So as evening came he pre pared for the operations At 11.45 precisely he set off, creeping low through the trenches, He reached the craft half a muddy and tiring hour later, An hour later he had them packed ready to explode when triggered off. He crawled back to his post and stared at the sleeping craft through his binoculars. Five minutes had passed and the craft hadn't moved. Minutes seemed like hours and he began to feel the chilly night air. Every noise made him jump to his binoculars in the hope of seeing the craft role forwards Morning gradually peeped through the night clouds revealing a bright sun. He cursed and it seemed as if him staring through his binoculars would make the craft burst into life.
Evening came.
He passed the evening away by staring through his binoculars. He finally resolved to move the explosives if it hadn't moved by 10.00 am. He waited and watched hopping it would roar into life. But nothing happened. 10,00 am came and a disappointed soldier crept solemnly through the trenches, The hot sun made it hard work but eventually he reached the craft, He removed the explosives, His body sagged all over. His chin sank on to his chest, He jerked his head up and began to crawl back. His sunken eyes flashed as the crafts engine roared and flared into life. Moving with frantic haste he took the half filled case piled all the remaining percussion cups among the loose sticks in a devils mixture. Weaving out of the trenches he carefully placed the case in the crafts path. It was a risk - the mixture could go off at any time - but that didn't matter. The exhausted soldier hardly had time to dive into an old crater before his inexorable enemy and persuer ran over the trap. There was a flash, swift and deadly, The roar of the king abruptly turned into a whisper as it settled into a wreck of metal. Dvr. Hilrchein lay in the warm morning sun.
Once again it became peaceful.
P.Stubbs 4
21st -May 1921
It was a sordid business. It was only fortunate that the previous evenings indulgence had been a stag party, or there would have been a number of hysterical women to contend with. As it wash, there were only twenty or so men policemen and party guests - assembled in a silent horseshoe, looking with expressions of mixed disgust and sorrow at the mutilated body of Sir Henry Collett, the director or perhaps I should say late director - of Collett, Withers and Townshend, the prosperous distillery, He lay broken, smeared with his own dried blood, his smashed corpse draped haphazardly over a pile of logs like a sheet spread out on rocks to dry. At ray shoulder. Sidney Lewis, fiance to the dead man's daughter, was muttering vengeful epithets that of would not care to repeat, damning the murderer to the last deepest pits of nether hell! Sidney had nothing td worry about, I mused. Today was his wedding day, and once the rite was completed he would become the director of Lewis, Withers and Townshend.
Perhaps I had better explain how I, a police detective, came to be on the scene. It had all started a few weeks before when I was Commissioned to ascertain the truth of certain anonymous allegations that Sir Henry Collett was involved in the illegal trafficking of liquor - smuggling, if you like.
My first step had been to enter Sir Henry's favour. by passing as an author who wanted to write his "rags to riches" biography. Evidently this stratagem had not succeeded, for-I received several crates of spirits from Sir Henry as "Goodwill GIFts", followed closely by a letter making mention of certain bribes!
It was a well-worked plant, if you'll pardon the proffessional jargon. If I reported any substance in the accusations concerning Sir Henry's illicit dealings. it would only be to land myself in trouble: and if I resigned from the case, Sir Henry could easily ensure that the "bribes" were discovered, disgracing me utterly. It appeared Sir Henry had a permanent hold on me. Thus, I decided to play it by ear until this millstone could be removed from my neck. I was invited to Sidney Lewis' stag party,