The Weak-Eyed Bat

Prye was silent for a minute. “Interesting point, isn’t it? Does the letter eliminate Frost as the murderer since he already knew Little had been found, or does it point to him?”

“Exactly,” the inspector said dryly. “Frost had a more reasonable motive for writing the letter than anyone else. He knew the body had been found and the murderer presumably did not know, therefore Frost is not the murderer. That would be his logic. I think I’ll start a pencil collection.”

“It’s just as easy to get rid of a pencil as it is to burn paper,” Nora said.

“There is a possibility that the letter writer does not know that pencils can be checked through their graphite composition,” Inspector White said. “Prye, you may collect your own, Miss Shane’s, and whatever pencils you find in this house.”

After another stern, quelling glance at Nora the inspector went out and Prye turned to Jennie, who, from the doorway, had been absorbing the conversation through both ears.

“Jennie, you heard what the inspector said. Your pencils, if you please.”

“My pencils!” Jennie began to wail, and Prye clapped a hand over her mouth.

“You live in the community. You might have written the note and merely pretended you found it. And when the inspector says he wants a pencil collection he means all the pencils and no silly middle-aged female is going to change his mind. Now scat.”

He took his hand away and Jennie hurried into the kitchen.

“The iron hand,” Nora said, wrinkling her nose. “I hope it rusts.”

“Did I ask you to come along? For a thin dime I’d ask Inspector White to arrest you.”

“You’re rapidly losing your glamor for me,” Nora said haughtily.

Jennie came back looking rather sulky. She held out the small stub of a pencil liberally decorated with toothmarks.

“Not a respectable pencil at all,” Prye said. “Aren’t there any others in the house?”

“I thought there was some more but I can’t find them. That’s my own personal pencil for making out my grocery lists. But I think Mr. Little had some for marking bridge scores.”

“And they’re gone?”

“They’re not down here.”

“We’ll have to look upstairs,” Prye said. “Come along, Nora.”

“But Mrs. Little?” Jennie said.

“We’ll be quiet,” Prye replied. “At least I will, and Miss Shane will do her best.”

They went upstairs on tiptoe. Prye listened at Mary Little’s door and could hear no movement from within.

“Do I just look for pencils?” Nora whispered. “Or should I pick up anything else that’s interesting?”

“You have one charge hanging over your head now,” Prye hissed.

“I simply meant clues or things,” Nora said coldly, and disappeared into a bedroom. From the ensuing noise it was evident that she was taking her work seriously. When Prye entered five minutes later he found her carefully probing the wainscoting with a hairpin.

“Darling,” Prye said grimly, “what are you doing?”

Nora got up on her knees and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Doing? You sent me here, didn’t you? I’m looking for pencils.”

“I didn’t tell you to tear down the house. I merely wanted you to ascertain whether any place which might reasonably be expected to contain pencils does or does not contain them.”

“Does not,” Nora said. “A pen though.”

“Come on, we’re leaving.” He helped her to her feet and wiped off a smudge on her forehead with a handkerchief. “Ready?”

“Of course.” She strolled nonchalantly to the door. Prye stopped her.

“You wouldn’t by any chance have decided to keep the pen, would you?”

She sighed and reached into her pocket. “You’re fey,” she said glumly. “Positively fey.” Prye laid the pen on the table and they went out into the hall. Mary Little’s high, querulous voice came from her bedroom.

“Jennie! What is the hall light on for? Jennie!”

Prye sent Nora downstairs and went into the bedroom.

Mary Little was sitting up in bed. At the sight of Prye her face blanched and her hands clenched into two thin blue fists.

“They’ve found him,” she whispered.

Prye nodded.

“He’s dead? Of course he’s dead. That’s why you’re here, to tell me. But nobody had to tell me. I waited for him all night and when he didn’t come home I knew he was dead.” She spoke quickly and jerkily, as if she had no control over her words. “I knew it. You don’t believe in things like that, like knowing that something has happened to someone you love.”

“I do believe in them,” Prye said quietly.

She did not reply but kept staring through him at the wall. He had his hand on her wrist. “You’re looking better tonight,” Prye said. “You had a nice sleep.”

“Did I?”

“Are you well enough to talk to me?”

“Of course. That stuff you gave me was very good. Are you going to give me any more of it?”

“Later, if you need it,” Prye said. “I have to ask you some questions, Mary, if we’re going to find the person who killed Tom. Did you just wake up when you called out a few minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Your pulse is one hundred thirty,” he said. “You’ve been awake for some time. You’ve been out of bed, haven’t you?”

Her face was ghastly. “I— No. Yes, yes, I was.”

“How long were you out of bed? Where did you go?”