The Weak-Eyed Bat

“And the view. A magnificent view, eh?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Smith.

They were walking toward Mr. Smith’s cottage. Inspector White was a huge, broad-shouldered, jovial-looking man in a grey-blue uniform with a black Sam Browne belt. Beside him Mr. Smith looked very small and unhappy, like an erring angel who has been deprived of his harp as a disciplinary measure.

Inspector White had been an insurance salesman and a minister before his curiosity had led him into police work, and both professions had left their mark on him. His voice was still as convincing, his smile still as warm, as when he had topped all selling records for the Behemoth Life Insurance Company. Inspector White’s tactics remained essentially the same from job to job, and he was never more friendly and informal than when he was interviewing a possible murderer.

Mr. Smith dolefully unlocked the front door of his cottage and they went inside, followed closely by Horace.

“Very cozy,” Inspector White said. “Very cozy. Wish I had the time to spend a summer in one of these cottages.”

“I wish you had, too,” Mr. Smith said truthfully.

“Shall we eat first and then talk?”

“Sit down please. I prefer to talk. The whole business is a mystery to me. I was simply stopped at the border and told I’d have to return here.”

The inspector settled himself in an armchair. “Well, well. It isn’t so easy to get across the border as it used to be, is it? How long have you been in Canada, Mr. Smith?”

“Six months.”

“Six months? You’re a lucky man to be able to take a holiday for six months. I hope you get down on your knees and thank the Almighty for the blessings which—” Inspector White suddenly recalled that he was no longer in the ministry. “Well, well,” said Inspector White, giving himself time to make this mental adjustment. “Now, Mr. Smith, what made you decide to leave here last night?”

Mr. Smith blinked behind his glasses and coughed in a deprecating manner. “I’m a sort of nomad, as it were. I like to wander here and there, more or less.”

Inspector White smiled warmly. “I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Smith. You wanted to get away from it all.”

“That’s it. That’s it exactly.”

“These nomadic impulses. We all get them. We all try to escape from ourselves. Still, it was very bad luck that you picked last night. Other people might not understand. I like to believe the best of my fellow men. It may have been only coincidence that you left shortly after the murder.”

“Murder,” Mr. Smith repeated slowly. “So there was a murder, after all.”

“After all? What do you mean by that? Come, come, Mr. Smith, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Who was killed?”

“A young lady, Miss Frost.”

“And you think I killed her?”

Inspector White shook his head vigorously. “I do not. It looks bad for you, but until things are completely black I can always see a ray of light. Mr. Smith, you do not look like a murderer. You look like a kindly man who has been buffeted by fate.”

“Are you trying to kid me?” Mr. Smith said coldly. “I only spoke to the Frost girl once in my life. She pushed Horace into the lake and Horace bit her on the leg, and I warned her to leave my dog alone.”

“She must have been a peculiar, unfeeling girl to do that,” Inspector White suggested.

“Other than that I know nothing about her.”

“But you’ve heard things, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Or seen things?”

“No. I mind my own business, Inspector White. I know nobody in this community.”

“Why did you come here in the first place?”

Mr. Smith smiled sourly. “For peace and solitude. According to the tourist folders Muskoka is crammed with peace and solitude, but I haven’t seen any of it.”

“I sympathize with you, Mr. Smith. I’m not a man to underrate peace. What has disturbed you?”

“Noises. Singing. Radios blaring. The confounded telephone ringing all the time. People sneaking around my cottage.”

“What people?”

“A Chinaman, for one. And a black-haired girl carrying a lot of boards and things.”

“That would be Miss Shane. I understand she’s an artist.”

“Then what was she doing with a Chinaman trying to break into my cottage?” Mr. Smith demanded.

“They were trying to break in? When was this?”

“About two or three weeks ago. I had gone into Clayton to get some provisions. The supply boat wasn’t due for two days and I was out of kibble.”

“Oh yes, kibble.”

“Dog food,” Mr. Smith explained. “When I came back it was about seven o’clock and just starting to get dark. I found the Chinaman standing on Miss Shane’s shoulders trying my kitchen window.”

Inspector White looked incredulous. “The Chinaman standing on her shoulders? Now I wonder why she didn’t stand on his—”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Smith said, sighing.

“And that’s why you decided to leave Muskoka last night?”

“No, it’s not. I left last night because I was afraid something had happened.”

“How right you were,” the inspector murmured solemnly. “Still, I wonder what made you think that.”