“Excuse me?” said the Minister of Spies without betraying his surprise, and, yes, admiration for Dickson’s deductive prowess.
“Quite simple. Follow, please,” said Dickson, noting the agents’ incredulous eyes. The detective threw a quick glance at M. Though the spymaster said nothing, Dickson could not help but pierce the veil hiding the dread in M’s eyes. Dickson added that observation to his analysis of the scene, then gestured to the ladies’ corpses.
“These women are dressed as common street prostitutes, and yet, here you are, the head of His Majesty’s Secret Service. Despite what the newspapers may print, government officials do not cavort with common ladies of ill repute. Likewise, common prostitutes don’t carry knives like the one removed from this lady’s garters...”
M took notice of Dickson’s emphasis on the word common, but decided to let it go. The detective’s sarcasm would be worth it, if some of his methods and prowess rubbed off on his men.
“Weapons? Removed?” he asked.
“Removed. Note the slight irritation around the skin of the mid-thigh. As if a sheath or a pistol had been there in a custom holster. Pistols draw attention when fired, and attention has always been the last thing an intelligence operative desires. Logic and evidence dictate they carried knives. There was no need for their attacker to disarm them as he…”
“Or she?” inquired M.
“No, he. The point of entry of the needle was of a certain angle and force suggesting a man approximately five feet ten inches,” finished Dickson. “Their attacker was a man of slightly above-average height and weight who was recognized as an ally by your doubtless well-trained operatives here. That is how he was able to approach and incapacitate them so quickly. He is powerful and precise as evidenced by the accuracy and depth of the needles in their throats.”
Dickson paused for a moment and let the evidence sink into their minds. “Your agents, in an effort to protect these ladies’ identities from other authorities, have disarmed them, lest their weapons betray the fact they worked for the Crown, more specifically for you.”
Dickson continued, “That alone should be sufficient; however, notice the red-haired woman’s fingers...” The detective pointed toward the woman’s three fingers–the index, middle and third digits. The trio were pointed down while her thumb and “tea finger” were folded underneath her palm. M leaned forward to see the twisted fingers. Underneath the woman’s fingernails was a hint of pale blue.
“Poison, a fast acting neuro-toxin,” said Dickson. “It works nearly instantly, scrambling, then completely ceasing their bodily functions.” He leaned down over the blonde who lay on her back with a silvery needle dart poking directly out of her throat. “Whoever the assassin was, he was skilled, knowledgeable and motivated, but why kill three operatives and simply leave the dead bodies? Since you have summoned me here, and not moved the bodies as yet that means…”
Dickson walked away from the three bodies and studied the cobblestones. The night fog and its clingy dew had not yet been burned away by the morning Sun. Moisture clung to the surface of the path, along with urban grime, revealing various sets of footprints. A quick glance and Dickson matched the footprints to the shoes worn by M’s men. The detective then trained his keen eyes further along the path and found a distinct lack of footprints before the brick-walled warehouse.
M followed Dickson’s eyes and looked at the wall. Dickson pulled out his small notebook and jotted down some notes. He drew some quick lines, and studied his quick sketch of the crime scene. He looked up and noted the position of the Sun. Then, the detective put away the notebook and stood in the center of the trio of bodies.
“The killer incapacitated the ladies from this position here. He did not remove their weaponry as they were in spasm by the time they hit the ground.” Then he walked toward the wall.
“If you had simply walked around the entire area, I might have been thrown off scent,” intoned the thoughtful detective. “But, clearly, as your agents removed the women’s weapons to hide their true occupations, they have also been very careful to avoid this particular area of the crime scene. Why? Because you wish to hide the true nature of this supposed warehouse.”
M’s agents stood there, in shock and shame. In mere moments, Harry Dickson had calmly and precisely uncovered their subterfuge through simple observation and deduction. Dickson loosened up and held out his hand to the agent who spoke up earlier. The man shook it, acceding to the detective’s superior skill.
“Very good, Hunter,” said M, using Dickson’s old code-name that he had worn during his days as an operator in Berlin. “You are both an asset and an example for the Service. Please come with me. The rest of my men will learn from your example and tidy up. There is still much for us to do.” Dickson again couldn’t help but notice the tone of dread in M’s voice.
M strode over to the wall next to Dickson. The detective took the hint and inspected the wall more carefully. The brickwork was all in place, except for one small area where there was a slight variation. A casual passerby would never have noticed it, especially when there were more eye-catching distractions like prostitutes haunting the alleyway. Testing his theory, Dickson placed his hand against the brick and pushed. A segment of the wall sprung out revealing a sophisticated combination lock mechanism.
“We haven’t the time for you to pick the lock, though I am certain you could do so,” said M, loudly enough for his subordinates to hear. He twisted the lock in a manner that indicated he wasn’t used to opening it. Finally, as he spun the dial around to the last digit in the series, he pressed the lock inward. A door-sized area of the brick retreated inward with a large mechanical grind of turning gears ending in an ominous clunk.
M invited the detective into the darkness and the two men stepped inside. The door reversed itself and became a wall again.
Dickson’s keen eyes tried to adjust to the inky black, but even he was blinded by the nearly impenetrable dark.
“Don’t move,” came M’s voice out of the darkness.
Dickson heard another click, from a switch being thrown, and suddenly, an electric lamp came on, lighting the dusty entryway. In front of them was a formidable steel elevator with yet another complex lock on its heavy cage.
“Follow me precisely to the lift,” said M, as he walked across the room, carefully stepping on certain tiles in a circuitous path. Dickson held his cane aloft for balance as he stepped. He looked at the tiles as he followed the spymaster, taking note of no disturbance in the light coat of dust along the floor.
The two men arrived at the elevator and M pointed to small jets positioned along the walls. “If you had not followed the precise path, it would have triggered the release of a deadly nerve agent and sounded an alarm at the Ministry. Now let’s proceed.”
M reached for the combination lock, but Dickson stopped him. He leaned down and studied the mechanism. “I can see no tampering here,” he observed. M cautiously twisted the dial and unsealed the elevator.
“What is this place, M?”
“It’s where we keep the monsters,” M replied with a coldness that chilled the detective to the marrow. “We must discover which of them our intruder has let loose.” With that, M ushered Dickson inside the dark womb of the elevator and closed the cage.
M reached for the switch to lower the car and gave the handle several measured twists. The spymaster noticed Dickson’s staring at the odd motion and pointed to the ceiling. He twisted the handle again and a series of long spikes shot out of the ceiling with a hiss. The detective ducked and held up his cane. If he hadn’t been warned, the razor-sharp spikes would have pierced his skull.
“Carbon steel honed to a razor edge. Dipped in poison. One cut and it’s all over.”
“Effective,” murmured Dickson.
“Not effective enough,” retorted M.
The spymaster turned the handle and the blades retreated into the ceiling. He then threw it forward and the car plunged down.
Dickso
n counted their descent to approximately 20 stories down. Below the sewers and pipes, further down than anyone else had ever excavated. If his estimate was accurate, they were now in the solid bedrock upon which London was built. M noticed his counting, but said nothing as the elevator came to a halt.
The spymaster opened the door and ushered the detective through.
Dickson couldn’t see into the darkness, but could feel the cold of their destination against his cheek. The air was stale and silent as a tomb, making it all the more intriguing to the detective. He used his cane as a guide and stepped forward.
M reached around and threw a wall switch. A series of lights came on in sequence, revealing untold rows upon rows of cabinets and displays. Each cabinet qualified as a safe, with its own locking mechanism. The displays were reinforced glass cases lit from below, also protected by sophisticated locking mechanisms. A series of cables fed each cabinet and display, and their pools of light stretched as far as the eye could see.
It was a bunker, a cavern hewn from the solid rock and networked by a series of pipes overhead. Dickson’s eyes followed several of the pipes running across the floor to the displays. M simply said, “Gas and other security,” and left it at that. The detective didn’t push him on any of the details. A quick glance told him that the entire complex was wired for destruction.
“I needn’t tell you how important the business of secrets is in our profession,” said M flatly. “They are our currency, our stock in trade. Secrets are our weapons. When they are properly deployed, they win wars… like the last one.”
“Or they build empires,” replied Dickson.
M nodded toward several of the glass displays. “It is exactly why these secrets must never be loosed on the world, Dickson. They become our monsters. We British know what to do with our secrets long before they become monsters.”
“You hide them,” said Dickson, finishing the thought.
“You know what lurks in the shadows, Hunter. The world has barely crawled out of a World War, the scars of which still blemish many countries. We must be the bulwark, never failing. We cannot allow anyone or anything to prevent that. ”
“You can count on my discretion, both as a gentleman and a detective. What lives here, stays buried here.”
M sighed, “I thank you for that, my friend. I knew I could count on you. There are others, our intruder I fear, who don’t subscribe to that point of view. It is a painful duty, Hunter, one that has taken so much from us already...” M voiced nothing more, knowing the price Dickson paid. Her name had been Irene de Hautefeuille, the sister of his college friend, Antoine.
At one point in his life, Dickson had hoped Mademoiselle de Hautefeuille would become Mrs. Dickson, but Irene (should he still dare to call her his?) had married another man, James Oldfeld when it became apparent that Dickson’s mistress would always be Lady Justice.
Oldfeld was a good man, kind and gentle and entirely devoted, and the irony of ironies was Dickson knew James was good for Irene. He would rescue her from the dangers of the life Dickson had adopted as one of M’s operatives. Oldfeld would keep her out of the shadowy world of espionage, happy and safe, or so they all thought.
A month later, it had been reported in the papers that the Oldfelds had been sailing the Mediterranean on their honeymoon cruise when their schooner had sunk with all aboard. Dickson had been in China when he had heard the news. It tore him apart that the love of his life was dead, and he could not spare the time to shed even a tear. Yes, Justice was his harsh mistress indeed.
The detective walked over to the first display case. It did not seem, in any way, to be disturbed. Inside, man-sized concentric rings of an unknown alloy rhythmically circled a seat hovering in the center of the spinning wheels. Dickson felt a slight hum emanating from inside the glass. A series of controls, damaged slightly by what appeared to be lava rock, showed the date in years, months, days, hours, seconds and milliseconds.
“Take it all in, Dickson. You must understand the threat to our security. Our agents have been finding these artifacts for years. Some of them we understand, others are beyond even our finest scientists’ ken. They will provide us the clues to our killer’s identity.”
Understanding the peril they were in, Dickson continued his examination of the displays. He studied the strength of the glass, the seals and the bases, looking for any signs of any tampering. It was hard to concentrate on the details however, when the artifacts inside were so intriguing. One of the glass cases held the preserved body of what Dickson estimated was a sub-humanoid species–large cranial ridges, hunched back and four digits per hand–one, an opposable thumb.
Another display was labeled Moon Rocks, while yet another featured what Dickson could only surmise was a life-support suit for hazardous environments. What made it so extraordinary–beyond its obvious superior technology–was that it was fashioned in the manner of a Mongol warrior’s armor. The markings and style were unmistakable.
Another case held what was unmistakably a pistol of some sort, but the likes of which he had never seen. The grip was fashioned not for a human hand, but something not of this world. Dickson quickly realized how little of the universe he actually knew, and how so much more was hidden from view. It was exactly as M had done when they entered the dark chamber–a light was thrown on.
And so it went…
Dickson methodically made his way down the various rows, the metal point of his cane clicking across the floor as he walked; past Dr. Griffin’s bandages and spectacles (a case Dickson was aware of), past a sword whose label bore the mark of a US Cavalry officer. Then, the detective stopped. He stood before the locked cabinets of files.
“I can find nothing at this point, M,” he stated flatly. He pointed across the chamber with his cane. “I would like to examine the file cabinets.”
“As long as you don’t open any of them. We must know what’s going to be used against King George and the Empire, but I can’t have you reading any of the material. I’m sorry, the secrets these file cabinets hold could shake the world apart.”
Dickson solemnly said nothing, and went back to work with a renewed vigor.
“You see my dilemma,” M continued. “Should I inform the Minister that there is a threat, he will ask me why I am just now informing him, how long have I known of that threat, and how it is that the military or the scientific branches of the government know nothing of these artifacts... Damnable politics. It is a can of worms I must bury.” Frustrated, the spymaster balled his hand into a fist. “Who, Hunter? Who could have done this?”
Dickson was alarmed at the sheer emotion in M’s outburst. “I will continue my examination as quickly as possible,” he said. “Are there any person or persons that, to your knowledge or guesswork, know that this archive exists?”
“Not even my personal agents above know the true nature of this building. Only I and my predecessors have had access. It is a secret that is passed down from one M to the next, bypassing any other step of bureaucracy. Since I took my position, I have been the only man down here. This is beyond the capabilities of any ordinary spy–so who might it be? Belphegor? Blake’s damn albino? Or perhaps your own nemesis–Flax?”
“We shall see what the evidence reveals,” said the detective. “Perhaps the intruder couldn’t gain entry. Certainly, there was no physical evidence on any of the safety devices you employ in the elevator.”
“And yet, he knew enough to know the archive was here, which in itself is a security breach of the highest order. Find the fiend who has broken in–his motives and agenda. The Empire is counting on you.”
Dickson proceeded with his investigations, taking off his jacket and leaving it with his cane. M retreated to another area of the cavernous chamber and sat down. It was going to be a long wait…
Later, Dickson’s shouts echoed throughout the cavern, rousing M from his seat. The head of British intelligence raced through the rows of files until he found the detective leaning against one of the cabinets mar
ked “F.” The seal of the cabinet was broken.
M pushed Dickson away and pulled open the drawer, pouring through the files like a madman. Dickson stood back a moment and studied the cabinet as the spymaster worked himself into a panic. Never had Dickson seen M so emotional, pulling files this way and that.
“I think I have it,” said the detective.
“What? You know who did this?” asked M, pulled out of his frenzy.
Dickson, his face pale, said, “Yes. Now hurry, we must get topside. There’s not a moment to lose.” Dickson grabbed his jacket and the two men took off.
They arrived in the foyer after the long ride up the elevator. Dickson said nothing, but ran the clues through his mind. M looked at Dickson and saw such a desperate pain there–as if he had been kicked in the gut.
“Hunter, who is it? Tell me,” ordered the spymaster. His no-nonsense air of authority cut through the emotion they were both feeling.
“You know who. We’ve been betrayed by one of our own.” Dickson could scarcely get the words out–they left such a bitter taste as he said them. “No more, until I speak with your agents. We will have little time to stop him.”
As the pair retraced the proper steps across the floor to the brick wall door, Dickson nearly stumbled and relied on a helping hand from M to make it through. The spymaster’s mind raced–what had the detective found that shocked him so? M ran the evidence back through his mind, shuddered then hurried Dickson for the door.
In the meantime, outside, the agents had made arrangements for the bodies of the three women to be picked up. As M and the detective sealed the brick door shut behind them, the corpses were being loaded onto a milk lorry.
Dickson stood beside M as the bodies were covered and ready for travel. M addressed his agents.
“Men, gather round. Hunter has uncovered the identity of our assassin... So tell me, Dickson, what did you find? Who did this?” asked the spymaster.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 4
