The Weak-Eyed Bat

“Well” — Mr. Smith paused uncomfortably — “the truth sounds pretty silly. After dinner last night I read for some time. Around nine o’clock, or perhaps it was earlier, Horace began to howl. He had never done that before” — here Horace wagged his tail proudly — “and I thought he was sick so I took him out on the leash. He was acting funny, violent, you know, pulling me all over the place. Finally he stopped at one place in the woods and I couldn’t budge him. So I turned on my flashlight. The ground was covered with blood.”

“Is Horace a bloodhound?”

Mr. Smith seemed embarrassed. “I... well, I bought him for a setter.”

“These things happen,” Inspector White said philosophically. “So you were afraid that something unpleasant had occurred?”

“I was. I didn’t want to become involved in a scandal of any sort, so I just packed up and left.”

There was a long silence during which Inspector White kept nodding his head with grave sympathy. “Are you married?” he said at last.

Mr. Smith clutched the arms of his chair. “No, I’m not married,” he said violently. “I’m not married at all! I—” He leaned back and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “The fact is, I don’t like women.”

“That’s very interesting,” Inspector White said warmly. “To a certain extent I share your prejudice, though don’t repeat me, Mr. Smith. Now I wonder what caused your dislike in the first place.”

Mr. Smith lifted his eyes wildly to heaven, and as if in answer to his plea a knock sounded on the front door.

Mr. Smith started to get up but the inspector waved him back. “I’ll go, Mr. Smith. Might be the murderer, you know, ha ha.”

Mr. Smith smiled feebly and the inspector went out. A minute later he came back, followed by the tallest man Mr. Smith had ever seen.

“Mr. Smith, I’d like you to meet Dr. Prye. Dr. Prye is practically a neighbor of yours back home. He comes from Detroit. I feel his assistance in this case will be invaluable.”

Prye grinned and held out his hand. Smith, after staring at it glumly for a moment, shook hands and told him to sit down.

The inspector regarded them fondly. “Mr. Smith was just about to tell me why he never married. Go right on, Mr. Smith.”

“I think,” Smith said, “that I’ve done all the talking I want to do right now.”

“What Mr. Smith needs,” Prye said, “is a drink.”

The inspector frowned. “I don’t approve of alcoholic beverages. Still, if they’re to be used medicinally— Yes, I think that if you took Mr. Smith over to your cottage, Dr. Prye, and gave him a drink, he would feel much better. You do look a bit peaked, Mr. Smith.”

“Quite peaked,” Prye added.

Smith took off his glasses and went over to the mirror. “I think you’re both a little crazy. I look the same as I always do.”

Prye took him gently by the arm and led him to the door. “It pays to be on the safe side.”

While Dr. Prye’s brandy was exploring the interior of Mr. Smith, Inspector White was exploring the interior of Mr. Smith’s cottage.

Only two interesting things came to light. The first was the large heap of charred paper in the fireplace; the second was a book. It had been wedged behind a writing desk against the wall and had obviously been overlooked in Smith’s hasty departure. The inspector turned it over in his hand thoughtfully and wondered why Mr. Smith should be interested in the civil statutes of the State of Michigan.

“I’m being a cad,” Prye told Smith. “I’m plying you with liquor to make you talk.”

Mr. Smith laughed boisterously at this. “Make me talk. That’s a good one. Brandy never affects me at all. Some people get awfully talkative on a couple of drinks of brandy, but it takes more than a couple of drinks of brandy to make me talkative.”

“I can see that,” Prye said. “It takes three.”

“The funny part is that even if I did get talkative, I wouldn’t have anything to talk about. Anything worth talking about, I mean. Anyone can talk, but talk and say something, that’s a different thing.” He leaned forward with an elaborately confidential air. “I don’t trust him, my good doctor.”

“You don’t trust whom?”

“Sure,” Mr. Smith said.

Prye nodded sadly. “Perhaps you’d like me to put you to bed, Mr. Smith?”

“My good doctor, I couldn’t think of it. Let me put you to bed.”

“All right. Just lie down on the chesterfield while I put out the cat. On it, Mr. Smith, not under it.”

Mr. Smith stretched out happily on the chesterfield. He murmured something about brandy and closed his eyes. Prye removed his spectacles from his nose and put them on the mantel. Then he pulled down the blinds and went to find Inspector White.

“Nice guest you gave me,” Prye said. “He passed out.”

“Good, good,” the inspector said heartily. “That is, I don’t like the idea of his being intoxicated but I think it’s better all-round that he is. I’ve been searching.”

He pointed out the burned paper in the fireplace and handed Prye the book he had found. “Funny book to have, eh?” he said.