The Weak-Eyed Bat

“Unless you did it yourself. My guess is that you’re stalling. You wanted me to keep quiet about you until you had a good story fixed up. I advise you to polish up your alibi.”

She was still smiling. “It’s got a shine like a silver dollar and you’re going to feel very, very silly.”

Miss Alfonse was herself again. She was humming as she walked up the lane, and there was a new jauntiness in her step and the set of her shoulders.

Prye, watching her from the window, raised a puzzled eyebrow. Miss Alfonse had come in like a lion and gone out like a lamb, and he did not trust lambs.

“What is she feeling so good about?” Prye said bitterly. “Was it something I said, or something she thought, or—? To hell, Miss Alfonse, with you. You’re a liar and probably a murderer, and my mother won’t allow me to speak to the likes of you.”

“Are you,” inquired a bewildered voice from the doorway, “crazy?”

Prye turned his head. “Hello, Jakes. Come in. In a sense, yes, I am crazy. But not because I’m talking to myself.”

“Maybe not,” Jakes said darkly.

“As a matter of fact, have you never noticed that most conversations are simply monologues delivered in the presence of a witness?”

“No,” Jakes said.

“Well, listen next time you hear a couple of women talking. They’ll each have a list of likes and dislikes that they intend to reel off. Now wouldn’t it be much simpler for Mrs. Smith to sit in front of a mirror and read her list without competition: ‘I like broiled mushrooms, horses, daffodils, Faith Baldwin, and Havana cigars.’ See what I mean?”

Jakes scratched the side of his nose.

“Never heard of a woman smoking cigars,” he said at last.

Prye sighed. “Oh well. Any new developments?”

“That’s why I came. The police are here.”

“Aren’t you the police?”

“Not anymore. Inspector White of the Provincial Police is in charge from now on. Just as well, too. I don’t know anything about murder. I wouldn’t know even what to look for.”

“How about looking for sugar bags?” Prye suggested.

“No use. Professor Frost says all the cottagers buy sugar in that quantity.”

“Do you always believe what people tell you? Don’t answer that — I’ll use it against you. Has Joan Frost’s room been sealed?”

“Locked, you mean? Certainly. The windows are locked, too,” he added proudly. “A mouse couldn’t get in there.”

“I don’t care if three mice get in as long as one of them isn’t Susan Frost.”

“Susan’s a very nice girl,” Jakes said severely. “There’s only one person I really suspect and that’s Tom Little. He had a motive and he’s a thoroughly bad man. What’s more, he’s probably poisoning his wife.”

“With what?”

“With what?” Jakes thought a moment. “With a foreign poison. That’s it. Some foreign poison!”

Prye sighed again. “Oh well. This maid of the Littles’ — Jennie Harris — do you know her well?”

“For thirty years. She’s a silly woman but as honest as they come.”

“In that case you’ll be looking around for a new suspect because Jennie had Tom Little within sight and hearing from seven-fifteen until ten o’clock last night.”

“Well,” Jakes said slowly, “I never caught her doing anything dishonest.”

Prye shook his head solemnly. “Constable Jakes, you have a Neanderthal simplicity that strikes at my heart.”

Jakes flushed. “It’s all very well for you to go around believing people are liars and murderers, but I’m a policeman. I have to prove they are.”

“All I ask is an open mind. According to you, Professor Frost is a gentleman and Susan is a very nice girl, and you’ve known Miss Bonner and Jennie for years, and Ralph is a nice boy, and Mary Little is being poisoned by her cad of a husband. That lets them out. Now who’s left? Tom Little, who has an alibi, the servants, Nora Shane, and myself. Nora had no connection with Joan at all. As for me, I admit I wouldn’t have minded paddling her hinterland, but further I would not and did not go. So now where are you?”

“I don’t know and it’s not worrying me. It’s Inspector White’s case. With you helping him I bet he’ll crack it right away.”

“With me helping?” Prye repeated. “You mean I’m requested to help? There’s a catch in it.”

“Oh no,” Jakes said virtuously. “White is a very shrewd man, very smooth.”

Prye smiled thinly. “Yes, but I don’t care much for very shrewd, very smooth—”

“You will. Everybody likes Inspector White.”

Constable Jakes was wrong. There was at least one man who did not appreciate Inspector White. He was a small, chubby-cheeked man with the face of an aging cherub. He had a mustache, a pair of spectacles, and a dog, and his name was Smith. Mr. Smith had been on his way to Flint, Michigan, but between Mr. Smith and the entrance to the Detroit-Windsor tunnel there had loomed up several yards of Royal Canadian Mounted policemen. So Mr. Smith was back in Muskoka.

“Well, here we are again, Mr. Smith,” Inspector White boomed. “Wonderful place, Muskoka. Can’t understand why you ever wanted to leave.”

“Can’t you?” Mr. Smith said glumly.

“The breeze.” Inspector White took a deep breath. “Wonderful, eh?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Smith.