BRITISH COMICS
THE FACE IN THE BOX
Final episode
taken from The Hotspur issue: 899
THE STRANGE STORY OF THE FACE THAT
CAN SAVE THE WORLD FROM DESTRUCTION.
The Mystery Box.
Going
for a walk round the grounds before breakfast, Bill? In this weather?” asked Dr
Leslie Fane, Headmaster of Ashbridge Abbey School, as he met his brother in the
hall at the foot of the oak staircase. Bill Fane nodded towards the open
doorway, where white plumes of mist were trying to thrust their way in. “Looks
pretty thick,” he agreed. “I’ve seen
The
lecture was to take place that afternoon. The brothers talked of it as they
went down the drive and turned aside over the lawns which led to the main
playing field. “They’ll lap up some of the stories of your experiences,” the
Headmaster was saying. “They will go down well. Tell them of the time when you
captured the man who was after the Crown Jewels.” “Aw, now, I’m saving that for
my reminiscences when the Yard chucks me out!” objected Bill Fane, with a grin.
“Well, do something like that,” said his brother. “They—what’s that?” Bill
glanced up sharply. They had just passed through the gate on to the playing
field. Here the mist was thicker, but the well worn path made it impossible for
them to lose their way. It seemed that a large shadow had just passed over
their heads. “Something big flew over our heads,” Bill murmured. “Yes,
something passed, almost in a flash,” agreed Leslie. “See where the mist is
whirling? That’s funny! What could it have been—a giant bird of some kind? It
can’t have been a plane, because there was no sound, and—” Thud! They both
heard it away on their right, the dull impact of a hard object on the turf.
Something had dropped from the sky. “Let’s have a look,” suggested the
superintendent, and he went cautiously forward over the grass. “Any holes or
fences here to trip over?” “No, it’s the football field, entirely open,
and—There! There’s something, Bill!” Dr Fane’s voice shrilled with excitement
as he pointed. It lay almost at his brother’s feet—a box of some black, shiny
material, about a foot square on top, but shallower in depth. The Scotland Yard
man picked it up, noting how one corner had bedded itself in the turf, proof
that it had fallen from a considerable height. He judged it to weigh about
seven pounds. “Made of ebony, or some black plastic material,” Bill Fane
observed, turning it over and over in his hands. “What is it? Recognise it as
from the school?” “No. I’ve never seen it before,” declared the Headmaster,
thinking of the mysterious shadow that had flashed overhead through the mist.
“Does it open?” Bill Fane ran his fingers around the edge, pressing where he
could see a faint join. He must have touched the right spot, for there was a
click, and the lid lifted on a spring. They looked inside to find what appeared
to be a sheet of frosted glass. “Now what do you make of that?” demanded Bill.
Leslie Fane swallowed hard. “It reminds me of some kind of television screen.
This must have been dropped from a passing plane. It is a wonder it was not
smashed. We’ll have to turn it over to the local police, although it will be
hard to explain that we heard no plane passing,” he pointed out. “Wait!” The
superintendent’s tone was sharp. He was standing very straight, holding the
open box rigidly before him. “Something’s happening. There’s a faint whirring
noise, and the screen is lighting up. Yes, look!”
He
held the box so that they could both see inside. “By jove!” A human face
appeared on the yellow screen, misty at first, then more and more clearly. It
was almost life-size, filling the shining screen, and it looked like the face
of a desperate man. They noted the deep-set eyes, the hollow cheeks, the well
shaped nose, and the man’s lips moved. “Whoever you are—take this box to
Scotland Yard!” he gasped. “I—” His eyes jerked to the right as though he was
about to turn to look at someone beside him, then the humming stopped, the
screen ceased to be illuminated, and the face vanished. The two brothers were
left staring at a blank, shiny surface. “Well—” began the Headmaster. “Some
kind of portable television—you’re right!” came the superintendent’s calm
voice. But from what station? Where is this man? Why does he want this box taken
to the police? Why was he suddenly cut off?” Leslie Fane shook his head.
Through the mist they could hear the breakfast bell ringing. “The man looked
frightened,” muttered the headmaster. “This—this is extraordinary! There must
be some explanation.” “There’s an explanation for everything—if one can only
find it.” Snapped his brother, and he turned the mysterious box over to peer at
the underside. “No sign where this was made. No trade mark, no maker’s name.
Something passed over us, and someone dropped this box. We’ll make inquiries
about planes in the vicinity—although I’ve never heard of a perfectly silent
plane yet—Anyway, let’s get back to breakfast. This has given me an appetite.”
Beware The Alsians!
By
the time breakfast was over, and the boys had gone to their classrooms, the sun
was breaking through. The two brothers went to the Headmaster’s study, and took
the black box with them. They locked the door and examined the box thoroughly,
and when it produced no clue, they left it open on the desk while Dr Fane
phoned the local aerodrome and asked what planes had been up at 8.15 that
morning. When he hung up he said—“None from there. They say nobody has taken
off yet this morning. They were waiting for the mist to clear. Yet I am
convicted a plane passed over our heads.” “I’m convinced that something passed
over us, but I can’t be sure it was a plane,” said Superintendent Fane. “There
was a distinct rush of air, and the mist was moved, then this thing dropped!”
He stared into the depths of the black box and rubbed his chin. “What are you
going to do with it—take it up to Scotland Yard right away?” asked his brother.
“No, time enough this evening, when I go back after the lecture. Besides, there
may be more developments. We may find out more about that mysterious thing in
the mist. Where can I put it for the time being to be secure—in your safe?” He
looked at the large, old-fashioned safe in the corner. Dr Fane hurriedly shook
his head. “That is packed with exam papers at the moment. Here is a safe spot.”
He went to one of the shelves of books that lined the room, pulled out about a
dozen volumes, pointed to a deep recess in the wall at the back, and said,
“It’ll be well hidden in there. It was only by chance I came upon that
hide-hole. I can’t imagine what it was for.” The black box fitted into the
recess, and when the books were replaced it was hidden from view. “An expert
would note that these dozen volumes have less dust on them than the others
beside them, and would guess they had been taken out recently,” grinned the
C.I.D. man. “But I don’t suppose we shall be bothered by experts looking for
it. It’s the first purely portable television set I’ve seen. I didn’t know they
existed, and—” There was a knock on the door, and a maid entered to say that a policeman
wished to speak with the Headmaster. “A what?” asked Dr Fane raising his
eyebrows. “A policeman, sir, an inspector I think he is. He came in a car with
half a dozen constables, sir. He says it’s important,” declared the girl.
“Well, show him up, Agnes, show him up.” Leslie Fane turned to his brother.
“They wouldn’t have come with a message for you, I suppose?” Bill Fane shook
his head. He was looking out of the window, where in front of the school entrance
stood a large, black saloon.
A
number of uniformed figures were getting out. “County constabulary,” he
muttered. “No, it can not be nothing to do with me. Some of your boys been
getting into trouble, I suppose, although why they have sent so many men, I
can’t imagine. Don’t tell them who I am, Leslie.” Dr Fane only had time to nod
when the maid showed in a tall, red faced inspector, who carried his peaked hat
in his hand. His neat moustache had touches of grey in it. “Sorry to bother
you, Dr Fane, but this is urgent. I’m Inspector Seward, from Minton. You may
have heard recently that there have been a lot of country house burglaries in
these parts,” he said. “Yes, indeed. People are afraid to go away for a few
hours and leave their homes unattended,” said Dr Fane. “But what—” “Last night,
sir, we nearly apprehended a man who decamped from Lamford Manor with jewellery
worth £20,000,” the inspector told them. “He escaped by car, and we followed.
He abandoned his car over at the crossroads and climbed into your grounds. We
surrounded the school and caught him trying to leave on the other side half an
hour later. That was at
He
could see some of the police below in the hall. They were nosing into every
corner, lifting the books out of lockers, prodding the earth in some window
boxes, even looking behind the pictures. They were going about their search in
a methodical and thorough manner. Yet the C.I.D. man felt sure they were
wasting their time. He did not believe for a moment that the thief had broken
into the school to hide his loot, when he could have found plenty of suitable
places in the grounds. He noticed that one of the constables had tried the door
of the oak cupboard in the hall recess. The constable turned and said something
to a sergeant, who produced a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them
on. Going over to the locked cupboard the sergeant stared intently at the
closed door, shook his head, bent lower, peered at the door, then straightened
up, saying—“Nothing there!” He took off the glasses, returned them to his case,
and joined the others who were working along the corridor and searching some
unused classrooms. Bill Fane stood by the rail at the top of the staircase and
rubbed his chin. How had the sergeant known there was nothing they sought in
that locked cupboard merely by looking at the outside of the door through his
spectacles? It seemed crazy. He studied the policemen more intently. For some
reason he got the feeling that their uniforms were not correct. He did not know
exactly what uniform the Midshire police wore, but there was something out of
place somewhere. Then there was a matter of their boots. They were all highly
polished, without a speck of mud or dust on them, yet these men must have come
on duty some hours earlier, and it was still damp outside from the mist. How
had they kept their boots so immaculate? Bill dodged back as the inspector and
another sergeant came up the stairs. There was a sharp bend in the corridor,
and the shadows were deep at that point. Bill Fane stood there silently
watching. Inspector Seward motioned towards one of the closed doors, but the
sergeant, who also wore glasses, shook his head, and muttered—“That’s only an
empty bedroom.” They passed the bedroom, Bill Fane wondered how the sergeant
had been able to tell what the room was through a closed door! The pair had now
stopped outside the door to the laboratory where chemistry was taught. Dr Fane
always kept the door locked to prevent mischievous lads raiding for chemicals.
The door was locked now, and the key was in the Headmaster’s pocket, Bill knew.
Yet Inspector Seward merely touched the lock and the door swung open. Whether
there had been anything in his hand the C.I.D. man could not see, for the
inspector’s body screened his movements. But the two went inside to look in all
the cupboards. “How in the world do they imagine this Mike Cosford got up here
last night to hide anything?” thought Bill Fane, and his suspicions began to
grow. “I don’t believe they are Minton police!” He turned on his heel and
entered his brother’s study. Dr Fane had been called to one of the classrooms.
Bill Fane closed the door and picked up the telephone receiver. “Give me the
Minton police station,” he said, then he realised he was speaking to a dead
line. Intending to try the phone in the main hall, Bill stepped across the room
towards the door, and was suddenly conscious of a low, whirring sound from the
direction of the bookshelves. He hesitated. There was a brass bolt on the
inside of the study door, and he shot it home before making for the shelf and
pulling out the books which screened the hidden recess. The next moment the
black box was in his hands, for he knew that the whirring came from this.
Swiftly he pressed the catch and the lid sprang open. Once again he saw that
the shining screen was luminous. The same face was staring out at him, but the
expression was now frantic. With eyes fairly bulging, the man said—“Get away
from here at once! Get this to Scotland Yard. Don’t let this box fall into the
hands of the Alsians. Go!” There came a knock at the study door. The face in
the box vanished and the screen became dark.
Someone
knocked and tried the handle of the door. “Yes?” called Bill Fane, closing the
box sharply. “Inspector Seward, sir. I would like to search the room now, if it
is convenient,” came the voice from outside. There was something of command in
the tone. “Please open the door!” Superintendent Fane stared from the door to
the box on the desk, then to the window, which gave on to the roof of the
gymnasium. “Just a moment!” he said loudly, and he quietly opened the window.
He knew now, with certainty, that these “police” were false, and that they were
not seeking any jewel thief’s loot. They were looking for the black box which
had dropped so mysteriously from the sky. The face in the box had asked him
twice to get the black box to Scotland Yard. This time he was going to try to
carry out that appeal. He tucked the box under one arm, and got a leg over the
window sill. He looked back at the door for a moment, and saw a remarkable
thing. The lock seemed to be losing shape. It was melting! The metal bubbled
for a moment, then dropped to the carpet. Someone outside threw his weight
against the door, trying to open it. But in spite of the fact that the lock had
been destroyed by what appeared to be miraculous means, the brass bolt still
held. The door did not give. In the corridor Inspector Seward snarled
something. Superintendent Bill Fane swung his other leg over the sill and
dropped on to the gymnasium roof.
A Desperate Break.
In
spite of his heavy build. Bill Fane was light on his feet and agile. He ran
down the sloping roof, sat on the extreme edge, lowered his legs into space,
and dropped. It was no more than ten feet, and he landed lightly without
dropping the precious box. He heard a shout behind him, and looked back to see
his brother at one of the classroom windows with a teacher at his side. Both
men looked startled. Bill Fane pointed to the box under his arm, then to the
window through which he had climbed. “Those police—fakes!” he shouted. “Beware
of them! I’ll get help.” Then he ran for the police car, wondering if at the
moment some blue-clad figures might come down the steps. Somewhere back in the
school he heard a crash as though a door had gone back on its hinges, and a
whistle shrilled a strange, piercing note that hurt his ears. It was not an
ordinary police whistle. Then Bill Fane was in the car, had switched on and
pressed the starter. Being still warm, the engine started at once, and a moment
later he had let in the clutch and was speeding down the drive. The mist had
vanished. The school gates were wide open, and he shot past the astonished
lodge keeper on to the road that joined the main
At
that moment the engine coughed, spluttered, and became silent. The car coasted
to a standstill about two miles from Minton. Bill Fane pressed the starter, but
got no answering whine. The starter did not work. The light behind the
instruments had gone out. When he switched on the headlights as a test there
was no response. Nothing electrical worked on the car. Being a practical
motorist of many years experience. Bill felt startled, for he knew this sort of
thing should not happen on a modern car. There was no manner of fault or
breakdown which could bring about this result. There must have been some
outside influence. “During the war scientists were working on a ray which would
stop aeroplanes in flight or cars on the road,” he muttered. “They never found
it, but if they had, the effect would have been something like this!” Bill
jumped out, taking the box with him, and looked back the way he had come. He
had recently come down a hill, and he could see all the way to the top of it.
Cyclists were coming over the brow of the hill, pedalling hard, cyclists in
police uniforms. There were five—six—seven of them. It was Inspector Seward and
his men from the school. There had been dozens of boys’ bicycles in the rack
alongside the gymnasium wall. The mysterious visitors had not waited to find
another car. They had commandeered cycles and taken up the pursuit on those.
“This means they knew I was going to stop. This means they stopped me!” flashed
through Bill Fane’s mind, and he crossed the road, jumped the ditch, and made
for a patch of woodland on the other side of a meadow. He did not pause until
he was amongst the trees. By that time the seven cyclists were lost to sight
between the hedges. If he could only reach Minton he believed he could enlist
the aid of the real police, but would that do him any good? Would men who could
see through doors, melt locks with their finger tips, and stop cars two miles
away, would such men trouble about the police? Bill Fane began to doubt it.
“Alsians!” he muttered. “Alsians! I wish I could speak to this man in the box,
and ask him a few questions.” Hearing nothing of his pursuers, Bill Leaned
against a tree and opened the black box. The screen was dull and no face appeared.
Fane ran his fingers along the edge to find some hidden switch. He even put his
mouth down close to the screen and said slowly and distinctly—“Where are you?
Speak to me again! I am a Scotland Yard man. What do you want to tell me?”
There was no response. Somewhere in the wood Bill heard voices and the sound of
heavy bodies crashing through the bushes. The men had left their bicycles and
were forcing their way into the woods in search of him. Bill wondered how it
would be if he climbed a tree and hid amongst the thick foliage. He had a
feeling that this simple ruse would not fool these gifted strangers. Again he
put his head almost inside the box, and spoke clearly and earnestly, hoping
there was some kind of transmitter fitted to the apparatus.
The
crashing in the wood drew nearer. Bill had left obvious tracks behind him. He
started to close the box, then he noticed that the screen was getting brighter.
It was becoming illuminated again. Crack! A branch snapped off only thirty
yards away. The uniformed men were moving towards him. They believed they had
him trapped. The face was gradually getting brighter and clearer. The man’s
lips were moving but the sound had not yet come. Bill Fane glanced behind him,
caught the glitter of buttons, and knew he dared delay no longer. “Sorry!” he
gasped into the box. “Got to go!” He snapped the lid down and sprang forward to
smash his way through a screen of hazel bushes. Head down, he charged through
all obstacles, ripping his clothing, bruising his face. Then abruptly he
emerged from the woods into the ploughed field on the other side. He heard a
shout, and saw two of the blue-clad men charging from the right.
THE FACE IN THE BOX 14 Episodes appeared in The
Hotspur issues 899 – 912 (1954)
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007
