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

A Narrow Squeak by Lawrence Doorley

All tales have a beginning (“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth”; “Call me Ishmael”; “It was a dark and stormy night”). This tale — a tale of murder gone awry — may be said to have its beginning on a lovely summer morning in 1942 in Hillsdale, the county seat of Ashford County in the Appalachian foothills of southwestern Pennsylvania.

Six-month-old Elizabeth Watson, a chubby blonde darling, was having a wonderful time playing with her toys in her playpen in the back yard when a wee intruder appeared. Just out of the nest, exploring the great big world for the very first time, a meadow mouse (M. Pennsylvanicus) hopped into the playpen squeaking baby mouse noises.

Oh, oh, oh, a new toy and it makes funny noises, thought Elizabeth happily. She grabbed it, squeezed it tightly in her baby fist. The squeaks became shrill squeals as the frightened mouse fought to free itself from the clutches of this monster. It made it. It ran up the baby’s arm, leaped onto her blonde head, began digging frantically.

Elizabeth screamed. Her mother, who had been keeping a watchful eye on her from the back porch swing, flew down the steps, ran to the playpen, swatted the mouse so hard that it landed twenty feet away. Squeaking pathetically, it ran for home, a lesson learned; it’s a dangerous world out there.

The mouse hadn’t broken the skin, but it left a permanent scar. That terrifying experience marked Elizabeth for life. She was petrified of mice, an incurable musophobe, haunted by musophobia, one of over two hundred phobias (fears) listed in psychiatric dictionaries. Others are ailurophobia (fear of cats; Bunny Ainsworth — she who was once plain Elizabeth Watson — loves cats; they catch mice), and phasmophobia (fear of ghosts).

Bunny is not alone. There are thousands of women and who knows how many men who, given the choice, would take a cackling ghost in the attic to a squeaking mouse in the bedroom. It is unlikely that anyone has ever died of musophobia or phasmophobia. Let us hope not; there are already enough goofy ways to die. And Elizabeth “Bunny” Watson Ainsworth didn’t die of her phobia. But it was close, a narrow squeak.

The tale moves to a casino in Las Vegas, the date September seventh, 1993. Lady Luck, a fickle creature who had fallen under the spell of that charming scoundrel Tony Gregory, abruptly deserted him for another scoundrel, and by the time Tony realized that his luck had run out, the casino had two hundred twenty thousand dollars’ worth of his markers (casino I.O.U.’s).

Back in the primitive 1930’s when all gambling was illegal — and sinful — when the riffest of the riffraff controlled it, a Tony Gregory would have been in serious trouble. Oh, he would have been given a couple of weeks to pay up “or else.” A standard “or else” involved concrete shoes and the nearest body of water.

My, how the world has changed. Gambling flourishes, is legal in forty-eight states (the two sanctimonious holdouts are Utah and Hawaii), is enveloped in a halo of respectability. States have their own lotteries; casinos are managed by MBA’s from prestigious universities and are highly regarded by mutual funds, but like their illegitimate forebears, they are in business to make money. When you lose — especially if you are a premium player like Tony Gregory (premium players number thousands, wager a hundred thousand to two hundred thousand dollars per visit) — you are expected to pay up. In Tony’s case the casino was “lenient”; he was given a year, charged a modest eight point seventy-five percent interest.

But if by September seventh, 1994, the markers were still unpaid, the casino would reluctantly institute legal proceedings to collect — reluctantly because the gaming industry does not like to admit that now and then a player loses. Being sued would devastate Tony. His name would be posted in casinos not only in Las Vegas but in Atlantic City, London, Monte Carlo, everywhere. Losing his good name, publicly branded a welsher, his markers not worth the paper they were written on, was unthinkable.

“It’d kill me,” he moaned time after time as the weeks flew by, the outlook growing worse. “Like the fellow says, if you lose your good name, you’re done, finished, kaput. Think what Big Mo and Vince and Slim and all the other fellows would say. I let them down, made it tougher for them to give markers.”

For the record, the fellow who first placed a high value on one’s good name was The Preacher, son of David. In Ecclesiastes 7:1 he spoke: “A good name is more precious than ointment.” Shakespeare agreed. “Who steals my purse steals trash, but he who filches from me my good name leaves me poor indeed.”

By June 1994 Tony Gregory was a miserable human. Not only was disgrace looming ever closer, but he was undergoing excruciating withdrawal symptoms, for he was hopelessly addicted to the whirl of the wheel, the turn of the cards, the throw of the dice.

He was living incognito in a New Jersey motel on the cash from his last pawnshop transaction (a diamond ring he had taken as collateral for a four thousand dollar loan made to a rich playboy who finally ran out of money, never redeemed the ring). His only remaining asset was a jeweled watch (six thousand five hundred dollars F.O.B. Fifth Avenue, New York City, on a trip there to celebrate a big winning streak back in 1990).

He had been frequenting the lobbies of the luxurious New York hotels in a desperate search for a rich widow, any rich woman. But his bad luck continued.

Then, because of a noble gesture, his luck changed. It happened when he was on the way to Pittsburgh to visit the legendary Pittsburgh Will, famous as the player who broke the bank at Monte Carlo way back in 1934. Tony had lost track of Will, assumed he was long gone. Imagine his amazement while listlessly watching a TV program called “Old Age Is Getting Older” to see Will about to be interviewed, the occasion Will’s one hundred fifth birthday.

If the announcer hadn’t said that “our next guest is the famous Pittsburgh Will, a legend in gambling circles,” Tony would never have recognized the frail, wizened little man.

In a wheelchair, a nurse hovering behind, Will was ready, the nurse indicated. So was the smiling interviewer, a svelte young female whippersnapper not a day over forty.

“How does it feel to be all of a hundred and five?” she asked old Will in a throaty, gushy voice.

“Rotten,” croaked Will, “it stinks.” Oops. Silence. Loud silence.

Then, “Now, you don’t mean that, do you?” asked the interviewer gamely.

“The hell I don’t,” rasped Will. “Wait’ll you get to be a hundred and five. It ain’t no picnic.” Cringing, the interviewer gave up.

“Thank you,” she somehow managed, “and happy birthday! We now switch to Topeka, Kansas, where Jim has a ninety-two-year-old spry youngster who still drives her 1981 Pontiac to the mall every Thursday. Over to you, Jim.”

“Thank you, Carol,” said Jim, a handsome fellow. “That was great Yes, we do have...”

That was enough for Tony. He hit the remote, a terrible, sad feeling having enveloped him. Wow, poor old Will, he was the best, and look at him now. It’s a damned rotten world.

He spent a gloomy night. Next morning he had a sudden thought. Why not send old Will a birthday card, cheer him up? He went to a nearby mall, spent a good half hour trying to find a card appropriate to the unique occasion. He finally picked an All Occasion Birthday Card. It depicted a family outing involving three or four generations. It was summer, everyone was happy; the theme, it’s great to be alive.

Back at the motel Tony phoned the nursing home, got the address, mailed the card to Will (“Hang in there, old pal; you can still beat the odds”), pretty proud of himself. A week later he received a note from the nursing home.

“Will says thanks for the card, Mr. Gregory,” it read, “and he asks if it isn’t too much trouble if you could come to see him, before, as he puts it, he cashes in his chips. And if I may add a word, Mr. Gregory, I hope you can come. Will is a sad, weak old man not long for this world, and not one single person has ever visited him in the twelve years he has been here. Do try to come.”

The note was signed, “Thelma, head nurse, day shift.”

Tony reread the note five or six times, getting more misty-eyed each time. Finally he grabbed a handful of tissues, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, picked up the phone, booked a first-class seat on the nine forty-five A.M. flight from LaGuardia to Pittsburgh for the following day.

As that other fellow (Gaius Petronius, A.D. c. 66) has told us, “One good turn deserves another.” Bunny Ainsworth was on the plane in the seat next to Tony. Bunny was fifty-two, a slender, well-preserved, good-looking widow whose bookish birdwatching husband Harold had died tragically five years before, having fallen into an abandoned stone quarry a moment after his greatest birdwatching feat, snapping a picture of a rare Chippendale Vermillion. (“Vivid colors; scarlet head, yellow belly, blue tail. Seldom seen in North America.”)

“Eureka,” Harold yelled, jumping up from his hiding place. “A Chippendale Vermillion! I’ll be famous in Audubon circles!”

Alas, he had forgotten all about the quarry. Over he went, camera and film with him, the Chippendale Vermillion still seldom seen.

Naturally, Harold hadn’t anticipated departing life so precipitously, but he had long worried about what would happen to the family fortune (Grandfather Ainsworth had made a fortune in coal mines) if he were the first to go.

Concerned that softhearted Bunny would squander it on all sorts of worthy causes, he had specified in his will that the money be put in trust to be administered by a Pittsburgh bank, Bunny to receive an annual income of one hundred fifty thousand with increases for inflation. At her death, whether or not she had remarried, the trust would become a charitable foundation. The family mansion — all those big houses on LaFayette Terrace, built with coal money, were called mansions — would go to the county historical society at her death. Of course Harold discussed all of this with Bunny. She was in complete agreement.

Bunny’s income enabled her not only to live well but to pay Clara Hogan, the longtime Ainsworth housekeeper, a nice salary (part of which Clara used for her mother-in-law’s nursing home costs); to pay the two maids who came in four mornings a week a decent wage; to pay the part-time gardener more than the going rate. All of that still leaving Bunny with a substantial sum, allowing her to make generous contributions to local charities.

Bunny was well aware of her good fortune. Nevertheless, though far better off than any of her friends, in excellent health, she wasn’t happy. Of course she missed Harold. He had been a large part of her life for twenty-five years even if most of the time he’d had his nose buried in an old book or was off birdwatching. But she’d often wished he had gotten half as excited at seeing her in one of her pretty pink nighties at bedtime as he did when telling her about his latest sighting, and as the years sped by following Harold’s tragic death, she kept hoping that someone would come along who didn’t know a Carolina Chickadee from a Philadelphia Flycatcher, a Cape May Warbler from a Bohemian Grosbeak.

Someone finally came along — Tony Gregory, a tall, husky, darkhaired, devilishly handsome, forty-six-year-old Lothario who had been married twice plus being involved in many an affaire du coeur. Every single one of Tony’s conquests, including the two ex-wives (rich widows who had bailed him out of a string of bad luck), remembered their time with him as the high point of their lives. Unfortunately Tony was in thrall to only one mistress, gambling. Nothing else mattered.

Bunny was already seated when Tony boarded the plane. It took him less than a minute to recognize quality. He smiled roguishly, she giggled girlishly, it was no contest. By the time the plane landed in Pittsburgh, Tony had learned all he needed to know.

Her name was Elizabeth Ainsworth (“My friends call me Bunny”); she was a widow; had no living relatives; her late husband’s grandfather had owned coal mines; she lived in a small county seat town in a house “much too big”; passed the time “in the usual small town activities.”

Wow, thought Tony. I’ve finally hit the jackpot.

It certainly looked like he had.

An old hand in such situations, Tony struck the right note, modestly describing himself as a cautious international entrepreneur (“I’m not a plunger”) presently interested in putting together a Singapore real estate deal. Further modest revelations finally caused Bunny to interrupt him by saying that he had to be “a wonderfully compassionate human being to cancel an important meeting with your Wall Street bankers” to hurry to Pittsburgh to visit his hundred-and-five-year-old great-aunt before she died.

“Money’s important, but family — what there is left — comes first,” Tony said solemnly. “She’s the only relative I have left.”

Bunny was returning from her annual theater-museum-shopping trip to New York. She and Harold had gone for years, and following his tragic death she had gone alone, to the despair of Clara Hogan, the housekeeper. A healthy, robust, not bad-looking widow in her late fifties (her dear Joe was killed in a mine accident early in the marriage), Clara had it pretty nice.

She had her own spacious third floor apartment, the fine salary, Wednesday and Sunday afternoons off (Bunny dined at the country club on those days). She visited her mother-in-law in the nursing home on Wednesdays, had to endure the inevitable question, “You’re still keeping Joe’s memory alive, aren’t you, Clara?”

Clara did the cooking, supervised the two maids, did some dusting, straightened a lampshade — things like that — nothing too taxing. But she worried. For even though Bunny had assured her that she would be well-cared for in her old age, Clara — well aware that Bunny was a kindhearted, innocent person who regarded most people as true blue, the salt of the earth — feared the worst every time Bunny went to New York. (What if she falls for a fortune hunter, what would happen to me?)

“There goes the poor lamb on her way to slaughter,” Clara moaned to the housecat every time the Hillsdale taxi picked up Bunny for the trip to the Pittsburgh airport. “A babe in the woods, all alone in that wicked city where there’s a dozen wolves in sheep’s clothing ready to pounce on rich widows with their hearts on their sleeves. Mark my words, Midnight, one of these times she’s coming back all aflutter, gigglin’ she’s met Prince Charming.”

At which Midnight — technically a dumb animal but in reality one smart cookie — the trusted confidante of the housekeeper, would meow to say he shared her concern.

Midnight plays a vital part in this tale, which can almost be called a tragedy with a happy ending, if there is such a thing. He is the third Ainsworth housecat. Percy, the second one, was eighteen when it became obvious that the mice were gaining the upper hand. In accordance with Bunny’s tearful instructions, Clara found a home for him with a lonely old couple to whom Percy’s eighty-five-dollar a month pension was a godsend. A replacement had to be found.

Clara went to the County Humane Society, a ramshackle facility slowly sinking into the huge void left when the coal beneath was mined out years ago. There were six cats — clean, shiny, spayed or neutered, with all of their shots — awaiting (a) adoption or (b) the gas chamber.

“No, no, the poor creatures don’t suffer,” insisted the kind people there. “It’s over in seconds. But it’s a crying shame so few are adopted, how many are abandoned.”

Clara picked a long, lean, black male with fiery green eyes and one and a half ears. She and Bunny agreed that Midnight was the perfect name.

Midnight blundered with his first catch. Though thoroughly schooled by Clara — including several trial runs with a toy ball that squeaked — Midnight was so proud of his first catch that he forgot Clara’s repeated warning never to let Bunny see a mouse, dead or alive. He went running to Bunny with a poor little mouse still alive, squeaking pathetically, dangling from his mouth. Bunny had hysterics. Midnight learned his lesson.

He averaged about three mice a month (“Beats me how they get in,” Clara said time after time), took them through the cat door in the bottom of the kitchen door, deposited them behind the garage, where the gardener put them in with the grass and foliage cuttings.

Musophobic Bunny had not gone into hysterics since Midnight’s first catch five years back. Unfortunately, the record would soon be broken.

Clara’s dire prediction came true, Bunny sailed home on cloud nine from her June 1994 trip, all aflutter. She had met Prince Charming.

“The most handsome, charming, compassionate man you can ever imagine, Clara,” she gushed. “Imagine an international entrepreneur cancelling an important meeting with Wall Street bankers to rush to a Pittsburgh nursing home to visit his hundred-and-five-year-old great-aunt. Wait until you see him, Clara. And you will. He’s coming to visit us on Saturday. You’ll love Tony, Clara; I’m sure you will.”

“What did I tell you,” wailed Clara to Midnight that evening when they were alone in her apartment. “I knew it was gonna happen, just knew it. She’s been a sitting duck ever since the poor mister’s been gone. And did you hear her — he’s ‘Tony’ already. Ha; ten to one Prince Charming Tony is nothing but a two-bit gigolo that any grown woman with half an ounce of common sense could see right through. I’ll never understand why someone like her — a college graduate, reads two books a week — can be so simple-minded. Can you, Midnight?”

That statement would have given Sigmund Freud pause, and Midnight was no Freud. He was simply a cat, a smart cat but still a cat. Clara (the poor woman needed someone to talk to) frequently forgot that.

Prince Charming arrived around four Saturday afternoon in a rented car. Clara, all gussied up (scorn for two-bit gigolos had lost out to feminine vanity), looked great. So did Midnight; bathed, brushed, scented. But Bunny outshone both of them. She had spent two hours at her favorite beauty parlor, gotten “the works,” wore a gorgeous blue pants suit she had bought on Fifth Avenue. She looked no more than forty, in the bloom of radiant womanhood.

Tony rang the doorbell. Clara (having vowed to be totally immune to “the most handsome, charming, etc. etc.”) opened the door while holding on to the doorknob. Which was a good thing; otherwise she might have fallen backward. For Prince Charming was everything Bunny claimed. And he was not only incredibly handsome, he oozed masculinity, mischief, mystery. Poor Clara; bells rang, harps played, drums banged. Tony had that effect on women.

“You must be Clara,” he said, favoring her with a gorgeous smile. “Bunny has told me how valuable you are to her.” (Bunny had covered a lot of territory on the short flight to Pittsburgh.) Tony took one of Clara’s hands, squeezed it.

Then he saw Bunny. He gave dazed Clara’s hand one last strong squeeze, strode quickly to where Bunny was standing, took both of her hands in his, held them tightly while exclaiming in a voice that throbbed with manly mellifluence, “Wow, Bunny, you look like two million dollars.”

Poor Bunny, she blushed, she giggled, she glowed, she managed to say, “Oh, Tony, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying such things.”

“No, I mean it. You look fabulous.” Poor Bunny, she almost simpered.

Then it was Midnight’s turn. He had been lurking behind a chair, watching with ill-concealed disgust the way the two women were fawning over an obvious four-flusher. He didn’t fool Midnight. Cats can tell.

“And here’s Midnight, our family pet,” Bunny finally said as she motioned for Midnight to come forth and greet Prince Charming. Tempted to unleash a venomous hiss, Midnight refrained, Bunny having implored Clara to be sure Midnight was on his best behavior, her shameful musophobia always lurking in the background. Clara had — not happily either — followed instructions, and Midnight had finally gotten the drift.

So he came up to Tony, favored him with a curt meow, turned and left the room, determined to vent his disgust on a wayward mouse.

“Midnight doesn’t seem to like me,” said Tony, grinning boyishly.

“Oh no, darling,” Bunny said quickly. “He’s shy. Once he gets to know you, he’ll be quite friendly.”

Preliminaries out of the way, time flying (it was June eleventh, less than three months from the fateful deadline), operating from the best motel in town, buoyed by the evidence of big money — the mansion with its luxurious furnishings, the three servants, the expensive foreign car in the driveway — Tony wooed the enchanted Bunny with a ton of well-honed charm, dozens of roses, candlelight dinners at The Lookout, the hotel-restaurant in the mountains east of town.

It worked. Less than two weeks after he turned his roguish smile on Bunny on the flight to Pittsburgh, she capitulated, joyously accepting his offer of marriage.

Clara hadn’t capitulated. Her feet solidly back on the ground after her one mad surge of unbridled passion, Clara was becoming more worried daily. And it wasn’t entirely concern for her own welfare. She genuinely loved Bunny, and she was willing to bet that Tony Gregory was “a love ’em and leave ’em gigolo, out for nothing but money,” who had broken many a woman’s heart. Clara was terribly afraid that another heart would soon be broken.

It was a quiet wedding, performed by a justice of the peace in Grant County, the county to the east of Ashford County. With his wife as a witness, a scratchy 78 rpm record playing a wedding march, the justice pronounced them man and wife as Tony slipped the wedding ring on Bunny’s quivering finger. He had bought the ring two days before at a going-out-of-business jewelry store in the mall, paid a hundred fifty dollars for it. (“It’s marked down from four hundred,” said the elderly jeweler, tears in his eyes.) And after handing the astonished justice of the peace a hundred dollar bill (twenty-five was the usual stipend; now and then someone paid fifty), high-flyer Tony was down to exactly seven hundred fifty dollars and the jeweled watch. He hadn’t been that poor in twenty years.

The justice’s wife was the Grant County correspondent for the Hillsdale Morning Clarion. She interviewed the newlyweds, Bunny happily answering every question with such enthusiasm that Tony had to interrupt frequently.

“Now, Bunny,” he kept saying, “Let’s not go overboard.”

“You see,” she said, squeezing his arm, “He’s so modest, not like many of today’s brazen international entrepreneurs.”

Of course Bunny would have preferred an elaborate wedding at St. Mark’s in Hillsdale, but Tony — he was getting far too much publicity — thought it might be inappropriate in view of his great-aunt’s recent death. Dear Bunny, adrift in paradise, bought that ludicrous story without a moment’s hesitation.

“I understand, darling,” she had said. “But how many men would be so considerate of an aged distant relative? Oh, darling, I’m finding more and more admirable qualities about you every day.”

At which Tony, beginning to feel like a heel (this latest conquest was getting to him) mumbled that a fellow had to do what a fellow had to do. He had reason to feel like a heel; his great-aunt, alias Pittsburgh Will, had died, been cremated the day Tony met Bunny on the plane.

A slight delay in the honeymoon (“Would Spain be all right, Bunny?”... “Oh... oh... yes... yes... anywhere, darling.”), the Singapore negotiations reaching the crucial stage. Would Bunny mind waiting a few weeks?

Mind? Of course she wouldn’t mind, whatever darling Tony wished was wonderful with her. Hmm, thought Tony, this is gonna be easier than I thought. I’ll give it ten days — no longer — before I hit her for the money. Come to think of it, I’ll need an extra twenty grand. That shouldn’t bother her. She’s loaded.

The newlyweds arrived back at the mansion around five that afternoon, Tony bringing his clothes in two expensive looking but somewhat battered pieces of luggage. Clara, a nervous wreck (“I’m tellin’ you, Midnight, she’s gone gaga over that fortune hunter”), opened the door, fearing the worst. It came.

“Congratulate me, Clara,” Bunny squealed, waving her hand. “See, a wedding ring. I’m a bride. Tony and I were married this afternoon in Grant County. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Then she grabbed Clara, hugged her tightly, exclaiming, “Oh, I’m so happy, Clara. Tony’s made me the happiest person on earth.”

While that was going on, Tony made a valiant effort not to look like the cat that had swallowed the canary, but he failed. He awaited the housekeeper’s reaction, pretty sure what it would be, for though he had charmed the two maids he was well aware that the housekeeper and the cat had him figured out.

Clara responded as anticipated. She managed to squirm free from Bunny’s embrace, skewer Tony with a look of part outrage, part pure hate. So what, he thought, I’m in the driver’s seat. I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks at the most.

Home now, Bunny began having qualms over sharing the bed that she and Harold had shared for so many years. Sly old Tony, sensing her uneasiness, suggested they spend the first night of the honeymoon at The Lookout.

“Oh, darling,” said Bunny eagerly, “that’s a splendid suggestion. It’s so lovely in the mountains. Oh, darling, you’re so, so thoughtful.”

Wow, thought Tony, whatever I say is great with her. I may not wait two weeks, even ten days. I’ve been through hell these nine months.

Midnight had a tough night. Stretched full-length in his clean wicker basket on the floor beside Clara’s bed, he was forced to respond to her unrelenting jeremiad against that “no good, two-bit, fortune hunting Casanova,” a recurring theme being Tony’s lack of evidence that he was what Bunny claimed him to be.

“If he’s such a big-shot international entrenooper,” she demanded, “how come he’s only got two measly suitcases? Wouldn’t an entrenooper at least have a couple of trunks, Midnight?”

“Meow” (you’d think so), responded Midnight sleepily.

“And he’s in for one hell of a surprise?”

“Meow (surprise)?”

“The trust fund, the money. It was in the paper when the mister’s will was probated. She can’t touch the family fortune. Sure, she has a damn nice income but it all goes out, over half to the charities. They’d go broke without her.

“On it went. Once that four-flusher finds out about the trust fund, sees he’s up the creek without a paddle, he’ll skedaddle. And that’ll break her heart; the woman is nuts about that rat.”

Clara finally wound down, Midnight went to sleep, purring quietly as cats are wont to do.

The wedding story in the paper caused quite a stir; no wonder. Mr. Gregory was an international entrepreneur, currently engaged in delicate negotiations involving Singapore real estate. “As soon as the deal is completed, the couple will embark on a honeymoon in Spain, after which they will live in New York City” (“Putting you and me out in the cold,” Clara told Midnight bitterly) “so Mr. Gregory can remain in close contact with his Wall Street bankers.” Actually, Tony’s bankers operated seven blocks north, four blocks west of Wall Street, the financial headquarters of Heillman & Sons, Pawnbrokers.

There was a lot more to the story. It sounded just a little too good to many of Bunny’s friends. Had the dear innocent fallen for a fortune hunter? In the same issue of the paper a shorter story told of Dr. Thomas Larkin, renowned Pittsburgh surgeon whose specialty had been otolaryngology (disorders of the ear, nose, throat). Dr. Larkin had retired following the death of his wife, had bought a house in the mountains east of town, planned “to take life easy, read a lot, and, if needed, do volunteer work at the library and the humane society.”

Needed; both the library and the humane society were on the phone to him while the ink was still drying on the paper. And when Thelma Thompson, the real estate agent, described him to her associates as “a tall, slender, handsome man with all of his hair and a sad, sweet smile — he missed his wife” word spread, and a mere two days after the story appeared, two widows each in their late sixties, fortified with new hairdos, hurried to the library to volunteer their services while two other widows (the town, alas, is thronged with widows), equally as fortified, raced one another to the humane society.

Out in Las Vegas, June 1994 having arrived with no word from Tony Gregory, the manager of the casino (MBA, Princeton ’77) that held Tony’s markers, sought out Big Mo, told him that the casino had not heard from Tony since the night he gave the markers. “And we both know, Mo,” said the manager, “that if Tony fails to redeem them, even though the amount is relatively insignificant, we have no recourse but to institute legal proceedings, which would be a blot on the escutcheon of the entire gaming industry. If you know where Tony is, I suggest you remind him we intend to collect.”

Mo was no dumbbell (a high school graduate, C-minus), but he wouldn’t have known an escutcheon from an Estonian. It didn’t matter, he got the drift. He said that he had no idea where Tony was but would try to locate him.

Mo got the fellows together; himself, Vince, Slim, six other premiums. No one had heard from Tony. “Why not hire a P.I.?” Vince said. “We can split the costs.” A good idea, everyone agreed. That was the very day Tony met Bunny on his good Samaritan flight to Pittsburgh.

“Tony Gregory, huh?” said the P.I., an old hand, “I’ll find him.” And he did.

Clara, in a foul mood having read the story of the wedding in the morning paper (International entrenooper... what a crock. If that con man’s an international entrenooper, I’m the Queen of Sheba.) was halfheartedly dusting “the poor dead mister’s precious books” when the phone rang. She pounced oil it, hoping it was another sugary-voiced female marketer. (I’ll straighten her out in a hurry.)

“Hello,” she snarled.

“My, sister, you’re in a good mood,” said a gruff male voice, “Take it easy. I’m not selling anything. All I want to know is, is there a fellow named Tony Gregory there?”

Clara felt a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, ah, I mean... he is and he isn’t. Now, hold your horses, gimme a chance. He’s on his... I mean he’s out of town, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Is... is there a message?”

“There’s a message all right. You got a pencil?”

Clara picked up a pencil. Her hand shaking, she held it over a notepad. “Go ahead.”

“Tell Tony to call Big Mo in Vegas the minute he gets back. It’s important. Here’s the number.”

After giving the number the caller said, “Now read it back.” Which Clara did, her voice quivering.

“Okay, have a nice day,” said the caller as he hung up. Clara put the phone down gently, walked slowly across the room, collapsed on a sofa, her heart racing.

Big Mo from Vegas, Big Mo from Vegas, Big Mo from Vegas; she kept repeating the ominous words. He sounded exactly like Edward G. Robinson in one of those gangster movies. And it could mean only one thing. That lowdown four-flusher Mr. Tony Gregory was nothing but a rotten gambler and he was in hock to a Las Vegas syndicate and he sweet-talked the poor simple-minded missus into marrying him so he could swindle her out of the money he needed to pay off the syndicate. Now what, she groaned? He’s in big trouble. You don’t fool with the syndicate. You pay up or it’s in the drink. (Clara was living in the lawless past. Tony was in no danger of losing his precious life; all he could lose was his treasured good name, be ostracized, blacklisted, held in contempt by his fellow gamblers.)

As the two maids went about their duties upstairs in their exemplary fashion, Clara tried to calm down, to think what she had to do. Is that rat going to vamoose, skedaddle, leaving the poor missus with a broken heart once he finds out he can’t touch the trust fund? No sir, lover boy’s in big trouble; he’ll try to figure some way of getting the money from her.

Then (oh my God) she thought of it, the life insurance. Clara would have bristled were she accused of eavesdropping, but could she help it if every now and then she’d happened to be outside the den when Bunny and Harold were discussing important matters?

On one such occasion she had overheard them discussing life insurance and was impressed by something the good mister said. “Yes, each of our policies is for two hundred fifty thousand.” Why shouldn’t she be impressed? — her own policy, taken out in 1979, was for one thousand dollars. (“Enough to bury me,” she’d said at the time.)

“I clean forgot about the life insurance,” she moaned. “That poor innocent woman, she’s in terrible danger. He’s gonna murder her for the insurance. It happens every day, the papers are full of it (Clara was unaware that following Harold’s death, Bunny — since she had no living relatives — had made the county humane society the beneficiary).

“That’s it, that’s it,” she wafted. “I’ll bet he’s already found out he can’t touch the trust fund. That leaves the life insurance, him being the natural normal beneficiary. This is awful, I gotta warn her before he pushes her out of a window.”

She jumped up, ran to the telephone stand, picked up the phone book, fumbled through the pages, finally found the number to The Lookout. Frantic now, she dialed. But she hung up before anyone could answer.

What am I gonna tell her? Oh, Mrs. Gregory (I’ll never get used to calling her that), that snake in the grass what hypnotized you into marrying him is gonna murder you? He’s nothing but a rotten gambler, and he’s in hock to a Las Vegas syndicate. You know what that means. You’re in awful, awful danger.

No good, she moaned. She’d think I’d lost my marbles. Her dear, wonderful Tony, the international entrenooper a gambler? Why, that’s absurd. Where did you hear such a ridiculous story, Clara? Are you sure you’re not jealous of me for marrying such a divine man?

“Jealous,” she snorted. “I’d rather marry Rasputin. Wait a minute. I’ve got it. I’ll wait until they get back this afternoon. As soon as they come in I’ll say, real casual-like, ‘Oh, Mr. Gregory, Big Mo called from Vegas. He seemed real upset. He said for you to call him the minute you come in.’ Now we’ll see how that four-flusher wiggles out of that. It oughtta kill his goose with her. Sure, it’ll break her heart when he has to hit the road, but a broken heart’s better than being six feet under.”

How had things gone in the honeymoon suite in the starry mountains? Heavenly, just heavenly, out of this world. For Tony — a rank neophyte in bird lore (he knew a pigeon from a chicken, a sparrow from a crow, that was about it) brought to the bridal chamber a seasoned cornucopia of the kind of techniques that dear stick-in-the-mud Harold had read about in his old books but would never have thought of suggesting to Bunny. What would she think of him; brand him a satyr, a fiend? Ah, how little we know.

The newlyweds arrived back at the LaFayette Terrace mansion at four thirty. Clara was on her own. Midnight, a conscientious workman, hadn’t finished his afternoon circuit of the large house.

Determined to unmask the four-flusher, Clara flung the door open, felt a sickening feeling. God help me, she moaned, seeing the stars in Bunny’s eyes, the way she clung to that rotten rat’s arm. That poor woman; she’s bewitched by that rotten Swine Gali. (Dear Clara; she meant Svengali. Away back she had seen the movie Trilby, where vile Svengali hypnotized poor Trilby. It had made a lasting impression.) God knows what awful stuff went on up there in the mountains.

But she had to act. She closed the door, waited until Tony put the luggage down, made her announcement. “By the way, Mr. Gregory,” she said in her best casual-like voice, “there was an important phone call for you.”

“A phone call?” he said, the barest quiver in his manly voice. “Who was it from?”

But Clara was watching Bunny, anxious to see how she was taking it. Bunny looked interested. Good, thought Clara, wait’ll she hears what’s coming. Clara stalled, playing it for all it was worth.

“Well,” demanded Tony, a little nastily. “Who called?”

“Someone named, ah, oh yeah, Big Mo. He said he was calling from Vegas. You’re to call him right away. He seemed upset. Here’s the number.” (She had kept the number for herself, just in case.) She handed him the slip of paper. He grabbed it, stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Clara looked at Bunny again. Ha, was that a cloud over the starry eyes? It sure was. And how was loverboy taking it? Not good, not good. He coughed a couple of times — seemed to have a frog stuck in his throat. Upset the old applecart, Clara gloated. Hit the road, you two-bit Casanova, you struck out. It looked that way.

“Vegas?” said Bunny, uncertainly, “would that be Las Vegas, darling? And who did you say called, Clara?”

“Big Mo,” enunciated Clara, loud and clear.

“What an odd name,” said Bunny, “and from Las Vegas. Would Mr. Mo be involved in gambling, darling?”

Of course not, gloated Clara, he’s that Chinese detective who solves all those mysteries. Isn’t that right, you four-flusher? But by then Tony was ready to wiggle.

“I’m afraid that the Big Mo person is involved in gambling, honey,” he confessed, a wan smile on his handsome countenance. “It’s, well, all families seem to have a black sheep; ours is Uncle Mike, my late father’s younger brother. Poor Uncle Mike can’t stop gambling, and he loses all too often. I’ll have to bail him out again, I’m afraid. I’ll phone this Big Mo person after we get settled.”

Poor Clara, outfoxed, for she could see that Bunny had bought that fairy tale hook, line, and sinker.

“Oh, darling,” Bunny gushed. “I might’ve known it would be something like that. You’re so compassionate.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Tony mumbled, taking care not to look at the housekeeper. Damn that nibnose, I gotta watch out for her.

Before the newlyweds went upstairs, Bunny told Clara they wouldn’t be dining out. “Could you whip up something light, Clara?”

Clara grunted that she could. On the way upstairs Bunny thought of something. “Darling, I thought your great-aunt was your last relative. Did you forget Uncle Mike?”

“No, I didn’t forget him,” Tony confessed, “but he’s the only one left and... well, I’m not too proud of him.”

“You shouldn’t say that, darling. Such people are to be pitied. It’s like a disease, gambling. People become addicted, the poor things.”

“I guess you’re right,” Tony said mournfully.

While Clara was in the kitchen tearing hell out of an innocent head of lettuce and Bunny was taking a shower, Tony crept downstairs, went into the den, locked the door, phoned Big Mo. And got an earful.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” demanded Mo. “How come you haven’t paid the markers? You wanta put the kibosh on the rest of us? There’s talk the casino’s gonna’ put a fifty thousand dollar limit on us premiums. Me and the fellows is damn disappointed in you, Tony, damn disappointed. What have you got to say for yourself?”

Tony had plenty to say. Did Mo and the fellows really believe that he would weasel out of the debt, allow his good name to be smeared to hell and gone? Hadn’t he paid every marker in the past? Tony went on like that until Big Mo interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah, get to the point. Are you gonna pay the marker or not?”

Of course he was. But he’d had a hell of a time finding a rich widow. Huh? Yeah he’d found one, married her. Rich? Loaded. But he’d only been married for two days and he hadn’t planned on hitting her up for the dough right away, but since Mo and the fellows seemed to be worried about him being a disgrace to the whole gaming industry, Mo could tell the casino it would be hearing from him no later than ten days from now.

Mo relayed that information to the casino manager, who said it was good news. It would be good to have Tony back.

Poor Midnight, he had another bad night. Clara, doing her best not to think of what was going on down below in the master bedroom, filled the cat in on the latest rotten development. The snake in the grass had slithered free, come up with a fake relative, the family black sheep, when it was as plain as the nose on your face that His Nibs was in hock to a syndicate. He owed big money. “And wait’ll he hits her up for dough and she tells him about the trust fund; can’t touch it. That’s not the worst.

“Her life insurance, it’s for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. And somehow he’ll sweet-talk her into telling him about it. And God help us when he does.”

“Meow (bad news?).”

“You can say that again.”

“Meow.”

Clara kept going, her grim, dire theme being that there was murder afoot. “You and me, Midnight,” she finally concluded, “are gonna keep our eyes on that rotten rat every second of the day. It’s up to us to keep that good, kindhearted — yeah, simpleminded — woman alive. Right?”

“Meow (you can count on me).” And when it came to crunch time, old Midnight came through with flying colors, almost losing the last of his allotted nine lives. It was a narrow squeak.

Now to the huge master bedroom on the second floor, around one thirty A.M., soft music wafting from an all-night radio station. Once again — more than once — Bunny had soared to heights far beyond anything ever attained by the Lapland Larkspur. (“A high flyer, soars far above the clouds.”)

Not totally exhausted but close, Tony — galvanized by the ominous words from Big Mo — changed the timetable. He couldn’t wait two weeks, even ten days; his good name was already being tarnished.

In a tender, husky, sexy voice — the same one that had caused women much more worldly than Bunny to rush to their checkbooks — Tony bewailed poor Uncle Mike’s distressing predicament. He’d phoned Big Mo, was shocked to learn that Uncle Mike had given markers totaling two hundred fifty thousand (the extra thirty thousand was to cover the interest, give him a stake to start anew).

He felt rotten, embarrassed as hell, to have to ask Bunny to lend him the money. “Just until the Singapore deal goes through, of course.” Uncle Mike had no one else to turn to, and Tony hated to see the family name smeared.

In “The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” Aesop — another of those sage fellows; he flourished around 550 B.C. — wrote: “Appearances are deceiving.” The old boy would have chortled in patriarchal glee had he been around to see the delicious juxtaposition of his time-honored adage as Tony, the wolf, heard the horrifying news from Bunny, the pauper.

Calling Bunny a pauper was stretching it a bit, but as far as stunned Tony was concerned, she might as well have been on food stamps. Cuddled up to her divine Prince Charming, her pretty pink nightie in delightful dishabille, Bunny drifted between paradise and the bedroom as she answered Tony’s increasingly anguished questions in a sleepy, cooing voice.

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 marvel:

And the incredible brown creature did act like a real mouse. It raced around a large obstacle course inside the store, adroitly dodging plants, plastic rocks, other obstructions. It turned left, stopped, turned right, whirled one hundred eighty degrees, meantime squeaking exactly like an American mouse, no Korean accent (the squeaks were sent outside via a speaker). There was no evidence as to who was manipulating the little brown devil.

I’ll be damned, thought Tony as he was about to leave, what’ll they think of next. Then he heard a woman say, “Ugh, that thing gives me the creeps. If my husband ever pulled that on me, I’d poison him.”

“Me, too, Marge,” said her companion. “I’m scared to death of mice. Let’s get out of here.”

Women, thought Tony, no wonder they’re called the weaker sex. By the time he reached the insurance office the incident had faded; he had more serious matters to think about.

There are many types of accident insurance policies and filling out a short form is about all that’s required. Policies can be purchased for various amounts, to cover many types of accidents, including accidents involving death. Tony took out separate policies on himself and Bunny, each for a quarter million dollars for accidental death, the cost a total of eighty-five dollars for two months. Taking out the policy on himself was about the only thing he had thought of to help divert suspicion from himself when and if the horrible deed was done. (“As if that’ll help,” he moaned to himself as he left the insurance agency. “Hell, unless I’m twenty miles away when — geez, this is awful, awful.”)

Feeling rotten, he walked around downtown until he found an expensive restaurant in a hotel, had a thirty-five dollar lunch, got indigestion, although it might have been the first indication of conscience pangs. For he had never, never thought of murdering anyone. Now here he was plotting to murder a fine, decent, kindhearted human being. It was tearing him apart. And for more than one reason, for to his amazement he had fallen under Bunny’s sweet, innocent, deliriously happy spell. Incredibly, the bewitcher was not doing the bewitching. Svengali would have been crushed, Clara Hogan dumbfounded.

What the hell’s come over me, he moaned as he walked toward a taxi stand, surreptitiously holding his aching stomach? Here I am falling for a fifty-two-year-old woman (he had seen her age on the marriage certificate) who dyes her hair, who’s damn well educated but who’s got about as much common sense as a ten-year-old kid, who seems to think most people want to do what’s right.

Yeah, she’s a goodlooker for her age — damned goodlooking — dresses well, is a real lady, but I’ve had plenty like her, and younger ones. It’s just gotta be that I’ve never come across anyone like her, a grown woman who worries more about other people than herself, who spends half her time writing checks for needy causes and going to meetings trying to raise money for things like a new dog pound or a new roof on the library.

Listen to me. I gotta stop this kind of thinking. I’m smack behind the eight ball. What the hell will I do for the rest of my life if I can’t pay off the markers? I’m hooked on gambling, there’s no two ways about it.

It’s a thirty-five mile trip from downtown Pittsburgh to Hillsdale, and after some to and fro discussion a price was agreed upon. Tony sat up front with the cabbie — a thick, balding fellow of fifty or so — and had to listen to a mournful monologue about how tough times were since the steel and coal industries were done. A fellow had a tough time feeding his family. Most days it was hardly worthwhile showing up for work. And a trip out “to the sticks” was no bargain. He’d come back empty.

By the time they reached the LaFayette Terrace mansion Tony felt so sorry for the poor cabbie that he tipped him twenty dollars. Then, on an impulse (it was probably his conscience again, although his stomach still hurt like hell) he thrust another twenty at the cabbie.

“Thanks, sir,” the cabbie said jubilantly. “I knew you was first class. I said to myself when you got in, there’s a bigtime high roller. You’re a good man, sir, a good man.”

I used to be, thought Tony dismally as he entered the house. It seemed deserted. He went into the den, looked out back through one of the high windows. The car was gone. (“Trying to raise money for the dog pound.” No, it was the library this time.) And old nibnose and her sneaky cat were sitting out under a big tree in the back yard. (“Ten to one they’re raking me over the coals.” It was a safe bet.)

But he had time to hide the accident policies. Harold had had hundreds of books; there were shelves from floor to ceiling around most of the room. Tony picked a shelf in a far corner, put the policies in Volume 3, Phoebe-Tanager, of Birds of North America.

Now came the tough part, the perfect crime, but he hadn’t the slightest idea how to pull it off. Then Bunny begged him to watch the sunset with her from the little balcony on the second floor.

It was a wooden affair about eight feet square, reached via a glass door from the hallway. It had been added by Grandfather Ainsworth when his wife said she’d like to have a place from which to watch sunsets.

The balcony had a wrought-iron grating about forty-eight inches high to keep onlookers from falling onto the rock garden thirty feet below — a real rock garden, huge rocks having been brought down from the mountains. Seasonal flowers flourished among them.

Harold and Bunny had watched hundreds of sunsets, never tiring of the gorgeous displays. Bunny, calling the balcony “my wee widow’s walk” had continued watching after poor Harold’s tragic fall into the quarry. Now she had someone to watch with her again.

She took Tony by the arm, steered him out onto the balcony, just as a mammoth sun was setting behind the faroff hills.

“There, darling,” she said, excitedly, “didn’t I tell you? Isn’t it magnificent, simply magnificent?”

It was indeed, the sky around the huge red ball ablaze in a dozen dazzling shades. Tony didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But it wasn’t the brilliant display. It was Bunny. She was standing in the southwest corner, leaning slightly over the railing, looking toward the northwest (the sun sets north of west in the height of summer). The top railing had moved, barely moved, but it had moved enough to cause Tony’s heart to skip a beat.

“For God’s sake, Bunny,” he almost shouted as he lurched forward, grabbed her, pulled her back. “You could have gone over. Geez, you almost gave me heart failure.”

“But there’s no danger, darling,” Bunny told him, her voice joyful. “Why, I’ve been doing this for years. The grating is firmly attached.” (Oh how he must love me; oh how lucky I am to have found such a wonderful, wonderful man!)

“There’s always the first time,” he told her. “Now come on, let’s go, the show’s over.” What if that thing had broken loose and she had gone over onto the rocks? Who would they blame? Me, the new husband. (“You say your wife leaned against the railing, Mr. Gregory, and it gave way? And you were on the balcony with her? Hmm, I’m afraid your story doesn’t hold water. Book him, sergeant.”). Sure, it’s got to be an accident but one that leaves me in the clear.

Late that night Bunny cuddled close, cooing in her sleep, Tony thought of the balcony. Maybe I can work something out. I’ll check that grating tomorrow.

Which he did. After breakfast he closeted himself in the den, telling Bunny he had to do some figuring. He waited until she had been picked up by one of her Mends (the humane society meeting, a new facility was becoming more urgent) and until the two maids, old nibnose, and the cat were in the kitchen having coffee and milk (milk for Midnight). Then he hurried upstairs, carefully opened the sliding glass door, went onto the balcony.

He hit the top railing a smart blow with his open hand. It moved a good inch or two. His heart beating fast, he knelt down, inspected the long bolts that anchored the balcony to the house. There were four, one on each end of the top railing, one on each end of the bottom railing. They were rusty, a lot of the original metal gone.

That’s thing’s a deathtrap, he told himself as he closed the glass door. Those bolts are nothing but slivers. Geez, what a mess. I have to keep Bunny from bumping that grating too hard while I try to come up with an accident happening to her with me nowhere around. Maybe I could be down below and yell up to her, tell her to look down and tell me what those yellow flowers were called. That balcony’s my only hope. Think, man, think, there has to be a way of using it.

For the rest of the day he wracked his brain trying to think of some scheme with the balcony as the main weapon. He got nowhere. He simply couldn’t come up with anything better than the yellow flowers idea, and the more he thought about it, the more hopeless it looked.

Sunset that evening was even more spectacular than on the previous evening, but it was wasted on Tony. On edge, he kept his eyes riveted on Bunny, ready to grab her if she leaned too hard against the grating. The poor man; everything depended upon his keeping the intended victim alive until he could “take care” of her.

They dined at The Lookout again, the atmosphere festive, the night beautiful, music — loud music — along with exuberant hilarity seeping into the dining room every now and then from the ballroom where a wedding party was in progress. Bunny was again in heaven, Tony far, far below, although he continued to give the impression that he was on top of the world.

There was no festivity in Clara Hogan’s apartment. All evening she had waxed ominously on the way things were going. She was certain that “four-flusher” was up to something.

“I’m a nervous wreck,” she told Midnight. “What if something happened to her and I hadn’t warned her. How would I feel? Well, I’ve had it. First thing tomorrow I’m going to give her Big Mo’s number, beg her to call him, find out what a no-good bum...”

She stopped abruptly. The car had pulled up to the garage behind the house.

“It’s them,” she exclaimed, jumping out of bed in her bare feet, her short pink nightie, “They’re back.” She ran to the couch, which sat under the small screened window (it was always open in summer, the big oak providing shade and a breeze). Midnight took two leaps, landed on the couch, put his two front paws on the window ledge, looked down. Repairs were being made to the garage; the car was being left out.

There wasn’t much to see, the old oak in full bloom, one branch nearly touching the window. But they could listen. They heard Bunny. She seemed very upset.

“I’m still so ashamed,” she was saying, “screaming the way I did. It’s a wonder someone didn’t come running out, thinking I was being murdered.”

“Now, Bunny,” Clara heard Tony say, “I told you it was no big deal. The way that crazy band was playing no one could have heard. Now come on, take my arm, let’s go in.”

That was all. What was that all about, thought Clara as she went back to her bed. Why would she scream? Wait... a... minute. Wait... a... minute, ten to one that rat was up to some shenanigan — maybe trying to shove her off that cliff behind the hotel — and it didn’t work and she didn’t know what he was up to. Well, that’s it.

“That does it, Midnight. I’ve had enough. I’m spilling the beans tomorrow, the chips can fall wherever they fall. I mean it. He’s getting desperate. And I’m gonna throw a sprag in his wheels.”

“Meow (good for you; now let’s get some sleep).”

Once upstairs it didn’t take Tony long to convince Bunny that her hysterics, followed by her confession that she had suffered from musophobia all her life, made no difference to him. He still loved her, and by the time she fell asleep she believed him.

Tony stayed awake, all keyed up. A plan was forming, a complicated plan but it was all he had. He couldn’t stand much more. He had to get back to the tables.

Next morning at breakfast he asked Bunny if she would mind if he borrowed the car, explaining that he needed to consult with the Pittsburgh bankers. Why, of course he could borrow the car. She had a dozen friends eager to take her wherever she needed to go. Which was true, every one of them wanted to learn everything they could about Bunny’s new husband. And Bunny was eager to tell them what a kind, wonderful, gorgeous man he was.

As soon as Tony left, Clara, taking a deep breath (“Here goes nothin’. I’ll probably lose my job, but I can’t wait another minute.”), approached Bunny, who was sitting in the front room looking pensive. Bunny, seeing her, spoke first.

“Oh, Clara, I was going to find you. Sit down, dear. I have... well... have... something to tell you, something of which I’m thoroughly ashamed but I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to you.”

Clara sat down with a thump. “Holy smoke, she’s finally got wise, seen through that four-flusher, is gonna divorce him. Thank God.”

No, no, no; that wasn’t it.

Thwarted again, Clara, in a vile mood, went looking for Midnight. As expected she found him in the basement, fertile mouse territory, always the first area checked each day.

“Wait’ll you hear this,” she snarled. “You’re not gonna believe it. Listen to this.”

Midnight assumed a listening pose.

“It was a mouse caused it. Ha, I knew that’d get you.” (At the mention of “mouse” Midnight’s one and a half ears had perked up.) “Anyway, honest to God this is drivin’ me crazy... after dinner last night they went out to the parking lot behind the restaurant. His Nibs opened the door, was holding it open while she was getting seated, when a mouse, probably a poor scrawny little field mouse, jumped right smack into her lap. She screamed to high hell and back. ‘Oh, Clara,’ she told me, ‘I made an utter fool of myself, shrieking bloody murder. Why no one came running out is... oh, it was awful, so, so humiliating.’ Then, guess what, Midnight?”

Midnight hadn’t the slightest idea.

“Listen to what she told me. ‘Dear Tony, so calm, so intrepid, grabbed the creature by its tail, flung it over the cliff.’ Geez, you’da thought he wrestled down a mountain lion. After she calmed down, she told him about her phobia. ‘Now that my shameful secret is out, Clara,’ she said, ‘I have nothing to hide. Tony and I are on firmer ground than ever.’ Makes ya sick, doesn’t it, Midnight?”

“Meow (extremely frustrating).”

“But we’re not giving up, are we?”

“Meow (not for a minute).”

Tony was in a miserable mood by the time he reached Pittsburgh, and having to drive around downtown for almost a half hour to find a vacancy in a parking garage only added to his misery. Dejectedly walking toward the toy store, he told himself that the way his luck had been going the store would be all out of the mouse, the vital element in his plan.

He was lucky.

“You’re lucky,” the salesman told him, “this is the last one, and we don’t figure on being able to get any more.” The store didn’t want any more. It was sick of the technological miracle creature. One complaint after another (“The damn thing keeps running amok.”). Of course the salesman didn’t tell Tony that.

The toy store was a short distance from Point State Park, and not wanting to get back to Hillsdale yet, Tony walked down to the park, found a shady bench. It was a beautiful day. There were dozens of flowerbeds, a huge fountain sent water high in the air, the day was sunny, breezy, perfect. People were in a happy mood, a group of school-children — fourth graders, Tony guessed — in the charge of two teachers, were staring in fascination at the point where the Monongahela and the Allegheny join to form the mighty Ohio.

Suddenly, with something that sounded like a choked sob, Tony remembered fourth grade at St. John the Baptist’s in Hoboken and Sister Anastasia — she taught geography, history, religion, penmanship — telling the kids that the French and Indian War had begun at the Forks of the Ohio, at “what is now Pittsburgh.”

Geez, he thought, those were happy times, and I didn’t know it. We could hardly wait for recess. Forty-five minutes later, still steeped in gloom, he walked to the garage, got the car, drove to Hillsdale, skipping lunch. He felt bad enough as it was.

The next few days were agonizing ones for Tony. He desperately needed to make enough trial runs with the mouse to be certain that nothing could go wrong, but it wasn’t until early Friday afternoon that an opportunity came. The nursing home where Clara’s mother-in-law had been for seven years phoned. She had been rushed to the hospital. It looked bad. Bunny hurried Clara into the car, drove her to the hospital, remained with her.

Tony went into action. He retrieved the box containing the mouse and the remote from behind Fauna of Ashford County in the den, hurried upstairs, opened the sliding glass door, stood in the hall looking at the safety grating, visualizing the scheme. It was hot on the balcony, a wave of heat rushed into the hall. A cold chill wove up and down Tony’s spine. Why did I ever start to gamble, he moaned.

The plan, it would be sunset, Bunny alone on the balcony, he having made some excuse (“I have to get something from the den, Bunny; stay here, I’ll be right back.”). That’d be the easy part. The mouse had to work perfectly, running onto the balcony, squeaking menacingly, attacking Bunny, pushing her against the grating, her screams bringing Nib-nose Hogan from her apartment where she usually was around sunset. But it’d be too late for Bunny.

Tony, of course, would be partway down the stairs, nowhere near the balcony. Over would go grating, Bunny, mouse. Tony would rush outside, grab the mouse to dispose of later. He didn’t want to think how he was going to feel seeing Bunny dead among the rocks. Nibnose would have to testify (It’ll break her heart, Tony told himself) that he was downstairs when the horrible accident happened.

He had read the instructions a dozen times. The mouse could be controlled from as far away as one hundred yards, and the person operating the remote (it looked exactly like a TV remote; had five buttons, START, STRAIGHT, RIGHT, LEFT, STOP) did not have to be within sight of the mouse.

He was ready. He stood at the top of the stairway, put the mouse down, was about to press START when he suddenly thought of something.

“That cat. Geez, I nearly fouled up before I got started.”

He went down the hall, opened the door leading to the third floor apartment. Midnight stood on the top step, hackles raised, eyes blazing, hissing. “Okay, buster,” Tony told him, “I’ll take care of you.”

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.

“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.

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?

Tonight was a special night for Midnight. It was Susan’s turn. She was the neighborhood femme fatale feline who, several years back, seemed to indicate to frenzied Midnight that the outlook was favorable. But when the poor sap made his move, Susan scathingly rejected him. (“Ha, I might have known. You’re just like all the rest, you animal.”) It was different now. Midnight, who hadn’t meowed since that fateful day in 1994 was the cat’s meow with Susan.

As Clara got up from the dressing table, quite pleased with her appearance, she suddenly thought of something. You know, it was kinda scary the ways things worked out, made you wonder if a higher authority wasn’t pulling the strings.

Then Midnight — dreaming happily — uttered his uncatlike sound. Clara smiled. Use your common sense, woman. Why in heaven’s name would a higher authority waste time here in rundown little Hillsdale, worrying about a dumb animal swallowing a crazy thingamajig, when things like El Niño is raising hell all over the world?

Things just happen. Life’s more harum-scarum than nice and tidy; always has been, always will be. Aristotle couldn’t have said it any better.