by George Baxt
Nigel Pack’s wife was called Violet, at the moment a name appropriate to the color her face had turned at Pack’s announcement he was returning to Whitehall, where he would probably be working for the rest of the night. “I should never have married you!” she stormed.
“Quite right,” agreed Nigel as he changed his shirt, damning Sir Arthur Willing and Basil Cole and Alfred Hitchcock and all disciples of espionage and wishing he’d chosen to become a plumber’s assistant. “Ours is a marriage shipwrecked on the shoals of deceit. You thought our life would be a glamorous one with a possible accrual of wealth. Well, now is the moment of truth. Working in British Intelligence is tiresome and tedious, but it is all I’m equipped to do. We can’t accrue wealth because you spend my money as fast as I acquire it.”
“Our money.” She practically spat the words at him.
“And we can’t divorce because we don’t dare. We can’t afford it.”
She sat at her dressing table, absentmindedly picked up a hairbrush, and began stroking her hair. “I think I’ll go spend some time with Mummy and Daddy. The sea air, I think, would do me a world of good. “
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
She slammed the brush down. “I’m bloody bored with what you do and don’t prefer I do.”
“You will remain right here in London until this matter of the Hitchcocks is resolved. Then we’ll see what we can do to improve our sorry situation. I can assure you, having lost my friends, my hair, and my self-respect, it would be no great ordeal losing you.”
Violet was now morose. She said sadly, “Sunday is Daddy’s birthday. I don’t think he’ll be celebrating too many birthdays in the future.”
“Wire him flowers.”
“Go to hell.”
“If you lead the way.”
Basil Cole had returned to the offices of British Intelligence almost an hour before Nigel Pack and in high good spirits. He’d been tracked down at his club, where he was losing heavily in a friendly poker game and was grateful for the rescue. Sir Arthur Willing was unhappily completing a lonesome dinner at his desk. “You’re dining rather late, sir.”
“This is Whitehall, Mr. Cole, not the French Riviera.” Sir Arthur was grumpy, which meant he’d had neither gin nor wine, and there was a strong possibility events were not turning to either his direction or satisfaction. “Where’s Pack?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Basil Cole as he sat opposite Sir Arthur and read some memos his superior pushed across the desk to him. “Wasn’t he contacted?”
“Over an hour ago, for God’s sake. They found him at some dinner party at the Italian Embassy. He spends an awful lot of time partying with those people, seems to me.”
“I think it’s his wife, sir. Violet is partial to exotics.”
“Violet is a frump.”
Cole finished reading the brief memos and blew a low, mournful whistle. “Bad stuff, this, murdering a detective. They really think Hitchcock did it?”
“His fingerprints are on the knife hilt.”
“Well, if he did, it couldn’t have been deliberate. I mean if his flat was raided, his wife abducted, he must have panicked—”
“Oh, bother your suppositions. Jennings is on to it, and he’s a very capable man. We’ve a long night ahead of us.”
“I gather Hitchcock is still at large.”
“Very much so. But we’ll catch up with him.”
“We usually do.” Basil Cole smiled brightly.
“Here’s Pack at last,” grumbled Sir Arthur. “What kept you?”
“Sorry, sir. The fog. My taxi crawled here.”
“What are those scratches on your face?”
“I cut myself shaving.”
The knowledgeable Basil Cole refrained from commenting, ‘Next time use a razor blade instead of Violet’s finger- nails,’ but instead handed Nigel the memos and watched him sink onto the sofa and read them.
At the same time as Hitchcock was eating his lonely dinner and Sir Arthur’s aides were converging in his office, Alma Hitchcock was sitting on a settee in a beautiful drawing room of a mansion she suspected was located somewhere in Mayfair. She was sipping from a glass of what tasted like a superior Madeira while waiting to be served a promised dinner, and wondered if the man with the tic under his left eye would continue to provide companionship through the meal. He had come into the room only a few minutes earlier, and she hadn’t seen him since being transferred from the hearse into a delivery van somewhere in Regent’s Park, under the cover of fog and darkness and the animal cries from the zoo. She remembered that. It could be a clue of the sort Hitch adored using. Of course his animal cries at the end of the film would turn out to have come from a nearby secreted gramophone and the transfer would not have occurred in Regents Park but at some other venue. The man with the tic was pouring himself a Scotch and soda. He was in his early forties, and his clothing was nondescript, appropriate to anonymity. His hair was very black and parted in the middle, and his face would be an attractive one were it not for the overactive tic. He continued to say nothing, and Alma found him and his attitude annoying.
“I assume you have a name,” she said, surprised at the unnaturally high pitch of her voice.
“Oh, yes. My family could afford one.” He sat on a piano bench and sipped his Scotch and soda.
Suave, thought Alma, he’s been studying Ronald Colman. “You’re not going to tell me your name?”
“What’s in a name?”
“Identification,” riposted Alma. “If you won’t tell me your name, will you kindly tell me what the hell’s been going on? Where is my husband?” The man said nothing. “What do you expect to gain by abducting me?”
“You’ll recognize that in due time.”
“I see. Can you at least explain this business in Regent’s Park? We might have all been killed when that delivery van sideswiped us.”
“I’m a very good driver.”
And indeed he was. Somewhere in Regent’s Park, a delivery van had appeared from out of nowhere, Alma of course not knowing what it was from the interior of the blacked-out hearse, but later recognizing what kind of vehicle it was when she was transferred into it from the hearse. When the hearse skidded to a stop, the delivery van alongside it, the rear hearse doors were suddenly flung open, and the thugs who had helped kidnap Alma drew guns but were quickly overpowered by four men who beat up the thugs mercilessly.
“Your goons were very brutally beaten by those four… men… I suppose, for want of a better description. Why were they tied up and left in the hearse?”
“To be found and put into jail, of course. Why else?” He didn’t have to sound so condescending, thought Alma; he was treating her like an idiot child. “What about the men who brought us here? Shouldn’t they be put into jail?”
“It would hardly be cricket jailing your saviors.”
“Saviors? This is most confusing.” She felt like Alice on the second leg of her journey through Wonderland. “Why weren’t you trussed up and left to be jailed?”
“I was not one of them.”
“Then what were you doing with them? You let them strike my husband!”
“Mrs. Hitchcock, all in good time.”
“All right. All in good time. And how long am I to be held prisoner here?”
“Don’t you like this room? I’m told it was decorated by Syrie Maugham.” He pronounced the name as though he thought it should be written with lightning.
“I see.” Alma managed a small smile. “Then we’re somewhere in Mayfair. That’s Syrie Maugham territory.”
“We could be in Hampstead or Hammersmith.” She knew he was playing with her. “Mrs. Maugham has on occasion condescended to work those lesser territories.”
She was beginning to suspect that the man with the tic was possibly to the manor born, not just in a manner born. Or else he subscribed to some very posh magazines. Now she remembered Patricia. “My daughter!”
“She’s with her Aunt Nellie. Quite s
afe and by now comfortably tucked into bed and asleep.”
“You know so much about us. Who are you? What’s going on? Where’s my husband?”
“Ah! Here’s dinner.” A butler entered, followed by a woman pushing a serving cart. The butler looked as though he might have had some experience in the prizefighting ring, and the woman looked as though she might be more comfortable as a matron in a women’s jail. “Mrs. Hitchcock, you must be famished!”
In the fish-and-chips shop, Hitchcock was demolishing his third serving and feeling once again on top of the world. The next step was to get to the village of Medwin and locate Madeleine Lockwood. He remembered on the map the village was somewhere to the west of Brighton, which meant trains for Medwin or connecting to Medwin would leave from Victoria Station. He looked at his pocket watch. He might still make it to Victoria before the last trains left, which was usually around midnight. But first he would phone John Bellowes and have him relate the adventure at the church to Jennings. Probably by the time Jennings got around to raiding the church, the bogus Lemuel Peach would have decamped. On the other hand, probably not. Spies, as Hitchcock had come to know them, especially when portrayed by Peter Lorre, could be a thoroughly brazen lot.
The shopkeeper’s harsh voice jolted Hitchcock. “I’m closin’ up.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry if I’ve kept you.”
“Want another portion first?” He’d been silently admiring Hitchcock’s appetite. He himself was a spare eater, finding the rancid odor of fish and chips reprehensible, although the business was profitable.
“Thank you, no. I think I’ve had enough.”
“You’re not from around these parts, are y’?”
“Well, actually, I’m not. How could you tell?”
“From your speech and the way when you eat, you don’t slop all over yourself.”
“I had very strict parents. Good night.” He reluctantly returned to the chilling fog while anxiously seeking a phone kiosk. When he found one, it was on a street that seemed dark and sinister, foreboding of danger, and Hitchcock found himself looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t see too far under the circumstances and he entered the kiosk while fishing in his pocket for some pennies. Bellowes’ line was engaged, and Hitchcock cursed the solicitor under his breath. He dialed again after a brief wait, and it still was engaged and Hitchcock hoped it was because one of the children had been taken suddenly ill. He didn’t like the Bellowes children; they had expressed a desire to grow up to become policemen, which immediately placed them in the enemy camp. The hell with it, thought Hitchcock; I’ll throw caution to the winds. He dialed Scotland Yard and asked for Detective Superintendent Jennings. It was a long shot. He assumed the man had gone home to his comfortable bed by now. He wondered if he had a comfortable wife or an un-
comfortable mistress or both. Jennings was there. “This is Hitchcock speaking.”
“Where are you?”
“In a kiosk.”
“Where?”
“In greater London.”
“We’ve a warrant out for your arrest.”
“I did not kill that man. Didn’t my solicitor get through to you?”
“He did.”
“Didn’t he explain the facts to you?”
“He did. At the moment I find them prejudicial.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Mr. Hitchcock, that was one of my best men who was murdered.”
“Oh, dear. That is unfortunate.”
“It’s more than unfortunate, Mr. Hitchcock; it’s damned tragic. The murder of a police officer calls for death by hanging.”
“And well it should. I’m sure you’ll find the killer.” Hitchcock reminded himself this phone call could be traced and began to hurry the conversation. “Now listen to this. I’ve just had a very strange experience that warrants your immediate investigation.”
Jennings listened attentively to Hitchcock’s adventure in the church at King’s Cross Station. So did Peter Dowerty, who listened on the extension, and so did an engineer who was trying to pinpoint the location of the kiosk from which Hitchcock was speaking.
“And then,” concluded Hitchcock, “he threw the bread knife at me, and as I look back at it, it was quite a professional effort. Fortunately, it missed me by a hair. Mr. Jennings? What news of my wife? Is there any word of Alma?”
“Not yet. Now listen, Hitchcock—”
Hitchcock interrupted, “Th-th-th-that’s all, folks,” and abruptly hung up. He left the kiosk, his mind on Victoria Station, but he found he was disoriented. He couldn’t remember the direction of the tube station. When he fled from the church, he had run blindly until coming across the fish-and-chips shop. He hastened back to the shop to ask directions of the owner, but when he got there, the place was dark and the door was locked. There wasn’t a soul on the street. Hitchcock decided to stumble along in the fog until he came upon someone who would direct him to the tube.
And then, from somewhere ahead of him, he heard the buskers.
It unmistakably had to be buskers. He could hear the plunk-plunk of a banjo and the rattling of finger sticks and the tap dancing of feet on the pavements and high whining voices singing of Burlington Bertie, and with renewed hope, Hitchcock hurried in the direction of the sound.
What a strange place for buskers, thought Hitchcock. They’re a long way from their usual turf. They belong in the West End under the bright lights of the theaters and in the shadows of the expensive restaurants, not in King’s Cross. Perhaps they’re a local group.
And how come they were about at this hour of the night? He began to feel apprehensive, with second thoughts of the advisability of approaching them for direction to the tube. He had stopped under a street lamp and decided to reverse his direction.
From out of nowhere they appeared, heading in his direction. He could count five of them, all men, dressed in their busker suits, on which were sewn thousands of colorful buttons; more colorful buttons were sewn on the caps they wore jauntily. The banjo plucked and the sticks clacked and three men danced, albeit clumsily, and Hitchcock was very frightened. The buskers looked like sinister phantoms conjured up by some unseen demon, conjured up to find Hitchcock and terrorize him. He began to back away, but the buskers were fanning out, surrounding him.
“Money for the buskers,” demanded one of the dancers, with a weasel’s face and a rat’s nose.
“Money for the buskers,” said the one clacking the sticks; ugly warts were covering his face, and scraggly yellow straws were hanging down from under his cap.
“Give us your money, guv,” said the third busker, and a thin stilettolike weapon appeared from under his jacket.
Hitchcock wanted to shout, but his vocal cords were paralyzed with fear. His money, he mustn’t part with his money, he would need it for the odyssey ahead of him. On the other hand, he mustn’t part with his life, as then both odyssey and money would be pointless. If he tried to escape, he knew he could never outrun them. They were not only younger, though he was still what he considered to be a youthful thirty-six, but they were each of them a good four stone lighter than he was. Still, he continued to back away.
“The lolly, guv, the lolly.” This busker had a running nose that he wiped on the back of his hands.
Where are the police, wondered Hitchcock, at this hour of the night? Why aren’t they abroad to protect innocent subjects of the king? But then, on the other hand, a constable was the last person Hitchcock wanted to deal with this night.
Then he heard the agonizing screeching of tires as an automobile drew to a stop beside him.
“Get in quickly!” shouted a woman’s voice.
The door to the passenger’s side was pushed open, and Hitchcock jumped into the car, pulling the door shut as, with a further agonizing screeching of tires, the car drove away at top speed, rescuing Hitchcock from the menace of the thieving buskers.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” gasped Hitchcock, as he reached for a handkerchief with which to mop
his sweaty brow.
“How lucky I came along, Mr. Hitchcock.”
Hitchcock turned for a better look at the woman. He recognized Nancy Adair.
“As is frequently said,” murmured Hitchcock, a very wary expression on his face, “‘out of the frying pan…’”
Ten
And exactly where are you driving?” Hitchcock asked Nancy Adair, who was hunched over the steering wheel, straining to see ahead through the fog.
“Wherever you tell me. But we’re not going to get too far in this dreadful fog.”
“Miss Adair. Among the many things I learned from my father, I learned the following: ‘He travels farthest who travels alone.’ Did you learn anything comparable from your father?” She said nothing. “You did have a father? They’re quite inexpensive.”
“Oh, yes. I had a father. And we’re wasting petrol tooling around like this. Where do you wish to go?”
He squinted through the windshield and could see they were somewhere near Kensington Gardens. “Pull over.”
“Why?”
Hitchcock was wondering if she thought he was her captive. “I want to talk to you.”
“It would save time if we talked while driving to your destination.”
“My destination is the nearest curb. Now pull over.” She parked the car and turned to him. “Well?”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Sheer luck.”
“I don’t believe you. You’ve been trailing me.”
