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

He shut the door, went to the bedroom, got a small chair, wedged it securely between the door jambs. It completely covered the cat flap in the bottom of the door. He went back down the hall, pressed START. Off scampered the little brownish-gray creature, squeaking mouselike, tail wagging, everything perfect. It was almost opposite the door opening before Tony pressed STOP. It stopped.

I’ll be damned, Tony thought, it worked. At the same time he was thinking, miserably thinking; what if Mo and the fellows saw me now. They’d swear I’m going batty. And maybe I am.

Batty or not, he had to keep testing. Now let’s see if I can turn the thing around, bring it back. He pressed START, quickly pressed LEFT, then STRAIGHT. The remarkable mouse reacted perfectly, turning one hundred eighty degrees, and came running down the hall to Tony, who stopped it just where he wanted it.

He had intended making test after test, each from farther and farther away. He went down five steps.

But what of Midnight? Midnight heard the squeaks. He bounded down the stairs, hit the cat flap full force, bounced back momentarily stunned. He shook his head. Then (remember — he is one smart cookie) abandoned the cat flap, raced upstairs, leaped onto the couch under the small screened window. He took several deep breaths, tensed his muscles, and launched himself at the screen. It broke loose, he landed on the tree branch outside. He flew down the tree trunk, hit the ground running, raced up the back steps and through the cat flap in the kitchen door.

By then Tony had started the second trial run. It started out okay, the amazing mouse obeying the START, squeaking happily, but directly opposite the door to the balcony, it suddenly went berserk. It stopped abruptly, whirling, faster and faster, a whirling dervish gone amok.

“I knew it, I knew it,” howled Tony as he ran down the hall, frantically pressing STOP to no avail, “It was a nutty idea from the start. What kind of a human being would I be if I ever harmed Bunny? Hell, she’s a saint. Now what? Catch that crazy mouse, then who knows.”

Unfortunately for poor Tony, “who knows” (another life, maybe things would work out, etc.) was not to be. He didn’t catch the mad mouse. He had come close, bent over, weaving back and forth, trying to grab the demented creature, when Midnight came flying down the hall, slammed into the mouse, sent it careening onto the balcony.

“Oh my God,” wailed Tony, “where did he come from? I have to keep him from getting that mouse. He’ll take it to Nibnose, and she’ll figure it out.” Out of breath, he ran onto the balcony, paused, looked in horror. Midnight had caught the mouse, was tearing it apart.

“Beat it,” screamed Tony, lunging forward, bending down, trying to pull the mouse from Midnight. That was a stupid move. Midnight, claws bared, flicked his left front leg at Tony, raked his wrist, drew blood.

“Oh, you rotten son of a bitch,” Tony wailed as he grabbed his wrist while falling hard against the grating. There was a sharp, cracking sound, the grating broke away, fell, over went Tony, Midnight, and what was left of poor polyester Mus Musculous Facsimulus Korea, an innocent accessory in the ill-gotten plan.

Less than five minutes later Bunny was consoling Clara as they got out of the car. “It’s for the best, dear. She’s finally at peace.”

“I know,” said Clara, meantime thinking, that makes two of us. Of course she would never forget Joe, but being constantly reminded to be true to him had been tough to take.

They went into the house, Clara to prepare Midnight’s afternoon snack, Bunny to tell Tony that the mother-in-law had died. He wasn’t in the den. She went upstairs.

Clara was about to tell Midnight to “come and get it” when a bloodcurdling scream rang through the house. Momentarily stunned, Clara quickly reacted.

“Oh my God,” she shrieked, “he’s murdering her, oh my God.” She started to run, stopped, ran back to the knife rack, grabbed a long-handed carving knife, raced from the kitchen, and came within an eyelash of running Bunny through with the knife as they nearly collided at the foot of the stairway.

“A terrible accident,” Bunny sobbed, “the balcony grating... Tony... in the rock garden, bleeding... call the ambulance... hurry... hurry.” She ran to the front door, flung it open, ran out.

Holy smoke, thought Clara, Holy smoke as she ran into the den, dialed 911.

“Yes, an accident... send an ambulance... yes, the Ainsworth place on LaFayette Terrace... hurry.”

She started out, realized she was still holding the knife, flung it to the floor, ran out, rushed to the rock garden, gasping for breath. There was the safety railing off to one side, Bunny kneeling down, cradling Tony’s bloody head in her lap. Clara put her arms around Bunny’s shoulders, hugged her, listened. Tony was whispering, a hoarse, horrible, gurgling kind of whisper.