Bats Fly at Dusk

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “As a matter of fact,” the manager said, “I think she’s right, but I don’t make the rules of the place. I only enforce them. A bank owns it, and they tell me what to do. Well, there isn’t anything in the agreement under which the apartments are rented that covers it. The only thing you can do is raise the rent five dollars at the next rent day, and you have to give thirty days’ notice in writing in order to do that. We have some regular printed notices, and all we have to do is fill in the number of the apartment, the amount of the rent, the date, and sign them. I had a notice all prepared, and I gave it to her, notifying her that her rent would be raised five dollars. She was good and angry, but that was all there was to it.”

  “Did she say she’d move out?”

  “Not then.”

  “How long has Miss Dell been here?”

  “Five months yesterday.”

  “You’ve met this Myrna Jackson?”

  “Yes, twice. Once shortly after the conversation when she came to me and tried to talk me out of raising the rent. I told her that it was a house rule. There was nothing I could do about it, and that I didn’t own the place.”

  “When was the second time you met her?”

  “Last night. She came in and gave me the key; said Josephine Dell had a job working for a man who did a lot of travelling and wasn’t going to be here, so they were giving up the apartment. There’s a provision in the signed rules by which the tenant agrees to pay a cleaning charge on moving out of the apartment. The cleaning charge on this apartment was five dollars. I asked Myrna Jackson about it. She said that she was not going to pay half of it, that she wasn’t going to move into a place for four weeks, and then pay two dollars and a half to have it cleaned, when the person who was already in there was obligated to pay the whole five dollars anyway. It seems the girls had had some words about it. I think they finally compromised, and Myrna Jackson paid a dollar, and Josephine paid four. I know there was some kind of a settlement they worked out. I think they were both a little upset about it; but it was Myrna Jackson who finally gave me the keys and the envelope with the cleaning charge in it. I told Miss Jackson that if she wanted to stay on in the place alone the raise in rent wouldn’t be effective. Miss Jackson really seems like a nice sort, exactly the type I like for tenants.”

  “Did she stay?”

  The manager laughed. “She did not. She said she had nothing against me personally, but that I could tell the bank that owned the place she wouldn’t stay in it if it was the last apartment on earth. It seemed she’d packed up her things and moved that afternoon. She came back to adjust matters with Miss Dell and get the cleaning charge straightened out. Miss Jackson seemed rather flushed and angry. I gathered the two girls had had some words.”

  “And she left a forwarding address?” Bertha asked.

  The manager’s eyes were crafty. “There’s ten dollars in it for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I give the address?”

  “No. When I find her.”

  “How do I know you’ll tell me when you find her?”

  “You don’t,” Bertha said.

  “Well–all right. It’s the Maplehurst out on Grand Avenue. Miss Jackson is really a very nice girl. She told me several times she thought the rule was unreasonable, but that she certainly didn’t hold anything against me. Josephine Dell, however, was different. She was angry at me personally. She left in a huff and wouldn’t even come in to see me. I got that much out of Myrna Jackson. Made her admit it. It’s all right, as far as I’m concerned. Some day that Dell woman will want to get in another apartment, and when they ring up and ask me what kind of tenant she is, I’ll tell them.”

  “Anything wrong with her?” Bertha asked.

  “That business of crabbing over rules is enough, but there are other things I could say. Not that I want to say anything against her character, but then–”

  “What?” Bertha asked.

  The manager sniffed. “She worked for a much older man than she. A man who walked with a slight limp and used a cane?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Humph, I thought so.”

  “Why? Anything wrong?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say anything was wrong, but he came to call on her two or three times, and—well, I’m not saying anything at all, but after all I’ve done for that girl, she certainly has no business getting sore at me because I live up to the rules of the place. Anyhow, that isn’t what we were talking about. You go to the Maplehurst Apartments, and you’ll find Myrna Jackson—but don’t you let on that you got her address from me, because Miss Jackson told me that there was a young man who was pestering her a lot and she didn’t care about him having her address. I told her I’d keep it confidential. She just wanted mail forwarded; said I wasn’t to let anyone at all have the address.”

  Bertha Cool said, “I’ll have my client send you a cheque as soon as I locate her.”

  “Well, that’s where she is, so you might just as well have your client send a cheque now.”

  “My client,” Bertha said, “isn’t built that way. He pays me for results and not until I get them.”

  “Well, I know how it is. I work for a bank myself. But you’ll find her there, and you won’t let on where you got the information from, will you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Bertha Cool, the gleam of a hunter in her eye, took a cab to the Maplehurst Apartments on Grand Avenue.

  The woman who ran the apartments, an angular woman with hair the colour of molasses taffy that had been slightly burned before being pulled, eyed Bertha with suspicion. “Myrna Jackson?” She had never heard of the woman. There was no one there by that name. She knew nothing whatever about it. If Bertha Cool wanted to write a letter and leave it there in case a Miss Jackson should take an apartment later on, Miss Jackson would get the letter. There were several vacancies in the building, but at present she knew no Myrna Jackson.

  Bertha felt the woman was lying, but, for the moment, there was nothing she could do about it except pretend to be completely taken in and retire to plan an additional campaign.

  The afternoon newspapers carried big headlines: Blind Beggar Sought by Police.

  A job printer made a quick job of knocking out some stationery for Bertha Cool. By using ink which dried almost instantaneously, he was able to get her half a dozen sheets of stationery reading, BANK NIGHT SUPER DRAWING, INC., Drexel Building, Los Angeles, California.

  Bertha took the stationery back to her office building, arranged with the elevator starter to take care of mail, and then went to her own office where she dictated a letter:

  DEAR MISS JACKSON:

  In order to keep alive an interest in bank night, an association of motion picture theatres has arranged to contribute a small percentage into a large fund on which every sixty days there is a super drawing. It is, of course, necessary to take extraordinary precautions to see that the winnings are paid to the right person. If you can, therefore, convince us that you were the person who registered at one of our member theatres during the past three months, we will give you some information which will doubtless cause you a great deal of pleasure. However, please bear in mind that since this entire matter is gratuitous and in addition to any bank night sponsored by any member theatre, the entire system of awards is handled purely as a gratuitous disbursement. There is no right whatever on the part of any person whose name is drawn to receive anything.

  Very truly yours,

  BANK NIGHT SUPER DRAWING, INC.

  “You can sign that, Elsie,” Bertha Cool said. “I’ve arranged with the elevator starter to take care of any inquiries and see that they’re passed along all right.”

  “How about using the mail to defraud?” Elsie Brand asked. “Pish. When she shows up, we’ll give her twenty-five dollars and tell her it’s a gratuitous disbursement.”

  “Think she’ll show up?”

  “I’ll say she will. She’ll read that letter and think she’s won about five th
ousand dollars, but someone is trying to gyp her out of it. Unless I miss my guess, Myrna Jackson has something she’s keeping very much under cover. She is not going to make any squawk to the postal authorities nor anyone elsec and when I get done with her, she’s going to be a very, very good little girl.”

  Elsie Brand whipped the letter out of the typewriter, picked up her fountain pen, and signed it. “Under your orders,” she said.

  “Under my orders,” Bertha Cool acknowledged reluctantly.

  Chapter XXIV

  SERGEANT SELLERS SETTLED himself comfortably in Bertha Cool’s office and regarded her with a quiet scepticism which Bertha Cool found hard to combat.

  “This blind man, Rodney Kosling,” the sergeant said. “Know where he is?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Client of yours?”

  “He was. As I told you, I did a small job for him.”

  “Satisfactorily?”

  “I hope so.”

  “He might come back to you in case he wanted something else done?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Peculiar problem when you’re dealing with a blind man.” Sellers went on. “You can’t exactly get what you want on him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, with an ordinary man, when it’s blazoned all over the headlines of the newspapers that the police are looking for him and he still continues to stay away, you feel that you have something on him. With a blind man, it’s different. He can’t see the newspapers. You know, there’s just a chance Rodney Kosling may not know anything at all about what has happened and may not know that the police are looking for him.”

  “That’s probably it,” Bertha said, just a little too eagerly. as she realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  Sergeant Sellers went on without letting her comment divert him in the least, “I say there’s a chance of it—about one chance in twenty.”

  “You mean about one chance in twenty that he knows you want him?”

  “No, I mean about one chance in twenty he doesn’t know we want him.”

  “I don’t get you,” Bertha said.

  “Well, let’s look at it this way. We’ve eliminated nearly all of these beggar peddlers. Time was when you used to see a lot of them on the street—people going around with tin cups and guitars. It got to be a racket. We kicked them all out except half a dozen who had done things for the police in times past or had some political pull. These people have very definite locations where they’re permitted to work. When they die off, there won’t be any others to take their places. We’re getting the city cleaned up. At least, we’re trying to.”

  “Well?” Bertha asked.

  “How do you suppose those blind people get to work?”

  “I don’t know,” Bertha Cool said. “I’d never thought of it.”

  “They have a nifty little club,” Sergeant Sellers said. “It’s a co-operative affair. They jointly own an automobile and hire .i chauffeur. He drives around, picks them up in the morning according to a regular routine, takes them out and spots them, and calls for them at a fixed hour at night. They ride out to the chauffeur’s house. His wife has a nice hot dinner axed for them. They eat and chat, and then the chauffeur drives them home one at a time.”

  “Well,” Bertha said, thinking it over, “I can understand that. If I’d stopped to think, I’d have known there must have been something like that; that it was handled somewhat along those lines. He can’t drive a car, and he can’t very well take streetcars to and from his place of business. Hiring a private car and chauffeur and a housekeeper would be pretty much of an impossibility. Who keeps his house anyway?”

  “The chauffeur’s wife. She goes around to the houses in rotation and cleans ‘em up once a week. The rest of the time the chaps get along by themselves. And you’d be surprised at how much they’re able to do regardless of being blind.”

  “Who’s the chauffeur? “Bertha asked.

  “Man by the name of Thinwell, John A. Thinwell. He and his wife have pretty good references; seem to be pretty well thought of. Tells a straightforward story.”

  “What is it?”

  “These chaps don’t work Sundays. On Sundays, they all get together around three o’clock at Thinwell’s house, listen to music on the radio, sit and talk, and get acquainted. Thinwell serves ‘em a dinner around seven and then takes ‘em home.

  “Sunday about noon, Thinwell got a telephone call from Kosling. He seemed rather excited or disturbed and was talking rapidly. He said he wasn’t going to be home all day, couldn’t attend their little club meeting, and that Thinwell was not to call for him.

  “Thinwell had to go right by the house anyway to pick up another one of the members, so he stopped in. That was about ten to three. The place was deserted all right, and Kosling had left the door propped open a few inches so his tame bat could get in and out.”

  “Did Thinwell look inside?” Bertha asked.

  “He says he just peeped inside the door. There’s something strange about that too. He said Kosling’s pet bat was flying around inside the room. That’s unusual. Unless bats are disturbed, they fly around at night. Now why should this bat have been flying around at three in the afternoon?”

  “He must have been disturbed,” Bertha said.

  “Exactly,” Sellers agreed. “And what disturbed him?”

  “I’ll bite. What did?”

  “It must have been the person who was putting up the trap gun. That brings up another interesting thing.”

  “What?”

  “I think the trap gun was set up by a blind man.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because of the way it was set up. In the first place there was no attempt at concealment. The thing stuck out as big as an elephant, right where it could be seen by anyone entering the room. In the second place, in pointing the gun, the man who set it up didn’t squint along the sights the way, a man with vision would have done. He tied a thread along the barrel, pulled that thread tight, and used it to tell him where the charge was going. That’s one way of sighting a gun. It’s the hard way.

  “Ordinarily when a man is murdered, we make a study of his contacts, of the people with whom he associates. Nine times out of ten, when robbery isn’t the motive, the murderer is someone who has had intimate contact with him. Nine tenths of Kosling’s associates are blind.

  “Now then, those associates gathered at around three-forty-five at Thinwell’s house, had their usual dinner and social gathering, and went home around nine. Therefore, if one of these blind men did it, he must have set the trap gun before the party, which accounts for the bat flying around the room.”

  “Curtains down?” Bertha asked.

  “Yes. That seems to be a peculiar obsession of blind men. They have a tendency to keep their curtain’s drawn.”

  “Why?”

  “Search me. Thinwell says he’s noticed it with Kosling in particular, several times.”

  “You say Kosling telephoned Thinwell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call from a pay station?” Bertha Cool asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How would he dial a number?”

  “That’s easy. You don’t realize how sensitive those people are with their fingers. They could manipulate a dial phone just about as quickly as you could, once they knew the number. Otherwise, all they’d have to do is dial Operator, explain the situation, and have Operator get them the number.”

  Sergeant Seller’s eyes caught Bertha’s and held them in a cold, steely grip. “There are two theories to work on. One of them is that Jerry Bollman wanted to call on this blind man, or else wanted to get something out of the place. He went out, found the door open on account of this pet bat, and started exploring.”

  “What’s the other theory?” Bertha asked non-committally.

  “The other theory is that Kosling went out with Bollman; that Bollman took him to dinner. When Bollman had finished with him, he
took him home, led the way up the walk, holding the blind man’s arm, probably lighting his own way with a flashlight. Bollman flung open the door, stepped inside, and –BANG!”

  Bertha gave a quick, nervous start.

  “Just acting things out for you,” Sergeant Sellers said, and smiled.

  “Sounds like very fair reasoning,” Bertha said, “taking everything into consideration.”

  “The last theory,” Sergeant Sellers said, “sounds a lot better to me—provided there was something Bollman wanted from this blind man, some information or something. Any idea what it could have been?”

  Bertha hesitated over that.

  “Something that might have been connected in some way with the thing Kosling employed you about in the first place,” Sergeant Sellers prompted, and, as Bertha failed to take the bait, he added significantly, “something that perhaps had to do with a woman.”

  “What sort of a woman?” Bertha asked quickly.

  “There,” Sellers admitted, “you have me stumped. It wouldn’t be a woman who would be interested from an amorous angle unless she was a gold digger pure and simple.”

  “Make it simple,” Bertha said. “The other’s superfluous.”

  Sellers grinned.

  “Well,” Bertha said, “then what?”

  “Then,” Sellers retorted, “we come down to the plain business theory. Kosling might have had some information Bollman wanted to get.”

  Elsie Brand put her head in the door. “Could you get on the telephone Mrs. Cool?”

  Bertha Cool looked at her, caught a peculiar significance in Elsie’s glance, said, “Just a moment,” to Sellers, and picked up the telephone.

  Central’s voice said, “San Bernardino is calling and wants you to pay for the message.”

  “Well, they’ve got a crust,” Bertha Cool said. “The answer to that is very simple, very short, and very sweet. I don’t accept collect calls.”