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

Holding his head, he collapsed into a lounge chair, spent the remainder of the night sunk in deep despair, time after time moaning, “What the hell am I gonna do?”

As a gorgeous sun rose over Hillsdale he crawled back into bed. By then, cringing and squirming, he had bowed to the inevitable. Unless he wanted to become a despised outcast, have the family name dragged in the gutter, be forced to abandon the only life he had known for the past twenty years, the only life he loved, he was going to have to commit murder, a heartrending realization for someone who was not only a sentimental person, but one who had gone to parochial schools, who had been an altar boy until he was sixteen years old, whose sainted mother had prayed that he would become a priest.

An accident the only solution. He would have to “take care” of Bunny (just thinking of the word “murder” tied him in knots) in such a way that she wouldn’t suffer. But how? That was the two hundred fifty thousand dollar question.

Next morning, after a fine breakfast served by a pursed-lipped Clara, Tony, acute misery hiding under a spurious ebullience, said he might go to Pittsburgh that day.

“My New York bankers have a connection with a Pittsburgh bank,” he said, “and I think it’d pay me to visit them, see if they can’t push New York along on the Singapore deal. And...” here he stopped, then went on in an offhand manner, “I think I’ll turn in the car, take a taxi back. Would you mind if we used your car from now on?”

He waited, barely breathing. Would she find that just a little curious? Why would a rich international entrepreneur seem worried about the continuing costs of a rental car? (Because he was running out of money, that’s why.) But he needn’t have worried. Bunny was in seventh heaven, out of this world; a rented car meant nothing.

“Why that’s a splendid idea, darling,” she responded exuberantly, looking at him with adoring eyes, “Now that we’re married, we don’t need two cars. But hurry back, darling, I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Bunny,” Tony said as he stood up, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek. Clara, lurking just outside of the dining room, took it all in, fuming inwardly.

“When is that woman gonna wake up? Can’t she see what he is? He can’t even afford a rental car? I have to do something; come right out, spill the beans.”

But after putting the dishes in the dishwasher, she backed down. She needed indisputable proof, something the rotten rat couldn’t wiggle out of. “It has to be foolproof,” she told herself dismally. “She’s so crazy about him, nothing short of his coming after her with a butcher knife is gonna bring her to her senses. Please, God, don’t let it come to that.”

Tony pulled into the rental car agency in Pittsburgh around eleven. After he paid the bill, he was left with cash on hand of two hundred seventy-six dollars and the expensive watch.

Sick at heart, he looked in a phone book at the car agency, seeking a financial institution comparable to the esteemed Heillman & Sons. He picked The Old Reliable Pawnbrokers, estab. 1907. He checked the book again, jotted down the address of a national insurance company office, stopped at a drugstore, bought a city map, walked the six blocks to the pawnbrokers’ sinking deeper into despair with every step. Ten minutes later he reached the absolute abysmal depths, pretty close to the end of the line.

“What,” he roared, “one lousy grand? Quit kidding me. That watch cost me four thousand. I could get twenty-five hundred minimum in New York.”

“This is Pittsburgh,” said the gray-haired pawnbroker, a wisp of a smile sneaking across his face. “We’re cheapskates. Take it or leave it.”

Tony took it, mad as hell. They sure lack a fellow when he’s down, he moaned as he left. Am I ever gonna get another break? Has my luck run out for the rest of my life?

Not yet. He got a huge break (Lady Luck suddenly remembering the good times?) a few minutes later, but it would be several days before it dawned on him that he now had the perfect weapon for the perfect crime. He came to an intersection, turned left instead of right. That made all the difference. Had he gone right as he had planned, having previously located the insurance company’s location via the map, he wouldn’t have encountered the toy store and “A Narrow Squeak” would have turned out differently. How differently? We’ll never know. All we know is what actually happened.

Still mad at the pawnbroker, he had gone three blocks in the wrong direction before he realized it. He was about to turn back when he saw a crowd about thirty feet ahead, gathered outside a store window. Curious, he joined the onlookers.

The sign on the store window proclaimed TOYS FOR ALL AGES. Inside, another sign announced the arrival of the latest marvel: