Originally published in The Red, White & Blue 'old series' issue 3 - March 2010

An edited version will be re-published in a future issue of The Red, White & Blue as "The Meyer Syndicate"

Sexton Blake opened the April 17th 2007 edition of the Globe and sighed, he was sitting in a small waiting room in Peterborough station, awaiting the train back to King’s Cross station, London. For the past week he had been engaged in a complex murder case in Edinburgh and was now eager to return to his Baker Street offices and see what new cases awaited him. Turning to his paper he read of the successful conviction of the murderer he had helped to hunt down days before, the vital evidence he had uncovered showing the killer’s guilt was not in doubt. Another page spoke of an American businessman’s fortunate run of luck on the stock market that had seen him join the exclusive ranks of the world’s billionaires. In the distance the nasal station announcement system warned people to move back from the platform, as an express train would be coming through at speed. Looking at his watch, Blake wondered where his own train would be, it was supposed to be arriving about now.

His thoughts where interrupted by a tremendous, rending crash from the other end of the station. As he looked up, he saw the locomotive of the express train rearing up in the air, to demolish a bridge over the rails. The engine itself was torn apart by the collision and an orange flash burst forth as it’s diesel tanks ignited. The carriages behind clattered across the platforms, buckling and twisting in concertina fashion. The noise was horrendous and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, but in reality was over in a matter of seconds. Blake was immediately on his feet and mounting the stairs up to the main bridge, right next to the waiting room. He reached the top and barged through the crowds of people, still in shock at the terrible disaster. Clouds of thick, choking smoke poured up the stairs but the heroic detective plunged into the chaos, pointing the walking wounded towards the bridge as he battled across the platform. Debris and wreckage where scattered everywhere, and Blake saw for the first time the cause of the disaster, the express had somehow been routed onto the wrong track and had collided at high speed with the single-carriage diesel train bound for Lincoln. The latter was torn to shreds and already ablaze, nobody aboard could have survived...

Blake forged onwards, stopping to smash the window of a waiting room in which several terrified people where trapped by fire. His voice, firm and measured even in this crisis, urged them to come to their senses and walk to safety in an orderly manner. With the platform cleared Blake could hear screaming coming from a nearby carriage, laying on it’s side after having been catapulted right over the platform and onto the rails at the other side. Fire was quickly taking hold but the gallant detective plunged through the door anyway. Inside was a scene of complete devastation, everybody that he could see was clearly dead, but from the other side of a sheet of flame the screaming still came. Blake wrapped his coat about his head and charged the flames, regardless of danger. Coming out the other side he discarded the burning coat and took in the scene, a mother was unhurt, but her wheelchair-bound son was trapped between two seats and unconscious. The shock had robbed her of all reason, but Blake took her calmly in hand and led her to the far end of the carriage, before taking hold of the nearby emergency window hammer and shattering the nearest window, which was now above him. With great effort he lifted the woman’s son out, to be collected by the waiting hands of the fire service, who had now arrived on the scene. Blake then turned to the mother, and helped her out the same way. Choking smoke seared his lungs as he returned to the carriage for a third time to check for more survivors, but those remaining where beyond all aid.

As Blake left the carriage, he noticed several cylindrical wagons parked nearby, the intensity of the fires was heating the gases stored within them, and their safety valves hissed furiously. One wagon, however, was swelling up and making deep, creaking noises... it was going to explode! Blake leapt onto the track and ran for his life, despite the agonising protest from his smoke-filled lungs. He rounded the end of the stricken carriage and flung himself flat just in time, as an ear-splitting roar filled the air and shredded shards of metal clattered to the ground. As he got to his feet again, his ears ringing, a fireman appeared and helped him back along the ruined platform to the un-damaged bridge. He was halfway across it before he realised the man was talking to him.

"We thought you where finished, mate"

"I feel like I am" murmured Blake, before asking a stream of questions about the rescue efforts and if he could be of help. Assured repeatedly that his help was no longer required, Blake finally allowed himself to be shown out of the station. As he sat down in the car park the true human cost of the disaster struck him. A constant stream of stretcher cases where being ferried out of the station and laid down, doctors and ambulance crews ran this way and that, doing what they could. At least three helicopters came and went, rushing the most serious cases to hospital. An RAF air-sea rescue craft had even arrived on the scene and was picking victims up with it’s winch. After sitting for only minutes Blake pulled himself up again and began helping to tend to stricken patients laid down in the car park, his medical knowledge, though primarily learned over a century ago, came to the fore as he helped to bandage and patch up minor wounds. So engrossed was he in this task that it took one of the paramedics to tell him his mobile phone was ringing.

"Blake here" he said, answering mechanically, as if recently awoken from sleep

"Gor blimey, you ok guv? I saw you on the telly just now, I knew you where on your way back, wondered if you might be caught up in that lot."

It was Edward Carter, AKA Tinker, Blake’s faithful assistant. For the first time Blake noticed television crews and news helicopters milling around the disaster scene. The fires where now out and those with the most serious wounds had all been cleared away. Some people with more minor wounds where being shown onto buses to be taken en masse for medical care. Accident investigators where also arriving on the scene to begin the inspection work.

"Yes, I saw it happen... terrible business. I wonder how all the fail-safe systems could have gone wrong at once to allow such a thing to happen"

"Well it’s one for the crash investigators, eh? They’ll get it sorted. Just ringing to tell you we’ve sent the helicopter up to collect you, don’t suppose any trains will be running that way for months"

"No, I suppose not... thank you anyway. I suppose I’ll be more use back at the burrow now, the emergency services have everything under control here."

A sudden thought struck Blake, he was about to hang up but stopped himself

"Tinker, do you happen to have the number of chief inspector Carolyn Griffiths?"

"It should be on this computer" there where some clicks and typing sounds

"Got her... she’s the head of accident investigation in the British Transport Police."

Tinker’s tone of voice changed as what he was reading struck him

"Er, Guv, isn’t she going to be a little busy?"

"All the more reason to help her, lad" Blake replied. The severity of the disaster, in this modern age of fail-safes and early warning systems, had struck him as being very suspicious... as if it had been planned.

The Grey Panther, Sexton Blake’s powerful Mercedes saloon car, sat opposite the house of the express train driver, who had been killed outright in the disaster. Police accident investigators swarmed around inside the house as Blake, Tinker and their faithful bloodhound Pedro walked up to the front door. Blake was confident of being allowed in, but a policeman stationed at the door of the house stopped him in his tracks.

"Here, you can’t bring that dog in ‘ere!" he said, looking down at Pedro, who was some way behind Blake, sniffing at the edge of the lawn.

"I assure you, sir, that my dog is perfectly well-trained..." Blake began, but at a short bark from Pedro, a signal he recognised, he cut himself off. The police officer looked satisfied and turned back to the hallway. Tinker had heard the bark too and bent down, having recognised it as Pedro’s way of telling his masters he had discovered something unusual, such as a scent which didn’t belong. The young detective whispered one word in Pedro’s ear: "seek!"

The dog began sniffing across the lawn, rain and dew had removed the trail of scent he was following, so progress was slow, but his sensitive nose managed to track what remained of it round to the side of the house. Pedro stopped at a large side window, looked up at it and gave another short bark as if satisfied. Sexton Blake pulled out a small magnifying glass and began to examine the window, obviously something unusual had happened here, and a different scent to that found on the rest of the property had attracted Pedro’s attention. Examining the lock on the window, Blake noticed a tiny area of chipped-off paint on one side of it. Being familiar with the design of lock, he recognised it as having been forced from outside, the tiny area of damage to the paint being unavoidable even to the most experienced cracksman.

"Interesting" he murmured to himself as he continued his examination. Small dirty marks on the wall indicated shoes being rubbed against it as somebody climbed in through the window. Small shreds of rubber in amongst the grass indicated that the shoes had been extremely soft-soled, and chosen for their silence. The clues where mounting, then Tinker spotted the biggest one of all.

"There, guv, on that corner" he whispered, pointing to the corner of the window frame which swung up when it was opened. The tiniest particle of blood and skin was adhering to the very corner- somebody had bumped their head on the frame whilst climbing in or out of the window. A single strand of hair adhered to the blood. Taking tweezers and a small plastic bag from his pocket, Blake collected the vital evidence.

"Somebody has undoubtedly broken into this house", Blake announced, "and not just a common thief, whoever it was was a professional, the kind who would normally be stealing treasures of great value... or carrying out an assassination!"

"Blimey, guv, what can all this mean?" Tinker wondered aloud, before being hushed by the detective.

"I’m not sure yet, I’ll have to ask a few questions, but I suspect this may lead us into a deep mystery"

Whilst Tinker took Pedro and the collected evidence back to the car, Blake had a brief interview with the crash investigation officers, as he did so he made careful note of the state of the house. The police had searched in a methodical way, and Blake could see no evidence of his mysterious intruder having been rifling for anything. From the cheap food and tickets to see the local football team, Blackfield Rovers, he could tell the train driver had not been a wealthy man, and so was unlikely to have had anything particularly valuable that a skilled thief would wish to steal. He also enquired if the man had made any complaints to the police recently, but the last one had been about a stolen bike 16 years ago. Blake thanked the officer for his time and left, more certain than ever that some foul play had taken place, and that it had been directly related to the crash.

"What now, Guv?" asked Tinker when Blake returned to the car

"Well," said Blake, holding up the small bag containing the discovered hair, "let’s see what this can tell us, first. Hopefully if we can track down our mysterious intruder we can throw some light on his purpose."

Sexton Blake’s house and consulting rooms, whilst still situated on Baker Street, had changed a lot over the years. His current home appeared from the outside to be a bland and featureless office building, but once inside it was a combination of a cosy and luxurious home, complete with the latest crime-fighting equipment and a world-class forensic science laboratory. It was to this that Sexton Blake headed with the tiny clue in his hand. He had long been the champion of scientific methods of detection, but only in the last 20 years had he seen it really come into it’s own, today the tiniest fragment of almost invisible evidence could be as damning as a bloodstained dagger or a smoking gun.

Blake remained at his desk for several long hours, carefully performing the chemical tests needed to isolate a sample of DNA from his tiny clue. He repeated the test several times, until he was certain of the result. He also subjected minuscule residues on the surface of the hair to numerous tests. As he worked he clicked back and forth on a nearby computer, the modern version of his ‘Baker Street Index’, a catalogue of crime dating back to his very first investigative days. He read with interest some of the details that had come to light regarding the crash that had taken place. He then compared it to other similar news stories from the world over. The tests and research where finally complete as the clock in the hall was striking two, and the great detective decided to turn in. But before that he decided to compare the DNA he had discovered with the stored samples on the national police database, which he had special dispensation to access. As he half-expected, no match was found.

"A hurdle... but not a major one. It simply means our suspect has not been caught for anything serious yet" he murmured to himself, before setting the computer to flag up any match should it appear on the database in future, and turning in for the night.

The sun was streaming in through the windows and the clock striking nine when Blake’s housekeeper, Mrs Bardell, woke him up with breakfast.

"It won’t do for such an accelerated criminal defective as yourself to be getting so little sleep, mister B" she chastised him, in her own peculiar brand of English, as she handed over his morning papers. He liked to read a range of both the serious papers and "red-top" tabloids, he skimmed through them noting all articles of interest, those relating to recent crimes especially. One on the second page of a tabloid caught his attention in particular.

"MYSTERY MAN COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER BUNGLED ROBBERY"

The article made much of the police being completely unaware of who the man was, and of the state of immigration controls and the tracking of foreign organised crime in Britain. The local police force had been appealing for anybody who may know the man’s identity.

"A man who is caught breaking into a house, and prefers to die rather than be caught, this merits further investigation" he thought to himself as he rose. Within the hour he and Tinker where purring northwards in the Grey Panther to Norwich, where the mystery man’s body had been taken.

Sergeant Northfield of Norwich central police station was determinedly an old-school "copper", and after having been shown identification papers by the two detectives, allowed them almost unrestricted access to the body. The man was a young, strong-looking African with very short hair and, as Blake noticed immediately, a small, recently healed wound on the top of his head.

"No identification of any kind on ‘im that we could see, not even labels in his clothes. It’s like he appeared out of thin air!" the sergeant was explaining as the two detectives began their examinations.

"How did he kill himself?" asked Blake, noticing an absence of major wounds on the body

"Cyanide, hidden inside a false tooth... very James Bond. The whole thing’s a mystery all right"

"Quite" said Blake, as he bent down, noticing a small but unusual tattoo on the dead man’s upper arm.

"Oh that, couldn’t make any sense of it, it’s unusual but it hasn’t helped identification at all" the sergeant said, noticing his interest.

"Yes, it is rather unusual" Blake agreed, secretly he had recognised the symbol, though he kept it to himself. He was becoming more and more of the mind that the case was a very unusual one, suited to investigation by the Craille institute, the secret organisation to which he and Tinker where attached.

"Well I can’t make any sense of it either" Blake finished, rising to his feet, "myself and my assistant where just passing, and we’ve had contact with most of the criminal underworld of this country, but I'm afraid this is just another of those mysteries. Now if you’ll excuse me we have to be on our way, urgent business, you understand."

"I understand perfectly" the Sergeant said, showing them to the door. Craille Institute operatives each had numerous fake identity cards with which they could quickly gain access to crime scenes and other restricted areas, in this case Blake had posed as a senior police officer from a distant station.

"Where now?" asked Tinker as they returned to the car, a long drive back to London ahead of them.

"The burrow, if anybody is there when we get back anyway. The mystery deepens and deepens. First, however, a stop at Baker street, there’s a detail I need to check... one which ought to set us on the track, if my suspicions are correct."

The Burrow was built underneath an abandoned tube station which had been converted into a special bomb shelter for the use of government VIP’s, including Winston Churchill himself, during the second world war. It was a large complex of modern offices and laboratories to rival the best-funded police stations in the world, not to mention Sexton Blake’s own residence. This was the home of the Craille Institute, a top-secret organisation set up to combat criminals who where so cunning, so audacious, that most people could not believe they even existed.

The head of the institute was George Coutts, the descendent of a Scotland Yard man Blake had known during the latter half of the 20th century, who was himself the son of another George Coutts whom Blake had begun working with in the 1920’s. The current Coutts had been in the job only about a year but had already seen and heard of plots so fantastic he had a hard time believing his own senses. But even so he was dubious of what Sexton Blake was in the process of laying before him now.

"...So, you are suggesting that a voodoo cult from Haiti, are using mind-altering drugs and mesmerism to induce train crashes, air accidents and even bus crashes, in order to injure executives of stock market companies so that their competitors may benefit? I must say, Blake, the whole thing sounds absurd... and coming from me, that means something!"

"It may sound that way, sir, but ten years ago, a plot to destroy a major world landmark by crashing hijacked airliners into it, or to steal diamonds with the use of a JCB and a speedboat, would have sounded equally fantastic... And yet both of these things happened for real! I have researched the various unexplained accidents from the past three years in which the drivers or pilots have been killed after suddenly seeming to cause the disaster on purpose, against all safety measures. In every one the disaster has caused the fortunes of a stock market company to plummet, to the joy of it’s competitors and their share holders. Peterborough was no exception, the entire board of Silhouette beauty products was aboard, three of whom are dead and one of which will be speaking through a computer for the rest of his life."

The detective sat back, a grin of triumph upon his face. Coutts remained unconvinced. He gazed over at a portrait of his grandfather that took pride of place in the small but comfortable office, as if seeking inspiration from the man who had first had to put up with the obstinate detective’s mad-sounding ideas. He imagined he could hear the man's voice, though he scarcely remembered it from early childhood, saying- "Remember, most of those mad ideas turned out to be completely accurate!"

The modern Coutts turned back to Blake, resigned.

"Very well, you may take the case... but not the jet! Fly there economy class if you want to use the institue's money on this wild goose chase!"

"I'll spend wisely, sir" Blake returned as he left the office. Even the cheap seats on a long-distance airline where luxury compared to some of the journeys he and Tinker and undertaken in their long adventures. Had they wanted to get to Haiti when they started out, the voyage would likely have lasted weeks, crammed in an unheated cabin aboard a steamer.

Returning to Baker Street to pack their things, Tinker took the opportunity to ask Blake how he had came to such a startling conclusion regarding the case, the first he himself had heard of the whole plot had been in George Coutts’ office.

"Simple, I was checking the details of the crash reported in the press, and noticed that major company directors had been aboard the train. I remembered a similar case from a year ago so began to search for it amongst the archived news stories in our index. I had many search results returned from the computer, I expected this and had to read a few of them to find the one I was looking for. After I had checked five or six I was certain something suspicious was going on!"

"And how does our man in Norwich, who I presume to be Haitian, not African, fit in?" Tinker asked, still slightly baffled

"That unusual tattoo on his upper arm, I knew I had seen it before but I had to go right back into the dusty tomes of the original Baker Street Index- which explains our stop outside which scandalised the traffic warden- to find it. The Takipok Tribe!"

"Takipok... I remember them, guv! But surely we put paid to their criminal brand of Voodoo almost 90 years ago!"

"Yes, we got rid of the original gang alright, but somebody has evidently tried to revive them, and this time they have shaken off the religious connotations to it altogether I suspect. The original Takipok Tribe used Voodoo as an excuse for looting and murder, but the new one seems to be using the knowledge of the less-reputable Houngans, or priests of Voodoo, for their own ends."

"But surely all that mesmerism stuff can’t be true?"

"Not mesmerism, my lad... simply mind-altering chemicals and subtle suggestions, like stage hypnosis. Presumably they program somebody in their sleep, this person then goes about their normal life until they get a phone call or other signal telling them to do their deadly work. They will then go about it without thinking... a bus driving over a cliff, a train with it’s brakes disabled crashing... the dead man we investigated had himself been breaking into a bus driver’s house. No doubt with the aim of him causing an accident during the Norwich ‘take the bus to work day’. He normally drove the route that passed through the industrial estate of the city, if companies there lost money competitors elsewhere would benefit... and so would the shareholders!"

"A simple traffic accident... and yet people on the other side of the world could make millions from it... it’s so mad I have to believe it!"

"That’s the spirit, my boy!" Blake enthused, clipping down the lid of his suitcase. "Now, lets turn in... we’re on the first flight tomorrow morning."

 Sexton Blake had long since tuned out the whine of the Boeing’s jet engines as he sat and thought, philosophically, that he could remember a time when powered flight was but a fantasy. He remembered fanciful stories written about it, sometimes in the same publications that his own stories, published in edited form as fiction in order to confuse the criminal underworld. The flying craft would invariably be shaped after the ships of the time, held aloft with large fans and beating mechanical wings all over it’s hull. A casing would be placed over the deck and the craft would spend as much time under the sea as in the air, as absurd as a flying submarine sounded today.

Such craft in those stories would, however, be fitted with luxuries that would disgrace even modern cruise ships. Blake sighed as he compared it the reality of air travel at the opening of the twenty-first century. Here he was in a seat scarcely wider than himself, eating barely-warmed food from a tray on his knees, using cardboard cutlery. He stared out of the tiny window at the clouds rolling by beneath, and wondered what the writers of those stories would have made of it.

Tinker awoke from his doze as the pilot announced they would soon be setting down at the Toussaint Louverture Airport, near Port-au-Prince, the capital city of Haiti. The plane began to bank and Blake could see the island below him, a large green outcropping in the glittering, light blue sea. From the sky it looked like paradise but he knew somebody down there had been responsible for terror and murder on a gigantic scale. Blake thought back to the accident with a slight cough, his lungs had still not fully recovered from the smoke inhalation, and hoped he would swiftly be able to avenge all the lives lost, many literally before his eyes.

The two detectives stepped into their small hotel as Australian tourists, but with a quick change of clothes they left the rear of the building as shady-looking criminals. The Craille institute had no contacts in Haiti, so Blake and Tinker disguised themselves as Eastern European criminals who lived in Paris. French being the main language of Haiti, who wanted to set up connections in the country to ship ‘merchandise’ such as drugs, weapons and stolen goods back to their homeland.

"So how do we start, guv?" Tinker whispered

"Simple, we find the dirtiest, most disreputable drinking establishment we can, and start drinking" Blake replied, as the two hailed a Tap-tap, a kind of shared Taxi, and began to journey to the city’s expansive slum districts.

The Bleu Lagune club certainly looked the part, Sexton Blake decided as he and his assistant ambled down a street in one of the slum areas. Even amongst the dirty, crumbling and haphazard buildings that surrounded it, it looked like the sort of place best avoided. The once bright blue paint that covered the building was now faded to almost white and peeling away. What looked like bullet holes dotted the front wall and only one of the uppermost windows seemed to have glass in, the rest where shuttered, most likely due to being broken. As the two got closer a police car drove by, the officers inside looking the other way... weather they ignored the club out of fear or for some financial gain Blake didn’t know, but he did assume he had found the right place.

The two detectives pushed their way into the crowded bar, Calypso music played quietly and was almost entirely drowned out by the conversations of at least two hundred of the most rough and dangerous looking men as our heroes had ever set eyes upon. The smoke of various substances legal and illegal filled the air. Blake and Tinker adopted a confident but distrusting swagger as they strode up to the bar and asked for doubles of whatever was the hardest drink the barman had.

Before long, a short, ragged man sidled up to them, without making eye contact he initiated conversation with Blake, in the time-honoured fashion of the strange connection between crooks of all kinds.

"Is M’sieu buying or selling?" he asked, at what may be called a whisper, considering the din within the place.

"Buying" was Blake’s reply, in French with a strong Slavic accent, the detective was a master of acting and disguise, which had proven invaluable to him more times than he cared to count.

"Back alley, five minutes" was the reply. The man strode away and was lost in amongst the crowd. Blake nudged Tinker and the two walked to a side door in the bar, finished their drinks and pushed through. The sun was now setting and they where met by a dark, gloomy alleyway. The black silhouette of a man leaning against a large, old Cadillac could be seen at one end. As the two detectives walked towards him they became aware of other people concealed within the shadows. Some of these moved in closer, vicious-looking machine guns in their hands. The two had been through such underworld business transactions before, and remained calm as they confidently strode up to the man near the car, who stood up and moved into the light.

"I hear you are in the market, my friends" he said, stepping fully into the dull light from the setting sun. He was a large, powerfully-built man, dressed in a semblance of respectability, if his suit was worn and old-looking. A profusion of large gold rings decorated his fingers, and chains where draped around his neck. He smiled, revealing several gold fillings in his teeth. Blake remained impassive, normally he would be doing all within his power to bring down such a man, for he was evidently a powerful part of the Port-au-Prince underworld. However the detective had far larger enemies to take care of... a ruthless enemy who evidently thought nothing of murdering hundreds of innocent people for a few dollars. The man introduced himself as Papa Eldorado. With his gold and his Cadillac it was certainly a fitting name, Blake thought.

"And what is m’sieu in the market for... Drugs? Guns? ...People?" he asked

"Guns" Blake said at first, "Pistols"

The boot of the car was opened by a short man Blake had only been vaguely aware of. Two 9mm handguns where handed out, Papa Eldorado held them out to the detectives.

"Two hundred each", he grinned. Blake guessed he had to barter

"One fifty" he grunted

"One ninety... not a cent less" the gangster returned. Hearing the crowd behind him shuffle with expectation, Blake decided to accept. The transaction was made and the two detectives pocketed the weapons without a word.

"And now m’sieu, three hundred if you can give me some information" Blake spoke up

"A businessman" the gangster observed, "there is nothing Papa Eldorado does not hear about".

Still judging the situation carefully, Blake decided to take the plunge.

"Takipok" was Blake’s single word, but the effect on the gang leader was electric, his gang also. They visibly recoiled in abject terror, despite their vicious appearance.

"M’sieu!" The gangster gasped, his car door already being opened for him "to even speak the name is death! He has eyes everywhere!"

"He? So it’s a man we’re dealing with?" Blake continued

"I have said too much already!" the gangster cried, he leapt into his car and it roared away, crunching gravel and dust behind it. The gang surrounding the two detectives melted away too, and before long our heroes where left alone in the alleyway.

"Well" began Tinker, "they’re not going to be any more pleasant than they where all those years ago, I'm gathering".

The two detectives returned to their hotel, all other enquiries into Takipok, whoever this man was that had taken the name of the much-feared cult of old, had been similarly baffled. Returning by a little-used rear entrance they once again adopted the guise of Australian tourists and spent a little time in the bar, talking loudly so that people would remember seeing them. Later they retired to Tinker’s room, the two rooms where small and nicely furnished, if a little primitive, a thick red curtain hid a connecting door between the two rooms, and a small balcony ran alongside the building, separated into sections for each room by iron railings.

"Not been too successful so far, guv" Tinker sighed as they sat talking, the french windows thrown open to let cool night air in

"No, the whole criminal underworld seem to be in terror of this mysterious man, he seems to be some kind of ghost, though, for all the solid leads we can get on him"

Suddenly, Blake hushed tinker, crept to the french windows and listened. His face grew more severe.

"What is it? Somebody below?" Tinker whispered

"No... somebody’s in my room!" Blake replied. Tinker now became aware of loud rustling and slight clinking noises, somebody was making a hurried search of the room next door.

"Quick" began Blake, "the curtain against the connecting door is still drawn in my room, he probably doesn’t realise it is there. Wait against it and listen for me, I'm going to surprise our intruder"

Tinker did as he was told whilst Blake crept out into the corridor silently, slowly inserted the key into the lock and turned it ever so gradually until it was just about to unlock. Suddenly, he turned it all the way and threw the door open in one rapid movement, at the same time screaming "Who the devil-!"

The intruder, a slim man dressed all in black, looked up in surprise and horror, in the next instant he was seized from behind by Tinker and a terrific struggle ensued. The spy put up a fierce fight but was obviously more inclined to sneaking than brawling. He struggled to draw a pistol but it was kicked away by Tinker, who finally held him down. Blake loomed large over him, turning the gun on their captive.

"Who sent you?" he barked

"You’ll get nothing out of me" the man spat back, attempting again to break free.

Blake examined the gun the man had been using, it was brand new, and greatly expensive, this was no street hooligan or burglar.

"Listen" Blake began, more calmly, "I'm gathering somebody paid you to come here and discover something. May I offer to come to a more generous agreement? Ten thousand dollars?"

"Never!" the captive shot back, looking rather frightened, "to betray my masters is death!"

"Twenty thousand... and passage out of the country?"

The man looked tempted, but again declined

"Takipok has eyes and ears everywhere, I’d be found!"

Blake looked more satisfied, he now knew he was on the right track at any rate. He turned to Tinker and began speaking in broad cockney, lest their captive had any knowledge of plain English

"Tink, go down the apple and pears and get us a ‘ped and a couple of lids, I’ll let this geezer scarper and he ought to leg it back to his gaff!"

The lad nodded and left, the captive looked confused and more frightened, Blake was satisfied he hadn’t understood what was going on. The spy was bound tightly but freely.

"My assistant has gone to fetch the police" Blake explained, the man sat silently. Blake could already tell that the police would be no help in fighting a criminal of evidently great means, he wanted to give his captive confidence. He pretended to be interested in a novel but observed out of the corner of his eye the man’s struggle for freedom. He refused to notice as first his arms and then legs became free. Suddenly the spy leapt up and darted for the window, Blake feigned surprise. "Hey, stop!"

The spy leapt from the balcony and began running up the narrow alleyway and out into a nearby street. At once the buzzing of a small motorcycle engine could be heard and Blake leapt down, joining Tinker on the back of a small Honda. The lad passed a crash helmet and he put it on, throwing off his jacket at the same time to effect a slight change of appearance. The chase was on!

The spy ran at top speed, weaving in and out of streets, but gradually slowed down, confident he had shaken off pursuit. The detectives, however, had not let him get out of sight for more than a few seconds. Another two anonymous motorcyclists, they quickly blended into the crowds out to enjoy the bars and clubs. Presently their man stepped into a small Ford and began to drive out of the city. The bike struggled to keep up, it’s top speed being limited, but Tinker soon noticed that one of the car’s rear lights was significantly dimmer than the other, and this made keeping up the chase, even at a considerable distance, easy. The man drove far out into the Haitian countryside, evidently on his way to report to his masters.

The car turned off onto a dirt track leading into a mangrove forest. Blake and Tinker drove past, noticing a crude barrier and a man clumsily concealing a gun guarding it. There was evidently some kind of hide-out in the forest, and it’s owners didn’t want any nosy people prowling around. Stopping on a hill further up the road, bright lights from deep in the forest became apparent to the two detectives.

"I believe we have found the home of Takipok" Blake observed.

"Now we just have to get near it" Tinker sounded dubious, "it’s a proper fortress down there, we ought to-"

"DOWN!" Blake shouted, he heard a helicopter approaching. The two took what cover they could underneath a tree, but the craft swept directly over them, skimming the very treetops, and landed somewhere in the compound.

"Now should be a good time, the guards are likely to be distracted, with that thing landing... lets go!" Blake whispered, and the two ‘tecs pushed into the forest. It was hard, muddy going without special boots or machetes, but the helicopter engine could still be heard running, and it served to drown out their clumsy sounds. Presently it swept up into the air again and flew on a quick circuit, shining a powerful light down. Luckily Blake had had the foresight to cover over the motorcycle before they set off, and the crew of the aircraft evidently assumed the bikers had carried on off up the road. The detectives reached the edge of a giant clearing filled with numerous large buildings as the helicopter returned to land on a raised concrete circle.

Blake and Tinker concealed themselves with deep shadows on the edge of the clearing and took in all they could see. The clearing was evidently once the garden of a colonial-era mansion, possibly owned by a slave plantation owner, Now however it had been converted for other, no less evil, purposes. The mansion itself was visible, but had numerous modern extensions added to it. The sound of machinery came from some of these, and packages where regularly being carried out and into the backs of vans and other small outbuildings.

"Drugs... counterfeit money... both?" Blake whispered as he watched. The crew of the helicopter had by now walked into the mansion and other men drove up to it on a small pickup truck and began tinkering with it, as well as filling it with fuel. Dominating the scene and even overwhelming the mansion was a huge, long aircraft hangar-style building. In front of it what had once been the driveway of the mansion had been converted to a runway.

"We’ve got to get in there somehow" Tinker said, quietly as an armed guard paced past, a metre from their hiding-place. Just as Blake was wondering how to get across the well-lit lawn to the shadow of one of the buildings, a siren sounded and various workers dropped what they where doing and rushed to the new driveway. This began at a garage on one side of the mansion and turned away to what would once have been a side-entrance to the garden. The guards and workers saluted as an open-topped Rolls Royce drove into the grounds. Blake tried to get a look at who was sitting in the back of it, he saw a large white man wearing what appeared to be a cowboy hat, but nothing else. The car drove slowly, giving the two detectives time to notice that one of those men working on the helicopter was still making adjustments, with his back to them. Without a word Blake slipped from his hiding place and crept behind the man, drawing the gun he had purchased earlier and hitting the man around the head with it.

The Rolls had almost reached the garage when Blake dragged his burden back amongst the foliage. The workers returned to the helicopter, one of them called out in French but the others told him the missing worker was probably lazing around somewhere, and the crew returned to work.

"Just a look around... shan’t be long!" Blake explained to Tinker as he dressed in the unconscious man’s overalls and hat. Luckily it had a wide brim with which the detective could cover his face. Most of the workers within the compound where black Haitians, though Blake noticed the guards seemed to come from everywhere. Evidently mercenaries; highly skilled, ruthless ones if the man who could afford all this had hired them.

"Best of British!" Tinker whispered as Blake slipped from the edge of the forest during a quiet period. The Helicopter’s ground crew had by now returned to what appeared to be a barracks located close to the mansion. He paced around the edge of the base, trying to look like he confidently knew where he was going. Passing the extension to the mansion from which the machinery could be heard, he took a quick glimpse in as a white-coated scientist pushed out of a door carrying a plain paper package. A series of glass tubes and scientific equipment could be seen within.

"Drugs, as I thought" Blake thought to himself as he carried walking. From a window in the mansion incoherent shouting came, seemingly in English. He guessed it to be the result of the failed raid at the hotel. Finally Blake came up against the Hangar, wondering what was inside. A burst of laughter reached him and he turned his back as the door swung open, two mercenaries emerged, talking in Russian, and resumed their patrol around the grounds, expensive and brand-new assault rifles slung over their shoulders. As Blake turned to resume his prowling, he noticed the hangar door had jammed against a piece of garden cane that had fallen down. A keypad near the door showed it was evidently supposed to swing shut and lock, denying access to any intruders... and showing there was something important to hide inside!

Looking around for observers, and spotting none, Blake darted to the hangar door and silently pushed it inwards. Floodlights illuminated the interior but he could hear no talking, or sounds of tools inside. Taking the chance Blake slipped inside and allowed the door to gently close against the bamboo cane again, offering him a ready escape route. He then turned to see what the hangar contained, and recoiled, unable to contain a gasp of shock.

That an expensive Lear Jet was contained in the hangar was not a large surprise to him, he had after all seen enough signs of Takipok’s evident great wealth. What was written on the jet came as a huge surprise though... Meyer Investments.

"William Meyer... the Wall St billionaire!" Blake gasped, "could HE be Takipok? He’d certainly have the money to set this up... and his crimes do ultimately end up in stock market success for lucky shareholders and companies... no! I can’t believe that, it’s too insane, even judged against the things I have seen!"

"And yet it’s True!" Blake span around, to see Meyer himself, a huge, middle-aged American, he was on the portly side, but seemed to be made of muscle. He wore a light-coloured shirt and trousers, and an old-time Stetson hat, and began to advance, scowling, at the detective, a lethal "Desert eagle" magnum held steady in his hand. Mercenaries flanked the billionaire, and another came up behind Blake, taking his pistol and handing it over.

"Huh, typical Brit and his little pop-gun" spat the Yank as Blake was secured with handcuffs, the detective said nothing as his captors asked what should be done.

"Put him in one of the cells fer now, then sweep the grounds for more of ‘em" Meyer ordered, "I’ve got an idea of what to do with this one tomorrow". Blake was led into the mansion, through luxurious rooms containing offices and communication equipment, and thrown into a rough cell with a crude bed of wooden slats. As the door was slammed the detective cursed his luck, and silently hoped Tinker would make good his escape.

The night wore on, and though shouts of searchers drifted through the tiny, high window of Sexton Blake’s prison. No shots where heard, and nobody else was bought in, at least not to nearby rooms, so Blake assumed Tinker had evaded capture, and this gave him hope of rescue, though it would not be easy. He knew the Haitian police would be aware of this operation, they could hardly not be, but they must be overlooking it for some financial consideration. Blake recalled reading a survey showing Haiti to have the third most corrupt government in the world... it was nation in which a rich man could literally buy his way out of any charge, including murder. And Blake’s enemy was one of the richest men on earth, his gains nearly all tainted by violence, drugs and murder, our hero reflected as the hours wore on and the search was seemingly called off.

After what seemed like hours the final shove came, and he tumbled into space. Instantly he curled himself tightly into a ball, he struck the surface of the water with a searing pain and a tremendous jar. Skipping over the water like a stone on a pond, Blake was sure the end had come, but by some miracle he came to a halt and began to tread water, hoping no sharks where in the vicinity. Suddenly he felt the blood and pain, and realised he had a severe injury to his head. A rushing noise filled his whole consciousness, and it was difficult to look up, he did so however, and saw Meyers’ jet speeding away, swerving around in the sky... suddenly it burst into flames. A wing broke off and the main body seemed to stagger in the air, before splitting in two and dropping to sea level in flames, great clouds of steam and smoke marking it’s final end. Blake speculated on the idea a bomb had somehow been hidden on board, he didn’t notice the two United States air force F-15 fighter aircraft swoop by. He did become aware of a steady pounding noise that seemed to be echoing in his head, he was sure it was his heart racing fit to burst and became convinced it was time for him to die. He closed his eyes.

Sexton Blake opened his eyes again, to find Tinker looking over him. The lad was overjoyed.

"You made it, guv! We were worried for a while, but you pulled through!"

Blake tried to speak, finding himself extremely weak.

"Where- am I? Meyer?"

"Meyer's dead, guv, his jet was blown out of the sky! As for you, you’re safe aboard the USS Washington, she was on manoeuvres in the area where I picked you up."

"Y-you?" Blake murmured, dimly he recalled the pounding sound...

"Yep! I stole that helicopter and followed you! Those guards where pretty lax without their boss around, I virtually just walked up and took it."

Within hours, Blake was feeling much improved. He was visited by the ship’s doctor who told him he had suffered a fractured skull and may have died if he’d been left much longer. However an operation had saved him and his recovery was remarkably fast. Blake simply said he had been in danger before and must have developed a ‘knack’ for it.

Later, he had another visitor, one who came as a bit of a surprise, George Coutts entered the room, looking as if he hadn't slept for a week. Blake sat up at the sight of his visitor, whilst he just heard Tinker breathe "here we go" in his ear.

"Blake, you rascal! What where you playing it? I’ve had the Americans accusing you of deliberately organising the assassination of one of their nation’s great captains of industry! It’s a diplomatic scandal! The Prime Minister is furious, though luckily he’s taking it out on what he thinks is the Craille institute, our front organisation, and not the real thing!"

Sexton Blake slumped back on the bed, he hadn’t expected this... but what could he say? Proof of Meyers’ crimes was at the bottom of the ocean. Unless...

The helicopters swept low over the mangrove forest where weeks before, for Blake had lain unconscious for some considerable time, Meyers’ international criminal organisation had been based. The ‘copters swept down low, United States Marines leaping out and rushing to cover, their guns at the ready, before the machines had even touched down. Sexton Blake, Tinker, George Coutts and three American officials stepped out of the first craft to land too. This was strictly against international regulations, but the Haitian government would be bound to hold up any official investigation of something with billions of dollars behind it, and loose purse-strings. However they would not have needed to, the compound was deserted, the mansion cleared of all furniture and equipment and some of the smaller buildings, along with the trucks and vans, burned shells. The aircraft hangar was partially dismantled and lay in ruins.

Blake led the party through the rooms of the mansion, but not a thing remained, not a scrap of paper, a computer component... even the carpets had gone, though he suspected one of the large piles of ash outside contained things that had not been carried away.

"This ain’t gonna reflect well on diplomatic relations, Mr Coutts" one of the American dignitaries said at length, as the party came to the room that had been the drugs laboratory. Here some furniture remained, the built-in work benches and cabinets with their doors thrown open. The door to the lab itself was open and leaves and ash had blown inside.

"Well, Blake, all we have to go on are empty buildings, and your word..." Coutts began to say, but the great detective was already stooping.

"What is it?" Tinker said, as Blake stood again, an object in his gloved hand.

"Some kind of notebook" he said, turning the pages with growing interest. It seemed to be orders for drug production, written in a cipher but obviously some kind of logbook. Then, as he turned to one of the final pages, the detective’s heart raced... an inky fingerprint had blotted some hastily written notes... notes on a method of producing heroin.

"Mr Ambassador... unless I am very much mistaken this fingerprint is of an unusually large hand. Much like the kind of hand the late William Meyer had..."

"My god..." the Ambassador gasped as the book was handed over. Subsequent investigation by the FBI’s top forensics experts proved beyond doubt that Meyer's fingerprints where all over the book, and once the cipher was broken his involvement in a world-wide drugs ring was beyond doubt. George Coutts remained in his job... though if he had not been working at the official Craille institute he would have remained at the ‘real’ organisation, but it was much simpler with him in control of both... and politicians kept unaware of the institute’s real purpose. That purpose had been fulfilled admirably, as Meyers’ other activities, the arranging of disasters for financial gain, had also been curtailed. For Sexton Blake there was no rest, during his month of recovery a large load of cases built up... and he determined to try his best at solving them all!

Dr Liliana De Costa led the forensic experts along a corridor in the hospital near the coast of Puerto Rico. Several weeks ago a battered metal capsule had washed up on the shore with the body of a man inside, he had severe injuries and was in a deep coma, barely alive. Surgeons worked around the clock to save him and finally, his condition stabilised. Whatever disaster had overtook him had damaged his face beyond all recognition, and extensive plastic surgery was needed. He now looked like a normal man... but his face was entirely different to what it would have been before the accident.

All that could be told was that the man was white, and huge, almost entirely muscle. He had been partially dressed in a survival suit of the kind worn by fighter pilots, but under this he wore plain, light-coloured clothes, both where severely torn and ragged from days of drifting in the sea, and no means of identification could be found on him. Finally the decision was taken, as the man lay comatose with no signs of recovery, to perform a DNA test on him. The forensic scientists of a nearby police station had finally got a little free time to come and collect samples of blood, skin and hair from the mystery man.

Dr De Costa opened the door to his private room, and gasped with shock. A porter was laying unconscious on the floor, a large gash on his head. The bucket of hospital cleaning fluid, the kind which breaks down biological material including DNA, was splashed all over the room, including the handle of the window, which was wide open. The man evidently having woken up and left by this means in a great hurry.

Though the story caused a minor sensation in Puerto Rico, it was never reported internationally. As efforts to find the man came to nothing, reporters and the public became bored of it, and the police had more serious crimes to investigate than the knocking-out of a hospital cleaner. Though for Dr De Costa the mystery was never completely solved... who had the man been? And where was he now?

THE END