by George Baxt
“He’s dead,” said the doctor, and Hitchcock restrained from congratulating him. “Stabbed in the back,” the doctor continued, and Hitchcock refilled his brandy snifter. “Murdered,” the doctor said. “Nothing much I can do here except have him removed to the morgue.” He thought for a moment. “We don’t have a morgue.” Hitchcock briefly played with suggesting the body be placed on display in the window of the general store but then decided frivolity would only add to the doctor’s confusion.
“We’ll have to take him into Guildford,” said Peregrine Hunt with almost admirable authority. He turned to one of his underlings and said, “Ring Effinasia and tell her to send the coal wagon.” That wasn’t exactly what it sounded like, but the young man was studying decoding in his spare time and was able to convey the order over the phone to Mrs. Hunt, who usually closed the switchboard down at one A.M. but in a police emergency gallantly stood by her post like the captain of a sinking ship.
“Coal wagon’s coming,” said the young man with a big smile for everyone that largely went unnoticed.
“Now then, Mr. Hitchcock, what can you tell me about the deceased and how he came to be lying on your carpet with a knife in his back?” Peregrine produced a pencil and notebook, and for a brief instant, Alma hungered for the presence of the late, urbane German detective, Wilhelm Farber.
The testimonies of the Hitchcocks and their guest were brief and to the point. They told the sheriff the whole story from Regner’s phone call to the delivery of the envelope by the murdered man. Hitchcock could see Peregrine Hunt knew he was in over his head and tactfully suggested Scotland Yard be notified and asked to participate. While the sheriff procrastinated before coming to a decision, Dr. Grundle helped himself to a shot of gin and wandered around the room admiring the prints with which Alma had decorated the walls. By the time the coal wagon arrived, Peregrine Hunt had asked his wife to connect him with Scotland Yard, and Hitchcock, foreseeing a long night ahead of them, suggested to Alma a large pot of coffee and some sandwiches would be in order. Hans Meyer accompanied Alma to the kitchen, and she was grateful for the assistance he had volunteered.
Hitchcock took a seat at his desk, aching to unlock the top drawer and have a look at the manuscript. Peregrine Hunt had suggested they cover the corpse with a sheet, and Hitchcock directed one of Hunt’s young men to the hall cupboard at the head of the stairs. He was too weary to undertake the assignment himself. While waiting for the men from Scotland Yard to arrive, Hitchcock reran in his mind as many of the incidents that he could recall of the murders in Munich. Then he replayed his mysterious conversation of a few hours ago with Fredrick Regner. Alma and Hans Meyer entered with trays of coffee and sandwiches, and Hitchcock said, “Now where in the hell do we find Fredrick Regner?”
“Regner. Fredrick Regner.” Detective Superintendent Michael Jennings of New Scotland Yard was a twelve-year veteran of the force and a man begrudgingly admired and respected by his peers. He was a no-nonsense police officer who had divorced his wife two years after joining the force when he found her constant complaints about his line of work prevented him from concentrating fully on his job. He later heard she’d left England and worked as a nurse in a leper colony in Hawaii. In a crowd, Jennings became every - man, unrecognizable. This helped make him a superior asset in an investigation. Hitchcock admired his brisk efficiency as he took statements from the Hitchcocks and Hans Meyer and then turned his attention to locating Fredrick Regner. Til contact Immigration first thing in the morning. They’ll have to have a record of him. Can’t enter the country without registering, you know.” He once again returned to the place on the carpet where Martin Mueller’s body had lain, the corpse long since having been removed by coal wagon to the morgue in Guildford. He stared down with such intensity, Hitchcock wondered if he expected to find some answers written there. Another Scotland Yard officer entered the house and gently closed the door behind him, grateful that the rain had stopped and hungry for the warmth of the bed he shared with his recently acquired wife.
“There’s nothing much of use in the victim’s car, sir.” His name was Peter Dowerty, and he had just recently been assigned to Detective Superintendent Jennings’ team. Jennings liked him, but would never tell him that.
“Well, tell me what you found, then we’ll see if there’s nothing much of use.”
Alma and Hans had moved through the room with their trays of refreshment, and sandwiches and mugs of coffee disappeared so rapidly that Alma was reminded of the plague of locusts sent to devastate the persecutors of the Israelites.
Peter Dowerty cleared his throat and told his superior officer he’d found a page of directions on the seat next to the driver’s, or at least he assumed that’s what it was, as he recognized English place names, but everything else was printed in a foreign language he deduced was probably German. There was a map of London and vicinities in the driver’s compartment, along with a bar of chocolate and a half-eaten cheese sandwich. “Cheddar,” said Dowerty and Alma fell in love with him.
“No registration?” asked Jennings gently.
“Here, sir.” Dowerty handed Jennings the registration. Jennings read aloud in a soft, almost cultured voice, “Martin Mueller, age twenty-eight, single, Caucasian male, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, residing at eight-oh-oh-three Liverpool Road, London. Well, we’ll have a look into that right now. Dowerty, get on to Phone Directory in London and see if there’s a listing for Mueller.” Dowerty obeyed instructions efficiently. There was no listing for Martin Mueller at eight-oh-oh-three Liverpool Road. “I thought not,” said Jennings almost smugly, “house numbers on Liverpool Road don’t run into four digits.’
Hans Meyer yawned and then apologized for yawning, and Jennings told him he could go to bed if he liked, inasmuch as Jennings had his statement and could see little else that he might add to the investigation. “Now, Mr. Hitchcock…
“Yes?” Hitchcock drew out the word as though he were pulling on a string of chewing gum. Actually, he was chewing on a ham sandwich and wondered why Alma had forgotten to provide mustard.
“This manuscript the man brought you, do you suppose it might have some bearing on the murder? I mean, let’s look upon this carefully. An old acquaintance phones and asks you to read a scenario. It can’t wait until tomorrow or be sent through the post, but it must be brought to you tonight. And “—he referred to his notes—” he warns you there would be danger if it falls into the wrong hands. Now who could the wrong hands belong to?”
“Probably some other director,” replied Hitchcock with equanimity.
“Could I have a look at this manuscript?”
“Why, certainly.” He caught Almas eye in her reflection in the mirror that hung over the desk. He also saw past her to Hans Meyer at the foot of the staircase, who was about to ascend, and then, deciding not to, turned to observe the scene between Hitchcock and Jennings. Hitchcock unlocked the drawer, removed the envelope, and then slit the envelope flap with the desk knife. He removed the manuscript, which was bound in a purple cover. Hitchcock made a face.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Jennings.
“I loathe the color purple. I find it vulgar. It puts me in mind of purple pasts and purple rages and a dreadful movie I once saw called Riders of the Purple Sage, but we mustn’t let me digress. This manuscript is terribly thin for a film script. Do you mind if I have a look first? After all,” he said with his trademark enigmatic smile, “it was meant for me.”
“By all means,” said Jennings with admirable patience. It was obvious, at least to Alma, that the man wanted to complete his investigation and get back to headquarters and instigate a wider operation.
Hitchcock announced, “It has no title.” He turned a page. “And it is not a scenario at all. It is a treatment for a proposed scenario. I assume you’ve had some experience with movie jargon, Mr. Jennings?”
“Some.”
Hitchcock handed him the script. “You have a look. It means nothing to me. Don’t let us keep
you up, Hans. I think there’s very little of interest here.”
Hans took the hint and went upstairs. Jennings was flipping pages and then said, “There’s a musical notation here.”
“Oh, really?” said Hitchcock blithely. “I once directed a musical, Waltzes from Vienna. It was a disaster. It was neither Viennese nor did it waltz very well.”
Jennings returned the script to Hitchcock. “I’m afraid what little I’ve scanned means nothing to me. Murders in Munich, a disappearing girl…” Alma thought her breath would stop. “And this melody composed by the… am I correct? Is there such a thing as an atmosphere musician?”
“There was, back in the days of silent movies. It was supposed to help put the actors into the mood to emote. On occasion it was effective.”
“I see. One last question, and then I’ll let you get to bed. I suppose we could all use some sleep.” Peregrine Hunt was already asleep sitting upright on the couch. The doctor had long since departed, and Hunt’s callow assistants sat near the door to the kitchen with expressions of total disinterest. Jennings was addressing Alma. “You’re positive you didn’t see the car you heard driving away shortly after the murder?”
“Heavens, no. I heard it from a distance, obviously out on the road somewhere, and besides, the hedges lining our driveway are quite tall. It’s impossible to see over them.”
“Only if you stand on the top rung of a ladder,” advised Hitchcock. Jennings could tell it was time to end his investigation for the moment. There was no escaping the underlined irritation in Hitchcock’s voice, and it was now almost four in the morning. There’d be little sleep for any of them.
A few minutes later, as Jennings and his two assistants got into their official car, with Dowerty taking the wheel, Jennings asked, “Could you find a decent tire print of the car Mrs. Hitchcock heard?” The third man, Angus McKellin, a dour Scotsman who had made his way to London from Glasgow as a teenager, spoke up:
“It was all scuffled and useless, sir. The car had been parked on a stretch of grass. I could try again if you like.”
“No point in bothering,” said Jennings, as Dowerty drove out of the driveway, “it was probably a hire car. Even if we trace it, we’ll find a false name and driver’s license.” McKellin said cheerfully, “Mrs. Hitchcock is a bonny woman, don’t you think, Chief?”
Chief was thinking, but not about Alma Hitchcock. His mind was on Fredrick Regner’s manuscript. He had seen enough to convince him a more thorough investigation of the material was called for, but he did not wish to arouse the Hitchcocks’ suspicion. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. A call to Sir Arthur Willing would have to wait for a few more hours. The irascible old gent would never tolerate the interruption of his beauty sleep.
Hitchcock and Alma were in the kitchen, seated next to each other at the table, hungrily reading the manuscript. “The typewriting is a disaster,” commented Hitchcock. Alma was too absorbed to comment. She read faster than Hitchcock and prodded him to hurry it up a bit. “Stop rushing me,” said Hitchcock testily. “This has to be read with great care.”
Half an hour later he sat back and rubbed his eyes. Alma’s head rested in the palm of her hand, her elbow propped up on the table. “Well, my beloved, what do we make of it?”
“It’s quite obvious, Hitch. We’re in the midst of an espionage intrigue. We’ve been smack in the middle of it beginning with the murders in Munich. And it’s quite obvious the protagonists in the London section, the film director and his wife, are you and I.”
“How terribly unpleasant. In this story”—he tapped an index finger on the manuscript—“I murder someone, you’re kidnapped, and I flee in fear of the police and go on this long dangerous search throughout the countryside for the head of the spy ring. We already did that one in The Thirty-Nine Steps!”
“And the melody’s there. La-la-la-la… la-la-la…” She clapped her hands together. “I’ll bet it does have words. You remember, Rosie Wagner said perhaps it does have words; well, I’ll bet you a shilling will get you a pound it’s in the notations. Let’s go to the piano.” With alacrity, Hitchcock picked up the manuscript and followed Alma to the piano, where she seated herself. She took the manuscript and flipped the pages until she found the musical notations. She sent Hitchcock to the desk to find a pencil, and he grimaced at the bloodstained carpet. Once Alma was in possession of the pencil, she softly played the notes so as not to awaken Hans Meyer, whose room was above them. She studied what she had written and then shrugged with frustration. “Just notes. Do mi fa sol, sol fa sol… it means nothing to me.”
“We need some sleep. We’re all fuzzy now. There’s too much to think about and we must think about this clearly.”
“Do you think we’ll find Freddy Regner?”
“What makes you think we won’t?”
“I suppose Mr. Jennings will call all the German refugee organizations in search of a lead, but still, but still…”
“But still what?”
“I think Freddy Regner will be found when he bloody well wishes to be found.” She thought for a moment and then said, darkly, “Hitch? Do you suppose we’ve been set up?”
“Set up as what?”
“I was just remembering. When we were in Munich after we completed shooting on The Pleasure Garden.”
“Well, what about it?”
“You were shouting over the phone to Mickey Balcon in London how desperate we were for fresh funds. And he told you then someone’d been around from Whitehall asking questions about us.” Hitch was no longer sleepy.
“Yes, I remember. I’ve never forgotten.” Alma followed him back to the kitchen. Hitchcock almost forgot the rnanuscript, but Alma reminded him and he reclaimed it from the piano. In the kitchen, Alma plugged in the teakettle and set out two mugs. Through the window, the first rays of dawn were appearing, but neither Hitchcock nor Alma entertained thoughts of getting some rest. Their adrenaline was hyperactive.
“Hitch. In The Lady Vanishes…”
His eyes widened. “The little old lady who disappears! She teaches the two young people a melody she’s learned in the mountain inn where they were all staying. And at the end of the story, the melody turns out to be a secret code. Now how the hell do you suppose eleven years ago in Munich some spy foresaw that I’d be using a coded melody in a film I hope to be shooting a few months from now?”
“The answer is terribly obvious. Nobody foresaw any such thing. It’s a coincidence. Coded melodies have appeared in several spy films made by the Americans. There was that awful one with Constance Bennett…”
“I wonder if she’d be right for The Lady Vanishes. She’s shooting here at Gaumont-British some thriller with Oscar Homolka and…”
“Hitch! We’ve got to get that melody decoded.”
“Not so fast, my girl. Not so fast.” The kettle whistled and Hitch watched distractedly as Alma prepared their tea. “Tomorrow morning, I suggest we move back to the flat in London.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s so beautiful here.”
“Beautiful? There’s a miserably bloodstained carpet in the next room. I had a murdered man fall into my arms. We’re delivered a mysterious manuscript that predicts me as a murderer and you as a kidnap victim, and you want to sit in the country and admire the beauties of nature. Why, my dear Alma, whatever became of your terribly British sporting instinct? My dear, if we are being set up, I say we must cooperate.” He held up the manuscript. “You know what a bloody awful time we have finding some good filmable material. Well, here’s a potential right here in my hand. But we must go about this carefully, very carefully. We have the welfare of our daughter to consider.”
“Oh God!” cried Alma,
“What? What is it?”
“I’ve just thought of that dreadfully persistent Nancy Adair person! If that poor creature only knew what went on here and she missed it all, I think she’d slit her wrists!”
“And not a moment too soon,” said Hitchcock, as he
lifted his mug of tea and sipped.
The door opened and Hans Meyer poked his head in. “Good morning!” Startled by his sudden appearance, Alma cried out.
“I’m so sorry if I startled you!”
“Oh, my God, Hans,” cried Alma, “I’d forgotten completely about you.”
“I didn’t,” said Hitchcock softly, and took another sip of tea.
Seven
It pleased Sir Arthur enormously when running into old friends he hadn’t seen for years to hear them exclaim, “Why, Arthur, you haven’t changed one bit.” But he had; they knew it, and he knew it, change being inevitable. Early the morning after the Hitch- cocks’ unpleasant adventure at the cottage, Sir Arthur sat in the conference room at Intelligence headquarters reaming the bowl of his pipe with a matchstick. With him were his longtime aides, Nigel Pack and Basil Cole, and Detective Superintendent Michael Jennings. Nigel Pack’s thinning red hair had gone the way of all thinning hair. He was bald, fifteen pounds heavier, and unhappily married to the woman he’d begun dating eleven years earlier when she was a secretary. Basil Cole had remained a bachelor, and all traces of facial hair had long ago disappeared when he overheard a woman in a restaurant commenting on his thick mustache and sideburns. “The last time I saw a face like his, Tarzan was feeding it a banana/’
Jennings was staring out the window at the thickening fog, an odd occurrence for a day in June, waiting for Sir Arthur to comment on the previous night’s event at the Hitchcock cottage. Sir Arthur was now tamping down tobacco into the pipe bowl and wondering aloud why a fresh pot of tea hadn’t been ordered. Nigel Pack buzzed a receptionist and ordered the tea, “What about this actor person, Hans Meyer?” asked Sir Arthur. “What do we know about him?”
