Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

“I see,” said Percy. It did make sense now. She was fed up with his always going off and leaving her, so she had plenty of time to pack a bag and take off. “And when you came back she was gone. It must have been a shock.”

“Percy, my friend, it was, and at the same time, it was wonderful. I’d had two glorious days in the bush — not stalking, just communing with nature as they say. Tane had soothed my shattered nerves. I had walked until I was physically exhausted and was filled with that glow of contentment that only such days can produce. Heaven would be a hot tub and a long, cool beer, but I braced myself for an ear-bashing.”

“Which didn’t come.”

“No,” said Dick, “talk about all this and a Seven too — only I don’t smoke, do you?”

“No, gave it up years ago, but I know how you felt. I hate coming home after a day’s fishing and being fussed over and put in a hot bath. But it must have been a shock for all that.”

“Yes and no. She had always threatened to leave home if I went into the bush alone. But of course she never had — before.”

“No. I can understand her being anxious if you do that. Isn’t it one of the first rules...”

“Aw, come off it, old comrade, don’t you start nagging now. I’ve been tramping in the bush since I was a kid.”

“But perhaps she thought you were getting past it.”

“Hey, steady on, how old do you think I am?”

“Sixty-five?”

“Well, I’m not, I’m only seventy-two!”

“Oh well, that’s different.” They had a good laugh over that.

“And I’m still very strong,” Dick said.

“I can see that.” Everything was quite clear to Percy now. Silly old codger didn’t know when it was time to slow down. No mystery now about his wife walking out. It was time to change the subject.

“This coffee is good,” he said.

“Bush style,” said Dick, topping up their mugs. Percy sniffed the coffee, appreciated the aroma, and then some other not so pleasant odor, crept into his nostrils. He lifted his head away from his mug and sniffed the air. Drains, perhaps?

“I say, Dick, you sure you didn’t do for your missus?”

Dick sniffed the air and frowned. He stood up and took a large meat cleaver off the wall, then he came round the counter and, trying hard to conceal his mirth, he suddenly grabbed the startled Percy from his stool and steered him towards the outside door before he could think what was happening.

“You have discovered my secret, so now you are implicated and must help me dispose of the corpse.”

And before the now thoroughly disconcerted Percy could gather his wits, he found himself being hustled down a flight of wooden steps that led down the side of the house and round the corner into the back yard where, to his horror, he saw Mag in her nightgown hanging from a beam that protruded from the wall. He let out a strangled cry and felt his knees buckle.

When he recovered, he found he’d been propped up comfortably against the wall. Summoning all his courage he looked at the “body.” He at once noticed two things about it: it had no head and a small black hoof was protruding below the hem of the nightie. He felt very foolish. What would his new friend think of him? It was obvious now that it was all a big joke and Dick would have been expecting a roar of laughter — not a swooning nincompoop. After all, what murderer would leave his victim hanging up for all to see?

He had just managed to struggle to his feet when Dick came down the stairs with a glass of whisky.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Here, drink this, it’ll put the color back in your cheeks.” And while Percy was gagging on the strong drink, he burst into uncontrollable mirth.

“If only you could have seen yourself.” Tears were running down his cheeks. “I wish it had been Mrs. Drew. She might have died of heart failure!”

“I might have died of heart failure,” protested Percy.

“Never, old man, your heart is too big, but I do apologize. I get carried away with my leg-pulling. Perhaps that’s why I have so few friends. It’s the Irish in me.”

He went on to explain that he had hung up a side of venison to “ripen” and had covered it with one of Mag’s passion-killers to keep the flies off.

“But why the drama with the meat cleaver?”

“No drama. I was going to cut you a joint. You deserve something nice after listening to all my nonsense.”

“Thanks very much,” said Percy, imagining how Pauli would react to the undoubtedly “ripe” meat, “but I mustn’t deprive you.”

“No possibility,” said Dick, who proceeded to unlock and open a heavy door. “Look — plenty more where that came from.”

Percy saw that the door opened into a sizeable cold store. There was a rail across the room from which deer carcasses were hanging, and on the floor at the back a whole heap more. He was about to inquire why they were on the floor when there were so many spare hooks when his eye caught something that gave him such a jolt that Dick couldn’t help noticing it.

“What is it now?”

Percy was in a state of shock. “There’s a foot sticking out... it’s... got... five toes.”