[Celebrity Murder Case 02] - The Alfred Hitchcock Murder Case

by George Baxt

  Hans Meyer smiled. “I remember that tune!”

  “Alma doesn’t let me forget it. It continues to haunt us both after all these years. Alma’s convinced it had some significance. You know, when Alma said to Rosie Wagner before her father was murdered that she wished it had words, Rosie said very mysteriously, ‘Perhaps it does have words,’ or something like that. Now let’s stop dwelling on the past because you’ll have to rehash all this for Alma and you can do that while I try to solve my way out of the enigma of this disappointing script my writers have handed me.”

  “This part you think might be right for me…”

  “Doctor Hartz. A right proper villain. Trouble is, as he’s written here, he has no charm. I like my villains to be charming. I like the audience to like them. So what do the writers tell me when I tell them Dr. Hartz has no charm? They tell me to hire a charming actor.”

  “I can be very charming, Hitch.”

  “I know, Hans. I know. I’m considering you very seriously. If this doesn’t work, I’ll see what I can do to help you here.” He sighed a very deep and very heavy sigh. “There are so many refugees in London now looking for work in films. Half come from Germany and the other half are here because they’re washed up in Hollywood. Conrad Veidt wants the part. Paul Lukas wants the part. And the actor’s union is after me to hire a Briton for the part. Life can be so difficult.”

  Edgar the chauffeur crowed ecstatically. “She’s blown a tire! The bloody menace has blown a tire!”

  Ahead, they saw Nancy Adair struggling to change a tire. Hitchcock rolled down his window and shouted as they drove past her, “Hire a horse!”

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the cottage. The chauffeur, anxious to return to his wife in London, refused refreshment and left. Alma kissed Hitchcock as he led Hans Meyer into the pretty sitting room. Hitchcock asked her, “And do you remember this young man? He’s eleven years older, minus his pencil-thin mustache, there are now some distinguishing shades of gray at the temples, and he’s on the run from the Nazis!”

  Alma threw up her hands and laughed. “The mountain climber! I can’t for the life of me remember your name, but you’re the mountain climber!”

  “Hans Meyer,” he told her and they embraced warmly.

  “What a nice surprise! Hitch, fix the drinks. Dinner will be a while yet, I’m having a problem with the sweet.”

  “Oh, no sweet for me!” said Hitchcock, “I’m starting a diet.”

  “Catch me, Hans!” cried Alma, “I’m about to faint!”

  Two hours later, after dinner, they sat in the sitting room with coffee and brandy. Over dinner, Meyer had rehashed everything he had told Hitchcock in the car, holding Alma engrossed. Now she asked him, “But what about your family? It must be awful leaving them behind. My goodness, we don’t even know if you’re married. Are you?”

  “I’m a free man,” said Hans. “I was orphaned when I was a young boy and raised by my mother’s family. They’ve left Germany for Austria, so they’re quite safe.”

  “Well, then, we must try to do something for you here,” said Alma, “mustn’t we, Hitch?”

  “We shall do our best. More brandy?” Meyer held out his snifter, and Hitchcock poured generously.

  “By the way, Hitch. Some freelance journalist named Nancy Adair has called here several times to try to set up an interview with you. I told her to call the studio.…”

  “She has, and I have no time for her. Tell her to stop phoning here. Bloody nuisances, journalists—except, of course, when you need them.”

  The phone rang.

  Alma’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s her again…”

  “Well, I’m not answering the phone,” said Hitchcock as he poured himself a refill.

  “Perhaps it would help if I took the call?” volunteered Hans.

  “Oh, by all means!” said Alma with a smile of delight. “Of course it might be Patricia, but you go right ahead.”

  Hans crossed to the phone. “Yes?”

  “Could I please speak to Mr. Hitchcock? My name is Nancy Adair.…”

  “Well, Miss Adair…” Hitchcock and his wife wearily exchanged a look. “… he is not available now.”

  While Hans Meyer handled Nancy Adair, Alma asked Hitchcock, “I think we should ask Hans to spend the night. Then he could go back into London with you in the morning.”

  “If it won’t inconvenience you, darling.”

  “Oh, not at all, and I’d love to continue nattering. There’s so much more I want to know about what’s going on over there.” She became suddenly grave. “Those lovely people we worked with in Munich. I wonder what’s become of them.”

  Hans returned and overheard Alma. “A lot of them are now very loyal Nazis.” Alma’s shoulders sagged. “Miss Adair is in the village.”

  “Oh God!” cried Hitchcock.

  “She wanted to come by, but I discouraged her.”

  “Bless you, dear Hans,” said Alma. “And now, we think you should spend the night, unless you have pressing business back in London. Then we could arrange for a taxi from the village, but the expense is prohibitive. Otherwise, you can drive into town in the morning with Hitch. Edgar usually picks him up around nine. Do stay, I’d love so to hear more about what’s—”

  The phone rang.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Hitchcock, “I simply don’t believe it. If it’s that woman again…” He waved the others back as Alma and Hans made a move to the phone. “I’ll take it!” He struggled out of his comfortable chair and lumbered across the room to the phone. “Who is it?” he barked.

  “Herr Hitchcock?” The voice at the other end was a man’s and very faint.

  “This is Hitchcock here. Who is this, please? I can barely understand you. Could you speak up, please?” He listened.

  “Herr Hitchcock, this is Fredrick Regner.” He seemed to be speaking with an effort. “Do you remember me? Munich? The Emelka Studios? I gave you a script to read…”

  “Which I did not like! Freddy Regner, how the hell are you?”

  “Freddy Regner!” cried Alma. “It’s not really Freddy!” Hans Meyer stared at Hitchcock and sipped his brandy.

  “It’s really Freddy,” Hitchcock said to Alma in a droll voice. Into the mouthpiece he said, “That was Alma to ask if it’s really Freddy. How are you, Freddy? Where are you? Are you well?”

  “I’m in London. I stay with a friend.”

  “We would like to see you as soon as possible. How can we arrange it?”

  “Herr Hitchcock, I am not well. You see, I had a very bad time in Germany.”

  “How awful, Freddy.”

  “And getting out was not easy for me. But now I am here, and I hear you have this cottage in the country, and when there is no reply from your flat in London, I phone you here. Is this all right?”

  “Of course it is. Where is this you’re staying? If you’re ill, I’ll come to see you.”

  “I have a script for you, Herr Hitchcock.”

  “Not the same one you gave me eleven years ago,” Hitchcock joked.

  “I think you will find this one very interesting. I wish to send it to you now. Tonight.”

  “But if you’re ill…”

  “My friend, Martin Mueller, with whom I stay, he will bring it to you. If this is all right, please, I will put Martin on the phone and you will give him the directions.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you will read the script right away?” There was no escaping the urgency in Regner’s voice. “It is very important you read it right away. You see, it deals with Munich. When we were in Munich. The murders.”

  “How marvelous! Alma and I have been trying to do one of our own, but we’ve had no luck. Alma, darling! Freddy’s done a script about the murders in Munich!”

  “How marvelous!”

  Hans Meyer smiled at Alma, and they listened as Hitchcock gave simple instructions to Martin Mueller. Then Regner came back on the phone for some final word.

>   “Herr Hitchcock. You must be very careful. The script must not fall into the wrong hands. There are many dangerous people here in London who are friendly to the Nazis, and the script is a danger to them. Do you understand me, Herr Hitchcock. Do you? Do you understand?”

  “I do. I most certainly do. Do you have a doctor looking after you?” But the line had gone dead. Hitchcock stared at the phone, and then hung up the receiver. “Most mysterious. Most mysterious indeed. Imagine Freddy Regner after all these years. You knew Freddy, didn’t you, Hans?”

  “Oh, many years ago at the studio. But we were merely acquainted. He sends you this script with his friend?”

  “Yes. Someone named Martin Mueller. Does that ring a bell, Hans?”

  “Mueller is a very common name in Germany. Like Jones or Smith here.”

  “Here, Hans, Smith is Smythe.” said Alma, “and Jones never stands alone. It is usually combined with a hyphen and a pretentious other surname, like Jones hyphen Hepplewhite. Something like that.”

  Back in his chair and warming his snifter of brandy between the palms of his hand, Hitchcock was preoccupied. “Is something wrong, darling?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s what I’m puzzling.” He repeated Regner’s words of warning.

  “How melodramatic, Hitch,” said Alma. “It’s like a scene out of one of our movies.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it reminded me of Lucie Mannheim’s warning to Robert Donat in The Thirty-Nine Steps when she staggers into his bedroom with the knife in her back. “

  Hans Meyer spoke. “If I’m to spend the night, I must tell my friend in London so he won’t worry when I don’t return. May I, please?”

  “You have to jiggle the hook for the village operator,” said Alma, “and then she’ll put you through.” Hans went to the phone, and Alma said to Hitchcock, “Imagine that. He’s written a script about the Munich murders. Poor Detective Farber. How he would have loved to have read it.” Hitchcock said nothing.

  La-la-la-la… la-la-la…

  “I wonder if there’s something about that in the script?” Hitchcock said.

  Six

  Martin Mueller was a small man with big problems. The antiquated British Ford he was driving was no match for the rutted road leading to the Hitchcock cottage. He’d had little previous experience driving in the British countryside; in fact, he had little previous experience driving in Britain. Twice he almost collided with cars coming at him from the opposite direction because he kept forgetting the British drove on the left-hand side of the road. The British—oh, these British, hospitable, yes, but friendly, no. Would he ever come to accept tepid beer and sausages that were composed largely of oatmeal? And the wireless. The BBC. All that delicate music suitable for tea dancing. And the language, the peculiar language. Boiled sweets meant hard candy. A kip was a bed for the night and not an abbreviation for a herring. And a butcher’s wasn’t a place to buy meat, it was cockney slang for having a look at something. (“Butcher’s hook, have a look, get it, Martin?”, “Nein, I don’t.”)

  There was a fine drizzle, and the metronomic beat of the windshield wiper was making him sleepy. He saw a cottage ahead and referred to the directions Hitchcock had dictated. That had to be the place. It was ablaze with light, and it was after midnight; that must be Hitchcock waiting up for him. He accelerated and pressed on. As he reached the driveway to the cottage, he passed a parked car that seemed to be unoccupied. He drove a few feet into the driveway and parked. He switched off his headlights and then picked up Regner’s manuscript, which was in a sealed envelope on the adjoining seat. To protect it from the rain, he put it inside his jacket and held his hand tightly around the manuscript. He got out of the car, shut the door, and hurried up the driveway, which was lined with beautifully trimmed hedges. He heard nothing but the falling of the rain.

  If this wasn’t the Hitchcock’s cottage, he had no idea what to do next except phone Regner in London for new instructions. This would make Freddy angry. It would mean Freddy would have to phone Hitchcock again, feigning illness and asking for fresh instructions. He’d have to phone Mueller back at whatever kiosk Mueller would be fortunate in locating in this desolate area. He heard the piano. The melody. Rudolf Wagner’s melody. This is it. I’m here. His face brightened.

  Then the knife was plunged into his back.

  Mueller gasped as he stumbled forward. The blade was so sharp, he almost didn’t feel it. But he felt the hands tearing at his arms, tearing at the jacket. This made him angry.

  It was a new jacket. He had saved to buy it for months. Now there would be a rent in the back where the blade penetrated, and not even a master tailor would be able to disguise the tear. Martin scrabbled together a fistful of dirt and pebbles and rolled over on his side, now beginning to feel the pain, and threw the dirt and pebbles into his assailant’s face. Whoever it was, he wore a balaclava on his head protecting everything but the eyes, the vulnerable eyes. The assassin cried out in pain and stumbled backward. With a Herculean effort, Martin Mueller struggled to his feet and, weakly crying Hitchcock’s name, reached the front door and rang the bell. He heard his assassin curse and run in the opposite direction.

  At the sound of the doorbell, Almas hands froze above the keyboard. Hitchcock said, “I’ll answer the door,” and waddled past Hans Meyer, who stifled a yawn. The Hitchcocks had urged him to go to bed over an hour ago, but he insisted on staying up and sharing their vigil. Hitchcock opened the door, and Martin Mueller fell into his arms. Hitchcock shouted for help. Alma and Hans came running and helped carry Mueller into the house.

  “Inside my jacket,” gasped the dying man, “in my jacket.” Hans Meyer moved toward the jacket, but Hitchcock was already fumbling with the zipper.

  “Oh, my God,” said Alma, her face pale and drained of blood, “that knife! It’s been plunged in to the hilt! Hans! Get the operator! Tell her to send a doctor and the police! Hurry!” Meyer hurried to the telephone.

  Hitchcock removed the envelope from inside the jacket and flung it onto the couch. He didn’t know what to do with Mueller and decided it was best to leave him lying prone on the carpet near the fireplace. He knew it was dangerous to try to remove the knife without medical knowledge and tried his best to comfort the man. Mueller’s lips were moving, but no sound emerged. Meyer was shouting into the telephone, and Alma had poured a brandy and was holding the glass to Mueller’s lips. He shook his head with an effort, too weak to accept the liquor. Alma placed the glass on the coffee table and fought back tears. He was such a young man, so small and so vulnerable, and the jacket seemed to be new; it had that wonderful leathery smell of a newly bought wind-breaker. He’s probably not yet thirty, thought Alma, and saw a look of fear in Mueller’s eyes as he stared at something happening behind her. She turned and saw Hans Meyer lifting the envelope from the couch. Instinctively, Alma crossed to Meyer and said, “Thank you, Hans. I’ll take that.”

  Hans Meyer handed her the envelope and, clutching it to her bosom, Alma returned to Hitchcock’s side. Hitchcock was gently pressing the man for Freddy Regner’s phone number and address, but Mueller’s eyes were closed and his ears unheeding. Hitchcock felt with his fingers gently at the base of the man’s neck. There was no pulse beat. Hitchcock sat back on the carpet. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Your poor carpet,” said Hans Meyer, “it’s soaked with blood. I’m afraid it’s ruined.”

  Alma looked up at him and thought, what a strange observation at this tragic moment. “The carpet is replaceable,” said Alma in a shaking voice, “the man isn’t.” From somewhere out in the road she heard a motor revving and then the sound of a car driving off with a screeching of tires. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and although she could hear the car driving off, she could see nothing.

  “Thank God Patricia isn’t here,” said Hitchcock. He had risen and gone to Alma at the window and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “I just heard a car drive off. Do you suppose…” Hitchco
ck read her mind. “You’ll tell the police.” As if on cue, in the distance they could here the shrieking of the on-off, on-off of the police siren.

  “I suppose that’ll be the sheriff,” said Alma.

  Hitchcock groaned. “I hope he’s brought a translator. I can never understand a word he says. Come on, we need brandy. It isn’t every night we have a murdered man falling into our arms. Here. I’ll take that.” He took the envelope from Alma, went to his desk, opened the center drawer, and, after placing the envelope inside, locked the drawer and pocketed the key. “Brandy, Hans? You might as well. I’m afraid we’re in for a long session with the local police. Everything they know they’ve gleaned from watching Hollywood movies; we must be very patient with them.”

  Five minutes later, Peregrine Hunt, the village sheriff, arrived with his two constables, who were callow youths with a shared IQ, in Hitchcock’s opinion, of less than thirty. Peregrine’s wife was the local postmistress and telephone operator. Between them, they ruled and terrorized their small world. The Hitchcocks called them the Lunts. Peregrine’s false teeth were ill-fitting, and he was frequently inarticulate. The Hitchcocks, however, had more or less learned to unscramble him on the frequent occasions when they came across him shopping in the village. As the local celebrity, Hitchcock suspected Peregrine lay in ambush waiting to attack the director and engage him in conversation. Peregrine’s wife, who had the strange name of Effinasia (which Alma pronounced “Euthanasia” and when with the woman sometimes wished to commit), was a movie buff and could recite great gobs of dialogue from almost all of Hitchcock’s talkies, a reputation recently overshadowed by her devastating impersonation of Mae West at a local charity ball. In the policemen’s wake arrived the local doctor, Oliver Grundle, whom Alma had described, when he was first introduced to her several years earlier, as belonging in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He was a spare, angular man, certainly past fifty, and given to saying “oh my” and “tsk tsk” and prescribing aspirin and strong tea for everything from influenza to tuberculosis. When he saw the body he tsk tsk’d, said, “Oh my,” and then knelt at Mueller’s side.