Scent of a Killer 4 - Conclusion (MI7 Assassin origins story)
At any moment Stone expected to hear the bones crack. His chest was being slowly but inexorably compressed and he was having trouble sucking air down into his lungs
Apologies for the snafu – this post was supposed to go out early to my paying subscribers on Sunday, and then get shared publicly with all my free subscribers. But it was sitting in Drafts all along and it escaped our notice! Better late than never and this is the concluding part to Scent of a Killer, so I hope you enjoy it! Please share and leave a comment, getting feedback from you guys is so important to me.
We’ll have a hiatus of a couple of weeks and then we’ll be back more MI7 Assassin.
Welcome to MI7 Assassin! My new WW1 spy thriller kicks off with two origins short stories to warm you up before the main event.
If you’re just jumping onboard now, you can read part 1 of Scent of a Killer here:
And if you missed the first origins story: His Master’s Voice, pick it up here:
Thanks as always to my generous paying subscribers for supporting my writing on this platform!
And welcome to all recent subs who’ve joined us. You might be here because of all the Doctor Who material, but I hope you’ll stick around for MI7 Assassin, because it’s a real page turner.
Scent of a Killer 4 (conclusion)
This British equivalent of Eugen Sandow, ‘the strongest man in the world’, according to cigarette card collections at least, picked up Stone as easily as if he were lifting a sack of potatoes.
As he swam back into consciousness Stone realised he could only have been out for a second or two, but it was enough to find himself at a serious disadvantage. He found himself locked in a death grip, squeezed tight against the Strongman’s chest, his arms pinned to his sides. He arched his back and tried to push his arms out, but it was like being held in a vice. They were surrounded by intoxicated revellers, dancing and drinking, bawdy and uninhibited, all oblivious to the fight – if it could be called that – unfolding right next to them.
Sandow was a renowned strongman who could bend iron bars, support the weight of a grand piano with eight performers on it, and hold a 600lb horse overhead. This greased maniac was in the same league and was now in the process of not so much breaking but crushing Stone’s ribs to dust.
At any moment Stone expected to hear the bones crack. His chest was being slowly but inexorably compressed and he was having trouble sucking air down into his lungs. Around him, in the semi-darkness, the Bacchanalian masked mob celebrating the New Year became a shadowy, macabre horde of ill-wishers.
In his music hall days, Stone had never worked with a strongman – although he once had the opportunity and he kicked himself now for his lack of courage. It was just after he’d been sacked as ‘Spring-Heeled Sam’. His act featured him tightrope walking along a washing line before pretending to steal from a stage-prop house. The music hall audience took a particular dislike to it and regularly booed him off stage. This was before he joined ‘The Flying Desperados’. He had been desperate for work and ‘The Mighty Hercules’ had offered to help by making him his training partner. Trouble was, Hercules was a man who could bend a three-quarter inch iron bar in his mouth, straighten out horseshoes and lift a hundred and twenty pound anvil with one finger. All this meant his claw-like grip was not deadly, it was fatal. Training partners had a habit of only lasting a few weeks before Hercules crippled them. So even though he was desperate for money and starving, Stone had turned down Hercules’ generous financial offer. Instead, the strongman had to make do with a wooden dummy connected to railroad springs, provided by the music hall, to practise on.
But Stone survived, as he always had. He wasn't proud of himself, but he used the washing line rope trick to actually enter people’s houses to steal money and food. It wasn’t exactly ‘Raffles the gentleman thief’, but at least he got to eat. And he only ever targeted houses in the wealthy boroughs of London.
Now, mask to mask, the demon and the ram’s head faced each other as the Strongman continued his inexorable squeeze. It was unclear whether Stone’s arms or his ribs would break first. Perhaps both would snap simultaneously, but he would already have passed out, his brain starved of oxygen. His vision was narrowing, the dark closing in on all sides. All he could see was faint glints of light sparkling off the jewelled mask of his opponent.
As Stone began to fade, his soon to be killer took a breath and exhaled, minutely shifting his grip. Stone dropped an inch or so, enabled by gravity and the strongman’s frictionless chest, oiled and hairless.
Stone sucked in as much air as his constricted ribs would allow, and then exhaled fully, emptying his lungs, ignoring the burn deep in his chest. He saw flickering stars, and the urge to breathe was a screaming voice in his head. But he dropped another inch, and it was enough.
It freed his right hand just enough to do serious damage. There was only one unpleasant option available. No time to be squeamish. He reached under the Strongman’s loincloth and grabbed what he found there in a vice-like grip. There could be no half measures, no restraint. It was a matter of life and death. Stone squeezed, twisted and tugged in one simultaneous movement, as if he were pulling an apple off a tree. The Strongman screamed a ragged, guttural sound. Stone gritted his teeth and repeated the movement. No mercy could be shown. For a brief moment that felt like an eternity it was a question of who would let go of their deadly grip first.
It was the Strongman.
His agony was all-consuming. Rigid with pain, he unlocked his arms, releasing Stone, who took a deep, croaking breath. Stone swayed, and still drawing in air, unsteadily stepped back, finally releasing his grip. There was no need for any further attack. The Strongman collapsed to the floor, writhing into a foetal position. Stone left him mewling with pain, making a piercing and rare sound that Stone had only previously heard comrades make when they were lying, cruelly maimed and mutilated, in No Man’s Land on the Western Front. They were sounds that he left out of his best-selling books about the trench war, lest he should discourage his readers from flocking to the colours.
With the Strongman down, that made two bodies on the floor of the Cave of the Golden Calf. There was a ripple of awareness that all was not well in the dawning minutes of 1917. Someone nearby screamed: a fearsome, arresting sound. Perhaps they had removed the Skull mask and seen the bullet hole in the American’s forehead. Whatever had caused it, it created a domino effect.
As news of the shooting and the fight spread there was panic and the masked party goers surged through the rooms towards the exit. In a matter of seconds the mood flipped from bohemian hedonism to a rather more mundane scramble for safety. Stone was still sucking in lungfuls of air as best as his bruised ribs would allow and moved with the crowd. He saw many men and women too intoxicated to be nimble, stumbling and being shoved aside by their fellow guests. Those who made it to the stairs clambered up them in various states of undress, spilling out into the Soho backstreet. Stone exited with the jostling, fearful throng. He was just one more mask amongst hundreds.
After the overheated pungent fug of the Golden Calf, he took a welcome deep breath of the cold night air, feeling his ribs creak in protest. It was cold and dark in the alley, the black sky pressing down on the buildings. Sparse gas lamps cast isolated pools of light. Plumes of breath rose from the rapidly cooling guests, joining wreaths of chilly fog drifting overhead. Stone circled, scanning the crowd as they moved through the illuminated patches of pavement, weighing up his options. There was no sign of Jayden, otherwise he would still have considered dispatching him. The loss of his Mauser in the club was a blow, but he had plenty of hand-to-hand combat experience and he seriously doubted if the Yank would prove any kind of opposition. Even if Stone did feel like he’d just been put through a mangle. Doubtless the self-righteous twat had legged it to the stairs ahead of everyone else and had got out first. He’d probably had a car and driver waiting nearby, and was halfway back to the Savoy by now.
Stone slowly walked along the alley towards Regent Street, adding a little stagger to his gait – just another sloshed guest of the Cave of the Golden Calf, if anyone should pay attention to him. His car, a Ford Model T with the ubiquitous gas bag secured to the roof, was parked nearby. Taking off his mask, he drove away, passing other late night revellers in search of fun, despite the beauty sleep order.
He headed south through South Kensington and Chelsea towards Brompton cemetery, but parked several streets away and, as usual, never in the same street. The cemetery was his home: the gravedigger’s cottage that had been left to him in Ralph’s will. He hadn't bothered to light a fire before he went out, and the fog was thickening against the windows so he shouldered on his great coat, wincing a little as his ribs protested. He sat at the kitchen table and poured himself a glass of brandy. As the amber liquid traced welcoming fire down his throat he reflected on the night's events. Berated himself. Faced with a choice between saving the lives of thousands by helping bring the war to an end or saving a young girl from a monster, he’d chosen the latter. All his careful planning was for nothing. He’d never get another chance to kill Jayden and bring the phoney Belgium relief operation to an end. Next time, he told himself, don’t let your heart rule your head.
Well, he could try.
He had a lot to learn. It was only his second hit, after all. Surprisingly, the voices in his head had nothing to say on the subject. Not even Sergeant Dawes, an Elephant Boy, one of the leaders of the Elephant and Castle gang. Dawes’ attitude towards women had always appalled Stone. During the Retreat from Mons, Stone had stopped him from looting a young woman’s home. Dawes also tried to assault her before Stone intervened. But his voices remained silent. Whether it meant they approved of his actions, he wasn’t sure, but he slept soundly that night. He was at peace.
Three days later, he discovered the man he had shot was Marcus Taylor, a director of Bethlehem Steel Corporation, America’s most important armaments company. Taylor, like the other merchants of death, was hugely profiting from the war, and it was thus in his interests to prolong it.
Captain Pollard asked Stone to write an obituary for Taylor, leaving out anything ‘awkward’ as he put it, and to change the time of the assassination to earlier in the evening. Stone understood perfectly.
Included in the ‘awkward’ details to be deleted was Taylor’s leading role in the Cleveland Automatic Machine Company scandal. The toolmakers were under contract to Bethlehem Steel. They were allegedly manufacturing poisonous shrapnel shells which caused agonising deaths. The details had been leaked to the press and – whatever the truth – MI7 had used all their considerable influence to kill the story, claiming it was German propaganda.
Stone wrote convincingly about the great work Taylor – a deeply religious man, a devout Quaker, no less – did for charity. The widows and orphans he had helped. This devoted family man left behind a grieving widow and three sons. He omitted to say that the boys were named Julius, Augustus and Hadrian, which just might suggest that Marcus Taylor had had a Caesar complex. Instead he focussed on the tragedy. How he had been gunned down by a murderous assassin in a cowardly and brutal shooting while on his way back from a prayer meeting.
Stone smiled coldly to himself. It was not everyday an assassin gets to write an obituary about the man he’s just murdered. But his true epitaph he’d left in Taylor’s head.
He knew Jayden was unlikely to acknowledge his visit to the Cave. It wouldn’t look good for a member of the Anti-Saloon League to admit he was present at an orgy and a murder scene. Not that he recognized Stone. And none of the other guests were likely to identify him either, except perhaps the Strongman that he had almost emasculated. But even there, they had both retained their masks during their fight and had no way of knowing who the other was. True, he had witnessed that the Strongman had a most remarkable gift for recognising people by their scents, which just might give him away. However, the chances of meeting this real life Tarzan ever again were remote. So he was in the clear.
The industrialists who were present at the Golden Calf that night might only guess as to the assassin’s motivation. They might reasonably conclude he was some kind of anarchist intent on ending the war or, at least, Bethlehem Steel’s involvement in it. They couldn’t know that the killing was actually a mistake.
But it was still a warning. To all of them.
On the crisp, clear morning of January 12th, 1917, Captain Pollard left his fifteenth century manor house overlooking the Sussex downs and set off on his beloved Triumph Model H autocycle. He threaded through narrow lanes lined with skeletal winter hedgerows and headed to the A272. He followed it all the way to Winchester, and then took the A341 towards Salisbury. It was a splendid morning, perfect for a drive across the countryside, and he cut a dashing figure in his helmet, goggles and leather trench coat.
He still missed the time when he had been a despatch rider before officially becoming a military intelligence officer. He looked for any excuse to take the bike out and he had a most excellent reason in visiting the gas experimental station at Porton Down. He turned off the A341 onto Winterslow Road and headed towards the main camp.
It consisted of a few cottages and farm buildings which were adapted for use as laboratories, offices, and accommodation for soldiers working on the various experiments. He passed the huts where the livestock were kept. Notably goats, dogs and monkeys. Cats, rabbits, guinea pigs and rats were also to be found elsewhere in the complex. Pollard recalled that goats were particularly useful because their respiration rate was similar to a human’s. Similar but not the same. There were important differences. Differences he had discussed with Dr. Roche Lynch of the Department of Chemical Pathology.
The road he took through the camp gave a wide berth to a network of trenches in which clouds of gas were released from projectors, shells and cylinders. He couldn’t see much of it, other than a distant poisonous mist but he could hear the distressed bleating of tethered goats succumbing to whatever particular poison was being tested on them that day.
He drove on until he reached Idmiston on the edge of the camp and a rather inviting and rustic old manor house which was used as the officers' mess.
He carefully parked his ‘Trusty’ in a shed to the side of the main building. He also had a Harley-Davison 70 and a Bat roadster but this relatively humble machine was the one he had the most affection for. He was looking forward to a warm and cheerful officers’ mess after his long, cold ride. The interior, however, turned out to be rather disappointing. Drab, brown, sternly arranged tables and chairs, very male, almost oppressively Masonic. He found it lacking in life, and had none of the creature comforts he was used to at his club or in the homely pubs of rural Sussex. Perhaps, he speculated, that was because the Savile club had been founded by writers and artists with rather more imagination and sparkle, even if it admitted no female members.
But at least the fire in the inglenook was inviting. He took off his outer garments and hung them on coat hooks by the door. Then he joined Major-General Maurice Foulkes, the army’s Director of Chemical Warfare, who sat on one of a pair of winged armchairs in front of the blaze. Foulkes was sitting awkwardly, on a plump feather cushion placed on the seat of his armchair, his legs splayed in front of him. He was a handsome man in a classic army officer way, with a high forehead chasing a receding hairline and deep-set, dark eyes set under bushy eyebrows. A matching bushy moustache, impeccably trimmed and tidy, guarded a wide, thin mouth that suited giving orders.
Foulkes didn’t get up to greet Pollard and he completely understood why. The Major had only just been discharged from hospital. Pollard had brought along a gift: a bottle of his famous – or rather infamous – home-made wine. He had thought it might cheer Foulkes up.
An orderly who had been discreetly hovering nearby fetched a corkscrew and wine glasses. After opening the bottle and pouring out two glasses of straw-coloured liquid, he discreetly moved away again, out of casual earshot. Foulkes sniffed his glass quizzically, nodded appreciatively and then tasted it. ‘My God, that’s lethal,’ he said, managing to smile bravely through his pain.
‘I like to live dangerously, sir,’ grinned Pollard, relaxing in the armchair opposite. ‘I am rather a good pirate in the best English tradition’
Pollard had already heard an edited version of what had happened to Foulkes at the Cave and his heart went out to his brother officer. He could appreciate that Foulkes would still be in great discomfort from the after-effects of his savage encounter with the assassin on New Year’s Eve.
Pollard had always admired Foulkes, not only as a distinguished soldier, but as an Olympic athlete and star pupil of Eugen Sandow. Photographs of Foulkes, his muscles oiled and rippling, naked save for a figleaf, had appeared in Sandow’s book, Strength and How to Obtain it. Both strongmen had similar magnificent physiques. In his military uniform this was not immediately obvious: he looked just like any other well-built high-ranking officer with his military moustache. The only give away Pollard noted, was his head, which was a little small on the top of such a powerful, broad-shouldered body. Perhaps all bodybuilders seemed to have small heads, out of proportion to their bodies, he mused.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about the assassin, Major?’
‘I’m afraid not, Pollard. As Thomson will have told you, it was dark and he was wearing a mask. But I would recognise his scent again anywhere.’
'So it's true, what they say about you?'
Foulkes nodded. ‘Hyperosmia. It can be an unpleasant experience, at times. Although it does come in handy, on occasion.’
‘Fascinating. I intend one day to write a book on fox hunting and the mysteries of scent. I have even invented a scentometer for tracking down foxes.’
Fox hunting was a subject that Pollard loved to talk about and he thought he might gain some new insights from this renowned expert.
But Foulkes was in no mood for such idle chit-chat. The pain kept him strictly focussed. ‘Yes, well if we can return to how we track down this human fox.’
‘Do you have any theories as to why he should have chosen Marcus Taylor as his target?’
‘None whatsoever. Marcus and I were having a quiet drink, waiting for the New Year, when he just gunned him down.’
‘I see.’ And Pollard did see. A quiet drink in the Cave of the Golden Calf on New Year’s Eve. How unlikely. But he knew he’d never get the truth out of Foulkes.
‘It’s a bad business,’ Pollard continued, getting up to put another log on the fire, keenly aware of how Foulkes was immobilised. ‘The pistol has always been the weapon of the gentleman and a companion to the sword. And now common assassins imperil the foundation of the code of honour.’
‘Yes, but why are you involved, Pollard? I’ve already given a full statement to Basil Thomson at the Yard.’
Pollard wondered if Basil Thomson, the head of Special Branch, could have possibly been at the Cave that night, too. His appetite for prostitutes was well known. But Basil had given him no indication that he had been present. ‘It’s because of the pistols,’ he began as Foulkes suddenly squirmed in agony. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked anxiously.
Foulkes glared at him. ‘I don’t wish to talk about it.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Pollard cleared his throat. ‘The assassin’s Mauser was found at the scene. Unfortunately it had been handled by several individuals, so it was no use for fingerprints.’
‘And just what is its relevance?’ Foulkes asked irritably.
‘It was the same gun used in the Colchester killing I’m currently investigating. The assassination of Wichart Crowe. Colchester police thought a Webley .455 was the murder weapon, but my examination of the bullet proved otherwise.’
‘Go on.’
‘The cook discovered the gun at the crime scene and the police jumped to the wrong conclusion. Unfortunately she has now disappeared, but it seems likely she was the assassin’s accomplice.’
‘You’ve no leads on her?’
‘She claimed to be a widow of a soldier killed at Loos, but she gave a fake name and address. However, the Webley was a mark three, marked with a broad arrow acceptance stamp which means it was issued to an officer in the Royal Navy.’
Despite his grimace, Foulkes looked impressed. ‘So it’s true what they say about you, Pollard. You’re the Sherlock Holmes of ballistics.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ve studied guns since I was a boy.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘In pursuit of my hobby, I would defy the masters and powers that be and I revelled in my secret possession of firearms.’
‘I’m told your Book of the Pistol and Revolver is the definitive work.’
‘It was a labour of love, sir.’
‘So is there a Doctor Watson who can assist you in your investigations and help you find this assassin?’
‘I have a young assistant, sir. A Private Stone. He shows great promise.’
‘Well, I wish you every success. It is my earnest desire to meet the assassin again and, should I do so, I would recognize him instantly by his scent. I believe my evidence alone would be sufficient to convict him.’
‘If there had to be a formal trial, sir.’ Pollard looked meaningfully at Foulkes.
Foulkes stared at Pollard. ‘If?’
Although there was no other officer or orderly within earshot, Pollard leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘As you know, sir, I have been given security clearance to study your latest developments in chemical warfare and the urgent need to ground truth the new product you’re developing.’
‘We call it “The devil’s breath”.’
‘I’m sure that’s most appropriate, sir. You’re aware I work closely with Doctor Roche Lynch, the forensic scientist.’
‘Of course. The leading expert on poisons.’
‘My own knowledge of human anatomy is also considerable and we both recognize that the experiments on animals here, commendable as they are, do not entirely illustrate the effects of the product on human beings.’
‘Yes, it’s frustrating,’ agreed Foulkes. ‘We have gas chambers, entered through airlocks, and equipped with vaporising sprays operated from the outside. I often watch the unfortunate animals die inside and reflect how it would be invaluable for the purposes of pathology if their places were taken by human beings.’
‘Alas, there are laws preventing that.’
‘Yet the gas chamber has been seriously discussed as an alternative to the gallows. I know the Americans are considering it.’ Foulkes could see the way the conversation was going, but he was determined to let Pollard lead, and he wasn’t going to make it too easy for him.
‘And that brings me to the other reason for my visit, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘Off the record, what if there was a way to achieve a more effective experiment and to deal with the assassin at the same time?’
‘What do you mean, what if there was a way?’ Foulkes finished his glass of wine and shook his head, declining a refill. ‘Spell it out, man.’
‘Somehow this man has found a way to access classified, most secret information. It’s the most likely explanation for his assassinations of the head of the naval blockade and a director of Bethlehem Steel. You and your new product may well be his next target. Knowing this, it should therefore not be difficult to draw him into a trap.’
‘This all seems far too hypothetical, Pollard. You have no idea who he is, whether he’s a German agent, an anarchist or some kind of peace prattler. Never mind why I should be next on his list.’ But Pollard had piqued his interest and he couldn’t resist adding after a moment’s pause, ‘What kind of trap?’
‘That would take some explaining, sir. Perhaps now is not the right time.’
Pollard sat back and sipped his wine. It really was rather good. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware that Foulkes was staring at him intently. After a few seconds Foulkes gestured impatiently. 'No please, do continue.'
Pollard drained his glass and set it on the small low table between them. ‘It should not be difficult to draw his attention to your product and yourself. Then, when we apprehend him, he could be dealt with in the gas chamber. Goats are one thing, but a human being is of far greater scientific value. Not only would it greatly improve our medical knowledge and how to inflict the weapon most effectively on the enemy, but it would be, from everything I have read about its effect on the animals here…’ He paused for emphasis. ‘An excruciating death.’
At the word ‘excruciating’ Foulkes squirmed in his chair at the prospect of inflicting such pain on the man responsible for the gross indignity and harm done to him.
In the distance, carried on the wind, they could hear the desperate cries of the goats in the trenches breathing – or more accurately choking – their last. Foulkes waited for the plaintive sounds to subside, then responded with a thin, twisted smile. ‘I do hope you’re not raising my hopes unreasonably, Pollard.’
‘Not at all, sir. I have considered this plan very carefully.’
‘Well, it had better not be another of your propaganda stunts. I’m not the general public, you know.’
‘I understand, sir. ’
‘Nevertheless,’ Foulkes paused. ‘I can see it does have a certain merit.’
‘I have a detailed plan of operation awaiting your approval, sir. Not only will it accelerate the demonstration and approval of your new gas at the highest level, but I am convinced it will attract the attention of the assassin.
Foulkes nodded thoughtfully, pursing his thin lips. He gave the impression of a man making a purely professional, tactical decision, but Pollard wasn’t fooled. He saw the gleam of excitement in Foulke’s deep-set eyes and if he wasn’t imagining it, a slight flush had stained his cheeks.
‘I look forward to studying your plan. This criminal will be an excellent subject for the devil’s breath.’