The Weak-Eyed Bat

Chapter Eleven

“My Baby!” cried Mrs. St. Clair Remington. “To think that my baby should find a dead man! Why, he doesn’t even know what death is. My poor baby!”

Apparently her baby was hardened to this sort of thing. He squirmed expertly out of her grasp and was in the act of crawling between Inspector White’s legs in order to get another look at the corpse. The inspector reached down and grabbed him.

“A dreadful experience for the young,” Inspector White said solemnly. “If you have some place where we could discuss this, Mrs. Remington, we shall be able to prevent his youthful mind being wounded further.”

Dr. Prescott and two provincial policemen were left at the beach and Mrs. Remington led the way to her cottage.

“How many people have you told about the discovery?” the inspector asked.

“No one at all. That is, except my sister who is staying with me.”

“The servants?”

“Oh yes, and my maid Lucy. Run along, Tommy. Go up to your room and get your nice new airplane, that’s a good boy.”

Tommy made it plain, by a series of grimaces, that he had no intention of going. Although bribery was against his principles, Inspector White said: “I’ll give you a quarter.”

“For fifty cents I can buy a water pistol,” the baby said musingly.

“Tommy! Really, Inspector, he never acts like this! I can’t understand—”

Fifty cents changed hands and the door was locked behind Tommy. Mrs. Remington sank into a chair, sighing audibly.

Inspector White remained standing. “I want you to assist the cause of justice, Mrs. Remington.”

It was a good beginning. Mrs. Remington began to flutter like a light-mad moth.

“I want you to keep this discovery a complete secret. Tell no one, not even your husband.”

“I haven’t any husband.”

“Good,” Inspector White said vigorously. “How far is the nearest cottage?”

Mrs. Remington looked vague. “Quite, quite far.”

“Is there any possibility that someone else saw this canoe?”

“I don’t think so. You see, this is a kind of cove, very private. And with all those trees and things— Oh no.”

Inspector White spent another five minutes swearing her to secrecy and went out to give orders to his men. Dr. Prescott was to accompany the corpse to Clayton, one policeman was to remain at the spot where the body was discovered and keep an eye on the Remingtons. The other man, who was in plain clothes, was to find out who owned the canoe. Inspector White himself put through an enigmatic call to Prye’s cottage.

Dr. Prye, strengthened by food, was about to go up to Miss Bonner’s for a stern interview with Alfonse when the telephone rang.

“Prye? White speaking. Walk to the end of the lane and I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Don’t tell anyone.” Inspector White rang off and Prye turned to Nora.

“Sorry, I have to go out,” he said. “Stay here if you like, but lock the doors.”

“Where are you going?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Sh! My lips are sealed, but I don’t mind telling you that I’m going out to foil a plot to blow up the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa.”

“Wise guy,” Nora said without heat.

She watched him out of the window. Wherever Dr. Prye was going he seemed in no hurry to arrive. He wandered casually up the lane, stopping to fling a flat stone into the water and watch it skip along the surface.

Emily saw him, too, and immediately shouted down to Wang to lock all the doors and windows, Prye was coming. But Prye passed her house with barely a glance and soon he was hidden by trees.

At the place where the lane crossed the main road Inspector White was waiting in his official car. He opened the door with a curt, “Come in.”

Prye got in and slammed the door. “Found him?”

“We found him,” Inspector White said grimly. “In a canoe on the other side of the lake. He was hit over the head like the girl, but there was no trace of the weapon. It looks like an ax job. I’ve seen quite a few of them. But ax murderers are usually a simple, crude, stupid class of criminal, and this man isn’t.”

“Or woman,” Prye said. “When was Little killed?”

“Prescott says between fifteen and twenty hours ago, roughly sometime during the storm. He must have left his house after the storm started because he was wearing his coat and hat and rubbers.”

“Why put him in a canoe?” Prye said slowly.

“I have an idea about that. My theory is that the murderer wanted the body to be found but not on the spot where the murder was committed. Unless we get eyewitness testimony we stand no chance at all of finding out where Little was killed: the storm will have washed away all traces of the crime and we certainly can’t have every piece of earth in Muskoka tested for invisible bloodstains. Since a drifting canoe is sure to be discovered on a lake of this size I assume that the murderer did not want to conceal the body as he did Miss Frost’s; perhaps he meant us to find Little. In that case, he will be disconcerted if we do not find him, won’t he?”

Prye nodded. “So your idea is to pretend that the body has not been discovered and to wait for the murderer to make the next move?”

“That’s it. And whether I’m right or wrong, secrecy can do no harm.”

“I think you’re wrong. Whose canoe was it?”

“I have a man tracing it but we don’t know yet.”

“I hope it’s Joan Frost’s,” Prye said.

Inspector White took his eyes off the road to stare at him. “Why do you say that?”

Prye was silent a minute. Then he said thoughtfully: “How neat it will be if the canoe is Joan’s. See the pattern behind the two murders? Joan is killed and her body left in the water. Her engagement ring is found in Tom’s room. There was no attempt to conceal it. Then Tom is killed in the same way, and his body is placed in a canoe. And if the canoe belongs to Joan Frost, see how completely the two deaths are interwoven? It’s almost as if the murderer is trying to make us see the essential justice of his crimes.”

“Always providing,” Inspector White put in dryly, “that the canoe does belong to Joan Frost.” He turned his car around in the middle of the road. “We’re going back now. I have a job for you, Prye.”

“Before you tell me about the job, let me tell you about Miss Jones. She’s the—”

“I met Miss Jones this morning,” Inspector White said. “Miss Jones is a very simple woman and you should never send roses to simple women over forty. They get suspicious and sometimes inform the police.”

“Duped,” Prye said sadly.

“On the strength of Miss Jones’ evidence I should arrest this Alfonse woman.”

“Not yet. We don’t know whether she kept the appointment or not. We don’t know definitely whether it was Miss Alfonse speaking and not someone who merely used her name. She may have a cast-iron alibi for the times of the telephone call and the murder. Besides, why should Miss Alfonse, who barely knew Tom Little, decide to kill him?”

“Perhaps because he knew she committed the first murder.”

“How could he? He wasn’t even outside the house on Monday night. Now what’s the job I’m to do?”

“Get people talking about the storm. Was it a bad storm? Did they sit up and watch it or go to bed? Did they hear any trees fall?”

“Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it,” Prye murmured.

Inspector White frowned and said, “Roughly, that’s it. Though I don’t approve of deceit, you understand it’s necessary.”

“Perfectly. Had a bad storm in these parts last night, Inspector. Do you remember it?”

“Vividly,” Inspector White said with a smile. “I was marooned in an undertaking parlor in Clayton.” He stopped the car and opened the door. “From here on you’ll be walking, Prye.”

“Walking! It’s half a mile!”

“Just the right distance to allow a tactful interval between our arrivals.”

Prye was left standing in the middle of the road.

“Duped again,” he said, and began to walk.

Sitting behind the desk in his study, Professor Frost turned another page of his Thucydides and sighed. He was making notes for his book on the humor of the Greeks and skimming Thucydides in the thin hope of finding just one example.

At last his eye brightened. “The Spartans set out, not toward Sparta, but—”

Yes. Undoubtedly humor, of a kind. The Spartans, who were constantly setting out toward Sparta, were this time setting out not toward Sparta. With a pleased smile he noted the page and line and closed the book.

A timid knock at the door and a soft “Father, are you busy?” announced the entrance of Susan. Susan always knocked and she always said, “Father, are you busy?” but she managed to get inside the door without waiting for an answer.

“I am busy, my dear,” her father said mildly. “I am always busy. Nevertheless, I shall take time off to settle any family difficulties. What is it — a mouse in the cupboards? A broken dish?”

“A policeman,” Susan said with gentle reproach.

“Really. What does he want?”

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Extraordinary. I can’t believe my conversation would interest a policeman in the least. However, I’ll be down shortly. Give him a cookie and tell him to wait.”

“A cookie? What kind of cookie?”

“That was a joke, Susan, a meek and miserable little joke. Thucydides does not inspire me to great heights.”

“I don’t understand you, Father,” Susan said mournfully, and went out into the hall.

Inspector White had settled himself comfortably in the sitting room. The leather chair was cool, and when Susan reappeared he estimated her age in the hope that she would be under eighteen and would not expect him to get up again. It was no use. Susan was over eighteen and looked it. He rose to his feet wearily while she delivered her message in a ladylike voice.

“Prissy,” thought Inspector White. “Prim and prissy.” Aloud he said: “Thank you, Miss Frost. This has been a very trying experience for you and your father, extremely trying.”

With no effort at all Susan looked extremely tried.

“The police are doing their utmost, you may be sure, Miss Frost. So far we have uncovered no evidence which points conclusively to one person, and that is why we must continue to bother you in this way. Ah, Professor Frost? I’m Inspector White of the Provincial Police.”

Professor Frost crossed the room and the two men shook hands, watching each other carefully through their smiles. Frost turned to Susan and she went out without speaking.

“Sorry to break up your work,” Inspector White began in his loud, pleasant voice, “but I’d like to know more about Monday afternoon and perhaps you can help me.”

“Perhaps,” the professor said, looking slightly bored.

“Your daughter, Joan, I am told, locked herself in her room shortly before lunch on Monday. After lunch she admitted a visitor, Ralph Bonner. In your first statement you told Constable Jakes that you heard none of the ensuing conversation. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Would you care to change that statement?”

“I have no reason to.”

“Despite the fact that the windows were all open, you heard no sounds of quarreling?”

“I wasn’t listening. I never hear anything when I’m not listening.”

Inspector White smiled coldly. “You must have remarkable powers of concentration, Professor Frost.”

“I have indeed,” Frost agreed blandly.

“You were in your study all Monday afternoon?”

“I was.”

“You would not be in a position to say whether your daughter went out of the house or not?”

“No. Why?”

“Her engagement ring has been found. From the position in which it was found I thought it probable that she had left it there herself. Since she was wearing it when she was talking to Mr. Bonner, she may have taken it off later in the afternoon. But if she did not go out the ring must have been removed after her death.”

Frost seemed uninterested. “It was a valuable ring. I hardly think Joan would have left it anywhere.”

Inspector White coughed slightly, and said casually: “Bad storm last night. One of the worst I’ve ever seen.”

Frost began to smile ironically. “Inspector, I do not consider you the type of man who voluntarily discusses the weather. I am forced to conclude that Mr. Little’s disappearance interests you. Perhaps you have found him, murdered, of course, and are asking me to provide my alibi, if any. But I am a most unnatural creature, a moth in the social fabric let us say. And since I have this contemptible habit of solitude I deserve to suffer for it. I am suffering for it. I have no alibi. Are you too warm, Inspector?”

“No,” the inspector said shortly.

“Then I shall go on to say that the word alibi means ‘elsewhere,’ although in English it has come to be used as a noun signifying the statement made by a suspected person and attested by witnesses that he was elsewhere at the time of a crime. But what time, my dear Inspector, and what crime? Until one has these pertinent facts how can one prove one was elsewhere? You follow me?”

“Closely,” the inspector said.

“In that case I must repeat, what time and what crime?”

“I don’t know,” the inspector said somewhat truthfully. “But the very fact that a man has disappeared gives me the right to question his acquaintances about their own movements.”

“God forbid,” Professor Frost said fervently, “that I should go down in history as an acquaintance of Tom Little’s. But I see your point of view. I can only say that I know nothing about his disappearance. I was, as usual, working alone in my study.”

“You own this cottage?”

“Yes.”

“Come here every summer?”

“Yes.”

“Have you a car?”

“A kind of car.”

“But like the others up here you usually travel around in boats?”

“I don’t travel around at all,” Frost said, amused. “I don’t like boats. My daughter Susan attends to the necessary shopping.”

“But you have a boat?”

“Two of them. A canoe and a dinghy with an outboard motor. They belong to my daughters.”

“May I see your boathouse?”

“Of course. Susan will take you.”

“I prefer to go alone.”

Inspector White came back in ten minutes, looking hot and harassed.

“You may have had two boats,” he said slowly, “but you haven’t any now.”

At that moment Dr. Prye was straggling up the lane. He was extremely warm. The sun and wind had painted his face a brilliant red, and by way of minor irritation his shoes were filled with a pound of small pebbles and sand. He felt precisely in the right mood to deal with Miss Emily Bonner.

“Miss Bonner,” Wang told him, “has given orders and I find myself grieved to be unable to admit you.”

“We’ll fix that,” Prye said grimly. “Out of my way, purveyor of demons.”

Wang stood back, grinning. “In the event that you force your way in I shall be held blameless. For the sake of verisimilitude you may push me aside with violence.”

Prye pushed him aside and made for the stairs. He knocked lightly on Emily’s door and she called out: “Who’s there?”

Prye raised his voice to the approximate pitch of Wang’s. “The indescribable doctor is storming the portals with a million men and three machine guns.”

He opened the door and went in. “Are you presentable, Emily, or shall I close my eyes?”

“How did you get in?” she demanded. “Get out. Go away.”

“Later. Mind if I sit down?”

“I mind very much. Wang! Wang!”

At the ninth “Wang” the little Chinaman appeared at the door wreathed in smiles.

“Miss Bonner desires me?”

“Stop that incessant grinning and go down and phone the police. I want this man arrested for... for—”

“Attempted rape,” Prye suggested.

“I want him arrested for something! Hurry up. I’m going to faint.”

Wang departed, and Prye sat down and lit a cigarette. The silence was broken only by the sound of Emily’s heavy breathing.

“I’m a louse,” Prye said to open the conversation.

Emily glared at him without speaking.

“No one but a louse,” he continued, “would browbeat a poor old crippled lady on the point of fainting, although I may say that when ordinary people faint the blood leaves the head whereas your blood, Emily, seems to be all concentrated in your head. That is if the color of your face is any indication.”

Emily made no reply, and in a short time Wang came back.

“I am desolated that the police are not in,” he announced. “They have all gone swimming, owing to the unkindly weather.”

“Most unfortunate,” Prye said, “although one can see their point of view.”

“You’re lying,” Emily said flatly. “This man has bribed you.”

“My impeccable honesty has never been questioned. I am stabbed by the dagger of distrust, and I go to my room to bleed in silence.” He bowed himself out.

“You have corrupted my servants,” Emily said in a tear-laden voice, “broken into my house, and insulted my nephew and myself, merely because some homicidal maniac escaped from an institution and killed one of our little community.”

“A homicidal maniac with bushy hair and big hands all-the-better-to-strangle-you-with-my-dear, and a wild gleam in his eye? I’ve read of them but I’ve never seen one. The bushiest hair I know belongs to a musician, the biggest hands to a sculptor, and the wildest gleam to a fellow who got a tip on a sure thing in the third at Pimlico. The homicidal maniac of fiction has no prototype in fact.”

“How interesting,” Emily said coldly.

“More interesting, I think, is the fact that the insane and the sane kill for exactly the same motive: to make life easier for themselves, to rid themselves of money troubles, wives, mistresses, rivals, grudges, or fears, real and imagined. If an insane man appears to kill without motive it is because we do not know enough of his history to find the motive. His victim, for instance, might bear a strong resemblance to his uncle Theodore who once gave him a chocolate-coated onion on April Fools’ Day, and the crime becomes a motivated one. The difference, then, between the murders committed by the sane and the insane lies in their attitude to consequences. The sane man will go to infinite pains to avoid the consequences. The really insane man will not try to avoid them because he thinks he is doing the right thing. I have used as examples the two extremes, sanity and insanity. But there are middlemen.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The middlemen are the dangerous ones. They are able to keep their places in society, and to lead, on the surface, normal lives. They may be considered slightly ‘odd’ but if they are lucky enough to avoid great shocks or strain they may continue to pass as normal beings. An automobile accident, a serious illness, the death of a close relative — any of these may be the detonator. The obsession, the phobia, or whatever has been festering in the mind, passes out of control.”

He paused, staring at her rather ferociously, and she said with a laugh: “You should have been a missionary, Prye. You love to enlighten. Do you think I’m your middleman?”

Without answering he got up and went over to the window.

“Seeing a storm from this room must be rather terrifying, especially a storm in the grand manner like last night’s.”

Emily sniffed faintly. “Do you call that a storm? Wait until you see a real one.”

“Don’t you have trouble with the servants during a blow?”

“They get used to it as I did. All except that sniveling little wretch of an Alfonse. She was quite hysterical. I almost sent for you.”

“Really. What time was that?”

“Around ten, I suppose.”

“She got over it all right?”

Emily nodded grimly. “After I stuck her head in the bathtub she did.”

“What bathtub?”

“My bathtub. What does it matter what bathtub?”

“I was simply wondering whether she came in here to have her hysterics and why she didn’t come sooner. The storm began at least an hour before that.”

“Oh. That is curious, isn’t it? Well, I can’t help you. All I know is that she came in here shrieking at ten o’clock.”

“And what did you do?”

“There was only one thing I could do. I held her over my knee and wheeled into the bathroom and pushed her into the tub. Then I turned on the cold water.”

Prye threw back his head and let out a roar of delight.

“What’s so funny?” Emily said.

“The thought of two overweight women dashing around a bathroom in a wheelchair.”

“It doesn’t amuse me in the least,” she said coldly. “Now I suppose you intend to go and browbeat my nurse so that she’ll be completely useless for a week. That will mean another seventy-five dollars wasted.”

“Do you pay that woman seventy-five dollars a week?”

“Of course. I have to pay my servants well for the inconvenience of being snowbound three months of the year.”

“Where did you get Alfonse?”

“I advertised in a Toronto paper,” Emily said.

“Did you check her references?”

“No, I didn’t. I looked at them though. There were at least twenty of them, and all spoke very highly of her. One of them, I remember, was a Lord Somebody-or-other who had a coat of arms on his note paper. Or was it a picture of his castle?”

“If I know Alfonse,” Prye said dryly, “it was both.”

“Dr. Prye” — Wang’s voice came from the hall — “Dr. Prye is most urgently requested.”

Prye went out, closing the door behind him tightly despite Emily’s protests.

“The telephone message originates in Miss Jennie Harris,” Wang said softly. “I am to inform you that Mrs. Little is half-dressed. She said you would understand.”

Prye sighed. “I do. Where is Miss Alfonse’s room?”

Wang pointed to a door at the end of the long hall, and Prye said: “Would you like to sit outside that door until I get back?”

Wang beamed and nodded his head vigorously.

“Let nobody in or out. I want Miss Alfonse to be in the best of health at least until I have a chance to talk to her.”