The Weak-Eyed Bat

Prye went out, muttering under his breath. The ladder was located and propped against the side of the house, and Prye, hoping vainly that the earth would swallow him, mounted under the interested gaze of Hattie. He could see nothing of Joan, so he tried the window, found it unlocked, and maneuvered himself into the room.

A gust of heavy perfume hit him and he winced and left the window open.

It was, he thought, just an ordinary female room, with a lot of bottles and jars and a frilly bedspread. Then he saw a suitcase standing on the floor near the bed. It was packed but not closed.

He knelt beside the suitcase and inspected its contents: a few scant pieces of underwear, a negligee, three dresses. All of the dresses looked new and quite expensive.

“Wonder why she was traveling light,” he said aloud. His eye went to the clothes closet, packed tightly with dresses and coats. “If she intended to stay away, why leave behind most of her clothes? Answer: she intended to buy new clothes. Where was she getting the money? Professor Frost? Unlikely. Susan? She hasn’t any. Ralph Bonner? Perhaps. Tom Little? Definitely no. Tom gets his money from his wife and she could hardly be expected to finance his elopement. Miss Bonner seems the best answer.”

He rummaged through the clothes again, and this time his hand came in contact with a small red leather book, and he brought it out. It was the diary of Professor Frost. After a short struggle with his conscience he put it in his coat pocket and got to his feet. The key of the door was still in the lock. He turned it and went out into the hall.

Frost was standing beside the door, waiting. “I heard you talking. She’s in there, is she?”

“I was conferring with myself,” Prye said with dignity. “Joan has gone.”

“I hope your curiosity has been satisfied?”

“Far from it,” Prye said. “She picked a peculiar way to leave — through the window.”

“Joan chose this room, I believe, with such possibilities in mind. She was very... ah, athletic.”

“And she forgot her bag. Packed it and then forgot it. That’s odd, too. Don’t you agree?”

Frost paled, but he said steadily, “We are accustomed to oddities in our family.”

“I hope so,” Prye said grimly.

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing. Many thanks for the ladder. I’ll lend you mine sometime.”

He went out, pleased with himself. Five minutes later he closed Mr. Smith’s gate behind him, not quite so pleased. Mr. Smith, too, was gone, but unlike Joan he had remembered to take his luggage, his car, and his dog.

Prye walked thoughtfully along the lane. There was, he reflected, no reason why Mr. Smith should not leave, but the coincidence was strange. Or was it a coincidence? Two disappearances could equal an elopement.

But Mr. Smith, Nora had said, didn’t even speak to anyone in the community. And Joan’s bag had been left behind.

“I think,” Prye said, “that from now on I shall mind my own business. Starting tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, since he was only a few yards from the Littles’ cottage, he might just as well finish what he had started.

Tom Little opened the door. It was Prye’s first glimpse of Tom. He was no romantic figure that morning. He wore an old blue wrinkled suit, the coat stretched tight across his stomach. Beneath his eyes were two yellow bags of flesh like small shriveled lemons.

An aging Romeo, Prye decided, with a moribund liver.

“Hello,” he said cheerily, inserting his foot neatly in the doorway. “You’re Mr. Little, aren’t you? I’m Dr. Prye. Mrs. Little invited me to come and see her. Is she in?”

Tom looked startled. Turbaned men were not rare in his life, but they were usually very small and appeared before breakfast riding tiny blue elephants across the foot of his bed. He passed his hand across his eyes.

“I must apologize for my getup,” Prye said. “I forgot to bring along my sun helmet and this was the best I could do.”

In spite of Prye’s explanation Tom did not dissolve into amiability.

“My wife can’t see you today. She’s ill.”

“I’ll come in and take a look at her,” Prye said, coming in. “Where is she, upstairs?”

“She’s in bed,” Tom said shortly. “She said she didn’t want a doctor. She gets these spells every once in a while. They’re not serious.”

“Heart?”

“Yes. She has some stuff to take. She doesn’t want a doctor,” he repeated. “She doesn’t believe in doctors.”

“I frequently meet with resistance on the part of my patients,” Prye said easily.

“But she—” Tom stopped, shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. I’ll take you up.”

The curtains had not been drawn in Mary Little’s room and the sun was pouring in the windows, bringing to life the flowers in the chintz curtains and the rag rugs. In contrast the woman on the bed was like a corpse, and Prye drew in his breath at the sight of her.

Her face was the color of dull lead and the thin hands that rested outside the covers were blue. He took hold of one and found it as cold as death. She turned her head at his touch and a strand of drab hair fell across her forehead.