by George Baxt
“Angus arrived to replace me.”
“And you distinctly heard her say into the intercom, It’s me, Nancy Adair. “
“Yes, sir.”
Jennings yawned and stretched. “You know something, Dowerty, I sometimes think police work could be very injurious to one’s health.” The phone rang. “Get that, will you, Dowerty? I’m feeling a bit wilted.”
Dowerty said into the phone, “Detective Superintendent Jennings’ office.”
In the sitting room of their flat, Hitchcock, looking harassed, asked to speak to Jennings. When Jennings came on the phone, he told him about being called away to meet Regner in Hyde Park. “He wasn’t there,” said Hitchcock, “and of course it was most annoying, especially in this dreadful weather. But I’m afraid we fell into some sort of trap.”
“Trap? What do you mean? You weren’t attacked by someone, were you?” Jennings was clutching the phone tightly, his concern infecting Dowerty, who leaned forward, to be able to catch snatches of Hitchcock’s conversation. “Oh, nothing so melodramatic. It seems we were tricked out of the flat so someone could break in and steal Regner’s manuscript/’ He could hear Jennings relaying the information to Dowerty. “It’s not a terribly good manuscript, but then, it’s the only clue we’ve got, isn’t it?” Then he remembered. “Hold on! I made a sheet of notes of my own and that’s safely in my jacket pocket. Now why would anyone want to steal a manuscript? That’s a bit hairy, don’t you think?” Then he thought again. “I wonder if it could be that blasted Adair woman.”
Jennings played his role suavely and asked, “What Adair woman?”
Hitchcock told him about her persistence in seeking an interview, which he’d finally granted, and then remembered to tell Jennings of his experience with her on the road to the cottage the previous day. Jennings carefully made notes and then asked Hitchcock, “Is there anything else missing from the flat?” Hitchcock told him Alma had made a hasty inventory and certainly no jewelry was missing, although there was nothing else of much value in the place.
On another phone in Jennings’ office, Dowerty was listening to Angus McKellin’s report on the wild-goose chase trailing the Hitchcocks to Hyde Park, McKellin phoning from the kiosk across the street from the Hitchcocks’ building, a vantage point from which he could still keep an eye on the place. Dowerty told him Jennings was getting the details from Hitchcock himself on the other phone, and McKellin rang off, wishing the bloody fog would lift.
Hitchcock was saying to Jennings, “My conversation with Regner last night was quite brief and certainly fraught with emotion on his part, but I should have guessed I was being fooled by an imitator.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t an impersonation,” suggested Jennings. “Perhaps it really was Regner.”
“Why would he wish to steal his own manuscript?” Jennings smiled and said, “Quite right, Mr. Hitchcock. Quite right. Is the lock on the door badly damaged?”
“Not badly damaged at all. It was picked by an expert. We shall have it replaced immediately.” He listened. “No. I haven’t heard from Hans Meyer at all. I seem to recall his mentioning several interviews he had scheduled for today. What? Let me think… yes… that’s it. He said he was staying at the Royal Court.” He listened again. “Oh, of course, Mr. Jennings. If anything freshly sinister erupts, I shall be on the line immediately. Good afternoon.” He rang off and then said to Alma, “I’m very hungry.”
“I’ll fix something.” As she went to the kitchen, Hitchcock took the sheet of notes from his pocket and reread them. He reread them again and then again until he heard Alma call him to the kitchen. As he entered the kitchen, the phone rang.
“Yeeessss?” Hitchcock inquired, as Alma dished eggs and bacon onto two plates. “How very peculiar. Thank you very much, Mr. Jennings. If I hear from him, I’ll let you know. “
“What’s very peculiar?” asked Alma.
“Hans Meyer has checked out of his hotel and left no forwarding address.”
Eight
At five that afternoon, Angus McKellin was in the kiosk across the street from the Hitchcocks’ house reporting to Detective Superintendent Jennings. “Mrs. Hitchcock went out to do some shopping at about three P.M. but wasn’t gone long. She went to the butcher’s and the greengrocer’s around the corner, and when she returned I could see she was carrying what looked like the afternoon newspapers.”
“Cinema people do a bit of reading,” commented Jennings glumly. “I suppose there should be two of you doing the surveillance, one to cover her and one to cover him, but we’re too damned shorthanded here.”
“Actually, sir,” said McKellin, “ever since we come back from Hyde Park, I’ve had this feeling that I’m being watched.”
“Don’t be neurotic.”
“I try not to be, sir,” he said, wondering what it was to be neurotic.
“When’s your replacement due?”
“In three hours’ time, sir. The fog seems to be worsening. Bleeding awful for June.”
“Be grateful you’re not a bride. We’ll speak again later.” He hung up. There was another call waiting for him. “Jennings here. Yes, Mr. Hitchcock?”
“Something slipped my mind when I reported the robbery. It’s about Nancy Adair.” He repeated the curious fact that she apparently hadn’t reported the murder of Martin Mueller to one of her newspaper contacts.
“Yes, that is curious,” agreed Jennings, cursing himself for not having thought of that himself, but then he was swamped with so much, the occasional lapse in the detecting process was forgivable. He tried never to be too hard on himself. “Good thinking, Mr. Hitchcock.”
“And there’s something else,” Hitchcock said matter-of-factly.
“There’s nothing in the newspapers about Mueller’s murder.”
“Oh, that too, of course. How clever of you to guess we’ve bought the afternoon dailies. But actually, Mr. Jennings, I thought you’d like to know we’re expecting a visit momentarily from Hans Meyer.”
Jennings leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Did you ask him where he was staying?”
Hitchcock replied, “He said he’d moved in with a friend to save on expenses. Do you want him to contact you?” And for what reason, wondered Hitchcock.
“Yes, I’d appreciate that. By the way, for your information, I’ve had a tracer on Miss Adair. She seems to be operating out of her hired car. “
“How very odd!” commented Hitchcock.
“She doesn’t seem to have a fixed address. No telephone, not even ex-directory.”
“Neither listed nor unlisted,” Hitchcock was telling Alma who was studying the sheet of notes Hitchcock had drawn up from Regner’s manuscript.
“Probably camping out in some bed-sitter in Earl’s Court,” suggested Alma. “That type is prone to live that way.” Hitchcock repeated her suggestion to Jennings.
“Yes, that is a thought,” said Jennings blandly. “By-the-by, have you had that lock on your door replaced?”
“Can’t be done until morning. But no matter, we’re in for the night. I’ll have Hans phone you when he gets here. How much longer will you be in your office?”
“Oh, indefinitely, I should think. Good-bye, Mr. Hitchcock. “
Hitchcock joined Alma at the table, drew up a chair, and reclaimed his sheet of notes. “Now let me see. The director, thinking he has murdered his assailant and fearing the police, goes to the church where Orwell sought food and refuge. Now, who the hell is Orwell?”
“George Orwell,” Alma informed him. “The writer. In his memoir, Down and Out in Paris and London, he’s terribly poor and sleeping in doss houses and begging meals from charity. He frequented a church near King’s Cross Station where the kindly vicar fed vagrants bread and tea.”
“Do you suppose there’s still a kindly vicar dispensing tea and kindness and possibly information at this church?”
“Probably. England’s up to its hips in kindly vicars. The way they seem to proliferate, I should think we sh
ould consider a plan to enter the business of exporting them.” She thought for a moment. “What possible information would one get from a vicar other than the quickest directions to heaven?”
“If I knew, my dear, I wouldn’t be questioning.” He tapped his finger on the sheet of notes. “But here it is.” He read aloud. “‘Seeks refuge at church Orwell knew and information from vicar.’” Hitchcock was humming under his breath. “Damn! Now I’m humming that bloody melody. I say, do you suppose the vicar at that church might have connections with Germany? You know what I mean, someone in Germany who is passing information to him which he passes on to Whitehall. Do you suppose that could be it?”
“Oh, I do hope so!” said Alma with unrestrained enthusiasm. “It’s such a delicious idea. Why haven’t we thought of using something like that?”
“We can’t think of everything, although God knows we try. Now let me see… after the church, the man goes out into the countryside, his destination somewhere in the Midlands, the village of Medwin and a woman named Madeleine Lockwood. Where’s that map of Great Britain gone to?”
Alma went to the sitting room to search for the map. She found it in the desk and brought it to Hitchcock. He opened the map, muttering under his breath, “Medwin, Medwin, Medwin… probably one of those places even missionaries haven’t heard of. Well, I’ll be damned. Here it is. Medwin! Ha! Why the peculiar look on your face?”
“I was just thinking. The climax of the story has everyone converging on this one man who has information both sides are after, but Regner never tells us who he’s actually spying for, us or them.”
“Perhaps both. He’s probably a double agent.”
“Well, if both sides know his identity, why don’t they go directly to him?”
“Because they don’t know who he is. Why don’t you read this thing carefully!”
“I have, and don’t shout at me.”
“I’m sorry, but this damned insistence of yours on logic. Everything can’t be logical! Look around us. Hitler, is he logical? He’s absolute nonsense, but there he is with his Chaplin mustache and his master race, ha! And what about our pale excuse for a king and his mordant passion for an American divorcee? I thought that situation died with silent pictures! The man I’m searching for is someone who filters the information to others; that’s who we’re looking for. And now I’m beginning to see where Regner has been so deucedly clever.”
“Kindly share that with me.”
“Be patient and bear with me. Eleven years ago in Munich, Anna Grieban and Rudolf Wagner are murdered. In the script, Regner gives them other identifications, but what the hell, it’s patently them. They were spies working for the British government.”
“You’re not sure about that.”
“I have to be sure about that, or there’s none of your bloody logic to Regner’s plot line. Now be quiet and listen.” Alma’s face was a model of stoicism. “That bloody melody of Wagner’s was a code, one that possibly still exists. If codes aren’t broken by the opposition, they age beautifully, like a decent wine. Now the person who murdered them is possibly the man with the disfigured face, remember him?”
“Oh, of course! The MacGuffin.”
“Perhaps he is, we can’t tell yet. Then there’s Hans Meyer and that dreadful daughter of Wagner’s; what was her name again, Rosie?”
“Rosie. Whatever became of Rosie?”
“God knows. She’s probably a member of the Nazi party and fingering all her neighbors. I wouldn’t put it past her. And, of course, my dear, there’s Regner himself. “
“Ahhh! I’ve had him in the back of my mind.”
“You can move him up forward now. Then, my dear, there’s us.”
“We didn’t murder them.”
“True. But remember what Mickey Balcon told me on the phone at the time? There’d been inquiries about us from Whitehall.”
“Oh, my dear, you mean they thought we were spies too?”
“Yes, but it’s more sinister than you think. They suspected us of possibly spying for the Germans.”
“What cheek!”
“Why not? We were there when the murders were committed. You adored Wagner’s melody and recommended him to Fritz Lang as a composer. And we stayed on in Munich to do a second film. Why couldn’t we have been spies? It ties up very nicely, as a matter of fact. I wish we’d used that kind of logic in Secret Agent. Anyway, we come to the present. Hans Meyer is in London. And Regner. And he phones us. He’s sending this manuscript with Mueller. The whole damned procession is listed right here in my notes, taken directly from Regner’s manuscript. Except he didn’t predict Mueller’s murder.”
“Well, he’s not exactly Nostradamus.”
“But he’s been pretty damned shrewd. The more I talk this thing, the smarter it gets. Have you noticed there’s a bit of The Thirty-Nine Steps in this story? The director thinks he’s a murderer and goes to ground, especially since he’s terrified of the police. Now that’s a bit close to the bone.”
“Oh, you probably told that psychosis of yours to Regner back there in Munich.”
“Of course I did. I’ve told it to just about everybody else.”
“I didn’t notice you trembling when the police came to the cottage last night.”
“I did perspire a bit, but not that anyone’d notice. Now stop digressing! Why would you be kidnapped, or whatever name he’s given to the woman in his scenario?”
“To make you talk, if they think you’re a spy and have information they want.”
“But which ‘they’? As the Americans would say, the good guys or the bad guys?”
“That, my darling, belongs under the heading of ‘suspense.’”
“Yes. Quite right. I wonder what’s keeping Hans Meyer? You don’t suppose he thinks he’s going to be asked to share dinner with us.”
“He’d better not. There’s just enough for the two of us. “
“What’s on the menu?”
“Chops, a vedge, and salad. You said you were dieting.”
“Must you believe everything I say?”
“You wish I would, but I don’t. And now who’s digressing?”
“Sorry.” He referred to his notes and mumbled, “Vicar… Medwin… Madeleine Lockwood…”
“Madeleine Lockwood. Nice name for an actress.”
“Regner has her as a onetime music-hall singer. Not a bad touch. Now let me see… itinerant circus… I suppose we could get a list of any of those out touring the hinterlands. According to Lockwood, there’s danger in the circus but Regner doesn’t specify what. And then the script reaches its climax in a Channel village… nice touch… village from which the villain can make a hasty exit abroad in case of emergency.” He referred to the notes again and mumbled.
“What did you say?” Alma had been making notes of her own, attempting a more orderly rundown of the bare bones of Regner’s story.
The doorbell rang.
Sir Arthur Willing wasn’t happy. The cause of his unhappiness was the purloined scenario. He said to Nigel Pack and Basil Cole, both of whom impatiently wished he’d call it a day but suspected they’d be trapped with him for hours, “The scenario is in dangerous hands. That poses a serious threat to Mr. and Mrs. Hitchcock.”
“What do you suggest we do?” asked Basil Cole, stroking his nonexistent mustache and then with embarrassment removing his hand from his face.
“I suggest we do nothing and await further developments. Jennings has them under surveillance, three men sharing a twenty-four-hour watch. It should be six men, one for each of the Hitchcocks, but Jennings is shorthanded; so much for Scotland Yard’s annual budget.”
“But if the Hitchcocks are in danger?” questioned Nigel Pack.
Sir Arthur waved his hands with irritation. “We’re surrounded by danger! Everyone’s surrounded by danger! We could be struck by a bus or a taxi or a lorry! We could be hit by a stray bullet!”
“Where from?” asked Basil Cole.
“Basil,” sai
d Sir Arthur wearily, “I’m beginning to suspect you could use a vacation.”
* * *
From the landing outside their apartment, Hitchcock shouted down the stairwell, “Hans, is that you?” There was no reply. Alma stood in the doorway.
“Hitch, I don’t like this one bit. Come back into the flat at once.”
“Well, you heard him plainly on the blower. He said he was Hans, it sounded like Hans!”
Alma screamed.
They hadn’t heard the men who had come soundlessly up the stairs. Professionals. Experts. They knew their job well. Hitchcock was pushed from behind and fell face forward into the sitting room. Alma ran to the window to cry for help, but one of the assailants was too quick for her. He grabbed her and pinned her arms behind her. Hitchcock got to his knees and shouted at the man. The man said to the men behind Hitchcock, “Shut him up.” Hitchcock looked behind him and saw a man coming at him, right hand upraised, wielding a cosh, ready to bring it down on Hitchcock’s skull. Hitchcock, with amazing grace born of desperation, scrabbled to his feet and raced into the kitchen. He found a meat knife, but the other two men were prepared for him when he came running back into the sitting room to defend his beloved Alma. Each man stood against the wall at opposite ends of the doorway, and as Hitchcock came dashing in, one tripped him, sending him back to the floor again, the other coshed him, and Hitchcock, still clutching the knife, passed out. Alma struggled with her captor, who snarled at the man with the cosh. “Let’s get her the bloody hell out of here, before the other one comes to.” The man with the cosh, Alma noticed, had a facial tic just under his left eye. Hitch, she was thinking, my darling Hitch, don’t be dead. My dear, dear darling, don’t be dead. As they dragged her from the flat, she thought she saw the shadow of a fourth person from the stairwell leading to the roof. Whoever you are, you bloody fool, she thought, help me. Help me.
In the phone kiosk across the street from the Hitchcocks’ house, Angus McKellin, huddled on the floor with an ugly bruise on his right temple, began to stir. He began to rouse himself, but not in time to see Alma being dragged from the house by the three men and spirited away in a hearse. He struggled to his feet and fought to orient himself. It was an automatic reaction to dial headquarters, but the phone’s wires had been clipped. He fought to focus his eyes and could see the door to the Hitchcock house was ajar. He staggered across the street and up the stairs, and when he came to their landing, through the open door he could see Hitchcock lying on the floor. He did not see the knife in Hitchcock’s hand because it was no longer there. It was in the hand of the fourth person, who had been waiting to search the flat after the three men went off with Alma. “Mr. Hitchcock!” shouted McKellin, “Mr. Hitchcock!” He ran to the fat man and knelt at his side. The knife was cruelly and brutally plunged into McKellin’s back. He died instantly, his mother would later be glad to know. The bloodied knife was withdrawn from the body and replaced in Hitchcock’s right hand. Then the phone wires were cut, and from the kitchen, Hitchcock’s sheet of notes was taken.
