The Weak-Eyed Bat

Prye opened it. “Not if he’s a lawyer practicing in Michigan. Smith’s his right name apparently, John Wayne Smith.” Prye laid the book back on the table. “It should be easy to find out if he’s a lawyer. I’d like to look over that charred paper. Any objections?”

The inspector shook his head, and Prye knelt down and poked in the fireplace.

“Too far gone. Even a lab man couldn’t make anything of it. Find any letters?”

There was a slight movement from the hall and both men turned their heads toward the door.

“So,” said the dry voice of Mr. John Wayne Smith. “I believe this constitutes illegal entry. I shall take the greatest of pleasure in laying a charge against both of you.”

Chapter Nine

It was, Jennie reported later, exactly a quarter past six that the Littles’ telephone rang two long and two short and Mr. Little crossed the sitting room and answered it.

“I want to speak to Mr. Little,” a woman’s voice said.

Ordinarily a mysterious female voice on the telephone would interest Tom but tonight he answered listlessly, “Tom Little speaking.”

“Are you alone, Mr. Little?”

“No. Who is this?”

“This is Harriet Alfonse, Mr. Little. I believe we have something to discuss. Would nine o’clock at Mr. Smith’s pier suit you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said shortly.

“I can’t explain over a telephone. I’ll see you at nine o’clock then.” Miss Alfonse hung up. Tom replaced the receiver and went slowly upstairs.

“Who was that, dear?” Mary called out from her bedroom.

“Just the doctor,” Tom said. “He wanted to know if you were feeling better and I told him you were.”

Mary was supported by several pillows. Her color was more natural and her hair was neatly plaited.

“I don’t feel much better, dear,” she said gently.

Tom sat down in a chair by the window and looked out over the lake.

“Tom dear, you don’t have to worry. Jennie has already told me.”

Tom’s head jerked toward her. “Told you what?”

“About the Frost girl. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I feel it’s all for the best.” Mary had a comfortable philosophy. Things were always for the best.

“Did you see her, Tom?”

Tom was staring out of the window again. He was not seeing the lake or the sun about to drown itself, but a tall yellow-haired girl in a yellow bathing suit. She was standing on the end of a diving board. Then she dived, and the water closed over her head and she didn’t come up.

Tom shut his eyes. “No, I didn’t see her. They took her away in an ambulance.”

“She must have looked terrible with part of her head missing. Did you know part of her head was gone, Tom?”

Tom gazed at her. There was no expression in his eyes.

“Sometimes I think you’re a bitch,” he said.

She began to cry, and the tears roiled down her cheeks aimlessly, like pebbles down two pale hills.

Miss Alfonse, on the other hand, was happier than she had been for twenty-four hours. She put down the telephone and sat back in her chair in the library. She was quite safe, after all. She, too, stared out over the lake. She saw a huge white house with a Cadillac waiting at the front door, and coming down the steps was Miss Alfonse herself swathed in mink from head to foot.

The door of the library opened and Ralph Bonner came in. He didn’t see her until he had picked up the telephone, and then he laid it down with a thud.

“Oh, sorry.” He turned to go out.

“Don’t be sorry,” Miss Alfonse said archly.

“No? All right. I was just going to — to call the cleaners. White flannels, you know.” He sat down on the edge of a chair, tugging at his collar.

“Mr. Bonner — Ralph,” Alfonse began, “I have something to confess to you.”

He looked startled. “No, please don’t. I mean, I’m not feeling so well today. Headache.”

Alfonse’s professional interest was aroused and she leaned toward him. “What a shame! Where is your poor head aching? Here?” She touched his forehead lightly.

Ralph drew away from her hand, flushing. “It’s nothing. Nerves, I guess. Joan and all that.”

“Oh, you poor boy,” Miss Alfonse said softly.

The unexpected sympathy struck Ralph above the heart. His face began to crumple and he put up his hand to hide it.

“It’s worse, too, Ralph, knowing that you were so near when it happened.”

“What do you mean I was near?” he asked in a muffled voice.

“I saw you.”

He rose so quickly that the chair overturned. “What are you getting at?”

“I won’t say anything, Ralph. Nothing could ever induce me to tell, unless” — she paused a moment, watching the blood flow from his face — “unless I lose my job. I don’t want to go away from here.”

“I don’t — I can’t understand you.”

Alfonse rose, too, and stood in front of him.

“Can’t you?” she said.

She moved briskly to the door and went out. He heard the soft, stealthy tap of her rubber-soled shoes and the swish and crackle of her uniform — queer, menacing sounds. He wanted to run out of the door away from them. He sat down again and buried his face in his hands.

Prye found him there half an hour later, sleeping.

“Ralph,” Prye said. “Hey. Wake up. Do you want a stiff neck?”