Two... hundred... and... fifty... thousand... dollars? Why, Uncle Mike ought to be ashamed of himself. But while she thought it commendable on Tony’s part to rescue a ne’er-do-well relative from the clutches of the gambling vice, she couldn’t possibly help. Yes, she had a fine income (“Harold left me very well off”) but she was obligated to many charities and maybe she was a little extravagant also, but the money was gone at year’s end.
“But... but... but...” whimpered poor Tony, “what about the Ainsworth coal fortune?”
“Oh, well... it’s in a trust fund. Can’t be touched.”
“Oh my God,” wailed Tony. He didn’t quit, he couldn’t. Couldn’t she (“Just for a month or two, honeybunch, until the Singapore deal goes through?”) mortgage the house?
Unfortunately, she didn’t own the house. It was deeded to the county historical society, would go to it at her death.
Shaken to the core, Tony threw caution to the wind. Poor Uncle Mike was in a terrible state. Tony was afraid he might “take the bridge.” He hated to ask, but could she borrow on her life insurance policy (he desperately hoped she had a big policy).
“Just for a few weeks, honey-bunch.”
About there a reasonably intelligent woman would have heard a bell go bing-bong. Loudly, too. But if the bell tolled for Bunny, she didn’t hear it. Clara Hogan had it right; Bunny was bewitched by that “rotten Swine Gali.” But give the enraptured woman the benefit of the doubt; she wasn’t the first woman to be bewitched by magical Tony.
“Life... insurance...” Bunny murmured in a sleepy voice. Yes, she had a nice policy but the beneficiary was the county humane society since she had no living relatives. She would feel “a little queasy asking the society to allow her to borrow on the policy.”
“Besides, darling,” she murmured — Tony had to lean close to hear, “I’m sure that if you tell the casino you’ll pay Uncle Mike’s debt as soon as the Singapore deal goes through, they’ll agree. And, darling... do... you think that when the deal is finalized... oh, I hate to ask.”
“Go ahead, ask,” groaned Tony, hardly believing what he was hearing.
“Well...” Bunny’s voice was fading, sleep beckoned, “we are... about one hundred fifty thousand dollars short in the fund to buy land and build a more modem humane society building. I would be... be so proud... if when the Singapore deal is... done... if you make up the difference... in...” That was all. She had fallen asleep.
And that was all for Tony Gregory, shrewd, charming, experienced wooer of rich widows. He had rolled snake eyes. Moaning piteously, he uncuddled Bunny, crawled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom, gulped down two aspirins, a throbbing headache having suddenly hit him.
Holding his head, he collapsed into a lounge chair, spent the remainder of the night sunk in deep despair, time after time moaning, “What the hell am I gonna do?”
As a gorgeous sun rose over Hillsdale he crawled back into bed. By then, cringing and squirming, he had bowed to the inevitable. Unless he wanted to become a despised outcast, have the family name dragged in the gutter, be forced to abandon the only life he had known for the past twenty years, the only life he loved, he was going to have to commit murder, a heartrending realization for someone who was not only a sentimental person, but one who had gone to parochial schools, who had been an altar boy until he was sixteen years old, whose sainted mother had prayed that he would become a priest.
An accident the only solution. He would have to “take care” of Bunny (just thinking of the word “murder” tied him in knots) in such a way that she wouldn’t suffer. But how? That was the two hundred fifty thousand dollar question.
Next morning, after a fine breakfast served by a pursed-lipped Clara, Tony, acute misery hiding under a spurious ebullience, said he might go to Pittsburgh that day.
“My New York bankers have a connection with a Pittsburgh bank,” he said, “and I think it’d pay me to visit them, see if they can’t push New York along on the Singapore deal. And...” here he stopped, then went on in an offhand manner, “I think I’ll turn in the car, take a taxi back. Would you mind if we used your car from now on?”
He waited, barely breathing. Would she find that just a little curious? Why would a rich international entrepreneur seem worried about the continuing costs of a rental car? (Because he was running out of money, that’s why.) But he needn’t have worried. Bunny was in seventh heaven, out of this world; a rented car meant nothing.
“Why that’s a splendid idea, darling,” she responded exuberantly, looking at him with adoring eyes, “Now that we’re married, we don’t need two cars. But hurry back, darling, I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Bunny,” Tony said as he stood up, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek. Clara, lurking just outside of the dining room, took it all in, fuming inwardly.
“When is that woman gonna wake up? Can’t she see what he is? He can’t even afford a rental car? I have to do something; come right out, spill the beans.”
But after putting the dishes in the dishwasher, she backed down. She needed indisputable proof, something the rotten rat couldn’t wiggle out of. “It has to be foolproof,” she told herself dismally. “She’s so crazy about him, nothing short of his coming after her with a butcher knife is gonna bring her to her senses. Please, God, don’t let it come to that.”
Tony pulled into the rental car agency in Pittsburgh around eleven. After he paid the bill, he was left with cash on hand of two hundred seventy-six dollars and the expensive watch.
Sick at heart, he looked in a phone book at the car agency, seeking a financial institution comparable to the esteemed Heillman & Sons. He picked The Old Reliable Pawnbrokers, estab. 1907. He checked the book again, jotted down the address of a national insurance company office, stopped at a drugstore, bought a city map, walked the six blocks to the pawnbrokers’ sinking deeper into despair with every step. Ten minutes later he reached the absolute abysmal depths, pretty close to the end of the line.
“What,” he roared, “one lousy grand? Quit kidding me. That watch cost me four thousand. I could get twenty-five hundred minimum in New York.”
“This is Pittsburgh,” said the gray-haired pawnbroker, a wisp of a smile sneaking across his face. “We’re cheapskates. Take it or leave it.”
Tony took it, mad as hell. They sure lack a fellow when he’s down, he moaned as he left. Am I ever gonna get another break? Has my luck run out for the rest of my life?
Not yet. He got a huge break (Lady Luck suddenly remembering the good times?) a few minutes later, but it would be several days before it dawned on him that he now had the perfect weapon for the perfect crime. He came to an intersection, turned left instead of right. That made all the difference. Had he gone right as he had planned, having previously located the insurance company’s location via the map, he wouldn’t have encountered the toy store and “A Narrow Squeak” would have turned out differently. How differently? We’ll never know. All we know is what actually happened.
Still mad at the pawnbroker, he had gone three blocks in the wrong direction before he realized it. He was about to turn back when he saw a crowd about thirty feet ahead, gathered outside a store window. Curious, he joined the onlookers.
The sign on the store window proclaimed TOYS FOR ALL AGES. Inside, another sign announced the arrival of the latest marveclass="underline"
“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.”