The Weak-Eyed Bat

“If he was dangerous. Most of them aren’t but some are.”

“By dangerous you mean capable of killing?”

“Roughly speaking, yes.”

“Would you consider me dangerous?”

Prye smiled at her. “I don’t know, Joan. Do you feel like killing anyone?”

She rose and began to stride up and down the room.

“You and your stupid traps!” she shouted. “You want me to say I’d like to kill someone. Well, I do say it. That doesn’t mean anything. Everyone feels like killing someone. Everyone. Most of all I’d like to get him!”

“Who, your father?” Prye said easily. “How is your father, by the way?”

“He’s a sarcastic old son of a bitch the same as he always was. Do you want to know what he’s doing now? He’s up in his study writing. And do you know what he’s writing? He’s writing about me. And do you know what for?”

“Nope,” Prye said cheerfully.

“To show you. He’s putting it all down, what I say and what I do and what I eat. Oh, he thinks he’s being very cute about it.”

“Sure of your facts, Joan? It doesn’t sound like your father.”

“I know.” She came over to his chair and stood above him. “You came two days too soon, Prye. Your best bet is to pretend you aren’t here, or to go away. I’m not in this alone. I have friends.”

“In what alone?”

“Be a good boy until Wednesday, Prye, and I’ll buy you an ice-cream cone. If you aren’t a good boy I’ll put you to bed on the bottom of the lake.”

She went out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Prye shook his head sadly.

“That from an eighteen-year-old,” he said aloud. “Could there be a new Youth Movement for the suppression of everyone over thirty? Is all this adolescent venom concentrated on me? Yes. Why? Couldn’t say. Is death with honor preferable to an ice-cream cone without?”

The door of the sitting room opened softly.

“Make mine strawberry without,” Nora said. “How do you like our Joan?”

Prye jumped to his feet. “I thought you were going home, Miss Shane.”

“You mustn’t be so trustful,” Nora said severely. “The trouble with you is, you’re an idealist.” She took a cigarette and lit it with exaggerated calm.

Prye watched her bitterly. “What in hell is going on up here? I come for a holiday and before I can even tuck in my first calorie a strange woman tells me to dry up, and after breakfast a girl who was playing with caterpillars two years ago threatens me with death. Could it be a case of mistaken identity?”

“No,” Nora said.

“All right, I give up. Explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain, yet.”

“You must have had some reason for eavesdropping. Or do you do it instinctively?”

“I wanted to hear what she said,” Nora replied coolly. “Joan is interesting, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Are you a good friend of Professor Frost’s?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you know him quite well?”

“Well enough. If you’ve any more questions, Miss Shane, I hope you won’t be bashful about asking them.”

“I won’t,” Nora said. “Professor Frost sent for you, you know.”

“I don’t know!” Prye said violently. “I’ve never had a letter from him in my life!”

“He wrote one. I was in the Clayton post office one day when Joan came in with a pile of letters. She looked through them before putting them in the box and I saw her pick one out and tear it up when she went outside. And I — well, I picked up the pieces. It was addressed to you.”

Prye frowned. “When was this? What did it say?”

“About two weeks ago. I didn’t patch the whole thing together, but I know it came from Professor Frost. When I found out this morning that you were a psychiatrist I began to add things up.”

“What answer did you get?”

“That this particular section of Muskoka is unhealthy.”

“For me?”

“For all of us.”

“Do you ever hear voices, Miss Shane?”

Nora grinned. “Not a whisper. But I have eyes, and they’ve seen a number of queer things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Joan getting engaged to Ralph, and Miss Bonner having a spotlight put up at the entrance to the lane, and Miss Bonner’s pearl ring turning up in the secondhand shop in Clayton, and Mr. Smith—”

“Where does Smith live?”

“In the last cottage. He’s been there for three months and hasn’t spoken to anyone except to order them away.”

“I detect a personal note in your voice, Miss Shane. So Mr. Smith ordered you away, the rat.”

Nora blushed and said stiffly: “I was merely walking along his lane. I wasn’t tearing it up by the roots.”

“Still, it’s his lane, isn’t it? All right, go on.”

“No. You’ve broken the spell. For a minute I was on the verge of telling you the story of my life. Thanks for stopping me.” She went over to the window. “Want to see something cute?”

She pointed out toward the beach where a man in bathing trunks was lying on a small strip of sand. He seemed to be asleep.

Prye glanced down at her quizzically. “Your love interest?”

“Joan’s, at the moment. And a badly soiled bargain he is.”

“Married, of course?”

“Of course. To a woman with a lot' of money and a weak heart and a passion for forgiving him his trespasses.”

“That sounds all right.”