The Weak-Eyed Bat

Chapter Four

Mr. Smith said, “Oh, dry up, Horace. You’d think somebody was being murdered.” He resumed his reading.

Nora was making dispirited daubs at her sunrise.

“He’s nice,” she said aloud.

She absent-mindedly painted a purple petunia in the middle of the sun.

In the kitchen of Miss Bonner’s house Wang heard the spotlight shatter.

“Miss Bonner,” he told the cook, “is pursued by demons envious of her great age.”

“Oh, you’re a nasty little heathen,” said the cook, shaken.

“I am immune from demons,” he added pensively, “because of my vast wisdom.”

“Alfonse! Alfonse!”

Miss Bonner rose like a phoenix from her cold compresses. “Alfonse! Where is that half-witted little Southerner? Alfonse!” Although Miss Bonner’s house was equipped with bells, she preferred her voice as the instrument of urgency.

“Alfonse! Where is that woman?”

The sound floated into the kitchen window.

“Observe,” Wang said with complacence. “She calls out in agony.”

“What do the demons do?” the cook asked fearfully.

“They tickle the feet,” Wang said.

At five minutes to nine Miss Alfonse was running breathlessly up the steps into Miss Bonner’s room.

“Modom,” she cried. “Your spotlight. It’s broken! It’s gone!”

“Where’s Ralph?” Emily whispered. “Where’s Ralph?”

Miss Alfonse was trembling. “I don’t know.”

“The Frost girl. Has she left yet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where have you been?” Emily said suspiciously.

Alfonse gulped. “Just— I just sat down by the lake. I thought you were sleeping. I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Oh, get out of here. Phone Prye.”

Alfonse returned in a few minutes.

“The line is busy, modom.”

“Well, tell them to get off the line!” Emily shouted. “Do you want us to be murdered in our beds? Get Prye.”

In all the cottages the phones rang two long and one short.

“Oh, dry up, Horace,” Mr. Smith said.

“That’s a new ring,” Nora said to herself. “It must be Dr. Prye’s.”

In the Little cottage Jennie fidgeted and fumed. She was in the dining room and Mr. Little was in the sitting room, and she couldn’t very well answer the phone with him there, knowing it wasn’t their ring. She crocheted on furiously.

Two long and one short.

It was fifteen minutes past nine.

“Why doesn’t he answer?” Nora said. “Something’s wrong.”

Two long and one short. She got up quickly and went out into the darkness. The lights were on in Dr. Prye’s cottage. Of course he was there. Perhaps he didn’t know that it was his ring. Then she heard him say, “Nora?” in a whisper.

“Where are you?” she called.

“Quiet! I’m over here.”

She stumbled in the direction of his voice. “Damn. Damn these logs. Are you hurt? Where are you? I can’t see anything. Strike a match.”

She nearly fell over him. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree.

“Give me your arm,” Prye said. “I can’t get up. That’s fine. I knew you were the kind of girl who doesn’t shriek.”

He got to his feet, hanging on to her heavily, and they stumbled through the woods. Prye crawled up the steps of the back veranda and sat down on the kitchen floor. The back of his head was matted with blood and distorted by a huge swelling. Beneath a thick layer of dirt and damp leaves he was grinning.

“I feel woozy,” he said. “Listen hard. Phone Miss Alfonse. Tell her to bring bandages and iodine. And watch her.”

“You need a doctor,” she cried.

“The hell I do. Get Alfonse. But keep an eye on her while she does it. If she gave me this wallop she might be tempted to finish the job.”

He tried to get to his feet and couldn’t, and Nora hurried to the telephone, her legs shaking under her.

Half an hour later Prye’s head had been dressed and he was lying in bed asleep. Miss Alfonse was washing her hands in the bathroom and Nora stood in the doorway, still trembling.

“Is he hurt badly?” she asked.

“Just a scratch,” Miss Alfonse said cheerfully. “He’s thick-headed.”

“But all that blood! It must have come from somewhere.”

Miss Alfonse dried her hands calmly. “There’s enough left.”

“Hadn’t we better phone the police?”

The towel dropped out of Alfonse’s hands. She bent over to pick it up and her voice was muffled. “The police? I don’t see why.”

“Because she shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it,” Nora said savagely.

“She?”

“Joan Frost.”

Alfonse arched her brows and said: “Did Miss Frost hit him? That is interesting.”

“I’m going to call the police.” Nora turned and started to go out.

Miss Alfonse put her hand firmly on Nora’s arm. “I wouldn’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Dr. Prye wouldn’t like it. He gave me orders when you were out of the room.”

Nora stared at her. “I wasn’t out of the room.”

“You’ve forgotten. You were excited. The sight of blood frequently affects—”

“I wasn’t out of that room and you know it!”

“Don’t you remember?” Miss Alfonse said in surprise. “You must have had a greater shock than I realized. Shall I give you a sedative, Miss Shane?”

“I wasn’t out of the room,” Nora said again, but her voice was uncertain.

Alfonse patted her shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, Miss Shane. You’ve had a bad time of it. If there’s anything you need, just call me. Good night.”

She turned and went down the stairs with her firm, soft steps.

It was ten o’clock when the car drove up the lane, crunching over the remnants of Miss Bonner’s spotlight. It passed slowly, for the driver was peering out of the window into the darkness.

“One, two, three, four,” he said confidently. “This must be it. Creepy place.”

He got out at the Frost cottage, a small fat man in a cabman’s uniform, and knocked on the door, keeping as close to it as possible.

The door opened slightly, and he was inspected and passed by Miss Hattie Brown.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Party here called for a taxi at ten o’clock sharp.”

“Nobody here wants a taxi,” Hattie said, “unless— Wait a minute.” She went down the hall and rapped on a door. “Miss Joan! Did you order a taxi? Miss Joan?”

There was no answer. She tried the door, but it was locked.

“Nobody here wants a taxi,” she repeated. “Our young lady was going to leave tonight, but I suppose it was just one of her tantrums. She gets them bad.”

This was interesting, of course, but not business. “That’ll be one-sixty please, at ten cents a mile.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Hattie demanded. “I’m not going to pay you. You didn’t take anyone any place—”

“What’s going on down there?” Professor Frost appeared at the head of the stairs.

Hattie and the cabdriver explained simultaneously.

“That’s enough, Hattie. Tell Susan to pay him.”

“Miss Susan isn’t here. She went out a while ago.”

A two-dollar bill fluttered down the steps. Hattie eyed the driver malevolently as he deposited it in his pocket and went out. She locked the door behind him. Professor Frost was still standing at the head of the stairs, and she said uncertainly:

“Anything wrong, sir?”

He shook his head but he didn’t move away. His cheek was swollen and slightly blue, and he looked grouchy, Hattie thought. She returned thoughtfully to the chaste passions of Lady Amelia struggling in the arms of the mad poet Pearce.

Tom Little groaned and stretched his arms above his head. He looked at his watch and said, “My God.”

In the next room Jennie laid down her crocheting and got to her feet. Her eyes were hostile but she said respectfully enough: “Did you want something, Mr. Little?”

“Have there been any calls for me?”

“No sir. The telephone rang but it wasn’t our ring.”

He sat up straight in his chair and stared at her out of bloodshot eyes. “You’re positive?”

“I know our ring when I hear it,” she said shortly.

“Is my wife asleep?”

Jennie nodded.

He rose with exaggerated nonchalance. “I think I’ll take a walk. I feel dopey. Don’t wait up for me.”

He buttoned his coat and went out, and Jennie turned off the lights. She watched for him from her window, but she could see nothing.

At eleven o’clock Prye woke up and raised his head and Nora said: “Lie down. That’s the least you can do.”

“Oh, you’re still here?” Prye tried to grin but it wasn’t worth the effort. “I had no idea you were so devoted. By the way, thanks for finding me.”

“It was nothing at all,” Nora said politely. “I often find people lying half-dead in the woods, especially if they don’t mind their own business. Who hit you?”

“I forgot to ask. I am becoming more and more careless.”

“You didn’t see anyone at all?”

“That’s right.”

She was silent a minute, frowning.

“Joan’s hair is yellow,” she said finally. “Did you smell anything?”

“The usual smells. Grass. Trees. Damp earth.”

“Perfume?”

“No perfume.”

“That’s funny. She reeks of perfume,” Nora said thoughtfully. “She could have hidden her hair under a cap. No, she wouldn’t have. If she hit you she’d want you to know about it. I don’t think she’d care about being caught or arrested. She’s never tried to conceal anything and she gets away with it every time.”

Prye ran his fingers around the bandages on his head. “Neat work. I hope you thanked Miss Alfonse prettily.”

“I did not. Did you ask her not to call the police?”

“I never thought of the police,” Prye said. “But I can easily understand why Miss Alfonse did.”

“Why?”

“You have your little mysteries, Nora. Miss Alfonse is mine.”

“You may have her,” Nora said. “I’m scared of her. She’s creepy.”

Miss Alfonse certainly did not look creepy at the moment. She was clad in serviceable broadcloth pajamas and an old wool dressing gown. She had been arguing with Miss Bonner for some time and she was tired.

“You have nothing to report to the police,” she said again. “If Miss Frost has done any damage, she will have to pay for it.”

“I want her locked up,” Miss Bonner said. “I want her behind bars so I know where she is and what she’s doing. I don’t care how late it is. The police don’t keep office hours.”

Alfonse attempted a tolerant smile, but it was not a success. Her voice was sharp. “They have to sleep. Even I have to sleep, Miss Bonner. I shall phone the police if you insist.”

“I insist,” Emily said grimly.

“Very well.”

Alfonse walked out of the door, closed it behind her, and went to bed.

Horace had stopped howling, but he lay with his nose pressed against the crack of the front door, whining intermittently.

“What’s the matter with you, Horace?” Mr. Smith said angrily. “Do you want out?”

Horace did. Mr. Smith put on a coat and snapped a leash on Horace’s collar. They were gone only a short time. When they came back Mr. Smith was looking quite pale. It did not take him long to pack, and within an hour he was roaring up the road in his car, with Horace curled up asleep in the back seat.

All the houses were dark by that time, and all the residents were asleep, except one who was dead.