"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.
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