Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007

He sympathized on the matter of the transverse braces.

“A mistake anybody might make, my dear Mr. Melchett,” he said. “You must not blame yourself.”

And he promised to speak to Mr. Chakrabahti as soon as possible.

The next day, a heavy package arrived. I opened it with trembling fingers. This was surely the missing couplings. But no. Inside I found a small electric motor and a filter. On examining the paperwork that accompanied them, I found that these objects were replacement parts for the vacuum cleaner of a Mrs. Patel in Peshawar.

I rang Mr. Patel immediately.

“Those bungling fools,” he said with some irritation. “You see the sort of thing that we are up against, Mr. Melchett? Incompetence abounds. Silliness is rife. Small wonder that economies totter and ready cash is in short supply.”

I did not envy Mr. Chakrabahti. I had the impression that Mr. Patel was going to insert another flea in his ear.

I got on with the construction. Now that I had the main cage assembled, it seemed that it would all be plain sailing. Once, that is, I had the couplings and the transverse braces to hand. But I could get on with mounting the sliding weights in their cages and attaching their cables and installing the sliding track support members and the sliding track itself. This was child’s play. The sliding track body support came next. This looked something like an old-style metal tractor seat with an extended backrest and may well have been, for all I know. The next part was more complicated. The motor had to be connected to the sliding track drive bar and to the vibrating belt by a system of geared sprockets and cams and what looked like a motorcycle chain. Whether it was or not, I shall never know. This subassembly alone took up three pages of the booklet.

That went surprisingly well, at the slight cost of some slight mangling of my fingers between chain and sprockets. I went upstairs to have a cup of tea and put my fingers in cold water. I had found during the day that I was sweating excessively and talking to myself, so I made myself a refreshing glass of liver salts to cool my blood down.

The following day a large package arrived. At long last! My couplings and my replacement transverse braces. The courier service also took away with them the replacement parts for Mrs. Patel. I mean, of course, for the vacuum cleaner of Mrs. Patel, not for Mrs. Patel herself, that would be foolish talk.

I went straightaway to the basement, where I set to work installing the transverse cross braces and the right-angle couplings. I stood back when I had finished. I looked upon my work and found it good. The Appliance gleamed and glowered and glowed with chrome, iron, and teak. It was a magnificent piece of work. It looked immensely powerful and purposeful, squatting there, crouching almost, ready to spring. I decided that when Petunia saw it, she would not be able to restrain herself from leaping into it and setting it in motion.

All that remained was to fix what the instructions called the overhead handly-bar on the tracking bar handly-bar fixing slots to secure it with the handly-bar column locking pins and then to attach the weight cables to the large diameter wheel, which was turned by the hand pedals or handlys. I looked around the basement, there were no parts left. Everything was in place.

I could not resist it. I switched on the current at the door. The electricity hummed a little. I walked over to The Appliance. The seat beckoned. I stepped inside the framework and sat down on the seat. I fastened the vibrating belt round my waist. I put my hands up and took hold of the handly-bar grips and turned experimentally. As each hand went forward and round in turn, the weights behind me rose and fell. This was very good. I put my feet on the pedals and pedaled. The handly-bar had rubber grips. Ah. If I took those off, then Petunia’s hand would be in contact with bare metal. And her bottom would be in contact with the metal seat, protected only by a thin layer of cotton shorts. That was it, of course. And if the motor cabling was carelessly connected just so she would know nothing about it. Genius.

I mimed the result, sticking out my arms and legs and throwing my head sideways. I giggled. This would be so easy. My left elbow struck the red button on the casing of the motor, which immediately came to life. The chain clacked around on its gearing, the seat beneath me slid back and forth with an easy motion. The vibrating belt thrummed around my abdomen. I was entranced. The whole appliance was trembling like a dog eager for the chase. I turned the handly-bar and the weights rose and fell in their cages, the seat slid back and forth, pulling me against the seat belt anchored to the transverse braces behind me. I pedaled and pedaled and turned and turned the handly-bar.

Everything worked! The Some Assembly had been a success. I thumbed my nose mentally at my mother, may she rest in peace.

The rhythmic movements of The Appliance must have lulled me into a light doze for a few minutes because I suddenly snapped open my eyes. Something was not as it should be. There was a sharp rattle. Then there was another. I looked up. The overhead tracking brace swivel locking pin, which I had improvised with a two-inch nail was worming its way out. As I watched, it eased all the way out and fell to the floor. The swivel then, true to its name, swiveled, which allowed the end of the tracking brace to detach itself from the tracking brace bracket.