by George Baxt
Jennings referred to his notebook. “Recently arrived seeking refuge from the Nazis. Apparently blacklisted in their film industry for some months. Has had a pretty fair career acting in Germany, France, and Italy, fluent in several languages. Has applied for a visa to the United States. Worked in a Hitchcock film in Munich back in ‘25.”
“Anything political?” asked Basil Cole.
“We’ve still to complete our research on him.”
“No family ties? No wife?”
“No wife. Family left Germany several years ago.”
“Jewish? Homosexual?”
“No, and probably no. But then, one is never too sure about that these days, is one?” He heard a chair squeak, and Jennings looked at Basil Cole, who seemed uncomfortable.
“Well, you’re doing a good job, Mr. Jennings. I assume you’ve got some of your best people on the Hitchcocks?”
“Around-the-clock surveillance. I’ve put several men on the actor.” Jennings stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes as a secretary entered with the fresh pot of tea.
“Ah! Here’s the tea! That’ll perk you up, Mr. Jennings. Give me your cup.” Sir Arthur sounded like a pantomime dame. Jennings was thinking what Jennings needed was a day’s sleep, but oh, what the hell, for king and country (not that he thought this bloody king was a symbol to respect).
In their cozy flat at 153 Cromwell Road, Alma was slicing bread for toasting. The fog was seeping through the windows, and Hitchcock had tried caulking the window seams with towels, but it never worked. He had been on the phone all morning with refugee organizations, trying to locate Fredrick Regner, but with a frustrating lack of success.
“Stop scowling, darling,” advised Alma, “it makes you look a villain.”
“It’s absolutely maddening. I wish that detective would get back to me.”
“If you stay off the phone, he might be able to get through.” The phone rang. “See what I mean?”
Hitchcock cradled the phone between his chin and shoulder as he studied a section of the Regner manuscript. Into the phone he said somnolently, “Yeeeessss?”
“Mr. Hitchcock? At last!” chirped Nancy Adair. “I’m Nancy Adair!”
Hitchcock, his hand over the mouthpiece, said to Alma, “Gangrene’s set in.” Into the phone he said with mock affability, “Ah, Miss Adair, we seem to be missing each other, like an army of nearsighted soldiers. ” Alma was tuning in the radio, listening to the news. Hitchcock was listening to Nancy Adair pleading for an interview. “One moment please, Miss Adair.” Hitchcock’s hand was back over the mouthpiece as he addressed Alma, “There’ll be no getting rid of the nuisance until I agree to see her. Can you stand it if I ask her up?”
“Get it over with, as Mother used to say when spooning castor oil into my mouth.”
Nancy Adair’s voice caressed Hitchcock’s ear with gratitude while Alma wondered aloud why there was no news about the murder of Martin Mueller. Hitchcock looked at his pocket watch and said, “Perhaps there’ll be something in the afternoon papers. After all”—he puffed himself up like a pouter pigeon—“I am Alfred Hitchcock.”
Alma was buttering the toast as Hitchcock returned to the manuscript. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m doing a breakdown of all the steps Regner’s outlined for us in his treatment.”
“Stop saying us, as though we’re his protagonists.”
“Well, he has written about a film director and his wife, hasn’t he?”
“Just a device to pique your interest and your ego. There are a hell of a lot of holes in that story. There are at least three big enough to drive a hearse through.”
“What an unfortunate analogy. But you’re right. There are more loose ends here than I left dangling in Sabotage. For example, his denouement doesn’t identify the culprit behind it all. That’s very sloppy of him; his plots were always so meticulously worked out. And that melody, which I am growing to loathe and detest with the passion I usually reserve for any Ivor Novello creation, continues to make no sense. Do mi fa sol, sol fa sol.” He took a bite of buttered toast and stared out the window. “Damned fog. Damned Freddy Regner.” The phone rang. “Damn Nancy Adair.” Into the phone he said, “Yeeeessss?”
“Mr. Hitchcock? Detective Superintendent Jennings here.” Hitchcock pantomimed Jennings’ identity to Alma, who smiled as she poured their tea. “Sorry to be so late getting back to you, but I’ve been tied up in a meeting all morning.”
“I was wondering if you’ve been able to locate Fredrick Regner, Mr. Jennings.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Hitchcock. It appears he has probably entered the country illegally.”
“Is that possible?” Hitchcock knew it was possible, but often found a pose of naivete got better results when he was nosing about for information.
Jennings was a jump ahead of him. “We both know it’s very possible. He’s not registered with Immigration, which means he probably came by private boat and was landed somewhere along the coast that’s known to be unpatrolled.”
“That’s probably why he took ill,” commented Hitchcock between sips of tea.
“Oh, of course. You said Regner told you he was ill. That’s what he told you; it doesn’t mean he is.”
“That’s a thought, isn’t it? Feigning illness so as not to blow his own cover. By the way, Mr. Jennings, there’s been nothing about the murder on the wireless. Is this a deliberate omission?”
“I should think you’d be grateful. You don’t want to be besieged by hordes of reporters, do you?”
“I don’t mind,” replied Hitchcock with a trace of annoyance.
Jennings laughed. “You film people! Always hungry for publicity.”
“Mr. Jennings,” said Hitchcock solemnly, “publicity helps sell film tickets.”
“Have you a film to sell right now?”
“Where have you been of late, Mr. Jennings? Tibet? My film Sabotage is showing in the West End at the moment, and it can use all the help it can get.”
“Well, Mr. Hitchcock, for the time being, we’ve decided to keep a lid on the case, until we can get more information on Regner and the victim. But I’ll continue to keep in touch.”
“I am most grateful for small favors. Good-bye, Mr. Jennings.” Hitchcock said as he replaced the phone in its cradle, “wherever you are.” He repeated Jennings’ end of the conversation almost verbatim, and Alma put her hands on her hips, very irritated.
“Bloody cheek of the police. Why don’t we give the story ourselves?” Hitchcock found her sly look endearing.
“Do you think we dare?”
The doorbell rang.
Alma’s hands were now folded as she leaned against a kitchen counter. “You can’t be faulted for letting it slip to our beloved Miss Adair.”
The doorbell rang again. “Patience,” commented Hitchcock as he waddled to the wall intercom, “is obviously not one of her virtues. “Into the intercom he asked, “Yeeessss?” and Nancy Adair’s voice squawked back her identity. Hitchcock buzzed her in and then crossed to the door and held it open. Alma examined herself in the sitting-room mirror and decided there was no room for improvement. They could hear their visitor nimbly racing up the stairs, and Alma commented she sounded like an ibex leaping from alp to alp. Nancy Adair arrived on the landing, and Hitchcock’s heart skipped a beat. When she appeared in the doorway, face glowing like a klieg lamp, Alma’s mouth set into a grim, tight line. A blonde. A slim, beautiful blonde.
“So you’re Nancy Adair,” said Hitchcock as she came into the room and shook his hand. “This is Mrs. Hitchcock.” Nancy Adair shook Alma’s hand with a firm grip.
With a synthetic party smile, Alma asked the reporter, “Tea? Whiskey? Port? Wine?” Tea for all was decided on, and Hitchcock and the blonde sat across from each other while Alma repaired to the kitchen.
“Well, Nancy Adair. You certainly don’t look like a Nancy Adair.”
Nancy was rummaging in her oversized handbag for a notebook and pen as sh
e inquired a bit flirtatiously, “And what did you expect me to look like?”
“Like one of the usual undersexed Fleet Street gorgons, especially the overambitious ones. Exactly whom do you write for?”
“I’m a freelance. I thought you understood that. This interview is geared toward a newspaper syndicate in the States. I understand your film Sabotage is opening there soon.”
“Yeeesss. Sylvia Sidney, who plays the spy’s wife, is quite a favorite there. You know the old saying. ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you’re Sylvia Sidney.”
“May I quote you?” she asked eagerly.
“That’s what you’re here for.” He had settled back in his chair with his hands folded across his stomach, wondering whether to warn her that inanities could drive him to violence. But, surprisingly enough, she had come prepared with a list of intelligent questions, most of which he replied to with cheerful good humor. Alma served biscuits with the tea and hoped they weren’t stale; the tin had been in the larder for weeks.
Twenty minutes later, Hitchcock referred to the clock on the mantel and began fidgeting. Nancy Adair asked, “And your next film?”
“It’s to be called The Lady Vanishes. It is adapted from a novel by Ethel Lina White, The Wheel Spins. It’s a spy story. “
“Your last five films have been spy stories, haven’t they?”
“Yes, I seem to be in a bit of a rut. But spies are such interesting people, don’t you think?” Actually he knew they weren’t. He knew they were usually dull, unhappy, frightened, and had bad teeth.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever met any spies.” She gave a small laugh, and Alma crossed and then recrossed her legs. “Have you?”
“I sometimes think I have.” Hitchcock was scratching his chin. “I think I met some eleven years ago in Munich. Anyway, Alma agrees with me they might have been spies, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” said Alma, wishing to be rid of Nancy Adair, but Hitchcock was regaling her with the story of the Munich murders.
“That’s a marvelous story!” exclaimed the blonde. “Why’s it been kept under wraps all these years?”
“I really don’t know,” said Hitchcock, “I suppose if the victims had been internationally famous, they might have merited a headline in this country. But unfortunately, they were as obscure in life as they were in death.”
“Like the man who was murdered last night?”
Alma almost dropped her teacup as Hitchcock asked, “How do you know about that?”
“Have you forgotten I was in your village at the time?”
Alma asked, “You mean you stayed on after I discouraged you?”
“Well, frankly, I was going to call back later to try to persuade you to change your mind, so I had dinner at the inn and spent the night. The woman on the switchboard apparently phoned the innkeeper’s wife and told her about the murder. While serving my breakfast she told me. I suppose by now the entire village knows the story.”
Hitchcock said to Alma, “So much for Mr. Jennings’ lid.”
Nancy Adair had gotten to her feet.
“This is such a charming flat, Mrs. Hitchcock. I’d like to put a little something about it into my story. Do you mind if I look around?”
Alma gathered up the tea-things on a tray and led the way to the kitchen. “There’s not terribly much to see. It’s quite an ordinary little flat. We don’t spend as much time here as we used to. We love the cottage so.” Hitchcock followed them into the kitchen, reminding himself to reprove Alma for serving stale biscuits.
“And are these your notes for your new film?” Miss Adair was at the table unceremoniously flipping through the manuscript pages. What cheek, thought Alma. Hitchcock took the manuscript and placed it face downward over his own sheet of notes.
“I don’t like my notes to be read by others, Miss Adair,” scolded Hitchcock.
“I’m so sorry. Once a reporter, always a reporter.”
Alma interrupted. “Hitch, I think we’re going to be late for the meeting. You’ll have to forgive us, Miss Adair, but we’ve a production meeting at the studio.”
Hitchcock was staring at the blonde intensely. Then he exploded. “You tried to run us off the road yesterday!”
“Oh, dear, I was afraid you’d recognize me.”
“Recognize you! I should throttle you!”
“I wasn’t trying to run you off the road, really I wasn’t. I was trying to get your attention.…”
“You most certainly got that!”
Alma said to Hitchcock, “You didn’t tell me anything about it.”
“I didn’t want to worry you!”
“I know it’s a bit late after the fact,” said Alma, “but I’m worried now.”
“I won’t keep you any longer,” said Nancy Adair as she hurried back to the sitting room and set about gathering up her things. “I’m so grateful for the time you’ve given me, Mr. Hitchcock.”
Hitchcock was holding the door open for her. “Be sure to send me a copy of your story when you’ve written it.”
“Absolutely. Good-bye, Mrs. Hitchcock, the tea was lovely. “
“The biscuits were stale.”
Alma glared at Hitchcock, and after the reporter was gone and the door was shut she said, “I didn’t like that woman.”
“You’re missing the important point,” said Hitchcock as Alma followed him back to the kitchen.
“And what’s that?”
“She apparently didn’t try to peddle Martin Mueller’s murder to a newspaper.”
“Oh!”
“Exactly. Oh.”
“Maybe she did, but the police got on to all the papers and asked them to hold the story.”
“Maybe. But I don’t like it one bit. I think I should advise Detective Jennings about this.” Hitchcock phoned New Scotland Yard but was told Jennings was away from his office. Hitchcock left his name and phone number. He returned to making notes while Alma phoned her sister-in-law and chatted with Patricia.
“Patricia’s having a lovely time,” Alma told Hitchcock as she placed the tea-things in the sink. “The fog’s ruined their plans for a picnic, so they’re going to a flick instead. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Hitch, you’re not listening to me.”
“It’s this bloody manuscript. Something’s not right with it, and I can’t put my finger on it. It’s quite obvious Regner expects me to fill in the blank spaces in the story, but I can’t see how.” He sat back in the chair, which groaned. “I just don’t know how to penetrate this.”
“Perhaps you should have given Miss Adair a crack at it,” said Alma wryly.
“Perhaps I should give you a crack and be done with it.” The phone rang. “That may be Jennings.” He crossed to the phone. “Yeeeessss?” He listened and then hissed to Alma for quiet at the sink. She shut the taps and turned to Hitchcock with interest. “Where are you? You sound very strange. And your manuscript…” Alma crossed to her husband. “… is most peculiar. I don’t think there’s anything much I can do with it until I discuss it with you. And what’s more, the police are looking for you. Mueller’s been murdered. That’s right, murdered, right on my bloody doorstep, and no pun intended.” He said in an aside to Alma, “The poor bastard’s terrified, and we have a dreadful connection. Doesn’t sound the way he sounded last night. Hello, hello, hello. This is a terrible connection.” He listened, his face screwed up as he strained to unscramble the other end of the conversation. “Of course I know where it is. I’ll be there as soon as possible. Taxis are hell in a pea souper like this, but we’ll be there.” He slammed the phone down. “Regner’s at the tea cottage by the Serpentine in Hyde Park.”
“Of all the silly places to park oneself in a fog.” Hitchcock grabbed the sheet of paper on which he’d been making notes, folded it and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. Alma was in the sitting room at the mirror putting on her hat.
“Come on,” urged Hitchcock, “we’ve no time for fussing.” They hurried out o
f the flat, Hitchcock closing the door behind them. As they hurried down the stairs, they could hear the phone ringing, but there was no time for turning back.
In his office, Michael Jennings decided to let the Hitchcocks’ number ring a few more times and then gave up. Then he returned his attention to Peter Dowerty, who was seated across the desk from him. “Strange. He phoned only half an hour ago.”
“Hitchcock?”
“Yes. I suppose they’ve gone out, but in this weather, one need but question why?”
“Angus will be on their tail.” He referred to his notebook. “Shall I get on with this?” Jennings nodded and leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind the back of his head, staring at the ceiling and absorbing the information he was hearing. “The blonde was quite a looker and spent at least a half hour with the Hitchcocks. She fits the description of the woman the sheriff reported was at the inn last night in Shamley Green.”
“He didn’t report any other strangers in the village?”
“Just some lorry drivers who had coffee and sandwiches at the local coffee shop. It stays open late for the lorry drivers.”
“You got a good look at this woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Despite the fog?”
“I was under the lamppost which was where she parked her car.”
“And so?”
Dowerty smiled broadly and winked. “I wouldn’t mind finding her head on my pillow the next morning.”
“The license number, you nit. Did you get the license number and did you check it out?”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” said Dowerty hastily. “I’ve got a tracer on it. I recognized the code number on the license plate. It’s from a car-hire firm.”
“And when she left the Hitchcocks?”
“I was on the other side of the street then. She might remember if she’d seen my face under the streetlight, and I didn’t want to arouse her suspicion.”
“All you aroused was yourself.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Anything else?”
