by George Baxt
“You’re absolutely wonderful.”
“Really?” She was fingering her pearls. “I don’t suppose it would be too ridiculous to consider making a return. Not to the musical stage, music halls barely exist. But since films have been talking, I notice there seems to be a dearth of good actresses of my age and stature—what few films I’ve seen, that is. What do you think, Mr. Hitchcock, that is, if I survive that gypsy’s prediction?”
“I don’t think it’s beyond consideration,” said Hitchcock affably. “There’s a part in my next film, The Lady Vanishes…”
“I hope that’s not prophetic.”
“… which calls for a little old lady who just happens to be a spy.”
“Really? Wouldn’t that be typecasting?”
“I always favor types. They add such flavor to my ridiculous plots and take the audience’s mind off the incongruities. I call them my MacGuffins.” She questioned the MacGuffin and he explained it.
“How very clever.” She had a faraway look and then said, “In truth, so many of us in this field are MacGuffins.” Hitchcock got back to the business at hand. “This gypsy woman at the circus. Is she part of the network? Is she a spy?”
“The circus is called the Pechter Circus. It’s continental, and for continental you can read German, although the staff is somewhat serendipitous. There are French and Greek and smattering of Italian and Spanish performers.” She paused. “They were a bit upset yesterday. They were missing their knife thrower.” Hitchcock blanched. “He’d gone to London a few days earlier on an errand and his return was overdue.” Hitchcock reminded her of the bread knife thrown at him in the basement of the church in King’s Cross. “Well, you most certainly had a fortuitously narrow escape if that was him. You’ll find the circus today at Lingate, which is twenty miles up the Channel coast en route to Harborshire.”
“Isn’t there a naval installation there? I seem to recall doing a reconnoiter there as a possible location for Secret Agent, but there was some problem gaining government clearance.”
She smiled the enigmatic smile again. “You’re learning, Mr. Hitchcock, you’re learning. They’ve been playing the coastal cities for weeks, especially those where there are installations.”
“You’ve been wonderfully helpful. I didn’t expect this. Dare I ask why?” Hitchcock held her hand, and she squeezed his warmly in return.
“I’m an old lady. Rufus is an old man. Our time is almost past, finished. We’re both so unhappy. We both wish to put paid to all this, but we’re trapped. Yes, Mr. Hitchcock, we’re still spying. Once it gets in the blood, it’s like most social diseases, incurable. But please, don’t worry about me. Gypsy woman or no gypsy woman, whatever will be will be; que sera, right?”
“I must remember that,” said Hitchcock, “que sera, whatever will be will be. They’re awfully slow with the tea.”
“I planned that with Phoebe upstairs, in case I decided not to trust your blond self-styled accomplice. And I don’t trust her. I must caution you, Mr. Hitchcock, there’s something unreal about her.”
“I don’t much like her myself, but I’m stuck with her. I can’t think of a way to be shot of her. Although I must say, having her chauffeuring me about has been rather handy.”
Miss Lockwood whispered in his ear, “Chauffeurs have been known to misdirect. 1’m sure I can trust you to do the misdirecting when she begins questioning you as to what you managed to learn from me.”
“You can trust me, my dear Madeleine Lockwood,” said Hitchcock with a twinkle, “I told you I’m a master at creating MacGuffins.”
The door behind them opened, and Phoebe Allerton entered wheeling the tea cart, followed by Nancy Adair, whose face foreshadowed a tempest. “Tea!” twittered Miss Allerton.
Miss Lockwood boomed, “What kept you?”
Thirteen
Sir Arthur Willing was a stickler for continuity. Digression disturbed him, as did any other form of wasting time. As a result, he was able to understand Basil Cole’s passion for tidiness. Their conference after the departure of Detective Superintendent Jennings and Nigel Pack had proved satisfying and gratifying to both parties, like a meeting of potential lovers who’d finally made it into bed and discovered the affair could probably work. It amazed Sir Arthur that in the twelve or more years he’d been associated with Nigel and Basil, they’d never socialized. They’d never gone to the theater or to a movie or to a cricket match or breakfasted or lunched or supped unless it was in the line of duty. Sir Arthur had been to dine with the Packs and found the wife, Violet, a bit of a wet noodle, but even then, the evening’s conversation was monopolized by talk of the threat of the Bolsheviks and the suspicion that Colonel DeBasil’s Monte Carlo Ballet was a hotbed of spies. (Their investigation proved it to be a hotbed of second-rate dancers.)
Basil Coles fifteen-minute discourse on tidiness, equally logical and impassioned, had most impressed Sir Arthur. He had often dwelt on what there might lie in Basil’s life other than British Intelligence and was delighted at last to be presented with a clue: tidiness.
“You’re quite right, Basil. There are too many strings left untied, but it’s that kind of case. We’re not quite sure where we’re going, so we can’t gather in the threads until we’re sure they’re ready to be woven into the pattern. A bit florid all this, but it’s the best way I can explain it. Am I getting across to you?”
“Oh, quite,” said Basil, adding vaguely, “I suppose.”
“I thought it was understood that what we’re searching for is a spy who is serving two masters, us and them, whose identity is certainly unknown to us and now I’m quite certain is also unknown to them.”
“The man must be a genius to be able to work both sides against each other without revealing his identity. “ Basil was impressed with this anonymous adversary who was obviously a sporting man.
“It’s not the first case of its kind. There were others, there probably are others, and the Lord knows there will be others. They’re simply brilliant craftsmen in espionage with this unique ability to create networks to serve them. Fredrick Regner, in his own way, was brilliant enough to come up with his theory and put it down on paper in the form of his scenario. And then, when he realized it was the sort of story that needed to be married to the Hitchcocks, he decided to go ahead with it.” Sir Arthur puffed on his pipe and stared out the window at the fogless day, watching a barrow of flowers being trundled along the road, probably destined for Green Park. “Unfortunately, the ideas been leaked to the Germans, and they’re equally anxious to learn the villain’s identity. You see, Basil, he’s getting too dangerous. He knows more than either side meant him to know. We have an idea he’s about the defect to the Russians, and then we’ll all be in the good old shtook.”
“You mean go live in Russia forever?”
Sir Arthur regarded him quizzically. “What is forever? Who knows for sure if he’d need to cross the border? Don’t you read your newspapers, young man?”
“Of course I do, sir,” said Basil, refraining from elucidating that he scanned headlines, read the sports scores, occasionally looked to see what new films were opening in the West End, and, time permitting, attacked the crossword.
“Have you been reading between the lines lately?”
“I don’t quite get your meaning.”
“The dangerous innuendo in dispatches received from abroad, especially those from correspondents on the continent. There’ll be a war, Basil, and this will be the most terrible war of all.”
Basil’s palms were damp, and he rubbed them on his trousers.
“Hitler wants the world, he’s a very greedy little man. And, mark my words, he’ll swallow up a large helping of it. A lot of it will be handed to him on a silver platter by the appeasers who are too stupid to understand they too lie in his path of destruction. He wants France and Poland and Czechoslovakia and the Netherlands. And he wants us.”
“England? Great Britain?”
“The Commonwealth. All of i
t. He won’t do things by halves.”
“Certainly not for our cuisine.”
Sir Arthur chuckled. “That’s a good one. ‘Not for our cuisine.’ I like that. Must tell it to the boys at the club. Ah well, so much for levity. The sober fact is that he’ll soon be on the march, we know that. He’s watching us with the sly cunning of a cat tracking a dickey bird. When Edward abdicates, Hitler will woo him…”
Basil paled. “Abdicate? You know this for a fact?”
“The man’s a pussy willow. No balls. He says he will do this unless he is permitted to marry Wallis Simpson and make her his queen. Can you imagine the two of them enthroned side by side?” He raged, “There’s more logic and substance in Mother Goose!” He was beginning to wonder why there was no word from the person assigned to pick up Hitchcock’s trail in Medwin, now made feasible thanks to Miss Farquhar’s information. “There are devilish things going on in Germany right now; information has been smuggled to us at great risk. Regner knows for a fact that the Germans are constructing a network of internment camps where they mean to destroy millions of Jews. There is one already in operation at Dachau, and that’s only ten miles outside of Munich. Hitler’s reign of terror is underway; you can see it yourself with the refugees pouring into the country, poor buggers. What do we do with them? We’re still suffering from the Depression. The economy is a disaster— and tell me, Basil, what’s your impression of Violet Pack?” The non sequitur didn’t throw Basil. It was a ploy used frequently by Sir Arthur, and Basil was always on the alert for them. They tripped up Nigel Pack usually, but not Basil. “Well, she’s not exactly my cup of tea, sir.”
“Come to think of it, what is your cup of tea? You seem to lead such a circumspect life, isn’t that rather tiresome?”
Basil’s face reddened. “I’m afraid, sir, I’m not much interested in cups of tea. I’m devoted to the firm.”
“I’m delighted for the firm.” He wondered if Basil was homosexual, as he had wondered on occasion in the past, but refrained from expressing his curiosity. Basil was a good man, and good men were hard to find, as dear American Sophie Tucker had sung in her recent engagement at the Palladium. “Now what about Violet Pack?”
“Well, frankly, sir, I don’t quite know what to say. She’s never come up in our conversation before.”
“Never had the opportunity. We so rarely get to natter on our own this way.” Sir Arthur smiled warmly. “It’s quite cozy. We must do it more often. It’s this way. Nigel being one of my favorite people, as you well know.…”
“Yes, sir.” Teacher’s pet, Basil referred to him in private, but not with venom.
“He’s been with us a bit longer than you have, and his performance has been exemplary, and continues to be. But I’ve been harboring the suspicion that all’s not well with them. Has he said anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even a hint?”
“Not a trace.”
“Well, what do you talk about when you’re together?”
“The firm, mostly.”
“You mean at lunch and tea and over a drink, it’s always shop talk?”
“It is, mostly, sir.”
“How boring.” He was buzzed and picked up the phone. “Yes? Put him through. Now what’s going on, Herbert? Where are you? Still in Medwin?” He looked at his wristwatch. “They must be getting more from the old girl than I thought they would. You’re keeping well hidden, right? Good. Can’t have them recognizing you. Speak to you later.” He hung up the phone and said, “Shop talk.”
“Sorry about that, sir. I say, who’s Herbert? That’s a new one on me.”
Sir Arthur leaned on the desk and removed the pipe from his mouth. “Basil, I’m afraid that’s one thread that has to be left hanging untidily.”
It was more of a lunch than a simple tea that Phoebe Allerton had prepared for them, and Hitchcock plunged into it with trencherman gusto. It was as though he had every intention of expanding all five feet six inches of himself to a fraction of bursting point. Miss Lockwood, declaring she had no appetite, had gone to the piano and, to Hitchcock’s delight and Nancy Adair’s despair, given them a concert. Her voice was reedy, unsteady, and determined. Her piano playing was haphazard at best, her left hand seeming to favor the black keys. She opened with “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls” and then segued into “After the Ball,” which brought tears to Phoebe Allerton’s eyes. Hitchcock wasn’t sure whether this was due to sentiment or despair. Nancy Adair had whispered to him it was time they got going, but he shushed her as he bit into a rather tasty sandwich of chopped eggs and anchovy paste. When Miss Lockwood started ragtiming, “I’ll Be Down to Getcha in a Taxi, Honey…” Hitchcock agreed with Nancy Adair that it was time to go. Miss Lockwood arose from the piano bench and went to Hitchcock and took his arm, guiding him and Nancy to the hallway.
“On to Lingate, then, is it?”
“Lingate?” asked Nancy Adair and Hitchcock gave her a look.
“I’ll explain in the car,” said Hitchcock; then he turned to Madeleine Lockwood with a warm smile. “You have been an absolute delight, Madeleine Lockwood.”
“Well, of course, my dear, my voice isn’t quite in a class with Jessie Matthews’, but in its days, I’m sure you realize, it brought many an audience to its feet in ovation after ovation. You can well imagine why I was invited to sing before most of the crowned heads of Europe. Lily Langtry hated my guts, but then, I was young, prettier, slimmer…”
“… and nosier,” added Hitchcock.
Miss Lockwood tee-hee’d and swatted Hitchcock with her feather fan. “You wicked man.” He kissed her cheek. “How nice! The touch of a man’s lips. It’s been a memory for too long. Well, now, here’s the door.” Phoebe Allerton held it open. “And you must be on your way.” She now held Hitchcock by the hand and squeezed it gently by way of warning. “The best of luck. “
“I shall be in touch with you very soon,” he said, and she appreciated the sincerity in his voice. He thanked Phoebe Allerton and promised to read her manuscript of Blood and Gore provided she managed to complete the writing before the next solstice. The women stood in the doorway watching Hitchcock and Nancy Adair as they passed through the gate and crossed the road to their car. When the car pulled away, a black sedan pulled out of a side road and from a safe distance followed them.
“They’re being tailed,” said Miss Lockwood out of the side of her mouth to Phoebe. “I hope it’s one of the good guys. Oh, well, kismet is kismet, and never the twain shall meet.” Phoebe followed her back to the drawing room. “And now, Miss Phoebe Allerton, what was all that crap about that book you’re writing?”
“We’ll be needing petrol soon,” said Nancy Adair. “How far is this Lingate?”
Hitchcock was studying the map. “I’d gauge it at about thirty miles farther along the coast. It’s on the way to Harborshire.”
“What did the old lady tell you?”
“When?”
“When she so unsubtly exiled me to the kitchen.”
“Well, actually, she asked if she might audition for me,” he replied drolly.
“If that twenty minutes of caterwauling was an audition, she should have been strangled at birth.”
“Don’t be uncharitable. It doesn’t become you.” He wondered what did. Nancy Adair was hardly a scintillating companion. The exterior blonde did not quite match the interior moodiness. Hitchcock now realized what had been gnawing at him ever since he had reluctantly teamed up with the woman. The facade was not only false, it was all wrong. She was a blonde without a blonde personality. He was hard put exactly to define the blonde personality, but he would later give as an example that Sylvia Sidney, the brooding brunette he’d just directed in Sabotage, could never be a blonde because her personality was too dark.
“Your personality’s too dark,” said Hitchcock, surprised to hear the words suddenly erupting.
“What’s that?” asked Nancy, bewildered.
“Your personalit
y is dark,” persevered Hitchcock, realizing there was no turning back. It wasn’t the first time he’d been betrayed by his subconscious, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “Your exterior is blonde, but your interior is dark. “
“What a lot of eyewash!”
“No. What a lot of hair dye. “
“So what? So I dye my hair? Who needs such a foolish conversation at a time like this?” There was that strange lilt again, that strange flow upward and then downward as she spoke, a pattern that more comfortably belonged to a continental woman.
“I know nothing about you. Where do you come from?”
“South Africa.”
Like hell you do, thought Hitchcock. “Have you ever lived on the continent?” he asked, his eyes staring straight ahead through the windshield.
“Listen, Mr. Alfred Hitchcock, I’m the one who should be interviewing you. I’m the journalist, not you.”
“You know so much about me. I know so little about you. I’m uncomfortable when disadvantaged. Are your parents alive?”
“I don’t want to talk about my parents. I want to talk about Madeleine Lockwood. What did she tell you when you were alone with her?”
Hitchcock folded his arms, narrowed his eyes, and spoke between clenched teeth. “You’ll not get a bleeding word out of me until you give me the courtesy of answering my questions.”
They drove along in an uncomfortable silence. Hitchcock was angry and resolute, and Nancy Adair didn’t quite know how to deal with it. She finally said, trying to sound friendly, “Petulance doesn’t become you.”
“There’s a petrol station on our right,” he said, “in case you haven’t noticed.” She pulled in, and five minutes later, after the tank’s thirst had been assuaged, they were back on the road heading toward Lingate. Hitchcock asked, “Have you ever met Frederick Regner or Hans Meyer?”
