by George Baxt
“Jennings, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings,” replied Hitchcock. He had croaked the reply, his throat feeling constricted, as though there were a noose slowly tightening around his neck.
Phoebe Allerton said nothing during the next few uncomfortable moments, and then leaned forward. “Madeleine might not be at her best today.”
“I assure you we’ll be very gentle and circumspect,” said Hitchcock.
“We had a circus pitched nearby all day yesterday.” The tips of Hitchcock’s fingers were tingling. “They gave a performance in the afternoon. Not much of an attendance. But, amazingly enough, Madeleine swathed herself in veils and we went to see them. Somehow we got separated, and when I found Madeleine again, I could see she had been upset by something. Probably by the freaks, because I found her coming out of their tent, and it’s a good thing too I found her then because she was feeling faint. I got her into my car and brought her home. She didn’t say a word on the way back, but she was upset. Shut herself up in the house and hasn’t even been out in the garden to my knowledge. Said she hadn’t when I phoned her this morning and asked if she’d see you two as a special favor to Cousin Jane.”
“She knows Cousin Jane, of course,” said Hitchcock.
“Oh, yes. On cold winter nights they used to get together when Jane came to visit me and compare betrayals. Jane doesn’t visit so much anymore now that she’s gone into trade, so to speak.”
Nancy Adair spoke again. “When do you suppose we can meet Miss Lockwood? We’re a bit pressed for time.”
“Young woman,” said Phoebe Allerton, sharply revealing a new side of herself usually reserved for tradespeople, “impatience is not a virtue.” She stood up. “We can go now. I saw Madeleine at her window peeping out at us when you arrived, so she knows you’re here. I’ve given her enough time to prepare herself.” She quickly amended that to “compose herself.” She led the way outside with tiny darting movements, and Hitchcock briefly feared she might take wing and the introduction to Madeleine Lockwood would be lost to them forever. But no, she marched them out of her gate and across the road to the imposing house with the thatched roof. They walked in silence.
Of course she knows who I am, thought Hitchcock. Jane Farquhar, being the worldly one, must have recognized me. Jane Farquhar, spy, of all ridiculous casting. Certainly Miss Allerton knows who I am… that remark about Lockwood taking direction. But none of this was in Regner’s scenario. But then, that piece of work was terribly sketchy at best, with holes, as Alma, my darling Alma, had reminded him, big enough to drive hearses through. Holes, which to fill in it was patently up to Hitchcock. Well, they were being filled in, all right.
His eyes darted to Nancy Adair, who walked ahead of him. Who are you really, Miss Adair? You led us to Jane Farquhar when there were at least half a dozen equally as inviting bed and breakfast establishments that you chose to pass over. That look on your face when Miss Allerton told us about the circus, I didn’t miss that. I saw you bite your lower lip and I heard you clear your throat, and if you only had a glimpse of the scenario, which gave you the location of the church in King’s Cross, why should the mention of the circus cause such unrest?
The circus broke camp and departed yesterday. They can’t be far from here. Circuses travel slowly, especially itinerant ones. Cotton candy and popcorn and bangers on a roll. A locked wrought-iron gate kept civilization at bay from Madeleine Lockwood. Miss Allerton had found a large key in her handbag that unlocked the gate. She motioned them inside and then relocked it. They followed her up a short path to the front door, and again Miss Allerton found the proper key. She unlocked the door and motioned them in, then shut the door and said, “Wait here.”
The hallway in which they waited faced a grand, winding staircase that led to the three upper floors. The furnishings, Hitchcock decided, were early Miss Havisham, straight out of Great Expectations. He looked at the ceiling expecting to see cobwebs and was not disappointed. Nancy Adair asked Hitchcock if he found the musty odor of old age and decay less offensive than that of cigarette smoke, but Hitchcock ignored the question. He was watching Phoebe Allerton ascending the impressive staircase in search of their hostess. Portraits hung along the staircase, and Hitchcock moved closer for a better look in the dim light. Nancy Adair realized she was shivering in this foreboding atmosphere and looked for somewhere to sit, but there were no accommodations.
“These things must be worth a bloody fortune/’ said Hitchcock. One of the portraits was a John Singer Sargent. Another was by Mary Cassatt. The Whistler had to be worth a pretty penny too.
“How nice! You like my gallery!”
Startled by the sudden sound of a strange voice, Hitch- cock turned to the head of the staircase, and there stood an apparition that had to be Madeleine Lockwood. Phoebe Allerton stood a few feet behind her, clutching her handbag tightly.
“Your gallery is most impressive,” said Hitchcock, as Nancy Adair came up behind him for a better look at the apparition.
Madeleine Lockwood, they knew, had once been a great beauty. Time had not been kind, but she had obviously made Spartan efforts to defeat time at its dirty work. Her face was heavily rouged, lipsticked, and mascarad. Piled atop her head was a ratty red wig of a color to defy the sunrise. From her ears dangled a pair of heavy emerald ear- rings. Around her neck she wore a black choker, an obvious camouflage for the wrinkles. There was no way to camouflage her wattles. She wore a heavily brocaded hostess gown more suitable to an evening party forty years ago. A pearl necklace and several pins and brooches adorned her. Her hands were covered in black lace gloves and she was wielding a feathered fan. If she’d appeared at the circus in this getup yesterday, thought Hitchcock, she must have caused one hell of a sensation. She was descending the staircase slowly, followed by Phoebe Allerton. Miss Lockwood paused at each portrait and identified the subject as she fanned herself lightly.
“This is Le Comte du Ferrante. He was beheaded in 1912 for disclosing state secrets to the Croatians. A very poor businessman. The Croatians never paid well.” She came down a few more steps and then paused. “This is Dimitri Razumov, purported to be one of Rasputin’s lovers. At the time of the Russian Revolution, he tried to sell out the new government to the Americans, but they weren’t interested. Dimitri faced a firing squad, but without a blindfold, bless him. And here we have Adriana Borgesi, one of the unsung heroines of espionage. She escaped to Switzerland from Italy when II Duce came to power, and he sent a hit squad to track her down and assassinate her. But she was too smart for them. Friends spirited her out of Switzerland into Holland, where a tramp steamer took her to Canada.” She walked down the stairs slowly. “From Canada she went to Hollywood. I am told she is doing quite well playing bits and extras in the movies.” She laughed a dry little laugh. ‘“Knowing Adriana, she’s probably peddling secrets from studio to studio. She was a very wicked little minx.” Miss Lockwood held a gloved hand out to Hitchcock. Entering into the spirit of her game, Hitchcock kissed her hand lightly. She said, “I can always tell class, Mr. Jennings.” She looked at Nancy Adair who thought she caught a whimsical look in the woman’s eyes and wondered why it was there. “How nice to meet you, Mrs. Jennings.”
“How kind of you to receive us,” said Nancy Adair, while Hitchcock awarded her full marks for a charming display of civility.
Madeleine Lockwood led the way into a drawing room.
The windows were heavily draped, and at Miss Lockwood’s command, Phoebe Allerton fluttered about letting in daylight. Here again they were in the midst of an antiquarian monstrosity, one that Hitchcock would relish describing to Alma then they were reunited. Miss Lockwood indicated a sofa for them to sit on while she sat opposite them in a throne chair that Hitchcock suspected was either Adam or Hepplewhite. She imperiously exiled Phoebe Allerton to the kitchen to prepare tea, and the old woman slunk out of the room with her shoulders slumped.
“I wasn’t going to see you,” said Miss Lockwood in a voice so totally unmelodic, Hitchcock couldn’
t much imagine her enchanting an audience in a music hall.
“Thank you for changing your mind,” said Hitchcock.
“It was Phoebe who was most persuasive. You’re supposedly writing a book about espionage.” She smiled, baring her false teeth. “Why are you really here?”
Hitchcock plunged in. He told her rapidly and concisely about Regner’s manuscript. It was obvious she too knew Hitchcock’s true identity, and he could see the only way to gain her cooperation was to level with her. When he finished, she struck a pose, her chin resting in her open palm.
She finally spoke. “So I too am a character in this rather strange chronicle.” She sighed a very weary sigh. “I show up in some of the strangest places. I don’t recall ever meeting any Fredrick Regner, though God knows I’ve encountered many a kraut spy in my day, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes. Jane Farquhar told us a bit about you.”
“That fat mouth.” She sighed again. “Spying isn’t what it used to be. In the good old days we had charisma and ambience. Even a fat-rumped pig like Mata Hari had a soupçon of finesse. I mean when you were betrayed by that wench, it was classy, if you know what I mean. By the way, we can drop the charade of Jennings, right? You are Alfred Hitchcock, n’est ce pas?”
“I am indeed, and I trust, on this occasion, you will keep my secret.”
“You’ve no problem with me. But Farquhar, she’d warn Eskimos about impending heat waves. Can you imagine the damn fool spent months in that place they had Nijinsky incarcerated trying to persuade him to become a spy and train in coding messages? She had this idea messages could be choreographed and danced all over the place.” Hitchcock didn’t think it was that bad an idea at all and filed it away for future consideration. She turned to Nancy Adair and asked sharply, “Who are you? You’re not his wife. Who are you?”
At first taken by surprise by the sudden attack, Nancy quickly recovered and said, “I’m Nancy Adair. I’m a reporter, a freelance reporter. I’m helping Mr. Hitchcock.”
“I’d like you to help Phoebe in the kitchen.”
“But you see I’m—”
“My dear Miss Adair.” Miss Lockwood had sliced into Nancy Adair’s attempt at an explanation like a fanatical vivisectionist. “I know Phoebe can use help. Phoebe, as I’m sure you’ve been told, can be very helpful to others, as she is to me. But on her own, she is frequently known to need help. I’m sure you’ve heard the clatter coming from the kitchen.” Hitchcock had heard nothing, assuming the kitchen, like the kitchens in all stately homes such as this one, was somewhere well to the back of the house. “Phoebe needs help. Through that door there, down the hall, turn right at the Tintoretto, and there’s the kitchen.” Nancy Adair stared at the woman, and Hitchcock knew that in a battle of wills, Miss Lockwood would prevail. He also knew he’d get nothing from the old spy until Nancy was out of the room. It was quite obvious the old lady either disliked or distrusted Nancy. Miss Lockwood’s eyes pierced into Nancy Adair’s like some infernal rays, and Nancy suddenly jumped to her feet and left the room. Hitchcock started to say something, but Miss Lockwood waved him quiet with a gesture, then she tiptoed stealthily to the door through which Nancy had exited. She listened at the door and then swiftly flung it open, expecting no doubt to find Nancy Adair crouched and eavesdropping. Nancy Adair was not there. Miss Lockwood gently closed the door and returned to her throne chair. “Who is she?” she asked.
“My dear, what she’s told you is what she’s told me.” Hitchcock related the events of the previous two days and Miss Lockwood struck the pose again, chin propped up by the palm of her hand.
“There’s something about her I neither like nor trust. I’m very good at sizing up women; it was a woman who betrayed Rufus and me. I’d warned Rufus about her, but oh, no, not Rufus, no woman would betray him, certainly not his faithful and loyal wife. Not Miranda. Medusa!” she spat the name. “Medusa with a hairdo straight out of a snake pit. Can you believe it, she’s with him still, while I linger here, alone, unwanted, unnecessary… a frozen asset,” she added with a pitiful dry sob. She fanned herself for a while and then said, “I think it must be quite obvious to you by now that this Fredrick Regner is himself a secret operator.”
“Quite obvious. But I’m rather flattered he chose me for his outlet, albeit putting my poor Alma in danger.”
“I saw your film The Thirty-Nine Steps.” She sounded as though she hadn’t much liked it.
“I had no idea you occasionally broke this sequestration to catch a movie.”
“Yesterday I went to the circus, but we’ll come back to that later. I’ll tell you why I stole into the village to see your movie. It was Rufus phoning and telling me to.”
Good for Rufus, thought Hitchcock. He said, “You keep in touch with Rufus?”
“Of course we’re in touch. Why do you think we’re in Regner’s scenario? Let’s go back to your film. It said it was based on the John Buchan book, but it bore little relationship to it other than the fact there was a spy ring at the center of the story. Well, let me tell you what disturbed Rufus about your movie and made him urge me to see it. In your film, your villain is missing a part of the little finger of his left hand.” She leaned forward. “Did you know then that Rufus is also missing a part of his little finger?”
Hitchcock was genuinely surprised. “I’ve never heard of your Rufus until this morning, when Miss Farquhar mentioned him, but she didn’t say a name then. Now I know his name is Rufus.”
“I was madly in love with Rufus. I still am. I owe all this”—she indicated her surroundings—”to Rufus.”
“He decorated?”
“Of course not!” Then she smiled. “I see you have a wicked sense of humor.” She eyed him from head to foot, and Hitchcock began to wonder if she was about to attempt to seduce him. “You’re not bad-looking, you know. I used to be partial to fat men. Rufus was once fat, but with him it was all muscle. Time, I’m told, has taken its toll. I haven’t seen him for years, although we’re in constant touch. I’ve been told he’s now quite gaunt and quite thin.”
“Who is Rufus?’ asked Hitchcock.
“Why, he’s Sir Rufus Derwent. How many Rufuses have you heard of? You’re a cinema man, you research true stories, don’t you? Don’t you remember the Rufus Derwent scandal?”
Hitchcock clapped a hand to his head. “Of course! It was 1920, wasn’t it?”
“Miranda betrayed us! We were coining a fortune selling secrets abroad, but she, the emaciated jealous bitch, had to throw a spanner into the works! My poor darling was court-martialed from the army, and only the tacit intervention of Buckingham Palace rescued the two of us from hanging. Now we’re both exiles in our own country, I here in Medwin, he and Medusa in Harborshire!”
Harborshire. Hitchcock recalled his notes. The answer might lie in Harborshire. “Where in Harborshire is he to be found?”
She smiled enigmatically. “Are you ready for this? His home is situated on a cliff overlooking the Channel. It can be reached from the road below by a long set of stairs leading upward to the house.” She folded her hands in her lap while still clasping the feather fan between them. “There are exactly thirty-nine steps leading up to the house.” Hitchcock’s mouth was open. “The house is called The Thirty-Nine Steps. Now how’s that for coincidence!”
“Miss Lockwood,” said Hitchcock, “it boggles the mind.”
“It certainly boggled Rufus when he saw your film. To be perfectly fair about it, Rufus suspected it was Buchan, the author of the book, who would have had this information. I told him he should sue, what with the steps and the missing pinky, but he said God no, it would mean dredging up the scandal again and fresh publicity and—oh, well, here we are.”
Here we are, but where are we? wondered Hitchcock. “Miss Allerton says something happened at the circus yesterday to disturb you. Was it something you’re willing to discuss?”
“I had my fortune told by an old gypsy woman.” She lifted her head proudly and bravely to
ld him. “She said I would die soon.”
“What an awful thing to predict to a person!” Hitchcock was truly indignant.
“She saw it in my palm. I rarely remove my gloves, but she was terribly convincing. I don’t mind. Dying doesn’t frighten me. Life’s been much more frightening. It still is.” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Life is dangerous for people like you and me, Alfred Hitchcock. Regner’s manuscript, the information you say you carry in your head, is very dangerous and let me tell you why.”
“I’m grateful for all favors,” said Hitchcock as she motioned him closer to him. He left the settee and found a stool which he placed at her feet and sat on it.
“You’re doing their work for them. They’re very clever that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re searching for a double agent.”
“Surely someone must know his identity. How would he be paid off?”
“Don’t be thick, Mr. Hitchcock. Through secret bank accounts in strange little countries and exotic islands; they’re all over the place. Through trusted intermediaries. You have been sent on this journey through the device of the Regner scenario in hopes that along the way someone will slip and inadvertently provide you with the clue that will lead you to the quarry. He did fine for both the Germans and the British until they realized he was betraying them to each other; now he’s an even greater danger. I suspect he’s more of a danger to the Nazis than he is to us because they have terrible plans for the future, plans too ugly and too hideous to contemplate without seeking the solace of a church to pray in. And here you are, Mr. Hitchcock, here you are, assigned to draw in a face where only a blank exists. You’re not doing too badly, you know. I’m sure I’m being a great help.”
