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

“It’s true, Bunny, I’m nothing but a lousy gambler. There’s no... no Uncle Mike. I owe the casino. And I... I hope you’ll forgive me but... I... I married you for your money.”

“I don’t care, darling, I don’t care,” Bunny sobbed, the blood staining her dress. “I love you, I love you. Don’t die, darling, don’t die, we can still have a wonderful life together.”

Poor Clara, she began to sob.

“And,” whispered Tony as poor Bunny bent down to hear, “I love you, too. I mean it. Now listen, honey...” Bunny sobbed louder, held him tighter, “the casino’s not going to sue a dead man. And...” He gasped, struggling for breath, managed to go on. “There are two accident polities in one of those big bird books in the den. Mine’s for a quarter million... take... when they pay... use it for a new dog pound... promise...”

“I promise, darling,” sobbed Bunny, “but you’re not going to die. We’re going to Spain for our honeymoon and...”

The ambulance pulled up just then; the paramedics leaped out and took over. Tony was carefully placed on a stretcher, gently put in the ambulance. It sped away, sirens wailing. Several neighbors, drawn by the excitement, had come over, and one of them, trying to stay out of the way, was standing at the far end of the rock garden when she heard an odd choking sound. She looked toward where it came from, saw Midnight, hurried over, and saw that something was wrong.

“Clara,” the neighbor called, “you better come over here. I think the cat has swallowed something.”

Both Clara and poor Bunny hurried over.

“What’s wrong, Midnight?” wailed Clara, reaching down and picking him up. Poor Midnight, eyes beseeching her, uttered a horrible choking sound.

“That sounds serious,” said the neighbor, “I think he should be taken to the humane society vet. I’ll be glad to drive you.”

“You go ahead, Clara,” said Bunny, “I’ll be all right. Maybe Jean will drive me to the hospital when I change my dress.”

Jean, another neighbor, said of course she would.

There was bad news when they reached the humane society. There were only two volunteers there, women their sixties. It was the young vet’s day at the Grand County facility, neither place able to afford a full-time vet.

“But look at him,” wailed Clara, “he’s going to choke to death. Can’t you do that, you know, Heimlich whatyamacallit?”

Both women blanched. “Oh, I don’t feel competent enough to try it on an animal; do you, Mabel?”

“Lord, no,” said Mabel, “I’d be afraid to make it worse. But wait, how about Dr. Larkin?” She quickly explained that he was a retired otolaryngologist who volunteered three days at week at the humane society.

“Get him,” Clara begged. “Where is he?”

Mabel thought it was one of his volunteer days at the library. She ran to the phone, called the library. Thank God, Dr. Larkin was there. He made it to the humane society in record time. He examined poor Midnight, who really sounded like one more horrible choking sound would be the last.

“I’ve never operated on a fourlegged creature before,” Dr. Larkin said, smiling. “But this poor fellow needs immediate help. So, here goes.”

Tony didn’t make it, dying on the way to the hospital. Midnight did better, Dr. Larkin performing a feline laryngectomy. He removed a sharp piece of plastic with thin wires woven in it. Strange, they all thought, strange.

Just before sunset on that extraordinary day Clara managed to sneak outside. She made a thorough search of the rock garden, convinced that the accident policy had been taken out for only one reason. And something had gone haywire. And Midnight had somehow helped it go haywire.

If he could only talk, thought Clara. There was no chance of that. In fact, it was even more unlikely than before.

She found nothing to prove her contention that Tony had been setting things up to murder Bunny. By then the wind had blown away the furry polyester pieces that Midnight had clawed from the artificial mouse, and the remote had fallen on a rock, been shattered into dozens of pieces, meaningless to Clara.

Bunny managed to bear up during the private memorial for poor dear Tony (he was cremated), then she all but collapsed. Clara took over. She phoned Big Mo.

“An accident,” he scoffed. “Who says so?”

“The coroner,” snapped Clara. “I’ll send you the newspaper story.”

Which she did. I’ll be damned, thought Mo. Still, I don’t care what that coroner says, I think Tony took the bridge. Maybe that widow wasn’t rich, and with time passing he couldn’t stand losing his good name. Poor Tony, a swell fellow, one of the best. Sure, the casino’s not going to sue a dead man, what kind of publicity would that be? But there’s still going to be a black mark against Tony’s name.

Mo called his fellow premiums together once more, told them that Tony couldn’t raise the dough to pay his markers, “took the bridge.” Mo went on to say that it was up to them to pay off Tony’s markers. He’d have done it for us, he said. Besides, he emphasized, it’ll keep the casino from putting a limit on our markers.