Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,107

album. There was a buxom woman, another buxom woman, a girl of about ten, a boy of about the same age, another buxom woman, a boy in his teens, a muscular man of about twenty-five, another buxom woman, a girl of perhaps five, two buxom women embracing.

“This next is my favorite,” said Musgrave, sliding closer.

Collins stared at the photograph of himself, standing nude beside a plaster Doric column, against a Grecian backdrop. His mouth felt dry, and he reached for his sherry.

“The same dear boy as in those other photographs. And he does look very much like you, Jonathan. At least the face does.

“I really must have this,” Collins said.

“There’s another pose on the next page that shows him wanking off.”

“I’ll trade you my two photographs.”

Musgrave shook his head.

“And add to that one hundred pounds.”

Musgrave considered. The offer was really a very good one. But Collins seemed very interested in this one photograph. The sherry had gone to Musgrave’s head and made him reckless. Besides, he hadn’t known that Collins was interested in male pornography. Still waters.

He looked again at Collins’s two photographs. “Acts like this. Between two men. I mean, have you ever...?”

The next morning Collins phoned for a taxi. Musgrave saw him out, still in his dressing robe, and invited Collins to come again soon. Collins left without his two photographs, short by a hundred pounds, with Musgrave’s come due to meet somewhere between his stomach and his rectum. But he had the photograph wrapped securely and in his hands.

As he got into the taxi, Collins wondered if he hadn’t played the fool all along. The man in the picture should have aged whilst he stayed young. Neither of them had aged. Perhaps there actually had been a painting. Perhaps the aging portrait was only Wilde’s embellishment. Musgrave had been all over him throughout the night. He was too wrung out to want to think of his next possible move. Perhaps another session with Mistress Gwen.

After kissing Collins good-bye, Musgrave lit a cigarette and poured a glass of sherry. An enchanting but exhausting night; he was pleased that today was Saturday, so that his young assistant would be there to open shop. A shame to have taken such advantage of young Jonathan, but experienced collectors must learn never to permit their eagerness to acquire an object to reach the attention of its owner.

Besides, Musgrave had also purchased the glass negatives as part of the auction lot. He would have a new print made straightaway. Collins could still boast of having the original.

Climbing to his attic, Musgrave rummaged around and found the box of glass negatives, barely glanced at after the auction. Yes, it should be here. He carefully sorted through the plates. All of these were promised to be of the prints in his album. Here was the young man tossing off by the Greek column. Perhaps Collins would come back for that one.

The last plate was of a hideous, bloated old man, bald and toothless, sagging belly, covered with scars and blotches.

“Bloody hell! What was MacVane thinking when he took this!” Musgrave complained. “On one of his binges when he had this creature pose!”

He set the plate aside with a shudder. Two careful searches through the glass negatives did not reveal the plate he wanted.

“Cheated again,” Musgrave said angrily. In vexation he snatched up the offending glass negative, carried it downstairs all the way to the back, then hurled it into the dustbin at the back wall.

The glass negative shattered impressively. Musgrave felt somewhat better.

The taxi driver heard the scream from the back seat, turned his head to look, screamed himself. He went over the curb and struck a lamppost. He was still screaming when passersby pulled him out, There was no point in pulling out his passenger, if that was what it was.

It was still clutching in one rotting hand a parcel which was found to contain an old photograph of a nude young man. As the police pulled the parcel away, the crumbling hand, still clutching, broke away.

The driver had a concussion and no memory of the morning.

The body had crumbled into broken bits and dust.

The police suggested some bizarre prank. The inquest reluctantly concurred. There simply could be no other explanation.

The picture disappeared into police archives.

Jonathan Collins was never found.

Locked Away

It was a small gold locket, late Victorian, shaped as a heart, usual period embellishments, pendant from a heavy gold chain. The locket came as part of a lot of estate jewelry for which