Prye shook his head. “She left of her own accord, probably to go to a prearranged meeting place.”
“Why?” Jakes asked. “With whom?”
Prye shrugged. “Anyone. Any reason. A murderer would be a fool to kill her in her own room with her father and the maid close by. Besides, I have a theory. Want to hear it?”
“Theories aren’t much good.”
“Mine always are,” Prye said modestly. “I think I stumbled accidentally on the meeting between Joan and her murderer. Suppose Joan hadn’t arrived yet, and the murderer was preparing his weapon, putting stones into the bag. Naturally I’d be in the way when the time came, so the weapon was given a kind of preliminary tryout on me. Perhaps it wasn’t quite ready, wasn’t heavy enough, and that’s why I wasn’t killed.”
“Sounds all right,” Jakes admitted without enthusiasm.
Prescott looked up, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “The bag will be examined for bloodstains as a matter of routine, and if there are any bits of skin or hair clinging to it we will know whether it was the instrument used. But we’ll have to send everything to the lab in Toronto and that may take a week at least.”
Prye frowned and said, “That’s too long.”
“No one can run away,” Jakes said.
“No?” Prye related Smith’s disappearance with considerable relish, but Jakes was unimpressed.
“He won’t get far. We have our methods of finding people. He won’t be able to get into the States and if he stays in Canada the Mounties will have him shortly.”
“I thought the Mounties were busy elsewhere in wartime,” Prye said casually.
“Did you?”
Jakes’s voice discouraged further questions but Prye was not easily discouraged. “I suppose they’ll stop him at the border?”
“I wish that ambulance would come,” Jakes said.
“I wonder why criminals always make a dash for the border. It doesn’t even seem to matter what border. Smith, though, will go by Detroit.”
“Will he?” Jakes said.
“Unless he’s very subtle. Then he’ll just stay in Windsor and grow a mustache.”
“He has a mustache. You talk too much, Dr. Prye.”
“Just nerves,” Prye said, and relapsed into silence.
It was true. The discovery of Joan Frost had shaken him considerably. But for a whim or an error on the part of the murderer his legs might be wrapped in an old sugar bag. You couldn’t depend on another whim or error, and the nights in Muskoka were very dark.
“Oh hell,” he said. “They’re not that dark. I don’t think I’ll go home after all.”
“I don’t think you will either,” said Constable Jakes.
The ambulance came, and Joan Frost was placed on a stretcher and covered with a sheet. The stretcher was narrow, and Dr. Prescott sat beside her so she would not roll off. Constable Jakes stayed behind. He had put on a dark blue suit, and his hair had dried and was as bright and unruly as a bonfire.
“What about fingerprints?” Prye asked. “And photographs?”
“I see no necessity for photographs,” Jakes said stiffly, “and no hope of fingerprints.”
“Are you going to question everyone now?” Prye pursued.
“No. I haven’t had my dinner.”
“You mean you’re going to have your dinner first?”
“I am. My sister is cook at Miss Bonner’s home.”
“You understand I’m not hurrying you. I’m just interested in the way Canadian policemen work.”
“You’ll have a very good chance to find out,” Jakes said dryly.
Prye sighed. “Why don’t you have lunch with me? We could talk things over while we eat and save time.”
“You Americans,” Jakes said, and went sadly up the lane.
Miss Emily Bonner saw him coming through her field glasses. She knew why he was coming because she had seen what had been taken out of the water. For a full minute she watched him, and then she heaved herself out of her chair and went to her dressing table. From the folds of a green lace negligee she took a bundle of fifty one-hundred-dollar bills, held together with a rubber band, and pushed it down her bosom. The field glasses were ejected and took up temporary lodging in her right sleeve. No one would ever think of searching a poor old crippled lady.
Constable Jakes was shown up to her room shortly after she had finished her lunch. They had known each other for fifteen years. Miss Bonner frequently assured those interested that Jakes was an old fool. Jakes contented himself with describing Miss Bonner as the biggest liar in Muskoka. Their greetings were not cordial.
Emily said: “Well. What do you want?”
Constable Jakes sat down and ran a cold eye over the room. “Too many fripperies in here, Emily.”
“Did you come here to discuss my house furnishings?”
“No,” Jakes said slowly. “I wanted to ask you if you murdered Joan Frost last night.”
Emily’s head fell back and her left arm dangled over her chair.
“Now, Emily,” Jakes said mildly, “none of this play acting. Don’t pretend to me that you’ve fainted.”
Emily’s head snapped back. “I’m not pretending anything of the sort!” she cried. “Can’t you see you’ve given me a terrible shock? Haven’t you anything better to do than frighten helpless women and children?”
“I never frightened a child in my life,” Jakes shouted, stung.
“I’ll bet you’ve frightened dozens of them. Go away.”
“I just came. You didn’t answer my question.”
“You ask me, me, if I killed a poor young girl in the first bloom of her youth. How was she killed?”
“Hit on the head. I heard she was engaged to Ralph. Is that so?”
“Puppy love. She was only a child, a willful, erring child.”
“That isn’t what you used to call her,” Jakes said firmly. “When did you last see Joan Frost, Emily?”
“I don’t remember,” she replied sadly. “When you get as old as I am, Jakes, you’ll find it isn’t so easy to remember.”
“Maybe so. What were you doing when this spotlight of yours was broken?”
“Lying down. I’d just had a terrible—” She closed her lips tightly.
“I know about that business with Ralph,” Jakes said.
Emily snorted. “That sister of yours! I’ll have to fire her.”
“Go ahead. You were scared Ralph was going to run away with Joan, eh?”
“It was nothing of the sort. Instead of trying to find the murderer you are harrying a poor old woman who’s tied hand and foot to a wheelchair.”
“This Dr. Prye. What about him?”
“Well?”
“Did you know he’d been attacked?”
“No — yes! How should I know? Is he hurt?”
“Not much. Why is he so interested in Joan Frost?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Emily said in a bored voice.
“It had nothing to do with the conversation you had with him yesterday morning?”
“Go away. I feel faint. Get my nurse.”
“Now, Emily,” Jakes said, sighing, “I’m not saying you murdered the girl, but someone did, and you had a motive.”
“If I murdered everyone I disliked, there’d be havoc around here. Havoc.” She glared at him fiercely. “And you’d be in it.”
Constable Jakes got slowly to his feet. “It’s funny you didn’t ask more questions about the murder. Did you know about it before?”
“If you had an ounce of grey matter—”
“Maybe Ralph told you? Ralph was out last night about the right time. He quarreled with the girl yesterday, too.”
“Ralph never quarreled with anyone in his life. You’re being victimized, Jakes, by a pack of unscrupulous liars. Good day to you.”
Constable Jakes went out of the room looking depressed. He had often read of methods of making witnesses tell the truth — rubber hoses and telephone directories. But it would be silly to cut up a perfectly good garden hose on the off-chance, and the Clayton telephone directory could be used lethally on nothing larger than bees.