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

traffic there might be in case of accident. My lights will hold out for a while.”

      “Why can’t you repair it if you’ve got lights?” Betty asked.

      “Because they’re fixed frontwards and I’d need them pointing backwards. ’Sides, it would mean messing about with bare wires with the juice on—even if I could do it. Which I couldn’t.”

      Betty was recalling the music-hall gag about cars stopping before the girlfriend can be taken home. This, though, was something different. It even sounded as if Herbert actually wanted to be rid of her.

      “You live next door but one to Tom Clayton’s garage, don’t you?” Herbert went on. “I wonder if you’d mind asking him to come and tow me to his place? If we can’t fix it here, it will mean having the car out of the way, anyhow.”

      “But Tom Clayton doesn’t like you!” Betty pointed out. “I can’t see him turning out at this hour to drag this old iron to his garage. He’d rather cut your throat if he could. Not for a moment do I think he’d tow you in.”

      “He only dislikes me because we both happen to lo—like you,” Herbert corrected himself quickly. “He’d come if you were to ask him. Anybody would do what you ask, Bet.”

      “Well.…” The appeal to her charms was a masterstroke. “Well, all right,” Betty sighed. “I’ll walk home, it only to get in at a reasonable time before Dad starts asking silly questions. I’ll see what I can do about Tom Clayton, but I don’t promise anything.”

      There was a silence. She hesitated a moment.

      “I’m afraid I can’t say good night as I should.” Herbert sounded apologetic. “I’m all dirty.… Oil, you know.”

      “I can’t see any oil on your face,” Betty said, standing so close to him in her scrutiny that he could smell perfume.

      “You can’t? Oh—good!”

      Betty stared at his murky figure incredulously, wondering whether he really had not seen the hint or whether he was being evasive. Whichever it was, he plunged back into the dark engine and began to tinker noisily.

      “Night!” Betty said, tight-lipped, and turned to begin the long tramp up the dusty lane.

      * * * *

      Betty walked slowly. She was feeling too piqued to lend aid willingly. That she would do so finally she well knew, but the delay would serve Herbert right! He should be like other men—be progressive, buy a decent car, pay more attention to her.

      She walked along slowly in the starry night, mist rising cool and clammy from the fields on either side of the lane. Out here in the quiet—for even the quarries had become silent now—there was time to think. Should she abandon Herbert and his noisy old banger for the stern-lipped Tommy Clayton, or thoroughly cultivate the boisterous, talkative Vincent Grey? Finding the right man with whom to spend the rest of her life was vitally important, for she was heartily sick of being sub-postmistress. One day, she knew, she would have to make a choice of one of the trio, all of whom she believed would jump at the chance of marrying her.

      Altogether it took her an hour to walk the two miles, but towards the end of the journey she put on a sudden spurt as she felt the chill of the night striking through her thin clothes. It was just chiming half past eleven by the Langhorn church clock as she knocked sharply on the house door of Clayton’s garage. She had to knock again, more emphatically, before there was an answer. Then it was Mrs. Clayton who opened the door and peered out into the night, a fan of brilliance from the passage behind her.

      “Betty!” she exclaimed. “It’s late! What’s wrong—?” She broke off as if expecting a dreadful answer.

      “Nothing serious, Mrs. Clayton. I just want a word with Tommy if he’s in.”

      “He’s having his supper. Come inside.”

      Betty followed through into the back regions where the brilliance of the electric light dazzled her for a moment. Clayton was seated before a plate of stew, dry bread piled up like a miniature Stonehenge on a plate beside him. Propped against a pickle jar was a textbook; the title, Betty noticed casually, was Ball’s Stars in Their Courses.

      There was an air of disorder about the kitchen. At sixty-five, and a widow, too, the grey-haired Mrs. Clayton did not pretend to be house-proud. She had simply ceased to care. Silently she walked back towards the empty fireplace and drew up a chair.

      “Sit you down, Betty.”

      Tom Clayton laid down his knife and fork. “A bit of a late call for you, Betty.… From the look of your shoes you’ve been doing some tramping, too.”

      “Two miles,” she answered, self-piteously, seating herself. “I’ve been out since just after lunch with Herby Pollitt, and his car has broken down. He wants you to go along and either patch things up or tow him in!”

      “Some hopes!” Clayton said, glancing at the clock. “I closed the garage at eight.”

      Betty looked at him and sighed. Whilst thirty minutes earlier she would not have minded leaving Herbert all night with his car, now she was suffering from conscience as she pictured him, with his coat collar turned up, maybe shivering in the dew.…

      “But he might get pneumonia waiting out there!”

      Typically, Tom Clayton said nothing whilst he weighed things up. He sat now in thought, his thick lips and square jaw all carved in one dogged pattern, his heavy-lidded brown eyes staring deeply into the empty fire-grate. He was not a good-looking man, even though his face had strength. Rather, he looked sullen and introspective—nor did his curved nose and low-growing hair tend to add any lighter tones to the portrait.

      “I don’t see why I should,” he said at last, and then he resumed his supper.

      “But—but, Tommy, we just can’t leave him there. He’s conscientious enough to stick with the damned car until daylight rather than risk the police or an accident. You could easily tow him home in a few minutes.”

      “Why should I help him?” Clayton’s dark eyes were morosely suspicious. “You’ve been out with him most of the day.… Never a thought for me, I notice; and then you ask me to help him!”

      Betty looked wide-eyed and innocent. This was her best line when things showed signs of getting out of hand. Mrs. Clayton moved over to the armchair and picked up a bundle of knitting.

      Her face was expressionless as she awaited the next move. She knew her son was well able to look after his own affairs at twenty-three—and she knew Betty, too. Whether she approved of Betty or not she had never said.

      “Can’t be done,” Clayton decided, after further reflection.

      “But Tommy, you’ll make me break my promise to Herby!” Betty looked at the floor and played with her fingers. “Of course he said you’d never do anything to help him, so this isn’t much of a surprise really.”

      Clayton threw down his cutlery. “He said that? By what right? I run a garage, don’t I? I suppose he was trying to make out that I don’t know my job, or something?”

      “He didn’t exactly say you didn’t know your job. He just sort of knows you don’t like him.”

      Clayton got to his feet and crossed to the empty fireplace, stood staring into the grate.

      “Are you going or not?” Betty asked abruptly.

      Clayton turned. “I’ll go, Betty, but understand that I am only doing it because I have a regard for you, and not for Herby’s sake! I’ll charge him double. I also want it understood that you will give me a chance to take you out next time.”

      Betty shrugged. “All right, why not?” She felt disinclined to point out that he never took a half-day off.

      “Very well. I’ll see you to your door and then I’ll get the truck out.… Mother, put that stew back until