Thy Arms Alone: A Classic Crime Novel by John Russell Fearn

Author:John Russell Fearn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: British, mystery, crime, women sleuths, detective
ISBN: 9781434443885
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2013-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

When Maria Black arrived at police headquarters next morning, she found Inspector Morgan at his desk. Before him were the photographs that had been taken of the scene of the crime, together with the chunk of granite, the spectrum report from Lexham, the envelope containing burned soil, and Dr. Roberts’ report. On the scratchpad were innumerable notes.

“’Morning, Miss Black,” he greeted, as Claythorne showed her in. “And you notice that I omit the ‘good’.”

Maria settled herself in the chair opposite him. “I gather, Inspector, that you are in the throes of brain-flogging?”

“The granite does not fit the metal scraps found in Pollitt’s head; the granite bloodstains and so on tally exactly with Pollitt’s blood-grouping and bone substance—yet no piece of granite could have burned up soil, and Pollitt was hit from above, diagonally, and not from behind, in front, or sideways. I tell you, I’m getting nowhere.”

“I believe,” Maria said, “that Clayton holds the missing link somewhere. What about searching his place?”

Morgan nodded and got up. “We’ll go now. I’ve taken out the necessary authority. Incidentally, I’ve worked out a possible way of firing the death missile, whatever it was. Suppose Clayton improvised some sort of catapult? Like one of those old-fashioned ballistae, or whatever they called them?”

Maria rose from her chair, looking half amused and half interested. “You are nothing if not original, Inspector,” she commented finally.

He gave a modest smile. “Just a little theory, though it might be wrong. But as I said over the phone last night, I think we should certainly bear in mind that Clayton’s headlamps were trained on the scene ahead of him. And there is a big crane on the back of Clayton’s truck which might have formed one arm of a catapult, anyway.”

“And what,” Maria asked, “was fired? Something so hot that it had to be dug out afterwards?”

“Obviously not.” Morgan frowned and shifted irritably. “We’ll see,” he said. “Come along.”

He led the way outside to his official car, and to his surprise Maria followed him into the neighbouring seat and slammed the door.

“I may as well save petrol,” she explained. “My car will be quite safe where it is.”

Morgan shrugged, swung his car round, then set off down the High Street to the opposite end where Clayton’s garage stood. When they arrived, they found him filling a customer’s petrol tank. The job done, he turned and nodded.

“Morning. Back again, Inspector?” Clayton’s face was set and unsmiling, his low-growing hair untidy.

“Sorry,” Morgan said, “but this has to be done. I’m going to make a search of these premises. Here’s my authority.”

Clayton glanced at the search warrant and shrugged. “Search all you like—though I can’t imagine what you hope to find. Do you want me to come with you? I can until a customer calls me off.”

“Later,” Morgan answered. “I’ll take a look round this garage first.”

He began to prowl, starting with the long work bench by the wall. Maria and Clayton both watched him as he pottered among the tools, looked at the low shelf below the bench, then at the racks above it.

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