[Celebrity Murder Case 02] - The Alfred Hitchcock Murder Case

by George Baxt

  “And now they’ve got her. Do you suppose they’ll kill her?”

  “Perhaps yes. Perhaps no.”

  “None of this was in Regner’s scenario. Not any of it.” He thought for a moment. “My God, was Fredrick Regner Rosie’s lover?”

  Herbert laughed. “No, Hitch. Her lover was Hans Meyer.”

  Hitchcock slumped against the door. “I would never have suspected he was a spy. The casting was all wrong. That’s why I’ve been so hesitant about using him in The Lady Vanishes. That’s the title of the film I’ve got in preparation.” He added with a weary sigh, “If I ever get to making it.” His stomach grumbled again and he wished a country inn with good solid British cuisine would magically materialize. Then his mind flashed back to the cottage and Martin Mueller’s murder. “Of course!” he exclaimed.

  “Of course what?” Herbert shot him a sidelong glance of inquiry.

  “Nancy Adair must have murdered Martin Mueller!” His adrenaline was bubbling. “It couldn’t have been Hans Meyer; he was in the house with us all the time.”

  “She also murdered Nicholas Haver, the false Lemuel Peach.”

  “She’s a fast girl with a knife. Oh, my God. I feel faint. I was that close to being murdered. She could have done me in last night at Miss Farquhar’s!”

  “Oh, no, then she’d have had to kill Miss Farquhar too, because Minnie Mouth… as we sometimes refer to Miss Farquhar… could have exposed her immediately to the police. Anyway, she knew about Farquhar and chose her house for the safety she figured it offered. No, Nancy Adair could have pulled over to a lonely side of the road at some point and dispatched you then.”

  “We were at a lonely side of the road when we parked the night of the fog. She could have killed me then.”

  “By then, we must assume, she was smitten. You see, Hitchcock, Nancy Adair has one vice known only to a select few. She is what is known as a chubby chaser. She dotes on fat men, they’re her secret passion.”

  “Thank God I’ve delayed dieting. So when do we eat?”

  “We’re not too far from Harborshire. There must be an inn nearby. Wait! What’s that up ahead?”

  Hitchcock peered through the windshield. “It’s an inn. The sign promises good food and wine. Dinner’s on me.”

  “Oh, no. Dinner’s on the British government. I’m on overtime.”

  Half an hour later, both were cutting into their roast chicken. Over preliminary Scotches and sodas, Hitchcock learned Alma was being guarded in a safe house in Mayfair run by the firm. Oscar, whom Hitchcock had seen overpowering her, had infiltrated the group set up to abduct Alma and to hold her as a hostage, as Hitchcock had deduced, to trade for their safety. At the time, both sides wanted Hitchcock to lead them to the master spy through Regner’s manuscript, which was stolen from their apartment by Nancy Adair. It was Hans Meyer who had impersonated Regner on the phone, luring the Hitchcocks away from their flat while Nancy had the opportunity to use a skeleton key and steal the scenario.

  “I thought she knew too much about the progression of the scenario when she caught up with me in King’s Cross,” Hitchcock commented.

  “Anyway,” said Herbert, “It was arranged that Oscar would meet up with our own people in Regent’s Park, and that’s how your wife was rescued.”

  Now with their meal in front of them, they ate in silence, savoring each mouthful of food. Over coffee, Hitchcock watched as Herbert lit a cigar and leaned back contentedly, the picture more of a successful businessman dining with an associate than of a professional spy nearing the end of his mission.

  “What are you thinking about, Hitch?”

  “I was thinking of a good night’s sleep.”

  “Not here, I’m afraid. Look out the window on your right.”

  Hitch saw the red circus lorry parked on the opposite side of the road. The van was unoccupied. Hitchcock said to Herbert, “Tenacious bugger, isn’t he? How do you suppose he traced us here?”

  “He hasn’t.” Herbert was staring into the adjoining lounge. “He’s at the bar having a sandwich and a beer. He’s changed into coveralls.”

  “Do you think he’s seen us?”

  “He might, through the bar mirror, once he stops wolfing his food. His manners are execrable.”

  His dark glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed them back. They were sitting in a secluded corner, selected by Herbert, who was sensitive to reactions to his disfigured face, especially in a public dining room. On this occasion, there was only another table occupied, by what Hitchcock would later describe as two gentlewomen engrossed in mediocre food and excellent gossip. Their voices carried.

  “I think we should settle the bill now,” intoned Hitchcock gravely, “and then we should try to escape his attention by leaving the back way.” He signaled to the publican.

  “Supposing there isn’t a back way.” Herbert flicked ash gently into a tray.

  “There has to be a back way. There always is in spy thrillers. I always have them. They’re such a comfort.”

  While waiting to be presented with the bill, Herbert said, “You’re a remarkable man, Hitch.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a very timid man in a very intimidating situation. I suppose, if I were so inclined, I could demand you take me back to London at once. But I can’t do that now. Not because I’m particularly brave, because I’m not, but because we’re coming to the end of the trail, and I have to know how the story ends. I can’t back away from the story now. I wouldn’t forgive myself, and in a sense, I don’t think Alma would either.” He didn’t dare turn around to see if the danger still lurked at the bar.

  Herbert read his mind. “He’s still there. He’s just been served another beer.”

  Hitchcock shifted in his seat. “Herbert, I didn’t really kill the detective, did I? I mean, awakening with a bloodied knife in my hand…”

  “Of course you didn’t. Timid men don’t plunge knives in the backs of rescuers. Timid men stand to one side and cower and make strange noises. I’ve seen them in the war and I’ve seen them in whorehouses. Hans Meyer murdered Angus McKellin.”

  “Then it was him on the intercom!”

  “Of course. How else could they get into your house? Oscar told us all this after delivering your wife to our safe house. Hans hid behind the staircase leading to the floor above you. After the others left and the detective, who had been coshed at the kiosk across the street from you, revived and went running to your apartment, Hans came in after him and killed him with the knife you were holding. Or maybe Hans was already in the apartment when McKellin found him there and Hans killed him.”

  “And he’s still at large?”

  “Very much so.”

  “And where’s Fredrick Regner?”

  “He’s safe.”

  “Is he really ill?”

  “He’s dying. The Nazis apprehended him last year. They held him in a hospital established for the purpose of systematically destroying their enemies. I will not describe to you what horrible brutality was inflicted on him. After we ransomed him—and a very expensive negotiation it was—he spent three months in a sanatorium in Switzerland. Some repairs were effective. Others, unfortunately, were not. But he’s a good soldier. He persisted with the scenario and we brought him here so he could continue to participate. It was his wish and we owed him that.”

  The publican brought the bill, and Herbert paid. “I say,” Hitchcock asked the publican, “is there a back way out?”

  The publican was no stranger to odd requests. “If it’s the WC you want, we’ve got indoor plumbing.”

  “Well, actually it isn’t. My friend here”—he indicated Herbert—”is trying to avoid someone at your bar.”

  “Bill collector?” asked the publican.

  “Nothing that simple,” said Hitchcock. “You see, my friend is having an affair with that man’s wife and that man has threatened to kill him if he ever runs into him.”

  The publican looked at Herbert with undisguised admiration. “So i
t’s like that, is it? Well, then, just follow me.” He led them to the kitchen, which, had they toured it prior to eating, would have convinced them to depart without ordering. The back of the inn was piled with overflowing trash cans around which a mangy dog snuffled. The publican kicked the dog, which yelped and then scurried away.

  “Thank you very kindly,” said Hitchcock, restraining an urge to kick the publican, and he and Herbert hurried away.

  In the bar, the man had caught a glimpse of the publican leading Hitchcock and Herbert to the rear exit. His glass of beer, which was at his lips, became stationary as his hand froze and his eyes pierced the departing figures he recognized in the bar mirror. He put the glass on the bar, picked up his coins, and hurried out.

  Herbert gunned the motor and they were on their way as the man in coveralls emerged from the inn and trotted to the red lorry. Herbert saw him through the rearview mirror. “He’s on to us,” he said grimly.

  “Can we outrun him?” Hitchcock wondered why his voice had gone up a pitch.

  “Let us now pray.” He hunched over the wheel while his foot pressed down on the accelerator. “We’re almost into Harborshire. Somewhere in the village, I will drop you, if it’s at all possible without his seeing it.”

  “No. We’re in this together. You saved me. You’re my rescuer.” His eyes were glued to the rearview mirror. “Haven’t you heard that famous Chinese adage? A rescued man’s life belongs to his savior.”

  “Sorry, Hitch, but I’m not in the market for fresh possessions. I travel light.” The lorry wasn’t gaining on them, but he had them well in sight. “When I drop you, you go in search of Sir Rufus Derwent. He’s the final link in this chain. He must be the connection to the man we want.”

  “Supposing Sir Rufus is our man?”

  “Well, then, then we’ve got him, haven’t we?”

  “But he’s not, is he? You would have picked him up long ago.”

  “Sir Rufus lives very high on the hog.” They could see the lights of Harborshire ahead of them.

  “Why not, he has considerable wealth, hasn’t he? Look at what he’s spent on Madeleine Lockwood.”

  “That was old money, when money had value. Most of it went when the markets collapsed in ‘29. He had a very hard time of it back then. And then suddenly and conveniently, at the time the Nazis came into power three years ago, Sir Rufus had a fresh infusion of wealth. Extraordinary, no?”

  “What Alma would refer to as the short arm of coincidence. I think we’ve lost him.”

  “I’m going to make a turn into the Channel Road. It’s the outskirts of the village. You’ll have to make your way to Sir Rufus’ on your own. You remember it is called The Thirty-Nine Steps.”

  “How could I ever forget? Now listen, Herbert, what about you, what are you going to do?”

  “Get rid of the son of a bitch. “The car skidded to a halt. “Get out! Quickly!” Hitchcock hadn’t moved that fast since menaced by a field mouse at the cottage. He lost himself in an alleyway as Herbert disappeared in a noxious cloud of exhaust fumes. Hitchcock stayed hidden until the circus lorry passed him. He whispered a prayer of deliverance for Herbert Grieban, and then set about looking for Sir Rufus Derwent’s villa.

  There was a precipitous and dangerous drop from the Channel Road to the rocks below. Angry waves crashed against the rocks, sending walls of saline foam upward like roaring rockets, which just as quickly crashed back down against the rocks, only to be sent back up. The wind whistled and blew, and although the sky was clear and star-studded, Herbert wondered if there was a freak storm coming in from the sea. The lorry had found him, and Herbert had decided how to rid himself of the enemy. They were now leaving the Harborshire area, where the road spiraled and curved upward and narrowed. There had been little traffic coming from the opposite direction. Herbert deliberately decelerated and allowed the lorry to come up behind him. The fish took the bait, and the lorry gained on Herbert like a hungry shark sighting plankton. The road was wet and slippery here and Herbert felt his tires go into a skid. The lorry was just a few feet behind him, ready to hit him from behind and send him crashing into the road’s wooden guardrails to a certain fiery death on the rocks below. Herbert risked the one chance that could spare him. He braked abruptly while swerving to the right. The lorry hit him on the left and went into a skid. The lorry hit the guardrails, shattering the wood, and went plunging over the edge. Herbert sat patiently for a few seconds. He heard the hideous crash and then the explosion and then the reflection of the flames of the burning lorry. Herbert sighed, lit a cigar, and sat quietly puffing, waiting for his jangled nerves to calm down. Then he would find a phone and report to London, after which he would go in search of Alfred Hitchcock. All in all, it had been quite an unusual day.

  It was an uphill climb from the Channel Road to the center of Harborshire, and Hitchcock, of course, wasn’t in shape for it. The almost full moon helped light his way, the village being notoriously short of adequate streetlights. He knew it was an artist’s colony and at one time had been celebrated for its oysters, these having mysteriously disappeared when erosions along the coast destroyed their beds. The houses he had passed were picturesque and best described as quaint if undistinguished. Harborshire thrived in the summer, and Hitchcock could see the natives were wrestling with freshly painted exteriors to give the village its famous summer color. Thoroughly exhausted and winded, he reached the village square and settled onto a bench. He faced a statue of a man he did not recognize and wondered if it had been erected in the memory of an unknown artist. The wind was rising, and so was Hitchcock’s anxiety. He hoped Herbert had safely eluded the circus lorry. He hoped there was someone about who could direct him to The Thirty-Nine Steps. He wished he didn’t look and feel as grotty as he did, his clothes a shabby shambles, especially after the incident in the granary. He adjusted his hat in the dark, hoping it might give him a dashing, devil-may-care look, but in his heart he knew that a devil-may-care look would be forever elusive with his girth. He dwelt on the previous forty-eight hours and the realization that so much had befallen him in so brief a span of time. The cast of characters he had encountered formed a kaleidoscope designed by a demented choreographer. He saw Alma and Hans and the corpse of Martin Mueller. There were Nancy Adair and Detective Superintendent Jennings and the corpse of Angus McKellin. Oscar with his tic and a knife being thrown at Hitchcock and then the menacing buskers. Miss Farquhar doing a gavotte with her cousin, Miss Allerton, and Madeleine Lockwood singing ‘There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” which he assumed she must have attacked and destroyed at some time in her career. Miss Lockwood was rudely nudged aside by a man wearing an American Indian suit, who in turn gave way to a midget named Cupid surrounded by Siamese twins and a pinheaded woman and a bearded lady.… A hand fell heavily on his shoulder and Hitchcock cried out with surprise and fright.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, sir. But you were talking to yourself.” It was a young constable with a look of concern. Little did he know that constables of any age filled Hitchcock with fear.

  Hitchcock stood up. “I frequently talk to myself. It’s the only time I get intelligent answers.”

  “I haven’t seen you before, have I?” He held his truncheon in front of him with both hands, as though it were a trapeze and he were thinking of performing.

  “No, you haven’t. I’ve never been here before.” Control, you damn fool, control. Stop being so nervous, you’ll make him suspicious.

  “Where are you staying?” He towered over Hitchcock, as most people did.

  Hitchcock thought quickly. “Well, actually, I’m expected at Sir Rufus Derwent’s.”

  “Oh. You too.”

  “Me too what?”

  “The party. “

  “The party?”

  “Aren’t you going to the party?”

  “At Sir Rufus?”

  “Where else would there be one tonight?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea. I’m not very soci
al.”

  The policeman was studying Hitchcock with what seemed an unpleasant curiosity. “If you’re expected at The Thirty-Nine Steps, then you’re here to celebrate his birthday. “

  “Oh, of course!” Hitchcock grinned. So did the constable. Hitchcock felt better. “The party.”

  “Thought you’d be going to the party, dressed the way you are.”

  Hitchcock considered striking him, then realized he looked like a tramp, and that was absolutely fitting for his mission. “It’s a masquerade party, of course.”

  “Where’s your mask?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Hitchcock, looking like a naughty cherub, “I knew I’d forgotten something.” He pursed his lips and then said. “That’s why I was talking to myself. I was trying to remember what I’d forgotten. Like Sir Arthur Sullivan looking for his lost chord.”

  “Oh? Is he about too?”

  The young man was obviously not heavy in the brains department. Hitchcock decided that if he had any brains, he’d be dangerous. “Could you direct me to The Thirty-Nine Steps? It appears I’ve lost my way.”

  “Certainly, sir.” He used the truncheon as a pointer. “You continue diagonally across the square, just past the statue ahead, and you come to the Mason’s Lane. You follow the Lane to the very top.…”

  “Uphill?” The constable nodded, and Hitchcock’s heart sank.

  “At the top, you turn left and walk about one hundred yards. There you’ll come to a flight of wooden steps, thirty-nine of them. You climb to the top of them…” Hitchcock wished he had an alpenstock. “… and there is the villa. You can’t miss it. You can see it from below, especially tonight. You’ll hear the orchestra and see the reflections of the fairy lights strung along the branches of the trees outside. Everybody’s there. Sir Rufus’ birthday is a yearly event.”

  “I’m sure it’s as much fun as Guy Fawkes Day.”