Out in the night, on a lonely country road, the solitary driver of an Austin 1800 saloon-car speeds along. Wearing a dark coat, over a shirt and tie, he looks respectable. The bloke is maybe some kind of a businessman, or the like. He appears physically strong, and of the type who could probably handle himself.
He stops his car, on a dark stretch, to use a telephone box by the side of the road. All around, it is pitch-black, and the bright-red phone-box appears to be lit up like a beacon. He pulls the handbrake on firmly, switches off the engine, and gets out of the car. Casually walking towards the phone-box, he swings the door open, and stands inside. The box is clean, with internal lighting, and is in full working-order. The businessman shuts the door over and picks up the handset with his right hand.
He dials with his left index-finger. The circular label, marked CHENTON 8421, spins around. He only gets a couple of numbers dialled before he hears his car engine turning over outside, and starting up. The headlights of his vehicle come on, full beam.
The businessman runs out of the phone-box. His car is being driven away. Standing out in front of its path, he shouts “Hey!” and waves his arms about. But the car thrusts forward and hits him, full on. He bounces off the bonnet, with force, and rolls over the windscreen. His limp body crashes to the ground.
The car stops a short distance away. Someone gets out, leaving the engine running. A hand checks over the body lying on the ground, riffles through the clothing, and takes the valuables. The figure then slowly walks back to the stolen car, jumps in, and drives off at speed.
