The Weak-Eyed Bat

Chapter Thirteen

Prye turned out the light in the kitchen, opened the door, and went on to the veranda. He gave a long, low whistle and about two hundred yards away a bush began to move. He whistled again, keeping in the shadows, and finally the bush stood straight up and began to walk toward him. It materialized as a policeman wearing a grey-blue uniform.

“Anything wrong, Dr. Prye?” he asked.

“Have you seen anyone going into the Littles’ cottage?”

“Haven’t seen a thing,” the policeman said, sounding rather angry. “It’s too damn dark. But there was a light for a minute on the veranda. Somebody opened the door and looked out.”

“All right. I want to go over there. You may come along and then go and find Inspector White.”

Nora arrived in time to hear him, and she clutched his arm firmly. “Hey. You can’t leave me here.”

“You’ll be safer behind locked doors,” Prye said.

“The hell I will. Either you take me or I yell.”

Prye and the policeman exchanged glances of resignation. Then Prye sighed and put his hand under her arm, and the three of them went down the steps.

They walked close together along the path, their feet sweeping away the silence.

“I knew a girl once,” Nora said by way of conversation, “who used to have to walk through a place like this every night. She used to pretend she was crazy — you know, muttering to herself — so that if anyone crazy wanted to attack her the crazy person would think she was crazier and wouldn’t. Should we?”

“Should we what?” Prye said.

“Pretend we’re crazy.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Prye said coldly.

“Oh well. It was just an idea.”

“Wait!” The policeman grabbed Prye by the arm, and all three of them stood still. “Hear anything?” he whispered.

From a near-by tree came a soft, slithering sound. Prye reached for the policeman's flashlight and went quietly toward the tree. It blazed suddenly into light and from one of the middle branches a pair of porcupines regarded him with frightened eyes, their quills sticking straight out from their bodies.

Prye laughed and switched off the flashlight. “They’re more scared than we are.”

Nora said shakily: “They are not. It’s just that I haven’t got any quills to prove it. Do you suppose the murderer is still — here?”

“Not unless he’s a damn fool,” the policeman said. He left Nora and Prye on the steps of the Littles’ veranda and went off again to find Inspector White.

Jennie, wild-eyed and pale, let them into the house. Without speaking she drew the envelope from the pocket of her apron, handling it as if it were an incendiary bomb.

“Have you had your fingers all over this?” Prye asked, frowning.

“It says to me on the envelope,” Jennie said tartly. “Why shouldn’t I put my fingers on it?”

Prye took the envelope. It was a cheap, ordinary brand with “Jenny” penciled on the outside in block letters. The letter inside was simple:

“Mr. Little is dead. I killed him because he was no use to the world. His body is in a canoe on the lake. I am not a cold-blooded murderer, so I am telling you this in order that you may tell your mistress at the proper time. I do not kill without reason.”

The letters were small and neat.

“My name’s spelled wrong,” Jennie said. “I guess that’s a clue.”

“I guess,” Prye said. “How did you get this letter, Jennie?”

“Someone knocked at the door and when I went to see who it was there was no one there. There was just this lying on the veranda.”

“You saw nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No sir. Except... well, I thought I heard a noise in one of those trees.”

“Was it a sharp crack like a twig breaking?”

“No sir. It was soft, sort of a swish, like the rustle of a taffeta petticoat, if you know what I mean.”

“It wasn’t the rustle of leaves?”

“I don’t think so,” Jennie said, her lips pressed together. “I think it was demons, evil demons.”

Prye smiled. Wang’s ideas seemed to have achieved popularity in the district. Demons whose fingers plucked at Alfonse’s uniform and whispered as she walked—

“Could it have been someone wearing a crisply starched uniform?”

“Maybe, if it wasn’t demons, which I believe it was.”

“All right, it was demons,” Prye said. “You needn’t say anything to Mrs. Little about this letter right now. It may be a hoax. Murderers aren’t usually so lavish in their admissions and I can’t think what is to be gained by a letter like this.”

Nora nudged Prye and turned to Jennie with a bright smile. “I wonder if I could have a sandwich, Jennie.”

“A sandwich!” Jennie couldn’t have been more surprised if Nora had asked for a human head fried in olive oil. “You mean to eat?”

“Just one,” Nora said pitifully. “I didn’t have any dinner.”

Jennie was disposed of.

“So,” Nora hissed. “You can’t think of what the murderer had to gain by this letter! You and the inspector had it all figured out that Tom’s body was meant to be found and now that your argument is proven you’ve forgotten about it. The murderer wants the body found and tells you where to find it. He wasn’t seen and he wasn’t heard, and you’re no closer to him now than you were before. He’s gained his point and risked nothing.”

“Risked everything,” Prye said brusquely. “If we weren’t living in the backwoods this note would hang him. Paper and pencils can be traced. Pencils, like bullets, leave their distinctive marks, and a handwriting expert can deduce almost as much from printing as he can from handwriting. He measures the spaces between letters, words, and lines, the pressure used, the slant of lines and letters, and the width of margins. If ink had been used he could tell what kind of ink, and by the use of a tintometer estimate how long ago the note was written. But there are only about a dozen of these experts on the continent and none of them is in Muskoka. All I can do is observe the obvious facts: that the pencil had a soft lead and the paper is cheap and matches the envelope. We don’t stand much chance of finding the supply the paper came from, since the murderer has probably burned it by this time.”

“Why don’t you get everyone to print the alphabet in block letters and compare them?” Nora suggested.

“One test would do no good. The murderer would take pains to print his letters in a different way. Such a test is useful only when it is repeated after a period of time. After a month, for instance, the subject of the test would no longer remember how he had forged each letter in the first place, and the differences in the two tests, while not conclusive in a court of law, would give us a definite lead. But I don’t care to wait a month. Do you?”

“No,” said Nora, shivering.

When Inspector White arrived he was in the worst of humor. The delivery of the letter under the noses of eight of his men he construed as an insult to his ability and he was quite correct in assuming that the commissioner would think the same.

But the inspector was a hardy optimist, and eventually his trained eye detected a silver lining: “The letter clears up one thing anyway. We’re not dealing with an outsider, but with someone who is living among us, someone who knows Jennie and who is well-posted on the routine in the various cottages.”

“That cheers me,” Nora said.

Inspector White seemed to become aware of her for the first time. “What are you doing here, Miss Shane?” he said sternly.

“Well, I’m — helping. I mean I came over to help but I find there is nothing to help with, so I’m just leaving.”

Inspector White regarded her coldly. “You’re staying. Mr. Smith has been busy all day lodging complaints with Constable Jakes. One of the complaints is against you and a Chinaman called Wang. Mr. Smith claims that the two of you were trespassing not ten feet away from a no-trespassing sign and that you were effecting an entrance through his kitchen window with intent to rob.”

“I thought he was away,” Nora said.

“Obviously.”

“He’s a silly creature anyway. We weren’t going to rob him, we weren’t even trying to get in his silly window.”

“You were posing for a photograph,” Prye said helpfully.

Nora ignored him and said to the inspector: “I’ve known Wang for years, you see. He used to be our houseboy until Miss Bonner lured him away by offering him higher wages.”

“Down with capitalism,” Prye said.

“Anyway,” Nora went on coldly, “he told me he thought Miss Bonner was spying on me with a pair of field glasses and I don’t like to be spied on. I thought I could find out the truth more delicately than asking her outright.”

“So you tested her,” Prye said, and turned to Inspector White. “Sometimes Miss Shane becomes lost in the intricacies of her own mind. She is trying to reduce to words a very complex and typically female idea: if Miss Bonner had field glasses she would see the tableau arranged for her by Miss Shane and Wang and if she saw it she would immediately question Wang on his behavior. Did she?”

“No,” Nora said. “Ralph told me later she was sleeping at the time.”

Inspector White rose to his feet and said in his most impressive tones: “Miss Shane, your explanation is so absurd that I believe it. Your actions were irresponsible, frivolous, and illegal.”

“I’ll sit in the corner,” Nora said, very subdued.

Inspector White took the letter from the table and reread it.

“Prye, who wrote this?”

Prye looked up, startled. “The murderer, I suppose. No reason why anyone else should. Besides, the murderer is the only one who knew where the body was and had a motive for writing the letter.”

“Professor Frost knew this afternoon that we had found Little’s body. How does that information strike you?”

Prye was silent for a minute. “Interesting point, isn’t it? Does the letter eliminate Frost as the murderer since he already knew Little had been found, or does it point to him?”

“Exactly,” the inspector said dryly. “Frost had a more reasonable motive for writing the letter than anyone else. He knew the body had been found and the murderer presumably did not know, therefore Frost is not the murderer. That would be his logic. I think I’ll start a pencil collection.”

“It’s just as easy to get rid of a pencil as it is to burn paper,” Nora said.

“There is a possibility that the letter writer does not know that pencils can be checked through their graphite composition,” Inspector White said. “Prye, you may collect your own, Miss Shane’s, and whatever pencils you find in this house.”

After another stern, quelling glance at Nora the inspector went out and Prye turned to Jennie, who, from the doorway, had been absorbing the conversation through both ears.

“Jennie, you heard what the inspector said. Your pencils, if you please.”

“My pencils!” Jennie began to wail, and Prye clapped a hand over her mouth.

“You live in the community. You might have written the note and merely pretended you found it. And when the inspector says he wants a pencil collection he means all the pencils and no silly middle-aged female is going to change his mind. Now scat.”

He took his hand away and Jennie hurried into the kitchen.

“The iron hand,” Nora said, wrinkling her nose. “I hope it rusts.”

“Did I ask you to come along? For a thin dime I’d ask Inspector White to arrest you.”

“You’re rapidly losing your glamor for me,” Nora said haughtily.

Jennie came back looking rather sulky. She held out the small stub of a pencil liberally decorated with toothmarks.

“Not a respectable pencil at all,” Prye said. “Aren’t there any others in the house?”

“I thought there was some more but I can’t find them. That’s my own personal pencil for making out my grocery lists. But I think Mr. Little had some for marking bridge scores.”

“And they’re gone?”

“They’re not down here.”

“We’ll have to look upstairs,” Prye said. “Come along, Nora.”

“But Mrs. Little?” Jennie said.

“We’ll be quiet,” Prye replied. “At least I will, and Miss Shane will do her best.”

They went upstairs on tiptoe. Prye listened at Mary Little’s door and could hear no movement from within.

“Do I just look for pencils?” Nora whispered. “Or should I pick up anything else that’s interesting?”

“You have one charge hanging over your head now,” Prye hissed.

“I simply meant clues or things,” Nora said coldly, and disappeared into a bedroom. From the ensuing noise it was evident that she was taking her work seriously. When Prye entered five minutes later he found her carefully probing the wainscoting with a hairpin.

“Darling,” Prye said grimly, “what are you doing?”

Nora got up on her knees and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Doing? You sent me here, didn’t you? I’m looking for pencils.”

“I didn’t tell you to tear down the house. I merely wanted you to ascertain whether any place which might reasonably be expected to contain pencils does or does not contain them.”

“Does not,” Nora said. “A pen though.”

“Come on, we’re leaving.” He helped her to her feet and wiped off a smudge on her forehead with a handkerchief. “Ready?”

“Of course.” She strolled nonchalantly to the door. Prye stopped her.

“You wouldn’t by any chance have decided to keep the pen, would you?”

She sighed and reached into her pocket. “You’re fey,” she said glumly. “Positively fey.” Prye laid the pen on the table and they went out into the hall. Mary Little’s high, querulous voice came from her bedroom.

“Jennie! What is the hall light on for? Jennie!”

Prye sent Nora downstairs and went into the bedroom.

Mary Little was sitting up in bed. At the sight of Prye her face blanched and her hands clenched into two thin blue fists.

“They’ve found him,” she whispered.

Prye nodded.

“He’s dead? Of course he’s dead. That’s why you’re here, to tell me. But nobody had to tell me. I waited for him all night and when he didn’t come home I knew he was dead.” She spoke quickly and jerkily, as if she had no control over her words. “I knew it. You don’t believe in things like that, like knowing that something has happened to someone you love.”

“I do believe in them,” Prye said quietly.

She did not reply but kept staring through him at the wall. He had his hand on her wrist. “You’re looking better tonight,” Prye said. “You had a nice sleep.”

“Did I?”

“Are you well enough to talk to me?”

“Of course. That stuff you gave me was very good. Are you going to give me any more of it?”

“Later, if you need it,” Prye said. “I have to ask you some questions, Mary, if we’re going to find the person who killed Tom. Did you just wake up when you called out a few minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Your pulse is one hundred thirty,” he said. “You’ve been awake for some time. You’ve been out of bed, haven’t you?”

Her face was ghastly. “I— No. Yes, yes, I was.”

“How long were you out of bed? Where did you go?”

“The window,” she said, closing her eyes. “I was — saying good-bye to Tom.”

Prye frowned. “How long were you there?”

“A long time.”

“Could you see anything from the window? Was your light on?”

“My light was off. I could see the moon and the trees and I saw you come with Nora, and then I saw Nora leave again. She looks very pretty in her white dress.”

“Nora is still here,” Prye said softly. “She is wearing a dark blue dress.”

“No, you are wrong.” Her voice was hysterical. “You are wrong. She is wearing a white dress. She walked toward the woods.”

Prye said, “All right. Of course I’m wrong, Mary. I never could remember women’s clothes.”

She lay back breathing more easily, and after a time Prye said: “On Monday night Jennie said you went to bed right after dinner as you’ve been doing for some time. Yet on Tuesday morning I found you suffering from a severe shock. Why?”

“I can’t tell you,” she whispered.

“But it had something to do with Tom?”

She shook her head.

“You went out of the house on Monday night, didn’t you, Mary?”

She seemed both puzzled and surprised. “No. I... I didn’t have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“I found something in Tom’s room. Tom often had headaches and I went in to get some of his headache tablets.”

“And you found?”

Her mouth was working. Her words were barely audible.

“I found her ring.”

Prye waited for her sobbing to stop, turning her words over in his mind. If Mary had found Joan’s ring in Tom’s room it meant that Joan had visited or met Tom some time on Monday afternoon.

“What time was this?” Prye said at last.

“I don’t know. I guess around eight o’clock.”

“What did you do with the ring?”

“I can hardly remember but I think I threw it out of the window. And then I came back and I don’t know anything after that except that I wanted to die. I thought I was dying.”

“You didn’t know that Tom and Joan were — well acquainted?”

“No. How could he? She was just a child. But Tom’s dead now and so is she and I don’t blame either of them. I was such a fool. Pretty soon it won’t matter what any of us did.” Her voice had begun to fade, as if she were too tired and depressed to talk any longer.

A potential suicide, Prye thought. He rose briskly and prepared a hypodermic, and in ten minutes she was sleeping again. Prye went downstairs and gave some orders to Jennie. Then he and Nora walked up the lane to Miss Bonner’s house.

It was ten o’clock. The veranda sprang into light at their knock and two bright black eyes surveyed them from the small window in the top of the door.

“Like a speakeasy,” Nora said. “Hurry up, Wang. Somebody’s after me with an ax.”

The door opened and Wang bowed humbly before Nora. “I offer my head on a platter for presuming to keep you waiting, but such are my commands.”

Prye smiled at him rather fiercely. “Someday, Wang, somebody is going to take you literally.”

“Some persons are deeply touched by my protestations of loyalty,” Wang announced in an injured voice. “Even the heart of Miss Bonner is not inflexible.”

“Miss Bonner still up?”

“Miss Bonner is as unsleeping as the evil eye.”

“That’s a pity,” Prye said. “It means that Miss Shane will be forced to entertain her while I talk to Miss Alfonse.”

“You entertain your own Eumenides,” Nora cried.

“Since Miss Alfonse and I will require the strictest privacy, I hope you are prepared to be reasonable, Nora.”

“I am always reasonable. But Emily will throw me out on my ear. I called her a name once to somebody I thought I could trust and she has a good memory.”

“That’s fine,” Prye said heartily. “That’s your excuse for calling on her. Apologize for the name you called her. Tell her it was a case of mistaken identity. Or if it was a nice name tell her it was not a case of mistaken identity. Do you get the idea?”

“Not after you’ve finished mangling it,” Nora said, and followed Wang up the steps with dignity.

A few minutes later Prye went up. He stopped for a while outside Miss Bonner’s door and listened.

“A liar, that’s what it was!” Emily was saying. “I have strong information to the effect that you called me a liar, Miss Shane.”

Prye walked down the hall and rapped softly on the door of Miss Alfonse’s room. There was no answer. Without wasting further time he took the picklock from his pocket and opened the door.

The room was in darkness. He fumbled for the light switch, listened for movements in the room. But when the light went on there was nobody there. The uniform that Miss Alfonse had worn that day lay crumpled on the bed. A drawer in the dresser was open, spilling out clothes on to the floor. Prye went over automatically and began to pick them up. Then he saw the small, dark-red pool at his feet.