1-8:The secret of the lost gavel

‘Mister Penfolde,’ said the man, his hand now on the woman’s shoulder. ‘We have little time.’

‘I’ll get right on it,’ said Donnie. ‘As soon as we’ve worked out expenses and things like that.’

‘Ten times that amount awaits you at the conclusion of your investigations,’ said the woman.

‘Good answer,’ said Donnie with a grin. He pushed upwards and extended a hand which was studiously ignored as the woman stood to leave. ‘I think we can do business.’

‘Indeed,’ said the man, and walked away, helping the woman.

‘How will I contact you?’ he asked as they reached the door.

‘We shall contact you, Mister Penfolde,’ said the man, turning to address Donnie as they opened and stepped through the doorway. He closed the door behind them.

Donnie stared and then sniffed the palm of his hand. No, all it smelled of was cheap soap and rusty water.

Whatever, he thought. They were clearly bonkers. But bonkers with lots of cash was right up his alley.

He checked his watch once more; six thirty.

There was another knock on the door.

Donnie wandered across and opened it.

‘Hello,’ said The Assassin.

He slammed the door shut and legged it for the window. A sheer drop confronted him as the lock was shot off the door.

Air raid sirens began to sound outside.

The Assassin entered slowly, smoke curling from the barrel of the gun.

Donnie backed up against the wall behind his desk.

‘Mister Penfolde,’ said The Assassin. ‘We meet again.’

Donnie opened his mouth to answer, heard cracking wood and fell through the floor.

* * *

He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. There they were, right where he’d left them.
Donnie Penfolde opened his eyes and through the dark and dusty air, saw rubble all around him.

‘Now what,’ he wondered.

He began to move a little, hearing sounds nearby. Light poured in suddenly and hands helped him from the wreckage and into the open air. The sun was shining, beams visible through the brick dust.

‘Lucky to be alive, you,’ said one of his rescuers, a well built man in his thirties, dressed in fireman yellow.

‘Good-o,’ said Donnie coughing. He spat the crud from his throat as more hands helped him up and away.

Feeling slightly disorientated, he yelped with surprise as a black squat object was shoved into his face.

‘How do you think this will affect your chances?’ demanded the reporter, a male dressed in last year’s fashions.

Donnie instinctively pulled back from the mike, trying to twist away from the reporter. He yelped again as another reporter set-upon him.

‘You survived the bombing,’ said this reporter, a youngish woman. ‘What are your plans?’

Donnie twisted away again and slammed into a surprisingly erect and untouched brick wall.

The CCTV camera above him recorded the unfolding events.