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

“Okay, have a nice day,” said the caller as he hung up. Clara put the phone down gently, walked slowly across the room, collapsed on a sofa, her heart racing.

Big Mo from Vegas, Big Mo from Vegas, Big Mo from Vegas; she kept repeating the ominous words. He sounded exactly like Edward G. Robinson in one of those gangster movies. And it could mean only one thing. That lowdown four-flusher Mr. Tony Gregory was nothing but a rotten gambler and he was in hock to a Las Vegas syndicate and he sweet-talked the poor simple-minded missus into marrying him so he could swindle her out of the money he needed to pay off the syndicate. Now what, she groaned? He’s in big trouble. You don’t fool with the syndicate. You pay up or it’s in the drink. (Clara was living in the lawless past. Tony was in no danger of losing his precious life; all he could lose was his treasured good name, be ostracized, blacklisted, held in contempt by his fellow gamblers.)

As the two maids went about their duties upstairs in their exemplary fashion, Clara tried to calm down, to think what she had to do. Is that rat going to vamoose, skedaddle, leaving the poor missus with a broken heart once he finds out he can’t touch the trust fund? No sir, lover boy’s in big trouble; he’ll try to figure some way of getting the money from her.

Then (oh my God) she thought of it, the life insurance. Clara would have bristled were she accused of eavesdropping, but could she help it if every now and then she’d happened to be outside the den when Bunny and Harold were discussing important matters?

On one such occasion she had overheard them discussing life insurance and was impressed by something the good mister said. “Yes, each of our policies is for two hundred fifty thousand.” Why shouldn’t she be impressed? — her own policy, taken out in 1979, was for one thousand dollars. (“Enough to bury me,” she’d said at the time.)

“I clean forgot about the life insurance,” she moaned. “That poor innocent woman, she’s in terrible danger. He’s gonna murder her for the insurance. It happens every day, the papers are full of it (Clara was unaware that following Harold’s death, Bunny — since she had no living relatives — had made the county humane society the beneficiary).

“That’s it, that’s it,” she wafted. “I’ll bet he’s already found out he can’t touch the trust fund. That leaves the life insurance, him being the natural normal beneficiary. This is awful, I gotta warn her before he pushes her out of a window.”

She jumped up, ran to the telephone stand, picked up the phone book, fumbled through the pages, finally found the number to The Lookout. Frantic now, she dialed. But she hung up before anyone could answer.

What am I gonna tell her? Oh, Mrs. Gregory (I’ll never get used to calling her that), that snake in the grass what hypnotized you into marrying him is gonna murder you? He’s nothing but a rotten gambler, and he’s in hock to a Las Vegas syndicate. You know what that means. You’re in awful, awful danger.

No good, she moaned. She’d think I’d lost my marbles. Her dear, wonderful Tony, the international entrenooper a gambler? Why, that’s absurd. Where did you hear such a ridiculous story, Clara? Are you sure you’re not jealous of me for marrying such a divine man?

“Jealous,” she snorted. “I’d rather marry Rasputin. Wait a minute. I’ve got it. I’ll wait until they get back this afternoon. As soon as they come in I’ll say, real casual-like, ‘Oh, Mr. Gregory, Big Mo called from Vegas. He seemed real upset. He said for you to call him the minute you come in.’ Now we’ll see how that four-flusher wiggles out of that. It oughtta kill his goose with her. Sure, it’ll break her heart when he has to hit the road, but a broken heart’s better than being six feet under.”

How had things gone in the honeymoon suite in the starry mountains? Heavenly, just heavenly, out of this world. For Tony — a rank neophyte in bird lore (he knew a pigeon from a chicken, a sparrow from a crow, that was about it) brought to the bridal chamber a seasoned cornucopia of the kind of techniques that dear stick-in-the-mud Harold had read about in his old books but would never have thought of suggesting to Bunny. What would she think of him; brand him a satyr, a fiend? Ah, how little we know.

The newlyweds arrived back at the LaFayette Terrace mansion at four thirty. Clara was on her own. Midnight, a conscientious workman, hadn’t finished his afternoon circuit of the large house.

Determined to unmask the four-flusher, Clara flung the door open, felt a sickening feeling. God help me, she moaned, seeing the stars in Bunny’s eyes, the way she clung to that rotten rat’s arm. That poor woman; she’s bewitched by that rotten Swine Gali. (Dear Clara; she meant Svengali. Away back she had seen the movie Trilby, where vile Svengali hypnotized poor Trilby. It had made a lasting impression.) God knows what awful stuff went on up there in the mountains.