the police, Captain Ignacio Esparza of the State Police of Baja California showed up to investigate. Nacho, as he liked to be called, had been a difficult man to handle. He was, at turns, flirtatious, scheming, sullen, and friendly.

  We ended up aboard the yacht after he made a show of arresting me for Taylor's murder. He'd held me in an unmarked building for a short while. Then, under cover of darkness, he'd smuggled me aboard the ship where Carter and Mike had already taken up residence.

  The next day, Nacho's look-alike brother, who was the brains and the muscle behind the soon-to-elected governor of Baja California, had showed up on board the yacht and held Nacho at gunpoint. In the ensuing struggle, both men died. As he was dying, I held Nacho in my arms. He asked for a last kiss from Carter and that was that. It was a scene neither of us would ever forget.

  At Carter's prompting, I decided I wanted to buy this ship and rename it in honor of this complicated man. The Jules Verne, an 80-foot yacht, was owned by one Pierre Deladier who had spent the war in Mexico, escaping the tumult of occupied France.

  Once he returned to Bourdeaux to manage his family's vineyard, he put the Jules Verne up for sale. I had spoken to Deladier earlier in the morning about buying the yacht. The deal was now done. The money had been wired to France. The ship would now be called The Flirtatious Captai
n.

  . . .

  I looked at the ship's captain. I suspected he was in the life although he'd not said or done anything to show me that was true. He was older, probably in his fifties. He was a bit shorter than me and had a thick salt-and-pepper beard. Whatever his proclivities, he was comfortable being around Carter and me when we were affectionate. I liked the man.

  I smiled. "Thanks, Captain. However, Carter and I will be leaving in the morning for Washington."

  He nodded. "I've seen the papers. Sorry about that."

  I shrugged. "I asked for it, I guess."

  "I wish I could have been there when you took down George Hearst. Must have been quite the scene."

  I laughed. "It wasn't nearly as dramatic as it's been reported. I didn't throw a drink in the man's face."

  He smiled in reply. "Let's talk about renovations and repairs, shall we?"

  I nodded. "Where do you want to do them?"

  "Here is probably the best place. There's good help here and it's not too crowded. Monterey or San Francisco are both too busy to do anything quickly."

  "Sounds good. What are the repairs?"

  He gave me a brief run-down. Nothing really stood out as being outrageous. It all sounded routine. When he was done going through the list, he asked, "What about renovations?"

  "Do you have a ship designer that you use?"

  "Of course. Good man who lives down in Laguna Beach."

  "Whatever he wants to do to the suites, bathrooms, and the lounge is fine. I like modern but comfortable. And be sure to tell him about Carter and Mike. I want to make sure they both will be able to sleep without their feet hanging off the end of the bed."

  "How tall are they?"

  "Mike's 6'5" and Carter is 6'4"."

  The captain made some notes.

  "How long before the ship will be ready?"

  "Six, maybe eight weeks."

  I nodded.

  "Now, how did you arrange to pay for these things with Mr. Deladier?"

  "I have a checkbook that draws on a bank in Mexico City."

  "Right. Is this vessel flying a Mexican flag?" This was about the registry since no flag was flying aft.

  The captain nodded.

  "Can you take care of moving the registry to San Francisco and get an American flag for the aft pole?"

  "Certainly."

  "And I'll ask my guy at Bank of America to set up an account for ship's expenses. We'll get that down here as soon as possible. How are you set for cash?"