A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, April 1950 — page 61: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE NINTH LIFE ae well, I'll say good reason to suspect where that maniac may be found, and—” “And what?” “I had a pretty extensive experience of criminal work before I was posted to my present job, and I got my promotion through dealing in facts I could prove. If I’d gone all bats over lion-headed goddesses and things like that, I’d still be in uniform regulating traffic—or else in a padded cell. “T came to you a few days ago and told you I didn’t like a certain person, and I couldn’t say why—which I own was not dealing in facts. Now I’ve got grounds for suspecting—I won’t put that more defin- itely—grounds for suspecting that there is a reason for my dislike, and that certain person or someone connected with her is involved in this business. Grounds for suspecting it, I say, and therefore satisfy- ing myself about it one way or the other. “But I haven’t and I know I never will have grounds for worrying myself about lion-headed goddesses. And you can’t believe any of that foolery about old gods being able to commit murders, any more than Ido. Why! It’s utterly fantastic and absurd.” “An open mind,” Gees said, “is as useful as a spare collar-stud. I always travel with both. We'll pull in at. that pub on the bend, and you can pay for the drinks.” “T will, with pleasure.” “You know—” Gees stopped the car in front of the Inn—‘“‘down in the back of my mind somewhere I’ve got rather a liking for you.” “Which is why you try to pull my leg, I suppose,”’ Tott rejoined in his sarcastic but good-humored way. “Not exactly.” Gees got out and went round by the radiator, while Tott de- scened from his side. “I was merely salt- ing the ground, in case any of your digging turns up what I see is in it. Just'don’t be too surprised.”’ “But you don’t mean to say you be- lieve—” Tott began, and stopped. No point in pursuing the subject. “Now haven’t I just told you the value of an open mind?” Gees remonstrated. “Let’s hustle after those drinks—it’s about five minutes to comme time for this _ part of the world,” / CHAPTER 12 Not of This Earth HE Hedlington police sergeant was respectful, almost worshipful, in the presence of the great Inspector Tott. “Our own inspector, Mr. Perry, will be here in about half and hour, sir, if you care to wait,” he said. “Half an hour, eh?” his watch. “Maybe less, sir.” “Well, sergeant, I may tell you and him too that I have no official connection with this case—my looking in on you today is a busman’s holiday, if you know. what that is. I’m well—rather interested in such an unusual crime.” “Unusual is right, sir—and pretty hor- rible, too. If it was a crime. Mr. Perry is inclined to think it was some animal, like that one in London the other. day. We don’t know quite what to make of it.” ‘“Umm-m!” Reflecting, Tott decided to wait for the local inspector. “And the body—what had been done with it ?” he in- quired. “Taken to the Rest and Be Thankful— that’s our village inn, sir,” the sergeant an- swered. “The parents'll take it after the inquest, tomorrow morning, but it’s there till then.” “Tf possible, I’d like to see it, sergeant. You can wait here, Mr. Green.” “On the other hand?” Gees said gently, but persuasively. “Yl take you along sir,” offered. Gees said: “Thank you very much,” be- fore Tott could speak. Leaving the car outside the sergeant’s house, the three of them walked along the village street to the inn, closed at this hour. The sergeant led them to the pad- locked door of a brick-and-tile barn before which a constable kept guard. He handed the key to the sergeant. The body lay on a narrow trestle table, covered by a sheet. Tott drew down the sheet as far as the waist, revealing the body of a girl who in death appeared much less than twelve years old. There were deep, terrible lacerations across the breast and the left side of the throat was fearfully © torn. Forcing himself to it, Tott leaned Tott consulted the sergeant comicbooks.com