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

Clara kept going, her grim, dire theme being that there was murder afoot. “You and me, Midnight,” she finally concluded, “are gonna keep our eyes on that rotten rat every second of the day. It’s up to us to keep that good, kindhearted — yeah, simpleminded — woman alive. Right?”

“Meow (you can count on me).” And when it came to crunch time, old Midnight came through with flying colors, almost losing the last of his allotted nine lives. It was a narrow squeak.

Now to the huge master bedroom on the second floor, around one thirty A.M., soft music wafting from an all-night radio station. Once again — more than once — Bunny had soared to heights far beyond anything ever attained by the Lapland Larkspur. (“A high flyer, soars far above the clouds.”)

Not totally exhausted but close, Tony — galvanized by the ominous words from Big Mo — changed the timetable. He couldn’t wait two weeks, even ten days; his good name was already being tarnished.

In a tender, husky, sexy voice — the same one that had caused women much more worldly than Bunny to rush to their checkbooks — Tony bewailed poor Uncle Mike’s distressing predicament. He’d phoned Big Mo, was shocked to learn that Uncle Mike had given markers totaling two hundred fifty thousand (the extra thirty thousand was to cover the interest, give him a stake to start anew).

He felt rotten, embarrassed as hell, to have to ask Bunny to lend him the money. “Just until the Singapore deal goes through, of course.” Uncle Mike had no one else to turn to, and Tony hated to see the family name smeared.

In “The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” Aesop — another of those sage fellows; he flourished around 550 B.C. — wrote: “Appearances are deceiving.” The old boy would have chortled in patriarchal glee had he been around to see the delicious juxtaposition of his time-honored adage as Tony, the wolf, heard the horrifying news from Bunny, the pauper.

Calling Bunny a pauper was stretching it a bit, but as far as stunned Tony was concerned, she might as well have been on food stamps. Cuddled up to her divine Prince Charming, her pretty pink nightie in delightful dishabille, Bunny drifted between paradise and the bedroom as she answered Tony’s increasingly anguished questions in a sleepy, cooing voice.

Two... hundred... and... fifty... thousand... dollars? Why, Uncle Mike ought to be ashamed of himself. But while she thought it commendable on Tony’s part to rescue a ne’er-do-well relative from the clutches of the gambling vice, she couldn’t possibly help. Yes, she had a fine income (“Harold left me very well off”) but she was obligated to many charities and maybe she was a little extravagant also, but the money was gone at year’s end.

“But... but... but...” whimpered poor Tony, “what about the Ainsworth coal fortune?”

“Oh, well... it’s in a trust fund. Can’t be touched.”

“Oh my God,” wailed Tony. He didn’t quit, he couldn’t. Couldn’t she (“Just for a month or two, honeybunch, until the Singapore deal goes through?”) mortgage the house?

Unfortunately, she didn’t own the house. It was deeded to the county historical society, would go to it at her death.

Shaken to the core, Tony threw caution to the wind. Poor Uncle Mike was in a terrible state. Tony was afraid he might “take the bridge.” He hated to ask, but could she borrow on her life insurance policy (he desperately hoped she had a big policy).

“Just for a few weeks, honey-bunch.”

About there a reasonably intelligent woman would have heard a bell go bing-bong. Loudly, too. But if the bell tolled for Bunny, she didn’t hear it. Clara Hogan had it right; Bunny was bewitched by that “rotten Swine Gali.” But give the enraptured woman the benefit of the doubt; she wasn’t the first woman to be bewitched by magical Tony.

“Life... insurance...” Bunny murmured in a sleepy voice. Yes, she had a nice policy but the beneficiary was the county humane society since she had no living relatives. She would feel “a little queasy asking the society to allow her to borrow on the policy.”

“Besides, darling,” she murmured — Tony had to lean close to hear, “I’m sure that if you tell the casino you’ll pay Uncle Mike’s debt as soon as the Singapore deal goes through, they’ll agree. And, darling... do... you think that when the deal is finalized... oh, I hate to ask.”

“Go ahead, ask,” groaned Tony, hardly believing what he was hearing.

“Well...” Bunny’s voice was fading, sleep beckoned, “we are... about one hundred fifty thousand dollars short in the fund to buy land and build a more modem humane society building. I would be... be so proud... if when the Singapore deal is... done... if you make up the difference... in...” That was all. She had fallen asleep.

And that was all for Tony Gregory, shrewd, charming, experienced wooer of rich widows. He had rolled snake eyes. Moaning piteously, he uncuddled Bunny, crawled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom, gulped down two aspirins, a throbbing headache having suddenly hit him.