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

“Mus Musculous Facsimulus Korea, a remote-controlled mouse, an amazing clone of the real thing. Does everything a mouse does, even to the squeak. Can be controlled from as far away as a hundred yards. Scare the daylights out of your wife or sweetheart, a barrel of fun, only $42.95.”

And the incredible brown creature did act like a real mouse. It raced around a large obstacle course inside the store, adroitly dodging plants, plastic rocks, other obstructions. It turned left, stopped, turned right, whirled one hundred eighty degrees, meantime squeaking exactly like an American mouse, no Korean accent (the squeaks were sent outside via a speaker). There was no evidence as to who was manipulating the little brown devil.

I’ll be damned, thought Tony as he was about to leave, what’ll they think of next. Then he heard a woman say, “Ugh, that thing gives me the creeps. If my husband ever pulled that on me, I’d poison him.”

“Me, too, Marge,” said her companion. “I’m scared to death of mice. Let’s get out of here.”

Women, thought Tony, no wonder they’re called the weaker sex. By the time he reached the insurance office the incident had faded; he had more serious matters to think about.

There are many types of accident insurance policies and filling out a short form is about all that’s required. Policies can be purchased for various amounts, to cover many types of accidents, including accidents involving death. Tony took out separate policies on himself and Bunny, each for a quarter million dollars for accidental death, the cost a total of eighty-five dollars for two months. Taking out the policy on himself was about the only thing he had thought of to help divert suspicion from himself when and if the horrible deed was done. (“As if that’ll help,” he moaned to himself as he left the insurance agency. “Hell, unless I’m twenty miles away when — geez, this is awful, awful.”)

Feeling rotten, he walked around downtown until he found an expensive restaurant in a hotel, had a thirty-five dollar lunch, got indigestion, although it might have been the first indication of conscience pangs. For he had never, never thought of murdering anyone. Now here he was plotting to murder a fine, decent, kindhearted human being. It was tearing him apart. And for more than one reason, for to his amazement he had fallen under Bunny’s sweet, innocent, deliriously happy spell. Incredibly, the bewitcher was not doing the bewitching. Svengali would have been crushed, Clara Hogan dumbfounded.

What the hell’s come over me, he moaned as he walked toward a taxi stand, surreptitiously holding his aching stomach? Here I am falling for a fifty-two-year-old woman (he had seen her age on the marriage certificate) who dyes her hair, who’s damn well educated but who’s got about as much common sense as a ten-year-old kid, who seems to think most people want to do what’s right.

Yeah, she’s a goodlooker for her age — damned goodlooking — dresses well, is a real lady, but I’ve had plenty like her, and younger ones. It’s just gotta be that I’ve never come across anyone like her, a grown woman who worries more about other people than herself, who spends half her time writing checks for needy causes and going to meetings trying to raise money for things like a new dog pound or a new roof on the library.

Listen to me. I gotta stop this kind of thinking. I’m smack behind the eight ball. What the hell will I do for the rest of my life if I can’t pay off the markers? I’m hooked on gambling, there’s no two ways about it.

It’s a thirty-five mile trip from downtown Pittsburgh to Hillsdale, and after some to and fro discussion a price was agreed upon. Tony sat up front with the cabbie — a thick, balding fellow of fifty or so — and had to listen to a mournful monologue about how tough times were since the steel and coal industries were done. A fellow had a tough time feeding his family. Most days it was hardly worthwhile showing up for work. And a trip out “to the sticks” was no bargain. He’d come back empty.

By the time they reached the LaFayette Terrace mansion Tony felt so sorry for the poor cabbie that he tipped him twenty dollars. Then, on an impulse (it was probably his conscience again, although his stomach still hurt like hell) he thrust another twenty at the cabbie.

“Thanks, sir,” the cabbie said jubilantly. “I knew you was first class. I said to myself when you got in, there’s a bigtime high roller. You’re a good man, sir, a good man.”