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TARGET: LONDON! Or, Sexton Blake in the Eighties Originally intended for publication in Red, White & Blue 'old series' issue 5 Chapter 1 – The Collapse Father Dean Wilson, Vicar of St. Michael's church in the parish of east Hackney strolled down the street to his work with a spring in his step. He was happy with the world, and not even the grey skies above could dampen his spirits. He gave a friendly nod to an elderly man clipping his hedge as he walked past. The man was one of his regular congregation, which was shrinking in these modern times. However he did not let that worry him either, he was happy to keep spreading the word of the lord to his flock no matter how small it was. He turned into the grounds of the church itself now, passing the gardener. The lad was only just out of school, but in these times of deep recession was glad of any job. The Vicar frowned slightly at the metallic buzz from the lad's ear phones as he approached. "Morning vicar" the lad shouted, not realising how loud his voice was above the music. With another friendly nod Father Wilson passed on. The churchyard, despite the attentions of the gardener, was rather overgrown. Various tall, moss-encrusted headstones stuck up at crazy angles from the long grass. Many of them dated back 100 years or more, and the writing on them was barely legible. His gaze turned from the yard to the church itself, a grand old edifice of Anston Stone, standing up on a slight hill that ran, at the rear, gently down to a quiet river. The Church was after the Norman style, and almost 850 years old. It had a tall, square tower with a blue and gold clock. Various arched impressions ran down the walls, broken by rows of bizarre gargoyles. The entrance, a small alcove over the massive wooden door that had stood the test of ages, had a rather less ornate look, the interior being flat plaster and plain white paint. A small wooden notice board with a plexiglass covering contained posters announcing car boot sales, fundraisers and the like. Most of them stark, black print on brightly-coloured sheets of paper. Unlocking the huge oak door, Father Wilson passed within, looking up with approval at the painted ceiling depicting events in the life of Jesus. At the far end of the church stood the stone altar, as old as the building itself. On it stood golden candle sticks, awaiting the day's candles, and an exquisitely-carved wooden cross, itself several hundred years old. Along the walls of the church were more modern, sombre additions – dark oaken panels with row after row of names picked out in white – the names of the fallen of the parish in two world wars. Among the soldiers were the names of women, children and the elderly – victims of the Blitz. It was amazing the church itself had survived when whole streets of houses had been reduced to rubble in those dark times. The Vicar could just about remember them, he had only been very young during the war. The terrible things he had seen had made him devote his life to God. Ahh, he was transported back to those terrible days. He could almost hear the drone of the Heinkels as they appeared overhead. It was funny how the memory played tricks, he could have sworn the actual sound of the bombers didn't throb in such a way as this sound was. Was it memory, though? No! This sound actually existed. A terrible droning throb that seemed to be getting louder and louder. The electric lights above flickered and went out, casting the room into gloom, lit only by the daylight streaming through the stained glass windows. These were rattling and shaking. As he watched a few small pieces of glass tumbled out, letting in bright shafts of light. Hundreds... it would cost hundreds to replace them. The terrible sound was getting louder and louder, could nobody outside hear it? Little plumes of dust dropped from the ceiling above. The Vicar reeled against one of the pillars, sturdy as the earth itself. He drew his hand back as if he had been given an electric shock – the pillar itself was shaking and rattling, seeming to dance in time to that terrible music. Loud crashes and and cracks as large pieces of masonry fell from the ceiling. Father Wilson lurched around and dashed for the exit, swaying drunkenly. The door of the church seemed so far away suddenly. He could see outside, the gardener was cutting away at grass over-growing onto the path as if nothing was happening. Now he was giving directions to a man walking his dog! It was too absurd, was the vicar alone trapped in this horrible nightmare? Rory Baker, the gardener, said "You're welcome" to the man and turned back just in time to see the church collapse. It was as if the whole building suddenly folded up like a house of cards. He had seen film of buildings collapsing, had even watched an old-fashioned steeple-jack bring down a disused factory chimney. This collapse was unlike anything he had seen before. It seemed as if every single stone of the church failed at once. Indeed, the wood-and-lead roof of the building seemed to be the only part that remained intact on it's crashing descent to ground level. However it was lost in the overall dust cloud of impact as the building was bought down. Rory recoiled, his hands covering his face, as pieces of stone, masonry and tiles flew past him and a choking dust cloud engulfed all. The next second he darted into the dust cloud, the shocked exclamation of the dog owner lost behind. "Father Wilson? Father Wilson?" he asked, he shouted. He began to claw at the rubble. He fancied he had seen some movement in the doorway just before the building came down. The tower was above the doorway, there was many tons of crushed, shattered stone compressed into a waist-high heap. The dust was choking him but still he clawed away broken blocks. They had stood in place for centuries but now the parts broken through were as pale as if they had been freshly quarried. Suddenly Rory shifted one stone and came across a hand poking from the wreckage. He then noticed a lurid trail of crimson running from out of the rubble and pooling beneath his feet. Father Wilson had gone to meet he whom he had served.   Chapter 2 – The Chatterbone Makes A Row Several hours later, Sexton Blake stood on the balcony of his villa in Nice, in the south of France, and watched the sun set over the Mediterranean. The sea was relatively calm, the subdued roar of the surf formed a kind of relaxing soundtrack to the great detectives reminiscences. He had been living in Nice for some time now, giving up the Baker Street rooms which he had spent almost eighty years in. Was it really that long? His lifespan, and that of his assistant Tinker and housekeeper Mrs Bardell, had been extended immeasurably, and he had been outwardly in his forties for the entire twentieth century. Very very few people were aware of this fact, amongst them George Coutts, head of the Craille Institute, an above top secret organisation that Sexton Blake worked for on a freelance basis. He liked to keep "Worked" in the past tense for the moment. His first proper case as a consulting detective had been right back in the 1860's, 120 years later he had passed through enough adventure in each one of those years to satisfy any normal man for a lifetime. He had been to every corner of the earth, fought common criminals, secret societies and power-mad empire-builders. Now he'd, well, had enough. And that was why he was now living in this lonely villa. It was on the coast of a well-known city for sure, but to all his neighbours he was simply a British "city slicker" who had made it big and retired early. Whilst he still aided the Craille Institute on important cases – though it's agents were the best in the world and could solve most of them on their own – the old days of taking on the problems of anybody who walked into his office were behind him. The air was getting chilly now the sun had gone down – had he really been stood out here that long? - so he passed through the big French windows into the living room. Over in the corner the large black television droned out the Spanish news. On the roof of the villa was a large white satellite dish that could pick up channels from countries thousands of miles away. Satellite television was a brand new and phenomenally expensive extravagance. But one the detective could afford. He had worked for Kings, Sultans and Emperors in his time, and had been lavishly rewarded. Besides this was the 1980's, the decade of conspicuous consumption. If he did not have a huge white boast of reckless spending on his roof people would begin to wonder about his cover story. The satellite dish had another purpose too. Sexton Blake could understand the Spanish news as well as if he had been born in Spain, it was the same with every other channel, for he knew virtually every language in use on earth. Of them all, the most difficult to learn was probably Bardellese. Whilst the grammar of Japanese was baffling, the alphabet of Chinese vast and the tenses of Basque likely to tie his tongue in knots, the language spoken by his housekeeper beat them all. "That there chatterbone is making a row again, Mister B" she said to him now, shuffling from a dark room in the centre of the house. "The satellite phone is ringing? I expect it's the director" he translated to English as he passed into the dark room and shut the soundproofed door. This room was tiny, cramped and had no windows. To any visitors to the house it was a walk-in wardrobe, and always locked. It actually housed a communications system on the absolute cutting-edge of what was possible. Flicking various switches that applied encryption algorithms it would take the Soviet KGB, and the American CIA for that matter, centuries to crack, he picked up the phone. On the wall in front of him a large television, previously just a blue screen, now flickered into life. The face of George Coutts, grandson of the famed Scotland Yard man, appeared. Meanwhile Sexton Blake made a similar appearance on an identical screen in front of Coutts. "Good evening SD5" Coutts, the director of the secretive Craille Institute addressed Blake by the codename that organisation had given him – Special Dispensation Five. He was not employed by the Institute, but was it's top agent, hence the special dispensation. "Good evening Base, what do you have for me?" Blake replied. "An unusual one, that's for certain. There's been spate of exploding churches..." "Of what denomination?" "Protestant" "The IRA will be responsible" the solution seemed obvious from the start. "Well... that's what we'd think, only one of them was in New York, where the IRA aren't known for operating..." "I see" "And, well, the explosions aren't... explosions." "You're talking in riddles now, Base!" Sexton Blake was feeling a little amused at Coutt's discomfiture. All the same this did seem like a strange case. "If they aren't explosions what are they? Collapses?" "Well we've had structural engineers look at the latest one, St Michael's in Hackney, and they are completely at a loss. The building should have stood for another century at least, but it seems as if everything failed at once!" "Everything? This is unusual" "Exactly, the last one had two witnesses who said that the structure seemed to just split apart somehow. It had a victim too, incidentally – the vicar was inside. Fortunately it didn't happen on a Sunday and collapse on the whole congregation. Police forensics, not to mention our own, have been over the rubble with a fine-tooth comb, Blake, and there's not the faintest trace of explosives. That's how the case has come to us" "And from you, it's come to me?" "If you are willing to take it, SD5" "I'll be there tomorrow morning!" Sexton Blake signed off, and switched off the equipment, making sure to switch the encryption off too. Whilst any outside observers would not be able to understand the signal, the fact such a signal was being sent would be suspicious in itself. Sexton Blake still had enemies in great number, and took no chances. He stepped out of the communications room and locked the door, before returning to the living room. There his young assistant Tinker was watching the TV and idly bouncing a ball off the wall for their large, intelligent Bloodhound, Pedro, to catch. "We've got a case, youngster" Blake told him as he snatched the ball from mid-air. Pedro halted in his tracks and sat up, apparently at attention like a soldier. He could sense his master's moods. "Off to the Warren, then?" Tinker asked, getting up from the long black leather sofa. "Yes, I thought we'd take the twelve-cylinder and see what she could do..." "Suits me!" Tinker said, with a grin. Blake referred to his new car, a deep red Jaguar XJ-S with a six-litre V12 engine, not to mention a few extra additions that the Craille institutes's mechanics had fitted. Rather than flying to Britain Blake proposed driving all the way up through France and catching the ferry first thing in the morning. The late-night motorways would be deserted, a perfect proving-ground for the car. It goes without saying that the pair's "special dispensation" extended to legalised speeding in certain countries. They had both been trained in high-speed road driving by several of the world's best police pursuit drivers. "We'll be away for a day or two, Mrs B" Tinker shouted into the kitchen as they walked outside. They both carried small cases containing the tools of the trade, some forensic equipment, chemicals... and a pair of automatic pistols. More special dispensation. "There's just one thing I'm wondering" Sexton Blake said over the roof of the car as he piled things into the boot. "What's that?" Tinker asked, hovering halfway into the driver's seat. "Who is Frankie, and why does he want me to relax?" Blake asked, a grin on his face. "You wouldn't understand" Tinker laughingly replied. His actual date of birth was unknown, he had originally been an outcast orphan on the streets of London, dressed in rags and holding the reins of horses for pennies, when Blake took him on. The detective estimated Tinker's own age was frozen at about 19, and this meant he was always interested in the latest pop music and fashions. And that was something Sexton Blake would never understand!   Chapter 3 – Investigating In London... "She's a flier, ain't she?" Tinker asked as Sexton Blake stepped from the Jaguar's driver's seat in a lock up in central London. The detective had taken over driving for the British leg of the journey, and the car had performed admirably. "A fitting tribute to the old Grey Panther" Blake replied, referring to the huge and powerful Rolls-Royce the pair had owned for many decades before. The Jag could blow that lumbering car out of the water with regards to performance, but just didn't have the dignity, somehow. They crossed a dingy alley in the chill of the early morning, and entered a small, cramped bookshop. After the usual exchange of passwords they stepped into a tiny lift and were carried deep beneath the earth. This was the secret headquarters of the Craille Institute. In the lobby a portrait of the founder, Eustace Craille, looked down at them. He was dead now, in fact he had died about 10 times, they did wonder if he was actually dead this time. Sexton Blake thought back to 1975, when he'd attended one of the great man's funerals. The Cubans had been after him that time, so he had needed to die. There had been no small amount of shock when he turned up present and correct in his office a week later. "The Director is waiting for you" the receptionist said as she pressed a button, unlocking one of the institutes's many armour-plated doors. This led to the main office, a quiet, orderly room with some twenty desks. Typewriters clicked away and a few computers hummed. Operators scrolling through pages of green text on black screens. "What's your high score?" Tinker waggishly asking one as they passed. Director Coutts, a large middle-aged man with a flat lump of red hair that looked more like a wig than a wig would have, stood up to greet them as they walked into his office. Still Mr Coutt's office, Sexton Blake noted. The "big man's" office still had all the "big man's" furniture and files in it. "Anything more on the case?" Sexton Blake asked by way of greeting. "Not a thing" Coutts replied. "The Americans are just as baffled on their end. Their one happened about 2 weeks ago, ours about this time yesterday." "Where was the American one exactly? You said New York?" "Not in the city, but upstate. Lovely country up there may I add. I've got a map here..." Coutts shuffled through a drawer in his desk and produced a map of the state. It was a highly detailed orienteering map, Blake noted with approval. Every little detail was recorded, and bright marker pen marked the location of the church. "The church was an old-fashioned one, not one of these modern concrete things. It was put up when America was still a colony of ours, in fact..." Coutts began. Blake was studying the map closely. The church was located on a relatively flat plain of countryside and was on the edge of a small town. A river ran close to it and there was also a thick forest nearby. "That's that. I'd like to visit St Michael's, now." "Surely you don't have a theory already, Blake?" "I had a theory last night, it just needs proving!" The detective returned. Getting up. "And the theory is...?" Coutts exasperatedly asked, knowing he might as well have asked thin air. "You know better than that!" Tinker grinned as he too left the office. It was Sexton Blake's habit to keep people in the dark as to his theories until he had either proven them right or wrong. And it was usually the former, Tinker or Coutts would have told anybody. The pair passed back through the office. Tinker briefly stopping to angrily stare at a computer monitor turned to face in his direction. It displayed the high scores screen of a Space Invaders game, and E.C, or Edward Carter, Tinker's real name, had been knocked down to second place. The man he'd joked with earlier grinned at him from the other side of the room. "Just you wait..." muttered Tinker as he followed his master to the lift. They found the ruins of St Michael's sealed off to the public, with several constables on guard. One of Blake's many ID cards got them through. A man in overalls addressed himself to them. "Mr Blake?" He asked. "Yes, er, who are you?" Sexton Blake replied. He had not met this man before, and he would remember if he had! "Mr Coutts told me to meet you here, I'm the structural engineer" The man said, seeming a little surprised. Blake had to admit this was something he hadn't thought of! "Ah, of course, well, what can you tell me?" "Well, nothing that I haven't told the police or, ahem, them other blokes Mr Coutts sent. Whoever Mr Coutts is anyway, never heard of the feller 'til yesterday..." "Yes, well, about the collapse?" "I was gettin' to that! Like I told them other blokes, this is the strangest thing I've seen in all my 20 year in the business. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's like every stone broke in halves at the same time, look at 'em!" He held up a randomly-picked stone for emphasis, dropping it back onto the pile with a clatter. "Hours I bin over this lot, hours. Can't find one stone that ain't broke, you can tell by the light colour where the breaks are. Even the force of the collapse couldn't have broke all of 'em! This is Anston stone you know – the best!" "Yes" Sexton Blake murmured absently. His attention had already been claimed by other things. While most people would be preoccupied by the collapsed church Sexton Blake's mind did not work in that way. The church was collapsed and that was that. It was his job to find out why, and as the collapse had not apparently been caused by something inside, it must have been caused by something outside. Therefore he turned his attention to the surroundings. "What's happened over there?" he asked, pointing beyond the rubble to several headstones that had been snapped off. Half still stuck in the ground, mostly at odd angles, the other half laying forlornly in the grass. The clean, bright stone of the break contrasting with the green, moss-lined surfaces that had been exposed to the elements for a hundred years or more. "Vandals, probably, disgraceful ain't it?" the engineer muttered. He continued to babble about how strange the church collapse was to Tinker, who stood by helpless while Sexton Blake wandered off and made a careful inspection of the fallen gravestones. He spent fully half an hour looking over the snapped headstones. Feeling along the breaks, inspecting the freshly-exposed rock with a magnifying glass. Then he turned equal attention to other headstones, ones that were not broken. He took out a pen knife and made a slight scratch in one of these. Muttering "sorry, old chap" to Mr Alan Wilbourn, in case that gentleman could still hear him from the mists of 1792 to 1854. The structural engineer was still in full flow when Blake walked past. "Come on Tinker, I've solved the case!" he said in passing, as if it was as simple as buying a loaf of bread. "Case? Case?? Are you a copper too or something? Is this a murder?" the engineer asked as the pair walked briskly back to their car. "I might write my findings up in the Journal of Structural Engineering later" was Sexton Blake's answer as he climbed into the passenger's seat, and the man had to be satisfied with that, for all twelve cylinders purred away before he could reply. "Go on then, Guv" Tinker asked as they drove. "Heathrow" Sexton Blake replied, retrieving his pipe from the glove box. He did not smoke any more, but it was a comfort to him. The health dangers of smoking had become apparent in recent decades and, while he wasn't sure what the effect would be on somebody of his own extended lifespan, he didn't want to take the risk all the same. Immortal he was not, he still had scars from knife and gunshot wounds, and one of his fingers wouldn't curl in properly thanks to a severe breakage it had suffered. "I didn't mean that! What did you mean by saying you had solved the case?" Tinker replied, indicating towards the M25. "Well isn't it obvious? You saw the headstones..." "The ones the vandals had attacked?" "Yes, the same vandals who destroyed the church!" Tinker decided to concentrate on the road after that. This was too much for one day! Not very long afterwards, Sexton Blake having asked his assistant to "let her out a bit" once they had reached the M25, Tinker pulled into Heathrow airport. Special passes got them allowed into the huge grounds of that gateway to the world, and they pulled up at a shabby office and hangar set apart at one corner. It seemed to Tinker like stepping back in time to the early days of flying – none of these modern air-conditioned terminals and elevated walkways into the planes for him! The aircraft they were going to fly on was bang up to date, though. A fast private jet owned by the Craille Institute and named the Assegai. Sexton Blake pushed into the small cabin, the man at the desk immediately standing to attention. He was ex-RAF and old habits died hard. "SD5, sir? Er, the director didn't phone ahead, sir" he stammered. Sexton Blake cut him off. "We'll do it in reverse order this time, eh, Tim? Just ring the Director and tell him we're off to New York, and then get her warmed up!" "Right away sir!" Tim Fanshawe grinned and made the call. Sexton Blake and Tinker passed through the office into the hangar, they didn't really want to hear the language Coutts would be using! Soon a few other cars pulled up outside the hangar and men and women walked in, taking their places in the plane. Like Tim they were all ex-RAF, most of them from the intelligence branch. And they had not left the service for any dishonourable reason either. They had simply been 'poached' by a higher authority! Neatly slotting into the gap between a Boeing 747 crammed with holidaymakers jetting off to Spain and a Tupolev bringing trade officials from the slowly-opening-up Soviet Union, the Assegai streaked off Runway Two and began her journey across the Atlantic. "Any drinks, sirs?" A pretty stewardess asked her two passengers once they were at cruising altitude. Sexton Blake grinned as he thought how old-fashioned ways were hard to change. The person serving drinks on the plane just had to be a pretty young blonde. Still he knew this pretty young blonde in particular could handle an M-16 assault rifle in a way that would make many soldiers sit up. He wondered which job she preferred the most. "I must say, all this conspicuous consumption that people are going in for these days doesn't sit well with me" he said in a stern, schoolmasterly tone. "All this racing around in private jets, drinking vintage wines. It's not how we did things in the good old days! ...mind you, is that Bretangne Rouge the '38?" "It is, sir." "Capital year, that..." She smiled and poured him a glass. The jet purred across the Atlantic for hour after hour...   Chapter 4 – ...And In New York. "Harvard University, please" Sexton Blake said as he and Tinker climbed into the back of the huge, angular yellow cab that had been sent to collect them from a similarly isolated, small hangar at JFK Airport, New York. "Excuse me?" the cab driver asked. "Harvard Yoonivoisity, Pal" Sexton Blake asked, this time in a perfect New York accent. "Ah, why didn't ya say so?" The driver asked as he pulled away, the large V8 purring smoothly. The journey took over an hour in the crowded streets. The two detectives had been to New York hundreds of times, over a hundred years, and were still impressed by the great canyons between towering buildings. Perfectly straight streets that ran for mile after mile, crammed with huge cars and teeming crowds. Finally they reached that grand seat of learning. America's equivalent of Oxford or Cambridge, though of course without quite as much history. "So what have we come here for, guv?" Tinker asked. "Brushing up on our English maybe? That cab driver didn't understand us, I think we might have been speaking French for too long..." "Very amusing" Blake drily remarked. "No, we have come to find our suspect!" Tinker gasped "Sus-suspect? How on earth could you track him to New York by inspecting a few grimy old headstones in Hackney?" "You don't read the physics journals much, do you lad?" Was Sexton Blake's baffling return question. Tinker gave it up as a bad job. Just to be on the safe side, Tinker was led to the library of the physics department. There Blake took down a volume – The International Physical Journal, Volume 86 – Jul-Dec 1983. He made a flick through and then shoved a page under Tinker's nose. "There you are, does this make things clearer?" Blake asked, with a smile flickering on his lips. Tinker was often baffled by his master when the latter was in an enigmatic mood (or "most of the bally time!" as Coutts would no doubt have it). But he was not slow on the uptake. He only needed to see the title of the article Blake was showing him. "On The Use of Ultrasonic Resonance to Fracture Rock..." Tinker read the title. He then looked to the authors – the one author. "Dr Richard Lidden MSc PHD ABC 123 etcetera.... Our suspect, guv?" "He's either our suspect or he can tell us where to find 'em!" Blake replied. "And I didn't come to this university for the library either, his office is in this building!" With that he snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf. The pair then walked to the reception desk and asked for the professor. "I'm sorry sirs, he hasn't been in for a couple weeks now" the receptionist cut Blake off almost before he had finished asking. "Usually so regular too, but you know what these professors are like..." "We aren't the only ones to ask for him, then?" "Of course not, Exams are coming up, he's left plenty students up the creek by doing this..." she began to complain. Blake and Tinker left hastily. "Well the time frame fits..." Tinker said, once they were outside "Yes... but to go missing? I suppose they've tried phoning him, though that doesn't mean to say he has to answer. The next step is to find his address." For somebody with Sexton Blake's special dispensation this was easy. Not wanting to alarm the university staff, he instead asked the police. The house in question was an isolated one in Upstate New York. "We can get in a look at the church here too" Tinker added. Blake decided it was not such a bad idea, and their next stop was a car rental firm. Before long they were leaving the great city behind them and setting out into the picturesque countryside that forms the rest of the state of New York. This was the land of America's "old money" the quietly dignified rich, such a contrast from the brash "new money" of the 1980's, who had made Wall Street in the city their home. "They're pretty close together actually, but the church is a bit closer" Tinker called across, wrestling with a map. He finally got the huge sheet awkwardly folded down and pointed to the locations of the ruined church and Dr Lidden's house. Their speedy flight across the earth had bought the two detectives out in America's morning. Though by the time they found the wrecked church it was about three in the afternoon. The skies were grey just as they had been in England, but the weather was not cold. Despite the comfortable warmth their surroundings had a damp, dewy aspect and there was a slight fog obscuring the distant hills. It had clearly rained heavily, and recently. The river that formed one boundary of the church grounds was a rapidly-flowing torrent. There was nobody around, and the small town nearby – a pleasant little place of large, Georgian-looking houses and a smart diner, seemed similarly deserted. "We could be back in Hackney, eh?" Tinker spoke for them both. The collapsed church looked just the same as they one they had left behind in London. The light colour of the recently-broken stone, the sombre grey of the weather-beaten old walls – not quite as dark as the ones in London, this country church had not known the clouds of smog and soot that went with industry and great fires. Sexton Blake's attention was turned to the gravestones. Again a few here and there were broken in half. Tinker too looked at these now, he had been given a big clue but still did not quite understand the mystery. "Vandals here too, eh? Or is this what you expected to find?" he asked. "Not what I expected to find at all!" Was Sexton Blake's rather surprising reply. The great detective walked to the broken stones and began taking measurements, and pacing out distances. Again the penknife came out and a small chip was taken from an unbroken stone. "Well, what's different this time? The broken stones look the same if you ask me" Tinker walked up. He had been looking at the stones himself and couldn't see anything different to those in Hackney. "It's not how they were broken, it's the direction!" Blake replied. Suddenly Tinker had a flash of inspiration. He looked again at the shattered stones. "I get it! The broken ones in London were all between the church and the river, none of the ones in front of the church had been damaged. I thought that was just because the vandals had been mucking about out of sight!" "And here?" Blake asked, a slight smile of pride on his face. Tinker clearly could be trained to take in the important details of a crime scene – eventually! "Well here all the broken stones are between the church and... that forest? And if any vandals had been smashing these up they would have been seen from the road and the town ... so whatever wrecked the church must have came out of the forest!" "Correct! And now, lets go and find out what it was!" "You don't think it will still be here, guv? If the same people were responsible for both attacks it'll be on the other side of the world by now!" "Yes, but they will have left tracks! And by the look of that forest we ought to be able to pick them up, the rain won't have had the chance to wash them away." The pair walked the short distance to the forest. There was no fence or wall separating it from the church yard. Almost immediately Sexton Blake stooped and looked at some deep impressions on the ground. "Ah, some piece of heavy equipment was here" Tinker could see that plainly too. "Would have taken three men to carry it, there's tracks of four though." Out came a ruler "say about six feet for this one, five feet seven... five feet seven and a half... and a short one. Four foot eight." He rattled off numerous other estimates of the men's height and weight, and that of the machine they had carried too. Tinker noting them down in a book for future reference. "Right, now let's pay a visit to Doctor Lidden!" Sexton Blake announced. He began to push his way deeper into the forest. "Er, guv, the car's the other way" Tinker pointed back, whilst following with an air of reluctance. "I know" Blake replied, studying the ground where a clear trail had been left through the trees. Tinker followed him, wondering what new scheme this was. Onwards they pushed, the forest was thick, ferns covered every space of ground that was allowed sunlight by the towering trees above. It was these that had kept the rain out, though the ground was damp and soft. It was child's play to follow the forest trail. A fortunate thing, thought Tinker, because they had left Pedro in France! Over small hills they went, past fallen, rotting logs and the well-worn runs of animals. Here and there marks of the heavy machine could be seen. The men carrying it had obviously set it down repeatedly. This was detail that made Tinker wonder... the church that had been destroyed in Britain was in a city, a group of people carrying some hefty contraption around would surely have been noticed? Sexton Blake bought up sharply. He bent and picked up a cigarette end that had been tossed into the undergrowth. It was damp and mucky, but a little of the tobacco remained. He sniffed at it. "Never knew what Mr Holmes saw in tobacco aromas" he said as he dropped it into the clear plastic bag Tinker produced. "Our men dropped it, then?" the youth asked. "Maybe, we'll find out when we reach Dr Lidden's house!" They walked on. They must have gone about a mile and a half through the dense forest, when all of a sudden they reached the end of it. A mass of ferns and other plants marked the sunlit edge, and beyond them was a large garden and a grand, though modern house. Sexton Blake squatted down behind the foliage and pointed. "Dr Lidden's!" he whispered. Tinker hastily consulted the map he had bought with him, still with the relevant section uppermost, and had to agree. There was the forest, there was that crossroads up on the hill... "How did you know we'd end up here?" he whispered back. Keeping well behind the ferns and wishing he'd worn less colourful clothes. His pink and orange t-shirt was sure to be spotted if anybody was looking. "It's elemen-erm-obvious!" Sexton Blake chuckled. "He is the suspect, isn't he? Him and three others... the question is, did he work with those three others willingly, or was he forced?   Chapter 5 – The Vigil, And It's Results. They kept a watch on the house for hours. It was quite large and a curious mixture of old and new. Deep-red bricks and a high chimney stack contrasting with beige concrete and large tinted windows. A shining brown car with a beige vinyl roof sat on the drive. It would have been top of the range six years ago, Blake thought. He noticed some blossom adhering to it, and a small drift blown against the wheels. The car had not moved for some time, but was otherwise washed regularly. But then again perhaps the doctor owned two and was out in the other one. This was after all the USA. The hours dragged wearily on, and there was no sign of life from the house at all. There was, in fact, no sign of life anywhere. Occasionally a car drove by on the road that could be seen in the distance, but none of them stopped. The warm wind stirred the trees, a far-off bird twittered and the rolling clouds overhead began to clear away. "It'll be a cold night" Tinker whispered through slightly-chattering teeth. "A dark one, too" the warmer Sexton Blake replied, he'd bought a jacket. He indicated the house, no lights were coming on despite the lengthening shadows. "Gone to England?" Tinker asked. "Gone somewhere, clearly" was the reply. "Let's make a move before your teeth give us away!" They crept across the lawn, the grass was quite long, Blake noted, and covered the sound of their movement. Overhead a few stars began to twinkle. "Well I wish we'd seen this earlier!" Blake suddenly exclaimed, a sigh from Tinker following. One of the large windows was open slightly, and blossom had blown into the room beyond. All was still and quiet in the house, it had clearly been unoccupied for days. They moved closer and pushed open the door, a slight nasty tang in the air suddenly made them pause and exchange a significant look. It was the smell of death! "Doctor Lidden?" Blake shouted, there was no reply. They stepped into the house and shut the door. With the sound of the wind cut out they noticed a slight buzzing from a nearby room. The door was open slightly, as if it had been slammed and bounced back. Various papers were scattered in confusion – Blake noticing a newspaper with a story that was big news two weeks previously on the floor – some of the furniture was in disarray. With nervous tread Blake and Tinker walked to the door and opened it fully. The buzzing increased, as did the horrific smell. Blake flicked the light switch up and the room was illuminated for the first time in many days. The sight that met their eyes was gruesome in the extreme, though they had witnessed all kinds of murder and atrocity. A heavily-decomposed body, the skin shrunken hideously in a death-grin, stared up at them. Swarms of flies buzzed around the room and settled on the horrible corpse. A hole in it's chest had been chewed out and the ribcage was visible, shrunken, stinking internal organs were visible within. Tinker coughed and recoiled from the sight and the stench. "Blimey, guv, is that Doctor Lidden?" he gasped. "No, that is Doctor Lidden!" Blake indicated a second body, which Tinker had not even noticed with the horror of the first. This one was face down, the flies had similarly burrowed into it's back and parts of the spine were visible between the ragged edges of dried flesh, curled up like bacon that had been left out too long. Blake moved into the room, batting away the clouds of buzzing flies. The room was a bedroom, with light blue walls and similarly-coloured sheets on the apparently unused bed. A desk was in one corner, several items on it scattered around in a mess. The chair was pushed to one side of the room and facing the wall. The bed, which was in the centre of the room, was also at an awkward angle. Blake bent to look at the body of Doctor Lidden, he noted, even through the decomposition, that the man's wrists were severely chafed. The bruising of the skin had been preserved by death. One of his hands was curiously clutched as if holding a gun. No such weapon could be seen in the room, however. On the far side of the bed, against the wall, some frayed remains of a rope were coiled around a heating pipe. A small penknife lay on the floor. The thick curtains of the room were significantly closed. "What happened here?" Tinker asked, reluctantly standing as far into the room as he dare, still looking at the first body with it's hideous grin. "It appears our Doctor Lidden was a prisoner, the other three had him tied up in here and must have forced him to show them the secrets of his discoveries. The equipment they were carrying must have been something he had invented which could resonate and fracture stone..." "I see! They wanted to use it as a weapon but he said no" "Yes, but they had guns!" It looks like he was tied up in here but worked himself loose, they must have overlooked this knife. He must have struggled with this one, the gun went off. Lidden snatched it up, but the other two burst in and shot him down. Then they panicked and took off to England... and either took the machine with them, or built another one there!" "We can soon answer that question" Tinker said, moving out of the room to inspect the rest of the house. Anything to escape from that chamber of death. Blake followed, switching off the light and shutting the door. A quick but detailed inspection of the house revealed no sign of any equipment of the kind that had been carried in the forest. In the garage, which was a well-appointed workshop, they found ample evidence of it's construction, however. Vices, a large drill, a lathe and other equipment stood around with metal filings laying on them. Sheet metal leaned against the walls, parts of it had been cut out to make the casing of whatever the machine was. Significantly a folder labelled "Plans A" lay in the middle of the floor, and it was empty. "So they took the machine with them, and the plans too. But moving some heavy piece of equipment like that over the Atlantic is no easy job, and not something they'd do in a hasty panic. They must have planned to take it to Britain right from the start." Tinker began filling in the pieces of the puzzle. "You're on a roll, laddie!" Blake grinned. "So what's our next step?" "Ask around the airlines and get the information on a small bloke and a tall bloke who were shipping some unusual piece of equipment?" "And how long will that take?" "Well, a while, especially if they hid the machine in some crate with a fake label..." "Yes, and all the time we spend waiting for that information, these people are loose in London with a deadly weapon! Our best bet is to pick up the trail there..." "So it's back to the Assegai for us eh? We'd better leave a good old anonymous tip-off for the police about this place, and then ring ahead to Tim..." "Exactly! And once we're in the air we can get on the radio to the director and see what developments there's been... back to the car, laddie, we can sleep and change on the plane." The trek through the forest and drive back to JFK were uneventful and once again the Assegai was racing around the world. The two detectives had been awake for far longer than nature intended, having gained several hours by flying to America. Whilst Tinker turned in to one of the sleeping berths at the front of the jet, Blake took a seat in the cockpit and called up Director Coutts on the radio. "Assegai to Base, this is SD5, any developments?" "Developments! I'll say there's been developments, Blake! Another church has gone down, thirty-five killed and they're still pulling the bodies out! What on earth were you thinking? Gallivanting off around the world like that?" Coutt's voice lost none of it's gravelly rage over the thousands of rapidly-shrinking miles between them. Sexton Blake felt a little ill, this was a new development! He almost wished he hadn't called now, he'd never sleep with this on his mind. But he kept businesslike, it was no time for sentiment, the case was coming to a head rapidly. "I want a man waiting for me with a map of the area, plans of the church and some body armour for good measure. Oh and get a couple of speedboats ready too and have them moored on the Thames, if I'm right this is a race against time now!" "I, er, this theory, then...?" But Blake had switched off. Tim and his co-pilot exchanged an amused look up in the front of the plane as he retired.   Chapter 6 – A Race Against Time! Sexton Blake had managed to sleep after all. His body recognised the need to be fresh and alert even if his brain was whirling. He'd had a nasty theory whilst inspecting the ruined church in America and this third collapse was quite probably going to prove it. The Assegai hummed on through the night and hit the dawn as it raced west. The two detectives showered and dressed, for the aircraft was appointed with a pleasant bathroom and a wardrobe containing several sets of clothes, not to mention various disguises. The west coast of England hove into view, Cornwall raced beneath. They descended through that painful altitude where one's ears feel as if they are going to burst. Now London City airport's runways were before them. The whirring clunk as the landing gear were set, and Tim Fanshawe put her down with a textbook three-point landing. The Assegai rolled to a stop on the tarmac and the stairs were put down, even from the air Blake had recognised the bulky man with the bright orange hair standing next to a Cortina at the far end of the runway. "Nice Holiday?" Coutts sarcastically asked as the pair stepped down from the jet. They flashed ID cards at an immigration official who immediately walked away satisfied, then they climbed into the car and lurched away. The vehicle was fitted with sirens and the driver had been told to waste no time. Coutts handed over the documents Blake had asked for. "The church backs on to a river, and is made of Anston Stone... just as I feared. Are those speedboats ready? Trusted men? Right! Me and Tinker will take one, the other two men in the other." "But what's all this about?" Coutts asked. "Think about it sir, the two churches that have been destroyed were made of Anston Stone and were next to rivers." "So?" "Name me another building that is?" "Good gad! You mean... Parliament!" "Precisely! The church in America was also built of Anston stone, or else something quarried out there that's very similar. That was also near a river, but that is just coincidence. The attackers, whoever they are, used some sort of device that would work upon the resonant frequency of the rock and fracture it. But they had to find the precise frequency." "So the three churches were experiments?" Coutts asked. They were now at a small wharf where the two boats were moored. London's dockland's were covered in building sites by this time, the warehouses, factories and grimy slums of old were being swept away and in their place were glittering skyscrapers of steel and glass. "Precisely! The first one was attacked from a forest, the attackers did not know the correct frequency but they were almost there. When they found it the church collapsed and it also fractured several headstones that were made of the same material. But whilst trying to find the frequency they had also caused cracking to other headstones. This cracking wasn't present in the other headstones at St Michael's." "And why attack a third church?" Now Blake, Tinker and Coutts were in one boat, roaring past the houses of Parliament themselves. The other boat, manned by Craille Institute agents, had moored itself half a mile behind. They intended to travel half a mile to the other side of Parliament and wait there, for whatever might happen next! "It's my theory that they again had to find the resonant frequency of the Anston Stone, but this time knew roughly where to start. Perhaps the stone in the church in America was slightly different, or perhaps the settings had simply been skewed by them mounting the resonator on a boat. The third attack, with it's attendant casualties... where was it, by the way?" "St Ermyn's, in Islington." "The third attack was made suddenly, using the correct frequency. It's probable that while they were trying to find the frequency the people inside the church – such as the vicar in St Michael's, would have noticed vibrations, heard sounds and seen cracks appearing. When the correct frequency is applied straight away, however – the collapse would be instant and devastating!" "And now they plan to direct this power against very seat of government!" "Exactly. But here we are, tie up Tinker, but be ready to cut the rope. And let's make sure our guns are loaded!" "It's as serious as that, is it?" Coutts asked, pulling out an elderly army revolver and checking the chambers. "I doubt they'll stop for anything" Blake grimly replied. Once again it was time for the waiting game to be played. Tinker and Coutts peered through binoculars whilst Sexton Blake radioed the other boat with precise details of the size of the resonator weapon, and the men likely to be operating it. The CI men were intelligent and resourceful, they knew their job and would be certain not to miss any suspicious boat if it passed their way. The day drew onwards. The sounds of drilling and hammering drifted over the water from building work on either side. The occasional loud metallic clunk of large pipe being dropped broke the monotony. Elsewhere there was the roar of traffic, some twittering of birds and the gentle lap of the waters. The day was warm and fairly bright, with several clouds drifting slowly. "Messing about in boats, eh?" Tinker muttered after another hour had passed without developments. Perhaps the criminals didn't intend to attack Parliament after all, or perhaps they were lying low, waiting for a few days before the big attack. "Shush, I think there's something coming!" Coutts said, staring intently up the river. Sexton Blake was all action, snatching up his own binoculars. "That's them! Look at it! Cast off Tinker!" He shouted excitedly. The boat that was approaching was a fast, speedy-looking number. In the rear was mounted a hefty metal device that looked like a kind of howitzer, with the exception that the barrel of the gun ended in a copper-coloured dome, and several coils surrounded it. Other coiled prongs stuck of out what looked like a satellite dish. The boat was going at a considerable speed, the short man in the front and the tall man in the back, on a seat mounted on the resonator – for it could be nothing else. Blake noted their black hair and olive skins... Spaniards? South Americans? The big twin V8's roared into Life and Tinker opened the throttle out, the Boat roared out into the middle of the river and passed extremely close to the criminals vessel. "Heave-to and surrender!" Coutts bellowed through a megaphone. The two criminals exchanged a significant, fear-filled glance – they were not aware anybody suspected their plans! The man in the front was seen to throw the throttle wide open. Kicking up a huge burst of spray, their boar leapt forwards, bouncing over the waves. Tinker roared off in pursuit. The boats the Craille Institute had rented were of the best class, and raced through the surf with ease. "Should have given ourselves more room, Blake!" Coutts shouted over the roar of the engines "We're only slightly gaining!" "The weight's actually helping them!" Blake roared back "they aren't bouncing over the waves like we are – wow, steady on Tinker!" This latter as the CI boat cut across the wake of the other, leaping into the air and rocking wildly as she slammed back into the water. Coutts began to radio to the other CI boat to head on an intercepting course, the criminals were still racing towards Parliament and the man in the rear was apparently still preparing the resonator. They meant to achieve their aims at all risks! Ahead was the Westminster bridge, once through that they could fire – and the British government would be no more! Sexton Blake clambered over the front of the boat and lay down on the wildly bucking bow. He had to take a desperate chance. The CI boat was closing in now, Tinker was giving her everything. The propellers bit deeply into the water and flung clouds of spray up. The bridge was approaching, it was now or never! Blake raised his automatic and fired. It was a heavy .45 calibre, but would it have the range? He fired again, and again! He breathed deeply. The man on the resonator was turning it, ready for when he passed under the bridge. The criminal's boat rocketed into the shadow of the arches... Blake fired again. There was a crimson spurt from the chest of the man operating the resonator and he jerked backwards. At the same time he pulled the trigger, there was a curious, rapidly-moving pulse that seemed to distort the air like a heat haze. It rocketed up into the sky, and caught one of the small, ornate spires that surmounts the mother of all parliaments. With a crackling roar this spire shattered to fragments, it reminded Blake of a tower block being professionally demolished in miniature. A great cloud of dust swept out and lumps of shattered stone rumbled down the slanting roof to clatter against the grand parapets. A few pieces toppled over into the streets below, where passers-by looked up in surprise. There had not been a loud explosion, but the results had been almost as devastating as one. And this was a miss! Parliament had been saved, but what a close save it was! The man at the helm of the criminal's boat raced on, the other, controlling the resonator, had dropped overboard with a splash and was left behind. With nobody to control it the weapon was useless. The smaller man was simply trying to escape his pursuers. But he had reckoned without the Craille institute. The other boat came racing towards him, orange flashes from it as the men aboard opened fire. Then the other CI boat swept aside as the criminal's one raced on... but the bullets must have hit home. The man sat limply at the controls, under full throttle the boat slewed to one side and roared towards a jetty stacked with crates and barrels. "Get down!" Shouted Blake over his shoulders. Tinker and Coutts didn't need telling twice. With a huge, roaring blast the criminal's boat slammed into the jetty. The barrels, full of petrol for machinery on one of the many building sites, erupted in a gigantic orange fireball that boiled up into the sky over the stunned city. Blake covered his head with his arms as the wave of hot blast energy swept over him, stinging his flesh. Pieces of debris clattered off the hull of the boat and small burning droplets of petrol were scattered around, scorching everything they touched. Tinker put on full reverse and finally the boat came to a standstill. All three men looked back, but all that remained of the other vessel was a few stumps of wood amidst a raging blaze. Sirens came echoing over the river as police cars and boats roared up, fire engines following.   Chapter 7 – The Final Clues "Now, who on earth were they?" Sexton Blake asked as he hauled the body of the tall man, who had been operating the resonator, out of the water. His shot had killed the man, it had been necessary, in the end. He was far from happy about it, but it needed to be done. The dripping body had been floating face down, but now it was turned over they could see the man was definitely of Mediterranean extraction. A quick search of his pockets revealed a key and a piece of paper with an address on it. The address turned out to be a boat yard several miles up the Thames where the pair had kept their vessel. They had hired it for an extended period, paying cash, stating that they intended to sight-see all around London's rivers for a book they were writing. That had been all they had told the owner of the boat, though they had also mentioned a large turntable they would need to mount their camera on. "That 'camera' nearly bought down the country!" Coutts rumbled as the investigations continued. The key the man had didn't fit the boat shed, so it was decided it must be the key to wherever they had lived. This proved harder to find, but once the case came into the news and general information about the culprits was released, a landlady eventually came forwards. Sexton Blake was on hand when the police broke into the rooms the men had rented – an extension on the back of a old-fashioned suburban house with a decent sized garden. The furniture was sparse and cheap. The wallpaper the height of 70's ugliness, a small black and white TV sat in one corner. Everything was covered in dust, the rooms had clearly not been well-used. Outside blossom drifted in the small, pretty garden. He crossed to an ashtray on the mantelpiece, taking out a cigarette end and sniffing it. The same type of tobacco as the one he'd found on the path to Doctor Lidden's house. "Look at this, Blake" Coutts called from the bedroom. Blake turned towards it, and suddenly saw some interesting-looking papers poking from under the sofa. He pocketed these and walked through to find Coutts brandishing some passports in his face. "Argentinian!" the Director said. "And there's these notes besides... revenge for the Malvinas, or Falklands as well call them." "Ah, the motive. The one thing that was missing from this case!" Sexton Blake said to himself. The Falklands War had been fought a year or so previously – Argentina had invaded the Falkland Islands, a British colony in the South Atlantic ocean. Britain had sent a task force which had recaptured the islands after a gallant struggle against a well-equipped and firmly entrenched enemy. The loss of the war had been a disaster to Argentina's arrogant dictator, General Galtieri. He was swiftly removed from government by his own people, and later put on trial for numerous crimes during an earlier Argentine civil war. "I wonder if those men were Argentinian spies, or civilians working on their own account? Perhaps we'll never know" Coutts mused. Sexton Blake didn't mind either way, their plans had been stopped and that was that. It later transpired they had posed as students at Harvard, along with the third man, and eventually prised the secret of the resonance ray from Doctor Lidden, even helping him to build an "improved model". Once this was ready their tone changed, they had taken him prisoner and forced him to test it on the American church. They had booked their tickets for Britain but, of course, Lidden had worked himself free in the meantime and intended to shoot his way out and alert the authorities. This scheme had failed tragically, the two remaining Argentinians, initially panicked, fled from Lidden's house leaving the dead behind. Later cooler heads prevailed and they removed and buried all the evidence, the guns, plans for the resonator, Argentinian cigarettes that one of them must have been fond of, etc. Then they boarded their plane for Britain, their "photographic equipment" going with them in a large crate. Strangely they had only booked flights for two of them. Maybe the ill-fated third man was originally supposed to guard Lidden until it was too late for him to give the alarm. *** Pedro let out a bay of delight from the verandah as the gleaming Jaguar purred back into the driveway of the villa in Nice. The two detectives stepped out of the comfortable interior and Mrs Bardell opened the door for them, promising them a proper supper and not any of that "forrin muck them localities eat". She certainly did their appetites justice. They'd not realised how hungry they were with all the dashing about of the previous few days. Well that was how she saw it, anyway. The next day Blake had a small garden party, inviting a few of the neighbours. A film star here, a famous author there. A French director too, who hovered over Blake's shoulder excitedly discussing the film he was going to have shown at Cannes that year. He noticed Blake was using a long taper of paper to light the coals, it looked like the paper had some sort of technical drawings on it. It unfolded slightly as the flames consumed it. "What was that?" He asked the detective. "Nothing... nothing at all" Blake replied. The End