Mr. Smith lifted his eyes wildly to heaven, and as if in answer to his plea a knock sounded on the front door.
Mr. Smith started to get up but the inspector waved him back. “I’ll go, Mr. Smith. Might be the murderer, you know, ha ha.”
Mr. Smith smiled feebly and the inspector went out. A minute later he came back, followed by the tallest man Mr. Smith had ever seen.
“Mr. Smith, I’d like you to meet Dr. Prye. Dr. Prye is practically a neighbor of yours back home. He comes from Detroit. I feel his assistance in this case will be invaluable.”
Prye grinned and held out his hand. Smith, after staring at it glumly for a moment, shook hands and told him to sit down.
The inspector regarded them fondly. “Mr. Smith was just about to tell me why he never married. Go right on, Mr. Smith.”
“I think,” Smith said, “that I’ve done all the talking I want to do right now.”
“What Mr. Smith needs,” Prye said, “is a drink.”
The inspector frowned. “I don’t approve of alcoholic beverages. Still, if they’re to be used medicinally— Yes, I think that if you took Mr. Smith over to your cottage, Dr. Prye, and gave him a drink, he would feel much better. You do look a bit peaked, Mr. Smith.”
“Quite peaked,” Prye added.
Smith took off his glasses and went over to the mirror. “I think you’re both a little crazy. I look the same as I always do.”
Prye took him gently by the arm and led him to the door. “It pays to be on the safe side.”
While Dr. Prye’s brandy was exploring the interior of Mr. Smith, Inspector White was exploring the interior of Mr. Smith’s cottage.
Only two interesting things came to light. The first was the large heap of charred paper in the fireplace; the second was a book. It had been wedged behind a writing desk against the wall and had obviously been overlooked in Smith’s hasty departure. The inspector turned it over in his hand thoughtfully and wondered why Mr. Smith should be interested in the civil statutes of the State of Michigan.
“I’m being a cad,” Prye told Smith. “I’m plying you with liquor to make you talk.”
Mr. Smith laughed boisterously at this. “Make me talk. That’s a good one. Brandy never affects me at all. Some people get awfully talkative on a couple of drinks of brandy, but it takes more than a couple of drinks of brandy to make me talkative.”
“I can see that,” Prye said. “It takes three.”
“The funny part is that even if I did get talkative, I wouldn’t have anything to talk about. Anything worth talking about, I mean. Anyone can talk, but talk and say something, that’s a different thing.” He leaned forward with an elaborately confidential air. “I don’t trust him, my good doctor.”
“You don’t trust whom?”
“Sure,” Mr. Smith said.
Prye nodded sadly. “Perhaps you’d like me to put you to bed, Mr. Smith?”
“My good doctor, I couldn’t think of it. Let me put you to bed.”
“All right. Just lie down on the chesterfield while I put out the cat. On it, Mr. Smith, not under it.”
Mr. Smith stretched out happily on the chesterfield. He murmured something about brandy and closed his eyes. Prye removed his spectacles from his nose and put them on the mantel. Then he pulled down the blinds and went to find Inspector White.
“Nice guest you gave me,” Prye said. “He passed out.”
“Good, good,” the inspector said heartily. “That is, I don’t like the idea of his being intoxicated but I think it’s better all-round that he is. I’ve been searching.”
He pointed out the burned paper in the fireplace and handed Prye the book he had found. “Funny book to have, eh?” he said.
Prye opened it. “Not if he’s a lawyer practicing in Michigan. Smith’s his right name apparently, John Wayne Smith.” Prye laid the book back on the table. “It should be easy to find out if he’s a lawyer. I’d like to look over that charred paper. Any objections?”
The inspector shook his head, and Prye knelt down and poked in the fireplace.
“Too far gone. Even a lab man couldn’t make anything of it. Find any letters?”
There was a slight movement from the hall and both men turned their heads toward the door.
“So,” said the dry voice of Mr. John Wayne Smith. “I believe this constitutes illegal entry. I shall take the greatest of pleasure in laying a charge against both of you.”
Chapter Nine
It was, Jennie reported later, exactly a quarter past six that the Littles’ telephone rang two long and two short and Mr. Little crossed the sitting room and answered it.
“I want to speak to Mr. Little,” a woman’s voice said.
Ordinarily a mysterious female voice on the telephone would interest Tom but tonight he answered listlessly, “Tom Little speaking.”
“Are you alone, Mr. Little?”
“No. Who is this?”
“This is Harriet Alfonse, Mr. Little. I believe we have something to discuss. Would nine o’clock at Mr. Smith’s pier suit you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said shortly.
“I can’t explain over a telephone. I’ll see you at nine o’clock then.” Miss Alfonse hung up. Tom replaced the receiver and went slowly upstairs.
“Who was that, dear?” Mary called out from her bedroom.
“Just the doctor,” Tom said. “He wanted to know if you were feeling better and I told him you were.”
Mary was supported by several pillows. Her color was more natural and her hair was neatly plaited.
“I don’t feel much better, dear,” she said gently.
Tom sat down in a chair by the window and looked out over the lake.
“Tom dear, you don’t have to worry. Jennie has already told me.”
Tom’s head jerked toward her. “Told you what?”
“About the Frost girl. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I feel it’s all for the best.” Mary had a comfortable philosophy. Things were always for the best.
“Did you see her, Tom?”
Tom was staring out of the window again. He was not seeing the lake or the sun about to drown itself, but a tall yellow-haired girl in a yellow bathing suit. She was standing on the end of a diving board. Then she dived, and the water closed over her head and she didn’t come up.
Tom shut his eyes. “No, I didn’t see her. They took her away in an ambulance.”
“She must have looked terrible with part of her head missing. Did you know part of her head was gone, Tom?”
Tom gazed at her. There was no expression in his eyes.
“Sometimes I think you’re a bitch,” he said.
She began to cry, and the tears roiled down her cheeks aimlessly, like pebbles down two pale hills.
Miss Alfonse, on the other hand, was happier than she had been for twenty-four hours. She put down the telephone and sat back in her chair in the library. She was quite safe, after all. She, too, stared out over the lake. She saw a huge white house with a Cadillac waiting at the front door, and coming down the steps was Miss Alfonse herself swathed in mink from head to foot.
The door of the library opened and Ralph Bonner came in. He didn’t see her until he had picked up the telephone, and then he laid it down with a thud.
“Oh, sorry.” He turned to go out.
“Don’t be sorry,” Miss Alfonse said archly.
“No? All right. I was just going to — to call the cleaners. White flannels, you know.” He sat down on the edge of a chair, tugging at his collar.
“Mr. Bonner — Ralph,” Alfonse began, “I have something to confess to you.”