The Weak-Eyed Bat

“As a matter of fact, I passed out, and by the time I came to, my ears were bandaged and you know how it is trying to talk over a telephone with your ears bandaged.”

“I do not,” Jakes said coldly. “Start from the beginning. What are you doing up here? Why were you hit over the head?”

Prye told his story, with certain reservations. He left out his interview with Miss Bonner and his discovery of the diary in Joan’s suitcase.

“There were no signs in Miss Frost’s room that she had been murdered there? Or knocked unconscious and taken out through the window?” Jakes said, when Prye had finished.

Prye shook his head. “She left of her own accord, probably to go to a prearranged meeting place.”

“Why?” Jakes asked. “With whom?”

Prye shrugged. “Anyone. Any reason. A murderer would be a fool to kill her in her own room with her father and the maid close by. Besides, I have a theory. Want to hear it?”

“Theories aren’t much good.”

“Mine always are,” Prye said modestly. “I think I stumbled accidentally on the meeting between Joan and her murderer. Suppose Joan hadn’t arrived yet, and the murderer was preparing his weapon, putting stones into the bag. Naturally I’d be in the way when the time came, so the weapon was given a kind of preliminary tryout on me. Perhaps it wasn’t quite ready, wasn’t heavy enough, and that’s why I wasn’t killed.”

“Sounds all right,” Jakes admitted without enthusiasm.

Prescott looked up, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “The bag will be examined for bloodstains as a matter of routine, and if there are any bits of skin or hair clinging to it we will know whether it was the instrument used. But we’ll have to send everything to the lab in Toronto and that may take a week at least.”

Prye frowned and said, “That’s too long.”

“No one can run away,” Jakes said.

“No?” Prye related Smith’s disappearance with considerable relish, but Jakes was unimpressed.

“He won’t get far. We have our methods of finding people. He won’t be able to get into the States and if he stays in Canada the Mounties will have him shortly.”

“I thought the Mounties were busy elsewhere in wartime,” Prye said casually.

“Did you?”

Jakes’s voice discouraged further questions but Prye was not easily discouraged. “I suppose they’ll stop him at the border?”

“I wish that ambulance would come,” Jakes said.

“I wonder why criminals always make a dash for the border. It doesn’t even seem to matter what border. Smith, though, will go by Detroit.”

“Will he?” Jakes said.

“Unless he’s very subtle. Then he’ll just stay in Windsor and grow a mustache.”

“He has a mustache. You talk too much, Dr. Prye.”

“Just nerves,” Prye said, and relapsed into silence.

It was true. The discovery of Joan Frost had shaken him considerably. But for a whim or an error on the part of the murderer his legs might be wrapped in an old sugar bag. You couldn’t depend on another whim or error, and the nights in Muskoka were very dark.

“Oh hell,” he said. “They’re not that dark. I don’t think I’ll go home after all.”

“I don’t think you will either,” said Constable Jakes.

The ambulance came, and Joan Frost was placed on a stretcher and covered with a sheet. The stretcher was narrow, and Dr. Prescott sat beside her so she would not roll off. Constable Jakes stayed behind. He had put on a dark blue suit, and his hair had dried and was as bright and unruly as a bonfire.

“What about fingerprints?” Prye asked. “And photographs?”

“I see no necessity for photographs,” Jakes said stiffly, “and no hope of fingerprints.”

“Are you going to question everyone now?” Prye pursued.

“No. I haven’t had my dinner.”

“You mean you’re going to have your dinner first?”

“I am. My sister is cook at Miss Bonner’s home.”

“You understand I’m not hurrying you. I’m just interested in the way Canadian policemen work.”

“You’ll have a very good chance to find out,” Jakes said dryly.

Prye sighed. “Why don’t you have lunch with me? We could talk things over while we eat and save time.”

“You Americans,” Jakes said, and went sadly up the lane.

Miss Emily Bonner saw him coming through her field glasses. She knew why he was coming because she had seen what had been taken out of the water. For a full minute she watched him, and then she heaved herself out of her chair and went to her dressing table. From the folds of a green lace negligee she took a bundle of fifty one-hundred-dollar bills, held together with a rubber band, and pushed it down her bosom. The field glasses were ejected and took up temporary lodging in her right sleeve. No one would ever think of searching a poor old crippled lady.

Constable Jakes was shown up to her room shortly after she had finished her lunch. They had known each other for fifteen years. Miss Bonner frequently assured those interested that Jakes was an old fool. Jakes contented himself with describing Miss Bonner as the biggest liar in Muskoka. Their greetings were not cordial.

Emily said: “Well. What do you want?”

Constable Jakes sat down and ran a cold eye over the room. “Too many fripperies in here, Emily.”