The Weak-Eyed Bat

“Neither divine nor philosophic,” Prye assured her solemnly. “I’m a kind of cosmopolitan quack. If a lady in San Francisco wants to know why her husband has taken to eating paper bags, she might call on me. Then I simply go to the lady’s house, ostensibly as a guest, and observe her husband in his natural environment. He might be a diet faddist who thinks paper bags are teeming with vitamins, but the probabilities are that he is suffering from hallucinations and eating paper bags at the dictates of some inner voice. Then I recommend a sanatorium and a course of treatment.”

“You’re a psychiatrist?”

“A consulting psychiatrist.”

Nora frowned and pressed out her cigarette in an ashtray. “Are you up here — on business?”

“Strictly on a holiday,” Prye said lightly.

“You weren’t called up here?” she persisted.

Prye laughed. “Why? Have we a maniac in our midst?”

“Not exactly. Just someone who shouldn’t be allowed to— Oh, forget it. You’ll know all there is to know in twenty-four hours. I like your cottage. Is it yours?”

“It is. You hint darkly, Miss Shane. What’s it all about?”

“Nothing. Nobody. I simply don’t like the feel of things around here. I expect you laugh at a woman’s intuition?”

“When it’s called that I chuckle mildly. But I recognize intuitive powers as facts in men as well as women. Intuition is simply the result of a highly sensitive subconscious which reacts to subtleties that are missed by the conscious mind. A shade of expression on the part of a guest, a slight gesture, a tone of voice, may make a hostess ‘intuitive’ about that guest’s likes and dislikes. Mind readers and their ilk have this quickness of perception. I believe, although you needn’t quote me in a scientific journal, that the subconscious can be trained just as any other part of the body can be trained.”

“How?” Nora asked.

Prye shrugged. “If I knew how, I’d build me a race of supermen. But I do think that the subconscious should have and was intended to have a live function, and by a live function I mean that it should be capable of being used at the will of the individual. Civilization has imposed countless restrictions and conventions on each of us, with the result that the subconscious in the majority of us has become a storage room without a key. We are forced to suppress or forget so many events and ideas and thoughts that those to which we should have access are lost in the welter. However, there are people who seem capable of unlocking this part of their minds and extracting relevant information. Their memories are phenomenal. Possibly — who knows? — this ability is what constitutes ‘intelligence.’ ”

Nora smiled across the table at him. “You sound like a prophet, Dr. Prye.”

“I was afraid of that,” Prye said, grinning. “But at least I’ve paraded my chief failing for you. Hey!”

Nora had gotten up so quickly that the ashtray at her elbow fell on the floor.

“I’m going,” she said hastily. “Haven’t time to explain.” She went to the door.

Prye said, “What’s all this?”

She pointed out the window and then slipped quietly out to the back veranda.

Prye looked out of the window. Advancing along the lane toward his cottage was a tall yellow-haired girl. She was dressed in a scant yellow bathing suit and her skin was tanned to a deep brown. She walked quickly and heavily, as if she were angry. A few seconds later there was a loud series of knocks on the front door.

Prye opened the door. For a moment Joan stared at him with eyes that seemed almost colorless against her brown skin.

“Hello, Prye,” she said. “I want to talk to you.” She came in without waiting for him to speak.

Prye raised an eyebrow. “Quite an entrance, Joan. Have you been going to dramatic school?”

He opened the door of his sitting room and she went in and sat down on a red leather couch.

“Sit down, Prye,” she said.

Prye sat down. “Anything to oblige,” he murmured. “Two years ago I was Dr. Prye to you, youngster. Now I’m Prye. What else has happened in two years?”

She did not smile. “This isn’t a social call. I don’t want to make small talk with you. I think you’re a heel.”

“Flatterer.”

“Why are you here? How much are you getting?”

Prye looked puzzled. “I’m holidaying, and unfortunately no one’s paying me for it.”

She kept staring at him with her pale eyes and Prye shifted uncomfortably. “So help me,” he said.

“Well, I’ve warned you. Remember that.”

“Now who’s out to get me?” Prye sighed.

“I am.”

“Any special reason?”

“My father’s coming to see you today. He’s going to ask you to do something, and if you agree to do it you’ll never get out of here alive.”

Her tone changed suddenly. She leaned forward on the couch, frowning. “See here, Prye. Suppose a person is insane or just considered insane, and suppose the person gets away before he can be locked up, what then?”

About to laugh, Prye checked himself at the expression on her face.

“It would depend,” he said, “on the laws of the country and the particular type of insanity involved.”

“I mean, would they send policemen after the person?”