1928. This case takes place just before, or very early during, Dickson’s recorded career, and demonstrates the characteristics that make him an endearing combination of Sherlock Holmes and Nick Carter. As for his companion in this story, Fascinax, he is another anonymously-created pulp hero from the same period, a British medical doctor, George Leicester, who has acquired mystical powers in India. This bleak narrative paints a depressing picture world hurling along towards the madness and the terror of World War II …

 

Bill Cunningham: Fool Me Once...

 

 

The fog enshrouded the silhouette as he melded with the shadows between the cobblestone street’s few remaining gas lamps. His wardrobe was well-suited for this purpose, garbed as he was head to toe in black. His footsteps made barely a tap, muffled by the dripping water of the numerous pipes wrapped around the tenements.

“Would ya’ be lookin’ fer company there, Guvnor?” came the sickly-sweet, lurid voice from out one of the side alleys that criss-crossed the dodgy London district like arteries. The voice came out of the darkness and presented itself as a young red-headed woman. Pretty, but not overly so, her low-cut blouse and high-cut skirt marking her as one of the street whores who littered this landscape. Her makeup was thick and bold across her face, but her manner bespoke something more than mere prostitution as she stood poised for any potential action from the dark figure.

The silhouette smiled and gentlemanly removed his hat, moving forward into the light to reveal his features.

“As lovely as that prospect may be, young lady, it would keep me from my work. I have long to go before I sleep.”

“Oh, it’s you, sir. Lovely night for a stroll.”

The gentleman nodded, noticing the woman’s strong left hand curled around some object she held ready in the dark should he make a wrong move. Nothing like good training.

“It’s a bit too foggy for my taste. I prefer the warmer air of the day,” he responded. Upon hearing the proper response, the woman relaxed and brought her left hand into the light. There, in her practiced grip, was a shiny stiletto that was no virgin to bloodshed. She flipped the blade, lifted her leg and placed the weapon–what Limehouse denizens would call a pigsticker–into her garter. The gentleman smiled again.

“You may also tell your lady friends behind me to relax. The proper code phrase has, after all, been given.”

Behind the man, two more girls stepped out of the foggy night wielding more deadly stilettos ready to swarm and sting their gentleman caller. The redhead waived them off, and she dropped her gutter accent, adopting a higher level, yet still public school, mode of speech and manner.

“You’ll have to forgive them, sir. It’s not every day that you come to call–especially these days. It must be important.”

The man smiled again, revealing the same strong-jawed grin the redhead remembered when she “graduated” from the Ministry’s training academy–the man who made them agents, who stood for all they trained for–honor, security, Empire.

“Indeed. It is encouraging that you are prepared for just such an event… as always. It speaks to your dedication.” The red-head smiled, happy they had earned even that small show of respect from their superior.

“It’s all quiet, sir. We’re waiting for day shift to come on in a couple of hours.”

“Excellent. That should be plenty of time.” The gentleman absently tossed his hand back and then forth as if making a point, and with that simple gesture, the ladies’ fates were sealed. Thin, finger-sized needle darts flew out of his hand, whistled through the air, hitting all three of his targets in the space of a heartbeat. The trio jerked their heads back in shock as the poison in the needles did its work.

By the time all three ladies felt the sharp points pierce their skin, and then the racing numbness of the poison, the gentleman became one with the shadows along the side of the alley building. In another heartbeat, the trio fell to the ground and shook in seizures.

The gentleman searched the rooftops around him. He could see nothing but the foggy night. Confident of his solitude, he stepped away from the wall and walked through the parade of bodies at his feet to the opposite side of the passage.

He looked down to see the last of his twitching victims, the red-head, her small hands curling and twisting uncontrollably. Her eyes looked up at him, as if to ask “Why?” The silhouette said nothing, but floated past her, his footsteps guiding him to the brick wall of the warehouse. In his eyes, the warehouse was more important business to see to than her inevitable death. As the young woman’s hands curled in spasm, the gentleman ran his hands along the bricks.

 

The alleyway played havoc with Harry Dickson’s nostrils. It was bad enough having to be awakened this early in the morning, but to travel across town before breakfast taxed even his sense of curiosity and justice, especially when every sewer grate and rain gutter in the area disgorged such repellent vapors.

However, when the head of British Intelligence calls, you come immediately. Dickson supposed the summons was due to his burgeoning reputation as a “man of action.” Unlike other “consulting detectives” who haunted Baker Street, Dickson was one who dove in and “got his hands dirty” to see that a case was handled properly and justice dispensed. Never before had he been asked to prowl these haunts, and certainly not at this early hour.

Dickson knew of these alleys–passages that had seen as much blood and vice as rain. It made him wary of any and all things around him. The detective looked up and saw the occasional figure perched on the rooftops or from an upper story window. They were being watched. It must be a crisis for M to summon him here, and to take this many precautions. Dickson clutched his cane, weighing these variables in his mind. As the messenger from the Ministry led him along the maze of narrow streets and alleys, sometimes backtracking to evade any possible pursuers, Dickson kept his agile eyes busy, and his thin-cheeked mouth shut.

 

“Hunter! Over here!” The basso voice of M echoed across the dark alley. Dickson looked up to see the head of His Majesty’s Secret Service surrounded by several nondescript men. This M (for it was a title, not a name) was dressed in the finest hand-tailored Savile Row, despite the earliness of the hour. Ever ready, thought Dickson as he remembered their first meeting, and had sized this M up rather quickly.

M had a sense of entitlement to his manner, no doubt due to his upbringing and family ties, as well as a no-nonsense way of communicating with his subordinates. A gesture, or even a look, were enough to send his agents into action. That entitlement was reflected in his fashion–elegant, yet authoritarian. This M was a spy through and through–a fountain of silence and subtlety, giving Dickson the feeling that he always knew far more than he ever let on. As if by his silence and judging nature, M led him to the conclusion he knew all along, but wanted Dickson to solve on his own.

He thought that’s why he and M had gotten along over the years. Dickson liked a good mystery, wrapped in a conundrum–something to hone his skills. M was more than happy to provide, even though the spy master was often forbidden from divulging too much to the “American Sherlock Holmes.”

It was the direction of M’s gaze that immediately drew Dickson into that mystery. On the ground were three bodies of women twisted at odd angles, as if frozen. Dickson took the scene into his formidable analytical mind. He kneeled down over the bodies, drew a deep breath and he was back in the game, analyzing the minutest detail.

M held out his hand, but Dickson ignored it, preferring instead to peruse the three bodies that lay before him, reconstructing what happened to the three beauties. The men surrounding them took note of the snub, but seeing M’s expression, said nothing. That is until Dickson lifted one of the ladies’ skirts and looked underneath. “See here, sir!” piped up one of the agents, shocked at such a crude, ungentlemanly display. Dickson looked up at M as if to ask if he could continue. M waved his hand and the agent hushed himself. One of England’s keenest detectives was analyzing the crime scene before him, and when that occurred, nothing was allowed to stand in his way.

Dickson pulled down the woman’s dress, stood and walked around the corpses. His hand was on his chin as he put the pieces together in his mind, but something puzzled the sleuth. Dickson looked up at M and asked, “What were they protecting? What was so important that it took a highly trained, highly skilled man to murder your three operatives?”

“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.

Dickson 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 marked “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.

Dickson cleared his throat and looked directly into M’s eyes. The agents stopped their actions and gathered near their superior. “The man we’re dealing with is the most vicious kind of fiend. One without scruples, nor code of honor. He is totally ruthless. He is clever and manipulative and cloaks himself with deception. I have not known his like in some time… I used to call him friend…” Dickson’s voice trailed off.

“Oh damn,” whispered M. “Fascinax–I knew it. He’s the only one who could have done it. He could kill these women quickly and efficiently as he knew them from the academy. He knows poisons and his heightened senses could pierce the security measures. He’s gone rogue.”

Dickson looked around at the agents. All young and unspoiled. He held their gaze as he spoke. He hesitated to do this for it would change everything they had been taught. Everything they believed.

“No, M. It wasn’t Fascinax, old friend. It was you.”

M arched back a bit. He looked first at his agents, then at his accuser.

“Listen, Dickson,” he chuckled, “this is no time for jokes.”

But Harry Dickson wasn’t laughing. His face was cold and calculated, grim beyond measure.

“The evidence is right before us. This location is secret, known only to those who have held, or now hold, the title of M. None of you have ever been here before today, correct?” the detective asked the agents. He studied their faces. No, none of them had. They began to look at M, who grew more frustrated.

“Dickson, this is preposterous. Recant before this turns into a bad serial cliché,” said M. “There’s no reason for me to steal anything. I already am the only one with access.”

“Yes, but unless this was done stealthily, you would have been accompanied here, as proper procedure requires, and there would have been witnesses to your arriving here, and more inconveniently, to your removing whatever it was that you removed.”

“I removed nothing!” shouted M.

“Correction, you removed nothing last night. By means of stealth and guile, you came here and made it appear that someone with unique abilities had indeed penetrated your security. You murdered your operatives with efficiency as they had no reason to fear harm from their leader.”

The agents said nothing but closed any chance of escape.

“This gave you legitimate cause to enter the archive today, in plain sight, to investigate the break-in, and complete your scheme with the perfect alibi. A perfect gambit for treason.” The words launched from Dickson like knives from a circus performer. Deadly accurate.

“You dare accuse me of treason?” roared the spymaster. “Hunter, I will see to it that you are jailed for this! No, you will be thrown in Seward’s Sanitarium and never heard from again!”

The detective reached and pulled open M’s overcoat. He grabbed the lining and ripped it open, revealing two files nestled inside. “Gentlemen, I believe this is the evidence we seek.”

M’s agents immediately moved in and held their superior in place as Dickson grabbed the files.

“I followed you inside because I needed convincing proof, though there was already sufficient circumstantial evidence to launch an inquiry,” Dickson stated flatly. “You remember the tall, red-headed girl whose hand was twisted in spasm? The girl you murdered? She named you with her dying breath–three fingers twisted–forming a perfect M.”

Dickson laughed a heartless laugh as his eyes bore into M’s. “I saw it at once, but had to confirm my suspicions. That’s why I shook your man’s hand.” The agent came forward and held open his hand. In it was a piece of paper with the words: M GUILTY. STAND BY.

“You bastard!” M roared. He lunged at Dickson, but the agents held him fast. He lashed out with his fists, but the detective stepped into the fray and punched him squarely in the face, sending him reeling.

Dickson followed with another punch to the solar plexus, sending the spymaster to the floor. The detective picked him up by the lapels and ever so softly, so coldly whispered into the spymaster’s ear, “You won’t fool us any longer. I have found you out, and soon, I will find your master.”

M stopped struggling and looked into Dickson’s piercing eyes, and, for the first time in a long time, the spymaster knew true fear. What he saw in the detective’s eyes wasn’t justice served, but revenge.

“Hunter?” he cried. “No, you’re not...”

“Take him away. I’ll see to it these files get to the Ministry,” ordered Dickson. “Get out of here before we attract attention.” The agents quickly latched onto M and quickly wrapped a rag over his screaming mouth as the chloroform took him to slumber. Dickson stepped out of their way as the agents hustled him into the lorry and closed the door.

Dickson watched as the truck disappeared down the maze. He grinned, then turned away and hurried toward the opposite end of the alleyway. Things were going perfectly.

 

At the corner of the main thoroughfare, a long black Daimler pulled up. Dickson stepped inside and closed the sedan door. He was greeted by a mirror image of himself. Same manner, features and dress, but somehow paralyzed and lying across the long black leather seat of the automobile.

Dickson leaned over the face of his doppelganger who lay rigid. Only the man’s eyes indicated he was wide awake, yet somehow unable to move an inch.

“You will be glad to know that I was successful,” said the detective to his paralyzed double. “After all, am I not Harry Dickson, the American Sherlock Holmes?” Dickson, or the man who appeared to be Dickson, loosened his collar and reached for his throat. The detective ripped the latex mask off his face, revealing the equally handsome, yet dark features of Dr. George Leicester–known to the world at large as Fascinax!

Fascinax tapped the pane of glass separating them from his driver. The Daimler pulled away from the curb and wound its way down the streets.

The true Harry Dickson stared out the darkened windows, not daring to meet Fascinax’s gaze. Fascinax removed the last vestiges of his disguise, wiped his face and looked at the detective.

“Don’t look that way, Harry. I couldn’t take a chance.” Fascinax studied Dickson’s eyes as if his very thoughts somehow spoke to him. “I could not allow you to get your hands dirty, Harry. I owe you that for what you did for me in China. If I had failed, it would be on my head alone.”

Fascinax reached into his coat and pulled out the files he had appropriated from M. He opened them and quickly began flipping through the pages. Fascinax read the reports while listening to Dickson’s racing heartbeat with his super-sensitive ears.

Fascinax quickly read one page then another, his unique mind checking facts and correlating the data at ultra speed. As the sedan slowly cruised through London, Dickson watched the pieces of the puzzle form together in Fascinax’s mind. He wondered what horrors the files contained.

“Yes, Harry, these files do contain horrors.“ said Fascinax, who looked up. He reached for a brandy from the sedan’s bar. He poured the drink and held it up, toasting Dickson. Then he gulped it down. Finally, the words came from his lips, with cold disgust.

“Yes, Harry. It was as bad as we feared.”

Dickson watched Fascinax’s countenance go from the warm, confident face of a friend to cold, resolute face of an avenger.

“M sold himself–not to a foreign power, but to a terrorist of the highest order–Numa Pergyll,” said Fascinax, gathering his anger. “This is the evil we’re dealing with, Dickson–an evil that doesn’t play by the Marquis de Queensberry rules, like our old sparring partners. An evil far greater than that of Zenith, Fantômas or even our old friend, Professor Flax. This is evil on a global scale, organized and institutionalized. Evil that revels then profits in mayhem and destruction, Evil that takes no prisoners–not my Françoise, nor your Irene.”

Fascinax moved over on the seat and placed his hands on Dickson’s neck and head. He adjusted his fingers until his ultra-sensitive fingers found their mark. He pressed hard, and suddenly Dickson relaxed. His fingers twitched and he slowly began to flex each muscle as it came out of its paralysis.

“You asked me for proof, Harry. Now, I have delivered that proof to you. Who do you think followed orders and killed James and Irene Oldfeld?”

Fascinax refilled the brandy glass and held it out to Dickson who took it into his shaking hands, and downed it. He was still in shock–not only from the paralysis visited upon him by Fascinax, but by the news he was hearing. He downed the brandy.

“The names are all in there. The games are over now, Dickson. Your days of chasing after petty thieves, mad doctors, thuggees and bored aristocrats are over. The stakes that are much higher and greater than ever–this is war.”

Disgusted, Fascinax tossed the files to Dickson, having already committed them to memory. Dickson studied the files. He could hardly bring himself to believe it, but the clues were all there, pointing toward the most bitter poison–the truth.

M was a traitor. Intelligence reports that would have led to Numa Pergyll’s capture were buried in that archive. Alongside Pergyll, there were others, perhaps even more fearsome, even more bloodthirsty. The new Lords of Chaos. Leonid Zattan. Dorje. Benedict Stark. Dr. Natas. Dr. Mabuse. Roxor... working together, building a new, secret empire that crossed all borders.

The sedan pulled to a stop. Fascinax reached for the door handle and opened the door for his friend. Dickson, still on shaky feet stood by the car. “What will you do?” he asked his friend.

Fascinax’s blue eyes projected his hurt for the burden he was about to lay at his friend’s feet. “Like you. Prepare for Armageddon. First I must deal with Numa. He will fool us no longer.”

Dickson froze as the words plunged daggers through his heart. Understanding, he simply nodded, turned and walked away in the fog.

The dark sedan had barely turned the corner when the fiery explosion went off in the archive.

Fascinax had made sure the monsters stayed buried.