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

about when the quarries are only a couple of miles off,” Morgan said. “It’s kids who carry the pieces off. Fact remains this is the only piece near to the crime and the only one with bloodstains. How the devil did you come to miss seeing it before?”

      “Hadn’t got this far, sir.”

      Morgan grunted. “All right, we’ll take it back with us. Should have it photographed where it is by rights, but I’ll risk moving it. Not likely to be any interesting prints on this sort of surface, but take care how you handle it all the same.”

      Sergeant Claythorne stooped and lifted the rock gently with his handkerchief underneath the rough parts. The chunk was pretty heavy for its size. He took it across to the police car and set it down carefully on the floor at the back. Morgan looked about him.

      “May be other things we can’t see in this light,” he said finally. “We’ll take another look by day. You two men stay here for tonight and I’ll have you relieved first thing tomorrow. No more we can do at the moment.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      There was little sleep for Mr. and Mrs. Shapley after Morgan had left the shop, and even less for Betty. While her mother and father discussed in hushed voices the horror of the thing that had suddenly descended upon them, Betty lay wide-eyed in bed, straining in her inner vision to see some glimmer in the dark tangle of sudden death. That Vincent and Herbert had been rivals she well knew—and that Tom Clayton was the third point in the triangle—but that Vincent would brutally murder Herbert was, to her, an utter impossibility. Impetuous, reckless, fond of his own voice—yes; but a ruthless killer? Betty solidly refused to believe it.

      Just the same, the law was still determined to find him, and she knew perfectly well that it would—sooner or later. Then what? How could Vincent ever explain his strange headlong flight on a bicycle into the night? And if he did not explain, he would be convicted for murder.

      “No!” Betty whispered, squeezing her eyes shut and feeling tears leak between the lashes. “He can’t suffer for something he hasn’t done. That isn’t justice! I could believe it more of Tommy Clayton than of Vince, though God forgive me for saying it.… But he’s sullen, heavy, unpredictable. He might kill a man in sudden passion, but not Vince.”

      She tried to convince herself that she was viewing this whole thing dispassionately—but deep in her heart something kept telling her that she was viewing it through the eyes of a girl deeply in love with the man who had cycled past her like a madman. Ironic it had had to happen this way, too; just after she had openly declared that she cared neither for Herby nor Tom Clayton in any deeply sentimental way, she found herself with one of them dead, the other a witness to Vincent’s flight, and Vincent himself—who had now aroused in her all the instincts of protection—gone God knew where.

      “And they’ll find him!” Betty whispered to herself, conscious that her pillow was damp from tears. “Vince can’t get away! Oh, why couldn’t he have stopped and spoken—said a few words…?”

      She hugged her knees under the bedclothes. She was in a desperate extremity. Two facts were clear. She had got to conceal what she knew of Vincent’s flight on the one hand—breathe not a word to the police—and on the other she had got to know where he had gone. But how?

      She could not start a private hunt for Vincent Grey without the police asking her what she was doing. Even if by some fluke she discovered where he had gone, she realized that the police would watch her every move. They probably knew she had a regard for him—that she might possibly lead them to the very spot where he was hiding.…

      She could not think clearly. She needed somebody older and far wiser than herself; somebody who would understand. But whom? She fell into a weary sleep trying to think of the answer and awoke again to a sunny summer dawn that seemed a deliberate mockery of the tragedy weighing upon her so heavily.

      She came downstairs to breakfast looking utterly unlike the usual coquette with the well-brushed hair, neat frock, and entrancing blue eyes. Instead, she looked pale and washed out. She had even forgotten to rouge her lips and her hair had lost something of its usual golden lustre.

      “Don’t take things to heart so much, Bet,” her father said, studying her over the top of the morning paper. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

      “I’m not so sure,” she answered leadenly. “If it was rivalry which caused Herby’s death, then I’m the root cause. It’s an awful thought.”

      “You’re taking too serious a view of it, Bet. You didn’t really love Herby, after all.”

      “I’m thinking about Vince. The police think he did it; that’s obvious. Vince is the boy I want to marry—finally; and at this moment I feel instinctively that he needs me.”

      “Maybe he does, love, but you can’t do anything about it.” Her mother was entirely practical as she finished setting out the breakfast. “The law has no time for moonstruck girls.”

      “I’m not moonstruck!” Betty’s eyes flamed sudden defiance. “Great heavens, can’t I say I love a man and want to help him, without you jumping on me?”

      Her mother smiled. “You have a drink of tea, love, and steady your nerves. Dad, get the bacon.”

      He nodded and turned to the task. “You’re right about the police wanting Vince, Bet,” he said presently. “I see this morning’s paper has got the news already. Even you are mentioned as a friend of the dead man. Scotland Yard has been informed of what’s going on, and it says the police are anxious to question a man answering Vince’s description.… His name is given too, of course.”

      “Which means they’ll find him.” Betty looked fixedly at her breakfast.

      Her father lowered the paper suddenly. “To my mind the whole thing is plain enough. Vincent Grey went off the deep end suddenly and murdered Herby. Men do that sometimes.… Jealous rage!”

      Betty shook her fair head. “Vince wouldn’t do that!” Abruptly she pushed her breakfast aside and got to her feet. “I can’t eat this; I’m too upset. If only I could find somebody who thinks as I do. Neither of you seems to understand him.”

      Her parents glanced at each other, but remained silent out of deference to her feelings. They had not, of course, the intimate knowledge of Vincent Grey which Betty had, but they were quite capable of assessing ordinary facts. The papers had told them everything; Morgan had left no doubt as to his views. So—

      “I know!” Betty exclaimed abruptly. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Miss Black!”

      “Miss Black? Your former Headmistress at Roseway, you mean?” her father asked. “But what on earth can she do?”

      “Pretty well everything, I should think.” Betty’s voice became eager. “Don’t you remember how she helped Inspector Morgan on the Langhorn cinema murder case last winter? She’s a criminologist as well as a Headmistress, don’t forget.”

      “That’s true enough,” Mrs. Shapley admitted, raising an eyebrow. “But what can she do? She can’t take the case over from Inspector Morgan. Besides, the facts are quite clear as they are—”

      “I’m going to see her. This minute!” Betty gave her father an imploring look. “Dad, try and manage in the shop without me for an hour, will you? This can’t wait.”

      She dashed to the door hook for her blazer, and then went out into the narrow back yard for her bicycle. In a couple of minutes she had wheeled it out to the front of the shop down the side path and mounted into the saddle. She noticed a solitary policeman approaching from the vista of the main street as she swung away from the kerb in the opposite direction. Coming to the shop? Probably. It might even become quite a rendezvous for police until the missing Vincent Grey was located.

      To Roseway College from Langhorn’s High Street was a distance of two and a half miles. But for the worry on her mind Betty would have enjoyed the run. It was a perfect summer morning with the hot sunshine pouring in diagonal