Super Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  ‘No!’ snapped Miles determinedly. ‘We can still make it. I tell you we can still make it!’

  Then, without warning, the boat was flushed with light and the night air was split by a voice cackling over a megaphone ordering them to stop. Wayne appeared to be paralysed with fright for a moment; then he collected his wits and sprang into action. Pushing Jack off the wheel, he swung it ninety degrees almost causing the small boat to capsize in the heavy seas at the violent turn.

  ‘We’ll ram her!’ he shouted, a grim smile touching the corners of his mouth, as the spray veered out into an arc. He gave the engine full throttle and with a warrior’s cry completed the turn and smashed firmly into the side of the Custom’s vessel. At the point of ramming, Tamsin was thrown to the other side of the boat. Dazed and confused, she sat nursing sharp pains in her arm and her head. For a short while there was absolute chaos. Above her were the voices of the uniformed Customs officers as they tried to capture the smugglers and also check the damage to their own vessel. She looked upwards through the mist and two steely eyes peered at her closely. It was a familiar face... it was Philip! The blood drained from her face and she felt as if she had been fixed to the spot. Miles shouted for her to jump but for some unknown reason she found she was unable to move. Then the boat sank beneath her and she was forced downwards into the water. Down, down, down, she sank until everything went black. It was the end of everything!

  She didn’t know how long it was before she came to, with the cold choppy salt sea rolling across her face. An arm was fixed round her neck and she was being hauled backwards slowly through the water.

  ‘Don’t struggle!’ gasped Philip, working hard to reach the shore. ‘We’re nearly there!’

  She obeyed him explicitly and a short while later they touched the sand on the beach and crawled out of the water in a state of exhaustion. When they had recovered their breath, Philip helped her to her feet and she stared unbelievingly at the sodden uniform of authority. Before she could speak, his arm was around her waist and he half-carried her off the beach to the road setting her down beside a telephone-box. He made a brief call and a taxi arrived shortly afterwards to take them back to her cottage. He went inside with her and she threw him a towel from the bathroom and found another to dry her own hair.

  ‘You deliberately swam to the shore, didn’t you?’ she accused. ‘You could have let the Customs officers take me on board their vessel but you didn’t.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he responded. ‘You’re very perceptive. Yes, it would have been easier had I done that.’

  ‘You know I was involved in smuggling contraband. Why aren’t you arresting me?’

  He rubbed his head briskly before answering. ‘Come off it!’ he laughed. ‘You’re no smuggler! You’re a woman who foolishly got caught up with a rough-neck. What did you actually do except accompany him on his boat?’

  ‘But I was there with him when it happened.’

  ‘Admittedly, but as a companion not a smuggler. I know all about you, Tamsin. I’ve been watching you for the last three months. The unfortunate accident in which your parents were involved... Polperro... here. No, you’re no smuggler. But then I became drawn into the situation. You see, as I got to see more of you, and know more about you, I began to fall in love.’

  She stopped drying her hair and stared at his steel grey eyes again. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I fell in love with you. I couldn’t help it. Let’s look at the situation objectively. I could have taken you back to the Customs vessel. You would have been arrested and charged with smuggling. The Court would send you to prison. I don’t think that would be of any use, do you? You’re not a criminal. Just a person who got mixed up with the wrong man. So I decided to act as the judge and jury myself. If I could get you to shore, you stood a fair chance of escape. Then I could exercise my own judgement. Consequently, having studied the facts of the case, I have no alternative but to sentence you to life.’

  She stared at him somewhat perplexed. ‘Life? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what I say,’ he told her, his face breaking into a smile. ‘A life of marriage... a life with children... a life with a husband and a home. For my part, I’m going to dedicate my life for the next sixty years trying to reform you. I’m afraid it’s a duty I’m forced to perform.’ He paused and moved towards her. ‘And I’ll enjoy every minute of it.

  They clasped each other lovingly, oblivious of their wet condition, while the pools of water that formed around their feet grew wider, and wider, and wider!

  Air To The Throne

  The Grenville family came to England in 1066 with William to fight King Harold. For centuries they enjoyed status and power, then in 1815 Lord Robert Grenville was captured passing information to Napoleon before the Battle of Waterloo. The Grenvilles were stripped of their titles and disgraced. It was a disreputable end to a very fine family. However, although status and power was removed, their land and treasures were not confiscated. Now Horace Grenville, who would have been the twenty-first Duke, lay on his death-bed, surrounded by his immediate family, his physician, Dr. Parker, and his solicitor, Jeffrey Felton. Of his two sons, George, the eldest, wore a flying-jacket and held a pilot’s helmet. Maurice, the youngest, looked immaculate in a smart dark-blue suit, a white shirt, and a suitable dull tie. Sheila, the eldest daughter, sat in a chair dressed as though she was about to go to Ascot on Gold Cup Day. Victoria, the dowdy youngest daughter, was almost in tears. Then Horace began to cough, causing them to turn their attention to him.

  ‘George! My boy!’ he managed to say in a thin piping voice.

  ‘Yes, father?

  ‘Will... ...Will... ’ the old man tailed off feebly.

  George turned to Maurice for his view. ‘Any idea what he’s trying to say?

  His brother shook his head. ‘Not the faintest.’ He looked towards the physician. ‘You’d better have another look at him, Dr. Parker.’

  The doctor moved to the bed taking the old man’s wrist. ‘His pulse is very weak but he has strong will-power.’

  ‘How do you rate his chances of survival?’ asked Maurice.

  ‘If he gets through this attack, he’ll need very good care.

  ‘Victoria’s can do that,’ said Sheila. ‘She’s good at it.’ ‘Thank you, Sheila!’ snapped the youngest daughter angrily, ‘but I hardly appreciate the task... even if he is my father.’

  They glared at each other fiercely showing there was no love lost between them.

  ‘How long will he drift in and out of consciousness?’ asked George.

  ‘It’s impossible to tell,’ replied Dr. Parker.

  ‘Will... Will... !’ continued Horace feebly.

  George huffed and puffed and then went to the door. ‘Well I see no point in hanging round here. If I’m needed you can get me on the intercom.’

  Sheila stared at him in surprise. ‘This is hardly the time to go flying, George. Father may call for you at any moment.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he countered. ‘What really galls me, Sheila, is that you show up here once a year with great concern and compassion. Where are you the rest of the time?’

  ‘Some of us have important matters to attend to,’ she retaliated. ‘Family matters! We’re not all like you, George ... single, footloose and fancy-free!

  ‘And what about your sister, Victoria?’ challenged Maurice, taking sides with his brother. ‘Doesn’t she have important matters to attend to?’

  ‘Victoria chose to stay at home and look after father. It was her choice.’

  George shook his head. ‘You know, Sheila... you’re a very selfish person. If father were fit and well you wouldn’t be seen fifty miles of here. But now that he’s dying... .’

  She bridled at his innuendo. ‘And you’re so perfect, I suppose. Flying that silly aircraft all the time... all over the place! Who
do you think you are... Charles Lindbergh?

  ‘I don’t think your father would appreciate a family argument at this precise moment,’ suggested Felton delicately.

  George shrugged his shoulders before leaving the room. ‘Maurice knows how to reach me.’

  Sheila fumed angrily. ‘So much for brotherly love!’ she muttered bitterly, turning to Maurice. ‘Did father confide in you about his Will?’ He shook his head. ‘How about you, Victoria? You were close to him.’

  The youngest daughter smiled. ‘That question has been on your lips from the moment you walked through the door.’

  Her sister’s face turned ugly. ‘You were always a nasty little girl. Now you’ve turned into a nasty adult.’

  ‘You just want the benefit,’ accused Victoria. ‘I’m the one who looked after him all those years!’

  ‘So how much do you expect to get for that?’ snapped Sheila. ‘A quarter of the estate... .half the estate? You tell me!’

  ‘Please... please!’ intervened Maurice despairingly. ‘I’m sure father’s taken both of you into consideration.’

  ‘And you too, I presume!’ continued Sheila brutally. ‘What with your gambling debts.’ Maurice stared at her angrily but remained silent. ‘How can George think of flying at a time like this?’

  ‘Why should he worry?’ replied Maurice. ‘As the eldest son, he’ll inherit the lion’s share of the estate.’

  ‘All he cares about is that silly aircraft,’ complained Victoria.

  Sheila stood up and twisted the fingers of one hand. ‘I really detest having to wait about like this.’

  ‘Sorry father hasn’t passed on yet. It must be really inconvenient for you,’ countered her sister sarcastically.

  ‘I said you were a nasty girl...’

  ‘Oh, do shut up... the pair of you!’ muttered Maurice. ‘Aren’t things bad enough already?’

  ‘Come on, Felton,’ Sheila pressed the solicitor. ‘Give us some indication about the Will.’

  ‘I’ve sworn an oath to your father not to divulge the contents of the Will to anyone until the appropriate time.’

  ‘Well surely this is the appropriate time!’ ventured Maurice.

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ returned the solicitor. ‘You know that full well!’

  ‘No doubt we’ll be left with a pittance,’ complained Sheila, as the three of them stared at each other glumly.

  Outside, George strolled across an open field on the estate until he arrived at an old aircraft. It was his pride and joy. He climbed aboard and started the engine. The propeller began to turn and within a couple of minutes the aircraft taxied, took off and soared into the sky. George sat at the controls humming to himself. He was clearly at ease. It cruised for a while before the engine spluttered and the aircraft began to descend at an angle to crash silently into a hayrick on a nearby farm. The farmer rushed across the field to help the pilot in case the aircraft burst into flame, however when he arrived there, George was sitting in the cockpit with a bullet-hole drilled neatly in his forehead. The farmer looked at the windscreen of the aeroplane noting the absence of any hole. How could the pilot have been shot in the forehead when there was no bullet hole in the windscreen?

  On the following morning, Chief Inspector Malford stood in front of the Incident Board at the local Police Station with a baton in his hand. He pointed to photographs of George and the aircraft, eyeing carefully his team comprising Hutchins, Grimes, a policewoman, and two other policemen.

  ‘This is one of the most fiendish crimes I have ever witnessed in my entire career,’ he began.

  ‘You actually witnessed the crime?’ cut in Hutchins.

  ‘Of course I didn’t witness the crime!’ he retorted angrily. ‘I was talking figuratively!’

  ‘What did you see then, sir?’ asked Grimes.

  ‘Will you stop asking stupid questions,’ shouted the Chief Inspector angrily. ‘Let’s look at what we’ve got.’

  ‘We haven’t got anything as far as I can see,’ commented Hutchins. ‘A pilot shot in the middle of his forehead but no hole in the windscreen of the aircraft. It’s impossible.’

  ‘I was promoted to the rank of Chief Inspector because I refuse to believe the impossible,’ boasted Malford. ‘And don’t you forget it!’

  The team sighed listlessly until Grimes came up with an idea. ‘I’ve a theory about the bomb inside the door of the aircraft.’

  Malford struck the photographs with his baton. ‘I don’t want theories... I want facts. What might have happened... what could of happened... is no use to us in a court of law.’

  ‘But that’s what we’ve always worked on,’ advanced Hutchins. ‘Circumstantial evidence.’

  ‘I wasn’t appointed to this division to theorise,’ countered the Chief Inspector. ‘I think the victim was shot on the ground, put in the pilot’s seat, and taken up by the criminal.’

  Hutchins screwed up his face. ‘But how? The only door to the plane was shut tight with a bomb fixed on the inside. If someone took the plane up and baled out, the door wouldn’t be shut.’

  ‘The slip-stream forced the door shut,’ claimed Malford.

  ‘But no one saw the parachute,’ stated Grimes.

  The Chief Inspector stared at him blankly. ‘What parachute?’

  ‘... ..of the person who baled out!’ returned Hutchins.

  Malford snorted. ‘What if no one was looking up at the time?’ The team shuffled their feet and coughed lightly with frustration. ‘The plane could have been hauled up like a glider by the murderer.’

  ‘But no one reported seeing another plane,’ muttered Grimes.

  ‘You seem to think everyone’s staring up at the sky half the time,’ snarled the senior man. ‘The crime area is sparsely populated. A number of large houses... belonging to a few wealthy families. Hardly the sort of people who rush out to look up at an aircraft passing overhead.’

  ‘So you think the victim was shot on the ground, placed in the cockpit, and then another aircraft hooked on the front which hauled it up into the sky,’ summed up Hutchins.

  ‘It’s possible. The aircraft was on automatic pilot. It had run out of fuel.’

  ‘But that’s just the point, sir,’ declared Grimes. ‘If it had been gliding, there would still be some fuel left in the tank. But it was empty.’

  ‘It could have been emptied first!’

  ‘There was no sign of any hook on its nose for towing,’ claimed Hutchins, destroying another theory.

  ‘What about suspects?’ continued Grimes.

  The Chief Inspector sighed with relief to be able to move on. ‘Horace, the father, is on his death-bed. He has two sons and two daughters. All highly respectable and very wealthy. Then there’s the solicitor, Felton, and the family doctor, Dr. Parker. Take it from me, the family are beyond that sort of thing.’

  ‘If your theory is correct and the victim was already dead when the aircraft took off,’ persisted Hutchins, ‘why should someone leave a bomb on board?’

  Malford stared at them fiercely. ‘It’s your job to find out. I need answers to questions... answers to questions!’

  ‘Do they have a butler?’ asked Grimes.

  ‘They do,’ responded the Senior Police Officer. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, in all good crime stories,’ laughed Grimes, ‘the butler did it!’

  ‘This is a difficult murder enquiry,’ growled Malford. ‘Horace Grenville’s brother has employed a private detective, Nathan Rivers, on this case and he’s asked the Commissioner to allow him access here. No doubt he’ll be under our feet most of the time. Now, I want Hutchins and Grimes to question everyone at Greville Manor, the rest of you search the scene where the aircraft landed.’

  Nathan Rivers raced through the countryside in his red Buick arriving eventually a
t the farmhouse. The aircraft could be seen with its tail sticking up in the haystack nearby and he was surprised the police had thought it unnecessary to guard it. He opened the door and climbed inside to stare at the mass of dials and complex metal-racking at the rear of the fuselage. After examining the pilot’s seat-belt, he touched the area of the door where the bomb was planted, noticing a metal staple where a wire had been attached. As he climbed out, the farmer came into view.

  ‘Weren’t so much a crash,’ explained the farmer. ‘She just floated in. No fuel in the tanks. No fire.’

  ‘Was the pilot strapped into his seat... with his seat-belt?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know. I could see ‘e were dead by the bullet hole in his head. I called the police straight away.’

  ‘You’re certain he was sitting in the pilot’s seat.’

  ‘’E were in the front.’

  ‘What about voices? Did you hear any voices? The intercom may have been left on.’

  The farmer shook his head slowly. ‘No... no voices. And no engine either. It were as quiet as the grave.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t enter the plane or try to remove the body?’

  ‘Huh!’ scoffed the farmer. ‘As far as I were concerned, she could have burst into flames any second. Anyways, the pilot were dead. Shot through the forehead. There were no point in pulling ‘im out.’

  Rivers thanked the man and went back to his car. The next port of call was the morgue, but he learned nothing there either. Among all the theories which ran through his mind was one in which George had committed suicide. If so, the gun was likely to have slid to the rear of the aircraft to be trapped in the myriad of metal-racking there. But why should George want to commit suicide? He was fit and healthy... . financially sound. It didn’t make sense! No... suicide didn’t come into it!

  Malford was less than happy to see Rivers walk into the Police Station.

  ‘I just want to ask you a few questions about the aircraft and the body, Chief Inspector,’ he said politely. ‘I see there’s no one guarding the plane.’