Thy Arm Alone: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn

was with Herbert at the moment. For her it was just another outing, for Herbert it was a foretaste of Heaven, and a rather noisy Heaven too if his car be included. It had chugged its way from Lexham to this present spot—a country lane with open fields on both sides, a couple of miles from Langhorn village.

      But now it had come to a halt and Herbert was trying with some uneasiness to decide whether it was because he had switched off the ignition, or whether it was because the confounded thing had lain down and died just before he had switched off.

      “What in the world are you doing?” Betty asked him in surprise as he doubled himself up and squinted under the dashboard.

      “Eh? Oh—nothing. Just wondering.…”

      “You don’t have to be a contortionist to do that, do you? I thought you stopped here so we could talk.… It’s so quiet—now,” Betty added, glancing significantly at the faded bonnet.

      “Yes, isn’t it? Except for those rumbles from the quarry-blasting, that is. I didn’t think they worked this late.”

      Betty listened to the remote concussions for a while. “Maybe it’s thunder,” she said.

      Herbert Pollitt was annoyed: he wanted to devote his attention to Betty, yet at the same time he was wondering if the car would ever start again. Between the two issues he only succeeded in looking vacant.

      It needed every volt of Betty’s charm to make the car seem worthwhile. It had had innumerable owners, and had once been proudly advertised as a tourer. Now only the doors retained correct working order in that they at least opened and shut. The bodywork was battered, dented, and scraped. A sinister worm of oily string secured the rear plate; the upholstery was discoloured; the folding hood had degenerated into a flattened trellis of wooden struts with rusty studs alone showing where canvas had been.

      In the midst of this Betty sat, half-sprawled, her shapely legs thrust well under the dashboard—until the icy cold of the brake lever against her bare calf made her withdraw hastily. The late evening air was warm, the sky dim and cloudless blue out of which stars peeped as though wondering what was going on below. The close of a perfect July day, nearing ten-fifteen. The narrow lane was empty in front and behind. The strong smell of newly mown hay drifted over hawthorn hedges greyed with dust from a rainless fortnight. It was the sort of evening to make an old man feel young, and a young man younger still. Except for this infernal car.

      Herbert took off his cap presently—he always wore it while driving—and mopped his good-looking face. Black curls tumbled in a permanent state of rebellion against brush and comb. His eyes were hazel, his nose long and thin; his mouth broad and straight. His jaw was always so intensely shaven, it created a vague wonder among his male friends as to his source of razor blades.

      Yes, Betty had not chosen an unworthy-looking specimen by any means. He did not mind spending what little money he had; when his car would function, it was hers for the asking. Though he never took advantage—much to Betty’s secret chagrin sometimes—he was definitely in earnest. It was sheer diffidence that held him back.

      “It’s sort of—hot,” he observed presently.

      “Is it?”

      This casual desire for confirmation made Herbert feel hotter still. Betty was so close to him that her plump shoulder in the thin short-sleeved frock pressed against his. Her arms were folded and her blue eyes stared into the darkling sky. Herbert, sideways to her, could see that mass of thick, bushy fair hair with the cornflower blue ribbon holding it in place, the high forehead, the retroussé nose with its air of assurance, and then the full lips and dimpled chin which betrayed the streak of self-love in her nature. Her neck was shapely, forming a finely moulded line from beneath her chin to the base of her throat—but it had the red hue of sunburn marring its unsullied beauty. The folded arms were pink, too, on the outsides. It had been a hot day, and a Wednesday. The shop had been closed since noon. Herbert had given himself a half-holiday, and Betty and he had been together since two o’clock.

      There were more distant rumblings from the quarries—the only sound in the quiet.

      “Been a lovely day,” Betty whispered at last, turning her head sideways, her large blue eyes fixed on him.

      “Yes, lovely,” Herbert agreed; then she pursed her lips at him provocatively. He wondered whether she meant he was to kiss her there and then or whether she felt annoyed.

      “I think the engine’s gone dead!” he said lamely.

      “Just the engine?” Betty asked archly, her mouth resuming its normal shape, “What of it? It’s only two miles or so home.”

      “But I can’t leave the car in the lane! The battery will only keep the lights going for about twenty minutes. I’d have the police on my track.”

      Betty shrugged and resumed her study of the sky. An engine and a flat battery meant nothing to her. Then suddenly she sat up with a jerk and gripped Herbert’s arm tightly. “Wish!” she ordered. “Wish—now! For the thing you want most!”

      “Why?” he asked, bewildered.

      “A shooting star. Didn’t you see it?”

      He looked upwards. The sky had taken on the deep purple of approaching night. Many more stars had ventured out. As they both gazed in hushed expectancy, another streak of light smeared soundlessly across the expanse and was gone.

      “Two!” Betty exclaimed. “Did you wish that time?”

      “Does one? I always thought it meant a baby was going to be born and—” He broke off in sudden embarrassment. “I didn’t mean that exactly. I—er—I think we’d better be going.”

      “Why?” Betty relaxed and smiled. “We’ve only just got here.… Don’t you sometimes want to just sit and think? Wonder what the future has in store for you? I do!” Her soft hand reached out gently and grasped his.

      “Quite a lot of shooting stars tonight,” he said presently, disdaining to use the correct term of “meteors.”

      “One does run into them at different parts of the year,” Betty said, snuggling down with a sigh of contentment. “Rather like life: they just come and go in an instant of time.… We’re like that. Herby. Life seems to last a long while when you’re young, but when you come to measure it by ages and ages, it doesn’t amount to much.”

      Such profound philosophy had been something of an effort for Betty; she had been building up to a crisis.

      “I’ve got to be sure!” Herbert said abruptly as she began to walk her fingers playfully across his chest. “Nothing wrong under the dashboard, so it must be the engine. I’m sure it died!”

      He jerked himself free and half fell out of the car into the dust of the lane. Betty straightened up in annoyance and blew a tickling wisp of hair out of her eye.

      “You and your car engine!” she called after him. “Haven’t you got a spark of romance in your soul?”

      “Of course, but—I’ve got to be sure we can get home!”

      Reaching the front of the car, he flung back the bonnet with desperate energy, anxious to get his hands on something tough and worldly—and unfeminine.

      Betty relaxed again and stretched languidly on the back of the seat. Her eyes rose from Herbert’s shoulders as he poked his head in the engine. She saw another transitory flash across the sky and she wished—wished that Herbert might become more of a man and less of a ninny.

      “Damn!” he muttered, straightening. “This is going to take a bit of fixing. Ignition wire has corroded through and I’ve no light to see to mend it in the dark. It’s broken away at the main cable from the battery. Means scraping, and it should be soldered on by rights. Bit of a job.”

      This talk of car parts somehow did not fit in with a romantic half-hour in the summer dusk. Betty abandoned her hopes, and got up. Climbing out of the car, she walked round to where Herbert was standing.