The Weak-Eyed Bat

“Yes. I’ll get it. Probably Jennie saying Mrs. Little has jumped out of a window.”

He went out to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and said: “Dr. Prye speaking.”

“He’s dead!” Jennie whispered over the phone. “We got a letter. Says to tell Mrs. Little he’s dead. Says to tell her his body—”

“I’ll be right over. Be quiet and don’t make a fuss and don’t say anything to Mrs. Little.”

Chapter Thirteen

Prye turned out the light in the kitchen, opened the door, and went on to the veranda. He gave a long, low whistle and about two hundred yards away a bush began to move. He whistled again, keeping in the shadows, and finally the bush stood straight up and began to walk toward him. It materialized as a policeman wearing a grey-blue uniform.

“Anything wrong, Dr. Prye?” he asked.

“Have you seen anyone going into the Littles’ cottage?”

“Haven’t seen a thing,” the policeman said, sounding rather angry. “It’s too damn dark. But there was a light for a minute on the veranda. Somebody opened the door and looked out.”

“All right. I want to go over there. You may come along and then go and find Inspector White.”

Nora arrived in time to hear him, and she clutched his arm firmly. “Hey. You can’t leave me here.”

“You’ll be safer behind locked doors,” Prye said.

“The hell I will. Either you take me or I yell.”

Prye and the policeman exchanged glances of resignation. Then Prye sighed and put his hand under her arm, and the three of them went down the steps.

They walked close together along the path, their feet sweeping away the silence.

“I knew a girl once,” Nora said by way of conversation, “who used to have to walk through a place like this every night. She used to pretend she was crazy — you know, muttering to herself — so that if anyone crazy wanted to attack her the crazy person would think she was crazier and wouldn’t. Should we?”

“Should we what?” Prye said.

“Pretend we’re crazy.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Prye said coldly.

“Oh well. It was just an idea.”

“Wait!” The policeman grabbed Prye by the arm, and all three of them stood still. “Hear anything?” he whispered.

From a near-by tree came a soft, slithering sound. Prye reached for the policeman's flashlight and went quietly toward the tree. It blazed suddenly into light and from one of the middle branches a pair of porcupines regarded him with frightened eyes, their quills sticking straight out from their bodies.

Prye laughed and switched off the flashlight. “They’re more scared than we are.”

Nora said shakily: “They are not. It’s just that I haven’t got any quills to prove it. Do you suppose the murderer is still — here?”

“Not unless he’s a damn fool,” the policeman said. He left Nora and Prye on the steps of the Littles’ veranda and went off again to find Inspector White.

Jennie, wild-eyed and pale, let them into the house. Without speaking she drew the envelope from the pocket of her apron, handling it as if it were an incendiary bomb.

“Have you had your fingers all over this?” Prye asked, frowning.

“It says to me on the envelope,” Jennie said tartly. “Why shouldn’t I put my fingers on it?”

Prye took the envelope. It was a cheap, ordinary brand with “Jenny” penciled on the outside in block letters. The letter inside was simple:

“Mr. Little is dead. I killed him because he was no use to the world. His body is in a canoe on the lake. I am not a cold-blooded murderer, so I am telling you this in order that you may tell your mistress at the proper time. I do not kill without reason.”

The letters were small and neat.

“My name’s spelled wrong,” Jennie said. “I guess that’s a clue.”

“I guess,” Prye said. “How did you get this letter, Jennie?”

“Someone knocked at the door and when I went to see who it was there was no one there. There was just this lying on the veranda.”

“You saw nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No sir. Except... well, I thought I heard a noise in one of those trees.”

“Was it a sharp crack like a twig breaking?”

“No sir. It was soft, sort of a swish, like the rustle of a taffeta petticoat, if you know what I mean.”

“It wasn’t the rustle of leaves?”

“I don’t think so,” Jennie said, her lips pressed together. “I think it was demons, evil demons.”

Prye smiled. Wang’s ideas seemed to have achieved popularity in the district. Demons whose fingers plucked at Alfonse’s uniform and whispered as she walked—

“Could it have been someone wearing a crisply starched uniform?”

“Maybe, if it wasn’t demons, which I believe it was.”

“All right, it was demons,” Prye said. “You needn’t say anything to Mrs. Little about this letter right now. It may be a hoax. Murderers aren’t usually so lavish in their admissions and I can’t think what is to be gained by a letter like this.”

Nora nudged Prye and turned to Jennie with a bright smile. “I wonder if I could have a sandwich, Jennie.”

“A sandwich!” Jennie couldn’t have been more surprised if Nora had asked for a human head fried in olive oil. “You mean to eat?”

“Just one,” Nora said pitifully. “I didn’t have any dinner.”