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

A spirited discussion followed but in the end two hundred twenty thousand was collected, Vince saying the casino ought to forget the interest. Slim, in the throes of a horrible losing streak, had to give a twenty thousand dollar I.O.U. as his share. Mo, making out very well lately, covered Slim’s I.O.U.

The casino not only excused the interest, it did better. Here was a unique story — fellow players contributing to a fund to wipe out the debt of a deceased member, clear his name. It was a heaven-sent opportunity for some great publicity, Sarah (Wellesley ’88), the casino’s publicity director, told the manager, “Why not donate the money to charity, get a big play from the media?”

The manager thought it over, finally agreed that it was a great idea. Sarah contacted Mo, explained the deal.

“Everyone will come out ahead,” she told him, “Poor Tony — how I miss him, he was a charmer — you players, the casino, charity.”

Mo polled the others. Okay, as long as it paid off Tony’s markers. It did. The two hundred twenty thousand was donated to the six local soup kitchens and gratefully received (next to the casino, the soup kitchens were the busiest place in town). And the media gave it big coverage. Everyone came out ahead.

A tragedy with a happy ending? Clara Hogan was thinking that very same thing around seven o’clock in early October 1998 as she sat at her dressing table, primping for a big night out with Martin, the sixty-two-year-old widower who had impulsively comforted her while she anxiously waited the outcome of Midnight’s delicate operation in June 1994. Martin’s dear old Scamp, a nonagenarian on his last legs, had been brought in that very afternoon to be “put away.” Actually, Clara comforted Martin also. There were tears all around.

While Midnight catnapped on the floor, husbanding his strength for his big night, now and then uttering a peculiar soft, wistful sound, Clara recalled the extraordinary events of the past four years. Think of it — and if His Nibs and the missus hadn’t taken that same plane none of this would have happened.

There couldn’t be the new humane society building (a small plaque on the front reads, “In memory of Tony Gregory, kind friend of God’s animals”). Not that the quarter million had come easily, but now the poor strays had an air-conditioned place to spend their last days. (The insurance company suspected chicanery, but after an exhaustive investigation it paid off, unable to come up with anything but an accidental death.)

And what if Midnight hadn’t swallowed that whatever-it-was he swallowed? (I still think that thingamajig had something to do with His Nibs’s death, but how it figured in we’ll never know.) Bunny and Dr. Larkin wouldn’t have met until it was too late. There was two of them henna-haired harpies ready to spring the trap on him.

Bunny and Dr. Larkin had left for New York that day, their second trip. The friendship now blossoming into romance had begun when Bunny thanked him for having saved Midnight’s life and they realized they were kindred souls, each grieving for a lost spouse. “Of course we’ll have separate hotel rooms, Clara,” Bunny, blushing fiercely, told her before leaving on the first trip.

Clara leaned closer to the mirror. Yep, no doubt about it, she was getting better looking every day. Funny what love can do. She resumed meditating. Who would ever have imagined that His Nibs would end up as a big-time do-gooder. That really took the cake. (Sarah, too softhearted for the work she was in, learned of Tony’s widow, wrote Bunny a dear sweet letter telling her how much everyone loved Tony, telling her of the contribution to the soup kitchens in his name. Poor Bunny — still refusing to believe that Tony would ever have intentionally harmed her — cried for a week.)

And how about me and Martin (Martin was a retired coal miner, lived six miles from Hillsdale in a former coal company mining town, seldom came to Hillsdale). What if he had waited until the next day to come to the humane society? I’d still be an over-the-hill, stick-in-the-mud stay-at-home with nothing but fading memories of dear Joe to keep me alive. It’s a funny world. You never know what’s going to happen.

There’s Midnight, too, I almost forgot. His swallowing that thingamajig, losing his cat voice, turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to the sly old dog. Sure put him in the catbird seat. Midnight could no longer meow or purr, a tragic development for a cat, one would think; shunned, ostracized, ridiculed by the entire species. So it would seem.

The only sound Midnight could utter was — well, it’s almost impossible to describe, one had to hear it. It was... well, a kind of melancholy, mellifluent sound, sweet, sad, wistful. Whatever it was, it had put old Midnight in with the lady cats. Maybe they felt sorry for him. Who knows how cats think?