Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“If he’s such a big-shot international entrenooper,” she demanded, “how come he’s only got two measly suitcases? Wouldn’t an entrenooper at least have a couple of trunks, Midnight?”

“Meow” (you’d think so), responded Midnight sleepily.

“And he’s in for one hell of a surprise?”

“Meow (surprise)?”

“The trust fund, the money. It was in the paper when the mister’s will was probated. She can’t touch the family fortune. Sure, she has a damn nice income but it all goes out, over half to the charities. They’d go broke without her.

“On it went. Once that four-flusher finds out about the trust fund, sees he’s up the creek without a paddle, he’ll skedaddle. And that’ll break her heart; the woman is nuts about that rat.”

Clara finally wound down, Midnight went to sleep, purring quietly as cats are wont to do.

The wedding story in the paper caused quite a stir; no wonder. Mr. Gregory was an international entrepreneur, currently engaged in delicate negotiations involving Singapore real estate. “As soon as the deal is completed, the couple will embark on a honeymoon in Spain, after which they will live in New York City” (“Putting you and me out in the cold,” Clara told Midnight bitterly) “so Mr. Gregory can remain in close contact with his Wall Street bankers.” Actually, Tony’s bankers operated seven blocks north, four blocks west of Wall Street, the financial headquarters of Heillman & Sons, Pawnbrokers.

There was a lot more to the story. It sounded just a little too good to many of Bunny’s friends. Had the dear innocent fallen for a fortune hunter? In the same issue of the paper a shorter story told of Dr. Thomas Larkin, renowned Pittsburgh surgeon whose specialty had been otolaryngology (disorders of the ear, nose, throat). Dr. Larkin had retired following the death of his wife, had bought a house in the mountains east of town, planned “to take life easy, read a lot, and, if needed, do volunteer work at the library and the humane society.”

Needed; both the library and the humane society were on the phone to him while the ink was still drying on the paper. And when Thelma Thompson, the real estate agent, described him to her associates as “a tall, slender, handsome man with all of his hair and a sad, sweet smile — he missed his wife” word spread, and a mere two days after the story appeared, two widows each in their late sixties, fortified with new hairdos, hurried to the library to volunteer their services while two other widows (the town, alas, is thronged with widows), equally as fortified, raced one another to the humane society.

Out in Las Vegas, June 1994 having arrived with no word from Tony Gregory, the manager of the casino (MBA, Princeton ’77) that held Tony’s markers, sought out Big Mo, told him that the casino had not heard from Tony since the night he gave the markers. “And we both know, Mo,” said the manager, “that if Tony fails to redeem them, even though the amount is relatively insignificant, we have no recourse but to institute legal proceedings, which would be a blot on the escutcheon of the entire gaming industry. If you know where Tony is, I suggest you remind him we intend to collect.”

Mo was no dumbbell (a high school graduate, C-minus), but he wouldn’t have known an escutcheon from an Estonian. It didn’t matter, he got the drift. He said that he had no idea where Tony was but would try to locate him.

Mo got the fellows together; himself, Vince, Slim, six other premiums. No one had heard from Tony. “Why not hire a P.I.?” Vince said. “We can split the costs.” A good idea, everyone agreed. That was the very day Tony met Bunny on his good Samaritan flight to Pittsburgh.

“Tony Gregory, huh?” said the P.I., an old hand, “I’ll find him.” And he did.

Clara, in a foul mood having read the story of the wedding in the morning paper (International entrenooper... what a crock. If that con man’s an international entrenooper, I’m the Queen of Sheba.) was halfheartedly dusting “the poor dead mister’s precious books” when the phone rang. She pounced oil it, hoping it was another sugary-voiced female marketer. (I’ll straighten her out in a hurry.)

“Hello,” she snarled.

“My, sister, you’re in a good mood,” said a gruff male voice, “Take it easy. I’m not selling anything. All I want to know is, is there a fellow named Tony Gregory there?”

Clara felt a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, ah, I mean... he is and he isn’t. Now, hold your horses, gimme a chance. He’s on his... I mean he’s out of town, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Is... is there a message?”

“There’s a message all right. You got a pencil?”

Clara picked up a pencil. Her hand shaking, she held it over a notepad. “Go ahead.”

“Tell Tony to call Big Mo in Vegas the minute he gets back. It’s important. Here’s the number.”

After giving the number the caller said, “Now read it back.” Which Clara did, her voice quivering.