The Black Eye

by Constance Little

  "I returned from Binghamton shortly after you did and went through the Emerson apartment to the balcony. Mrs. Davis had gone in there instead of going home, and she attached herself to me. And now tell me how you found that Binghamton address."

  "I agree with Lucy," I said admiringly. "I think you're wonderful. Only you don't seem to search very well. The telephone number was written on the cover of a magazine in the telephone closet—for all to see."

  Egbert closed his eyes for a moment and murmured, "Mac!" He opened them again and shook his head. "Manpower shortage," he muttered, and added, "He's consistent, anyway—made a clean sweep. Missed Mr. Fredon in the bin, the magazine in the telephone closet, and the eye in the drawer. Due for a promotion."

  "Why," Lucy cooed, "that shows that you're even smarter than I thought— having to solve the thing with such bungling assistance. What ever made you suspect Mary?'"

  Egbert stood up a little straighter and smoothed his hair back into place.

  "It was when she said she didn't know whether any of her husband's clothes were missing. She wasn't the type not to know every stitch belonging to Mr. Fredon, so then I investigated the possibility of her ever having had any morphine and found she had—plenty—in tablet form, which her husband had obtained for some of his amateur experiments. Then I confronted Mrs. Davis, who I knew had been here that Sunday, and found out about the fudge. After that I had only to find the motive."

  He bowed to Lucy, glared at Ken and me, and took himself off.

  Lucy sighed. "I was so scared about having been here that Sunday I kept it a dead secret, but that Egbert's long nose found out about it. Oh well," she finished up brightly, "no sense sitting around here glooming. Where shall we spend the rest of our vacation?"

  Ken and I looked at her, while she tapped at her teeth with a brilliant fingernail.

  "Oh, I know. Why not? We'll go to my apartment."

  "Lucy," I said patiently, "your apartment has one room."

  "No—not exactly. I have one room, and then the kitchen. There isn't a reason in the world why Ken can't sleep in the kitchen."

  I started to laugh, but Ken turned around with sudden energy.

  "Certainly I can sleep in the kitchen. Come on, girls." He took each of us by an arm and pushed us toward the bedroom we'd been sharing.

  "Pack your gear," he said, "and don't waste time over it—and don't forget your makeup, either. I'm the type that likes to be fooled. I was nearly fooled into cutting my furlough short to visit with a blonde near camp. But you dames will do as well, if not better."

  The End