Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood

by The Bat

She had expected Dale to show surprise—excitement—but the white mask of horror which the girl turned toward her appalled her. The young body trembled under her hand for a moment like a leaf in the storm.

  “Not—the police!” breathed Dale in tones of utter consternation. Miss Cornelia could not understand why the news had stirred her niece so deeply. But there was no time to puzzle it out, she heard crunching steps on the terrace, the Doctor was returning.

  “Ssh!” she whispered. “It isn’t necessary to tell the Doctor. I think he’s a sort of perambulating bedside gossip—and once it’s known the police are here we’ll NEVER catch the criminals!”

  When the Doctor entered from the terrace, brushing drops of rain from his no longer immaculate evening clothes, Dale was back on her favorite settee and Miss Cornelia was poring over the mysterious missive that had been wrapped about the stone.

  “He got away in the shrubbery,” said the Doctor disgustedly, taking out a handkerchief to fleck the spots of mud from his shoes.

  Miss Cornelia gave him the letter of warning. “Read this,” she said.

  The Doctor adjusted a pair of pince-nez—read the two crude sentences over—once—twice. Then he looked shrewdly at Miss Cornelia.

  “Were the others like this?” he queried.

  She nodded. “Practically.”

  He hesitated for a moment like a man with an unpleasant social duty to face.

  “Miss Van Gorder, may I speak frankly?”

  “Generally speaking, I detest frankness,” said that lady grimly. “But—go on!”

  The Doctor tapped the letter. His face was wholly serious.

  “I think you ought to leave this house,” he said bluntly.

  “Because of that letter? Humph!” His very seriousness, perversely enough, made her suddenly wish to treat the whole matter as lightly as possible.

  The Doctor repressed the obvious annoyance of a man who sees a warning, given in all sobriety, unexpectedly taken as a quip.

  “There is some deviltry afoot,” he persisted. “You are not safe here, Miss Van Gorder.”

  But if he was persistent in his attitude, so was she in hers.

  “I’ve been safe in all kinds of houses for sixty-odd years,” she said lightly. “It’s time I had a bit of a change. Besides,” she gestured toward her defenses, “this house is as nearly impregnable as I can make it. The window locks are sound enough, the doors are locked, and the keys are there,” she pointed to the keys lying on the table. “As for the terrace door you just used,” she went on, “I had Billy put an extra bolt on it today. By the way, did you bolt that door again?” She moved toward the alcove.

  “Yes, I did,” said the Doctor quickly, still seeming unconvinced of the wisdom of her attitude.

  “Miss Van Gorder, I confess—I’m very anxious for you,” he continued. “This letter is—ominous. Have you any enemies?”

  “Don’t insult me! Of course I have. Enemies are an indication of character.”

  The Doctor’s smile held both masculine pity and equally masculine exasperation. He went on more gently.

  “Why not accept my hospitality in the village to-night?” he proposed reasonably. “It’s a little house but I’ll make you comfortable. Or,” he threw out his hands in the gesture of one who reasons with a willful child, “if you won’t come to me, let me stay here!”

  Miss Cornelia hesitated for an instant. The proposition seemed logical enough—more than that—sensible, safe. And yet, some indefinable feeling—hardly strong enough to be called a premonition—kept her from accepting it. Besides, she knew what the Doctor did not, that help was waiting across the hall in the library.

  “Thank you, no, Doctor,” she said briskly, before she had time to change her mind. “I’m not easily frightened. And tomorrow I intend to equip this entire house with burglar alarms on doors and windows!” she went on defiantly. The incident, as far as she was concerned, was closed. She moved on into the alcove. The Doctor stared at her, shaking his head.

  She tried the terrace door. “There, I knew it!” she said triumphantly. “Doctor—you didn’t fasten that bolt!”

  The Doctor seemed a little taken aback. “Oh—I’m sorry—” he said.

  “You only pushed it part of the way,” she explained. She completed the task and stepped back into the living-room. “The only thing that worries me now is that broken French window,” she said thoughtfully. “Anyone can reach a hand through it and open the latch.” She came down toward the settee where Dale was sitting. “Please, Doctor!”

  “Oh—what are you going to do?” said the Doctor, coming out of a brown study.

  “I’m going to barricade that window!” said Miss Cornelia firmly, already struggling to lift one end of the settee. But now Dale came to her rescue.

  “Oh, darling, you’ll hurt yourself. Let me—” and between them, the Doctor and Dale moved the heavy settee along until it stood in front of the window in question.

  The Doctor stood up when the dusty task was finished, wiping his hands.

  “It would take a furniture mover to get in there now!” he said airily.

  Miss Cornelia smiled.

  “Well, Doctor—I’ll say good night now—and thank you very much,” she said, extending her hand to the Doctor, who bowed over it silently. “Don’t keep this young lady up too late; she looks tired.” She flashed a look at Dale who stood staring out at the night.

  “I’ll only smoke a cigarette,” promised the Doctor. Once again his voice had a note of plea in it. “You won’t change your mind?” he asked anew.

  Miss Van Gorder’s smile was obdurate. “I have a great deal of mind,” she said. “It takes a long time to change it.”

  Then, having exercised her feminine privilege of the last word, she sailed out of the room, still smiling, and closed the door behind her.

  The Doctor seemed a little nettled by her abrupt departure.

  “It may be mind,” he said, turning back toward Dale, “but forgive me if I say I think it seems more like foolhardy stubbornness!”

  Dale turned away from the window. “Then you think there is really danger?”

  The Doctor’s eyes were grave.

  “Well—those letters—” he dropped the letter on the table. “They mean something. Here you are—isolated the village two miles away—and enough shrubbery round the place to hide a dozen assassins—”

  If his manner had been in the slightest degree melodramatic, Dale would have found the ominous sentences more easy to discount. But this calm, intent statement of fact was a chill touch at her heart. And yet—

  “But what enemies can Aunt Cornelia have?” she asked helplessly.

  “Any man will tell you what I do,” said the Doctor with increasing seriousness. He took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the case to emphasize his words. “This is no place for two women, practically alone.”

  Dale moved away from him restlessly, to warm her hands at the fire. The Doctor gave a quick glance around the room. Then, unseen by her, he stepped noiselessly over to the table, took the matchbox there off its holder and slipped it into his pocket. It seemed a curiously useless and meaningless gesture, but his next words evinced that the action had been deliberate.

  “I don’t seem to be able to find any matches—” he said with assumed carelessness, fiddling with the matchbox holder.

  Dale turned away from the fire. “Oh, aren’t there any? I’ll get you some,” she said with automatic politeness, and departed to search for them.

  The Doctor watched her go—saw the door close behind her. Instantly his face set into tense and wary lines. He glanced about—then ran lightly into the alcove and noiselessly unfastened the bolt on the terrace door which he had pretended to fasten after his search of the shrubbery. When Dale returned with the matches, he was back where he had been when she had left him, glancing at a magazine on the table.

  He thanked her urbanely as she offered him the box. “So sorry to trouble you—but tobacco is the one d
rug every Doctor forbids his patients and prescribes for himself.”

  Dale smiled at the little joke. He lit his cigarette and drew in the fragrant smoke with apparent gusto. But a moment later he had crushed out the glowing end in an ash tray.

  “By the way, has Miss Van Gorder a revolver?” he queried casually, glancing at his wrist watch.

  “Yes—she fired it off this afternoon to see if it would work.” Dale smiled at the memory.

  The Doctor, too, seemed amused. “If she tries to shoot anything—for goodness’ sake stand behind her!” he advised. He glanced at the wrist watch again. “Well—I must be going—”

  “If anything happens,” said Dale slowly, “I shall telephone you at once.”

  Her words seemed to disturb the Doctor slightly—but only for a second. He grew even more urbane.

  “I’ll be home shortly after midnight,” he said. “I’m stopping at the Johnsons’ on my way—one of their children is ill—or supposed to be.” He took a step toward the door, then he turned toward Dale again.

  “Take a parting word of advice,” he said. “The thing to do with a midnight prowler is—let him alone. Lock your bedroom doors and don’t let anything bring you out till morning.” He glanced at Dale to see how she took the advice, his hand on the knob of the door.

  “Thank you,” said Dale seriously. “Good night, Doctor—Billy will let you out, he has the key.”

  “By Jove!” laughed the Doctor, “you are careful, aren’t you! The place is like a fortress! Well—good night, Miss Dale—”

  “Good night.” The door closed behind him—Dale was left alone. Suddenly her composure left her, the fixed smile died. She stood gazing ahead at nothing, her face a mask of terror and apprehension. But it was like a curtain that had lifted for a moment on some secret tragedy and then fallen again. When Billy returned with the front door key she was as impassive as he was.

  “Has the new gardener come yet?”

  “He here,” said Billy stolidly. “Name Brook.”

  She was entirely herself once more when Billy, departing, held the door open wide—to admit Miss Cornelia Van Gorder and a tall, strong-featured man, quietly dressed, with reticent, piercing eyes—the detective!

  Dale’s first conscious emotion was one of complete surprise. She had expected a heavy-set, blue-jowled vulgarian with a black cigar, a battered derby, and stubby policeman’s shoes. “Why this man’s a gentleman!” she thought. “At least he looks like one—and yet—you can tell from his face he’d have as little mercy as a steel trap for anyone he had to—catch—” She shuddered uncontrollably.

  “Dale, dear,” said Miss Cornelia with triumph in her voice. “This is Mr. Anderson.”

  The newcomer bowed politely, glancing at her casually and then looking away. Miss Cornelia, however, was obviously in fine feather and relishing to the utmost the presence of a real detective in the house.

  “This is the room I spoke of,” she said briskly. “All the disturbances have taken place around that terrace door.”

  The detective took three swift steps into the alcove, glanced about it searchingly. He indicated the stairs.

  “That is not the main staircase?”

  “No, the main staircase is out there,” Miss Cornelia waved her hand in the direction of the hall.

  The detective came out of the alcove and paused by the French windows.

  “I think there must be a conspiracy between the Architects’ Association and the Housebreakers’ Union these days,” he said grimly. “Look at all that glass. All a burglar needs is a piece of putty and a diamond-cutter to break in.”

  “But the curious thing is,” continued Miss Cornelia, “that whoever got into the house evidently had a key to that door.” Again she indicated the terrace door, but Anderson did not seem to be listening to her.

  “Hello—what’s this?” he said sharply, his eye lighting on the broken glass below the shattered French window. He picked up a piece of glass and examined it.

  Dale cleared her throat. “It was broken from the outside a few minutes ago,” she said.

  “The outside?” Instantly the detective had pulled aside a blind and was staring out into the darkness.

  “Yes. And then that letter was thrown in.” She pointed to the threatening missive on the center table.

  Anderson picked it up, glanced through it, laid it down. All his movements were quick and sure—each executed with the minimum expense of effort.

  “H’m,” he said in a calm voice that held a glint of humor. “Curious, the anonymous letter complex! Apparently someone considers you an undesirable tenant!”

  Miss Cornelia took up the tale.

  “There are some things I haven’t told you yet,” she said. “This house belonged to the late Courtleigh Fleming.” He glanced at her sharply.

  “The Union Bank?”

  “Yes. I rented it for the summer and moved in last Monday. We have not had a really quiet night since I came. The very first night I saw a man with an electric flashlight making his way through the shrubbery!”

  “You poor dear!” from Dale sympathetically. “And you were here alone!”

  “Well, I had Lizzie. And,” said Miss Cornelia with enormous importance, opening the drawer of the center table, “I had my revolver. I know so little about these things, Mr. Anderson, that if I didn’t hit a burglar, I knew I’d hit somebody or something!” and she gazed with innocent awe directly down the muzzle of her beloved weapon, then waved it with an airy gesture beneath the detective’s nose.

  Anderson gave an involuntary start, then his eyes lit up with grim mirth.

  “Would you mind putting that away?” he said suavely. “I like to get in the papers as much as anybody, but I don’t want to have them say—omit flowers.”

  Miss Cornelia gave him a glare of offended pride, but he endured it with such quiet equanimity that she merely replaced the revolver in the drawer, with a hurt expression, and waited for him to open the next topic of conversation.

  He finished his preliminary survey of the room and returned to her.

  “Now you say you don’t think anybody has got upstairs yet?” he queried.

  Miss Cornelia regarded the alcove stairs.

  “I think not. I’m a very light sleeper, especially since the papers have been so full of the exploits of this criminal they call the Bat. He’s in them again tonight.” She nodded toward the evening paper.

  The detective smiled faintly.

  “Yes, he’s contrived to surround himself with such an air of mystery that it verges on the supernatural—or seems that way to newspapermen.”

  “I confess,” admitted Miss Cornelia, “I’ve thought of him in this connection.” She looked at Anderson to see how he would take the suggestion but the latter merely smiled again, this time more broadly.

  “That’s going rather a long way for a theory,” he said. “And the Bat is not in the habit of giving warnings.”

  “Nevertheless,” she insisted, “somebody has been trying to get into this house, night after night.”

  Anderson seemed to be revolving a theory in his mind.

  “Any liquor stored here?” he asked.

  Miss Cornelia nodded. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  Miss Cornelia beamed at him maliciously. “Eleven bottles of home-made elderberry wine.”

  “You’re safe.” The detective smiled ruefully. He picked up the evening paper, glanced at it, shook his head. “I’d forget the Bat in all this. You can always tell when the Bat has had anything to do with a crime. When he’s through, he signs his name to it.”

  Miss Cornelia sat bolt upright. “His name? I thought nobody knew his name?”

  The detective made a little gesture of apology. “That was a figure of speech. The newspapers named him the Bat because he moved with incredible rapidity, always at night, and by signing his name I mean he leaves the symbol of his identity—the Bat, which can see in the dark.”

  “I wish I could,” said Miss
Cornelia, striving to seem unimpressed. “These country lights are always going out.”

  Anderson’s face grew stern. “Sometimes he draws the outline of a bat at the scene of the crime. Once, in some way, he got hold of a real bat, and nailed it to the wall.”

  Dale, listening, could not repress a shudder at the gruesome picture—and Miss Cornelia’s hands gave an involuntary twitch as her knitting needles clicked together. Anderson seemed by no means unconscious of the effect he had created.

  “How many people in this house, Miss Van Gorder?”

  “My niece and myself.” Miss Cornelia indicated Dale, who had picked up her wrap and was starting to leave the room. “Lizzie Allen—who has been my personal maid ever since I was a child—the Japanese butler, and the gardener. The cook and the housemaid left this morning—frightened away.”

  She smiled as she finished her description. Dale reached the door and passed slowly out into the hall. The detective gave her a single, sharp glance as she made her exit. He seemed to think over the factors Miss Cornelia had mentioned.

  “Well,” he said, after a slight pause, “you can have a good night’s sleep tonight. I’ll stay right here in the dark and watch.”

  “Would you like some coffee to keep you awake?”

  Anderson nodded. “Thank you.” His voice sank lower. “Do the servants know who I am?”

  “Only Lizzie, my maid.”

  His eyes fixed hers. “I wouldn’t tell anyone I’m remaining up all night,” he said.

  A formless fear rose in Miss Cornelia’s mind. “You don’t suspect my household?” she said in a low voice.

  He spoke with emphasis—all the more pronounced because of the quietude of his tone.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” he said determinedly.

  Chapter Seven - Cross-Questions and Crooked Answers

  *

  All unconscious of the slur just cast upon her forty years of single-minded devotion to the Van Gorder family, Lizzie chose that particular moment to open the door and make a little bob at her mistress and the detective.

  “The gentleman’s room is ready,” she said meekly. In her mind she was already beseeching her patron saint that she would not have to show the gentleman to his room. Her ideas of detectives were entirely drawn from sensational magazines and her private opinion was that Anderson might have anything in his pocket from a set of terrifying false whiskers to a bomb!