101 Mystery Stories

64 The Man Who Swallowed a Horse Craig Rice

“The man was killed,” John J. Malone, the famous criminal lawyer, said, “in a particularly vicious manner. Mr. Duck was scared to death by his psychiatrist.”

“Nonsense,” Homicide Captain von Flanagan growled. He paused. “They looked at the late Mr. Duck, who had just been moved from the operating room. Where is Dr. Nash, anyway?”

“He’s lying down,” the white-faced nurse said. “The shock—” she gulped. “Of course we knew Mr. Duck had a bad heart, but no one thought — it was really just a harmless little joke. I mean, it was meant to be one.”

She added, “Mrs. Duck is in the doctor’s office with him.”

The little attorney and von Flanagan took a last glance at the dead Mr. Duck. He had been a portly man with a broad face that had once been red and thick-veined. A small incision had been made in his abdomen, hardly more than a scratch.

“He just suddenly gasped and died,” the nurse said. Her eyes narrowed. “Dr. Nash and Mrs. Duck are great friends.”

Malone looked her over. A pretty little thing she was, with reddish gold hair and a sweet mouth.

“Let’s go into the office,” von Flanagan said. “Malone, how did you get into this?”

“Mr. Duck was my client,” Malone said. “He told me he was going to this psychiatrist his wife recommended. For an operation. Because he’d swallowed a horse.”

“Malone,” the police officer said sharply, “you’ve been drinking.”

“Mr. Duck was positive he’d swallowed a horse,” the little counselor-at-law said stubbornly. He added reminiscently, “I remember once when you thought you had a mouse in your mouth.”

Von Flanagan growled and pushed open the door to the office. Dr. Nash was supine on the couch, his handsome face pale. Mrs. Duck sat beside him, holding his hand.

She jumped up, startled, and cried out, “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

The doctor said, “Mr. Duck was convinced he had swallowed a horse. We decided to practice a harmless little deception. We put him under anesthesia, made a slight incision, and before he came to, we led a horse into the operating room. Hardly conventional procedure, but — well, I explained to him we’d operated and extracted the horse, and he would be as good as new. Mr. Duck took one look at the horse and — just died.”

“It was murder,” Malone said. “You knew about his heart — you knew the slightest shock would kill him. And if I’m not mistaken, you and the charming Mrs. Duck have plans for the future.”

“Prove it,” Mrs. Duck said angrily.

“I can,” Malone said. “He told me all about it in a letter... all about this ailment and the planned operation. What he didn’t know about was the gimmick you had in mind. That was what murdered him.”

Later, sitting in Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar, von Flanagan growled, “I still think you made it all up.”

“Naturally,” Malone said, signaling for two more gins. “But it scared Dr. Nash, who isn’t such a stable character, into breaking down and telling you the truth. A signed confession, no less. And you pay for the next drink.”

“If he changes his mind,” the police officer said gloomily, “It’s going to be hell selling this story to a jury.” He scowled into his glass. “Tell me the truth, Malone, or you pay for the next drink.”

“Mr. Duck really did think he’d swallowed a horse,” Malone told him. “He really did have a fixation. And he did think that the operation was going to make him as good as new.”

“But why did he drop dead the minute he looked at the horse?” von Flanagan demanded.

“Because,” Malone said patiently, “the horse in the operating room was a white horse. The horse Mr. Duck thought he’d swallowed was a black one.”