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

Sunset that evening was even more spectacular than on the previous evening, but it was wasted on Tony. On edge, he kept his eyes riveted on Bunny, ready to grab her if she leaned too hard against the grating. The poor man; everything depended upon his keeping the intended victim alive until he could “take care” of her.

They dined at The Lookout again, the atmosphere festive, the night beautiful, music — loud music — along with exuberant hilarity seeping into the dining room every now and then from the ballroom where a wedding party was in progress. Bunny was again in heaven, Tony far, far below, although he continued to give the impression that he was on top of the world.

There was no festivity in Clara Hogan’s apartment. All evening she had waxed ominously on the way things were going. She was certain that “four-flusher” was up to something.

“I’m a nervous wreck,” she told Midnight. “What if something happened to her and I hadn’t warned her. How would I feel? Well, I’ve had it. First thing tomorrow I’m going to give her Big Mo’s number, beg her to call him, find out what a no-good bum...”

She stopped abruptly. The car had pulled up to the garage behind the house.

“It’s them,” she exclaimed, jumping out of bed in her bare feet, her short pink nightie, “They’re back.” She ran to the couch, which sat under the small screened window (it was always open in summer, the big oak providing shade and a breeze). Midnight took two leaps, landed on the couch, put his two front paws on the window ledge, looked down. Repairs were being made to the garage; the car was being left out.

There wasn’t much to see, the old oak in full bloom, one branch nearly touching the window. But they could listen. They heard Bunny. She seemed very upset.

“I’m still so ashamed,” she was saying, “screaming the way I did. It’s a wonder someone didn’t come running out, thinking I was being murdered.”

“Now, Bunny,” Clara heard Tony say, “I told you it was no big deal. The way that crazy band was playing no one could have heard. Now come on, take my arm, let’s go in.”

That was all. What was that all about, thought Clara as she went back to her bed. Why would she scream? Wait... a... minute. Wait... a... minute, ten to one that rat was up to some shenanigan — maybe trying to shove her off that cliff behind the hotel — and it didn’t work and she didn’t know what he was up to. Well, that’s it.

“That does it, Midnight. I’ve had enough. I’m spilling the beans tomorrow, the chips can fall wherever they fall. I mean it. He’s getting desperate. And I’m gonna throw a sprag in his wheels.”

“Meow (good for you; now let’s get some sleep).”

Once upstairs it didn’t take Tony long to convince Bunny that her hysterics, followed by her confession that she had suffered from musophobia all her life, made no difference to him. He still loved her, and by the time she fell asleep she believed him.

Tony stayed awake, all keyed up. A plan was forming, a complicated plan but it was all he had. He couldn’t stand much more. He had to get back to the tables.

Next morning at breakfast he asked Bunny if she would mind if he borrowed the car, explaining that he needed to consult with the Pittsburgh bankers. Why, of course he could borrow the car. She had a dozen friends eager to take her wherever she needed to go. Which was true, every one of them wanted to learn everything they could about Bunny’s new husband. And Bunny was eager to tell them what a kind, wonderful, gorgeous man he was.

As soon as Tony left, Clara, taking a deep breath (“Here goes nothin’. I’ll probably lose my job, but I can’t wait another minute.”), approached Bunny, who was sitting in the front room looking pensive. Bunny, seeing her, spoke first.

“Oh, Clara, I was going to find you. Sit down, dear. I have... well... have... something to tell you, something of which I’m thoroughly ashamed but I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to you.”

Clara sat down with a thump. “Holy smoke, she’s finally got wise, seen through that four-flusher, is gonna divorce him. Thank God.”

No, no, no; that wasn’t it.

Thwarted again, Clara, in a vile mood, went looking for Midnight. As expected she found him in the basement, fertile mouse territory, always the first area checked each day.

“Wait’ll you hear this,” she snarled. “You’re not gonna believe it. Listen to this.”

Midnight assumed a listening pose.

“It was a mouse caused it. Ha, I knew that’d get you.” (At the mention of “mouse” Midnight’s one and a half ears had perked up.) “Anyway, honest to God this is drivin’ me crazy... after dinner last night they went out to the parking lot behind the restaurant. His Nibs opened the door, was holding it open while she was getting seated, when a mouse, probably a poor scrawny little field mouse, jumped right smack into her lap. She screamed to high hell and back. ‘Oh, Clara,’ she told me, ‘I made an utter fool of myself, shrieking bloody murder. Why no one came running out is... oh, it was awful, so, so humiliating.’ Then, guess what, Midnight?”