by George Baxt
“One runs into the strangest people at parties,” said Hitchcock.
“I’m sorry, Hitch. I’m so sorry,” she said. Hitchcock heard the door shut behind him. The gun was no longer in his back. Sir Rufus and Lady Miranda had moved away. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d left you to die.”
Hitchcock said, “It was a tight situation, but I managed to wiggle out of it.”
“You won’t wiggle out of this one,” said a familiar voice behind him.
Hitchcock turned and looked. Hans Meyer was seated in an easy chair against a floor-length wall mirror. Hitchcock could see himself reflected in the mirror, along with Nancy Adair and Lady Miranda, who had sat down on a settee, and Sir Rufus, who stood with his back against the door aiming the gun at Hitchcock. It if weren’t for the gun in Sir Rufus’ hand, it could have been a tableau more appropriate to a Noel Coward drawing-room comedy.
“Well, Hans, I gather you’ve been quite busy. I guess you won’t find the time to appear in my film.”
Hans Meyer laughed. “I have to hand it to you, Hitch.” Hitchcock now resented the familiarity coming from him. “You’re really quite marvelous. I was almost willing to bet you wouldn’t show up tonight. I was sure that by now you’d have turned tail and given yourself up to the police.”
“But there was no need to. I know the police know I’m innocent. They know you murdered that poor wretched detective.” He turned to Nancy Adair. “And as for you, Rosie Wagner, you are most certainly a mean-spirited woman. All those murders you’ve committed! I can assure you, murdering is a phase one never outgrows.”
“Oh, Hitch,” she sobbed, “I wish we had met under other circumstances. I could have made you so happy.”
“Crippen’s very words to the wife he murdered. Well, Sir Rufus, you know why I’m here.”
“Indeed I do. A futile quest. I’d never betray my people.”
“That’s not the way I’ve heard it told. I must say you’re a shameful lot, throwing in with a nation that is doomed to defeat in its futile attempt to hasten history.”
“You are very naive, Hitch,” said Hans. “Today we are only Germany. But tomorrow the world.”
There was a knock at the door. Rufus crossed to it, switched his gun from his right hand to his left, and admitted Violet carrying a tray with a glass of milk. Lady Miranda addressed her sharply. “What are you doing here? Where’s the footman?”
“His feet hurt, so I brought Mr. Hitchcock’s milk.” Sir Rufus shut the door and returned the gun to his right hand.
“I don’t drink milk,” said Hitchcock, his eyes riveted to the glass of milk, as Violet approached him slowly.
“You’ll drink this one,” said Lady Miranda. “There’ll be no gunshots heard tonight. Come along, Mr. Hitchcock, don’t dally. It’s quite a painless death.” Violet stopped a few feet away from Hitchcock. Their eyes met. Hers were tormented eyes, and he felt she was trying to convey something to him, or perhaps in desperation he was grasping at straws. He had to stall what to them must be the inevitable. He had one hope and one hope only, and that was Herbert Grieban. If Grieban had eluded the lorry, Hitchcock knew he would make his way to The Thirty-Nine Steps. Hitchcock had no intention of handing them his life as though it were a stick of chewing gum.
He said to Violet, “Surely, Mrs. Pack, you don’t wish to be a party to murder. Don’t you all realize that whether or not I gain the information I’m after, you will all be rounded up and taken into custody?”
“We won’t be here,” said Lady Miranda. “There’s a boat waiting in the Channel. It shall take us abroad, where we’ll be quite safe.”
“You see, Mr. Hitchcock,” said Sir Rufus, “we’ve been offered a fresh start in life. Perhaps you think us too old, but we don’t. Mr. Hitler has promised us Transylvania, and that’s where Miranda and I shall rule. Violet will come too; won’t you, Violet? Of course not with Nigel. Nigel is Violet’s husband, and he doesn’t like us. He’s so stuffy about the notoriety connected with us. Poor fool, had he known it, he would never have married Violet when he did, ten years ago. She was a secretary at British Intelligence. She took the name Violet Danvers, changing her name for obvious reasons.” He chuckled. “Well, let me tell you, when Nigel discovered he’d married into the Derwents, well, now, there was a proper dust-up. Our son-in-law is an aide to Sir Arthur Willing. How’s that for a joke, Mr. Hitchcock?”
“Nigel Pack,” said Hitchcock, “then he’s the one, isn’t he?” Violet laughed. “I’ve got it. Of course. That’s how he’s made use of you. That’s how he’s been one jump ahead of British Intelligence, because he’s a part of the firm!” He watched as Hans Meyer and Rufus and Miranda exchanged glances. Nancy Adair’s eyes were fixed on the glass of milk, and Violet Pack’s eyes never left Hitchcock.
“Mr. Hitchcock,” insisted Lady Miranda, “be a good little boy and drink your milk.”
Hitchcock heard a crashing noise behind him. Nancy Adair screamed and leapt to her feet. Hans Meyer reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a revolver, and a bullet whistled past Hitchcock’s head. Hitchcock leapt behind the chair so newly abandoned by Nancy Adair and saw Herbert Grieban kneeling on one knee between the parts of the shattered door that lead to a balcony. Herbert was not alone. There were two plainclothesmen with him; Hitchcock would later learn they were part of a group of British Intelligence stationed in the area. Hitchcock could hear the bed-room door being kicked open as Sir Rufus drew a bead on Herbert. Herbert’s gun barked, and Sir Rufus dropped his gun, clutched his stomach, and fell dead to the floor. “Rufus!” screeched Lady Miranda, “Rufus, darling!” Violet Pack drank the glass of milk.
The door fell open, and more men appeared. Hans Meyer, sweating with fear, dropped his gun and raised his hands. Nancy Adair was staring at Grieban with horror. Hitchcock couldn’t believe what he next saw. Grieban’s gun barked again and Nancy Adair’s look of horror changed to one of surprise. “Hitch!” she gasped, “dear Hitch.” With a beatific smile, she sank to the floor, blood appearing from a wound in her heart, and then her head hit the floor and soon she lay still.
Grieban had now advanced to Hitchcock’s side. “Did you have to kill her?” asked Hitchcock as Hans Meyer and Lady Miranda were taken into custody.
“A trial would have been too costly,” rasped Herbert. His eyes locked with Hitchcock’s. “She was marked to die by both sides. Believe me, I have been humane.”
Lady Miranda was struggling with her captor in an amazing display of strength for one who looked so frail. “My daughter! She needs me! I want to go to Violet!”
Violet Pack sat on a chair waiting for the poison to take effect.
Lady Miranda screamed. “In the bathroom! Hurry! In the medicine chest—the antidote!”
Violet’s eyes beseeched Hitchcock. He went to her while Herbert sent a man into the bathroom. He took her hand; it was cold and clammy. “Not Nigel,” she whispered. “It was not Nigel.” Hitchcock could hear the noise of the raid going on downstairs. He wondered if they would succeed in rounding up the Adolf Hitlers. The man in the bathroom found the antidote and hurried to Violet. Her face was contorted with agony as she gasped a name to Hitchcock. Then she said, “God forgive me!” Her eyes rolled up, and Hitchcock heard her ugly death rattle as she fell into his arms. Hitchcock lifted her and carried her to the settee. Lady Miranda ululated like a banshee in hell. Hitchcock looked at Grieban.
“Violet told me the name. Who’s Basil Cole?”
Eighteen
Basil Cole knew his cell well. He had held interrogations there on many occasions since joining British Intelligence. He was pleased that it had been freshly repainted. He liked the smell of fresh paint. It held the promise of a new beginning. He was almost glad he was under arrest. It tidied things up. There were no loose strings about, and if there were, Basil would weave them into their appropriate place for Sir Arthur Willing. He genuinely liked and admired Sir Arthur. After more than a decade with him, he respected the man for
his fairness, his intelligence, the way he ran his department. True, Willing hadn’t suspected a traitor in residence right under his nose, but then, that’s how the game was frequently played. Basil Cole wasn’t the firm’s first traitor, nor would he be its last.
He was sorry he hadn’t punched Nigel Pack in the nose when Nigel spat in his face, but then, he had been cuckolding the man for years. Violet had been such a steady lover. Not terribly passionate, not terribly exciting, but very steady. He should have recognized she was reaching a breaking point in her unhappy marriage and the unpleasant course her mother and father had charted for themselves again. He should have recognized she could not face the inevitability of another deplorable family scandal. Her miserable marriage, which she didn’t dare abrogate, so often plunged her into the depths of despair that Basil should have recognized the symptoms of her undermined and crumbling sanity.
Oh, God, he began agonizing. They’ll make an example of me. They’ll hang me in the press and on the radio and in the media across the world before they hang me proper. They say it’s very quick. They say the penis erects and then you die. What a waste of life. What a waste of erected penis.
Hitchcock. What a peculiar man. The very idea of his insisting he owns exclusive rights to the story of my life. Here he’s had death staring him in the face and all he can think about is material for a film. Basil was strutting the narrow cell from side to side. Well, why not? Why not film the story of my life? Let me think. What’s a good title? The Martyr. Too simplistic. Oh, well, someone will come up with the proper title. Now who’s to play me? Herbert Marshall? All wrong, and besides, he’s got a wooden leg. James Cagney? Possibly, if they decide to cast against type. I’ve got it! Ronald Colman! Just as he was in A Tale of Two Cities.
“Tis a far far better thing…”
Perfect. Well, now, that’s all tidied up—now to think about my defense.
“Stroke? Oh, the poor dear! But when? This morning?” Miss Farquhar clucked her tongue, and at the other end of the wire, Miss Allerton wiped a tear from her eye. “Poor Madeleine. Which side’s paralyzed? The left or the right? Or a bit of each?”
“She’s dead!” wailed unhappy Miss Allerton. “She’s gone to the big music hall in the sky!”
“My, my, my,” said Miss Farquhar.
“Just as that gypsy woman predicted!”
“What gypsy woman?”
“The one at the Pechter Circus. Oh, dear, it’s the end of an era, farewell to a woman who was a legend in her own time.”
“Well, that’s what she thought,” snilfed Miss Farquhar. “So tell me, dear, who inherits?”
Lady Miranda was permitted to attend the double funeral of her husband and her daughter. She refused to stand near Nigel Pack, who was just as loath to stand next to her. He was in for a grim time with Sir Arthur Willing in the days ahead, and he hoped that he would be exonerated and restored to his position in the firm. It was the only job he knew. He couldn’t think of anything else. On the other hand, he knew Hitchcock was preparing another spy film. Perhaps the man could see Nigel as his technical director. Perhaps he’d drop Hitchcock a note suggesting it. One must be a bit more aggressive these days, like Basil…
That son of a bitch. That traitor. Cheating on me with Violet all these years and me never guessing. All the drinks and lunches and dinners we had together. Why, he was almost a brother to me! Oh, Fate, how can you be so cruel!
Lady Miranda heard a sob, looked up through her black veil designed especially for her by Mainbocher, saw Nigel Pack crying, and in a snarl across the open graves to him, loud enough to wake the dead, cried, “Hypocrite!”
* * *
“I didn’t!” Slap.
“You did!” Slap.
“Ladies! Ladies!” shouted the matron through the slit in the cell door, “you must stop hitting each other!”
“I can’t stand the sight of her!” shouted Helga.
“She’s a traitorous pig!” screamed Lisl.
“Well, sorry, girls,” said the matron, “but I can’t offer you separate cells.”
Hans Meyer smiled at the newsreel cameras and waved at the women who hurled flowers at him and shouted words of encouragement. He was Britain’s new matinee idol, with his continental good looks, savoir faire, and impeccable mien in the face of adversity. Candies and jellies and pates and aspics were delivered to his cell, along with thousands of love letters and offers of marriage.
“Be brave, lovey!” shouted a secretary. “I’ll always wait for you!”
“Ain’t he gorgeous, Vi?” a shopgirl asked a co-worker.
“A real proper gennelmun, he is,” agreed Vi, “real proper. I’m sure he’s innocent.”
The detectives prodded Hans Meyer into the black van, and as it pulled away from the court house, the driver said to the man at his side, “Did you see her? Did you see that fat blowsy blonde blowin’ kisses at ‘im! That was my missus!”
Madame Lavinia studied the palm of her hand for the tenth time that day and for the tenth time slapped her palm and screamed, “You lie!”
Freddy Regner lived to see a rough cut of The Lady Vanishes. Hitchcock had arranged for him to be brought from the hospital to the private screening room on Wardour Street. Freddy looked better now than when Alma had last seen him in the safe house, but they knew it was only a matter of months, possibly less than that, until he would be dead. Amazingly, despite the knowledge of his mortality, he was in a constantly jovial mood. In its own way, his scenario had been a huge success. Hitchcock had made it a success. Freddy was truly happy.
“Now, Freddy,” Hitchcock cautioned him, “you must remember—in this film, any resemblance to people living or dead is absolutely impossible.”
Alma sat in the seat next to the one Hitchcock would occupy, her notebook in her lap, prepared to take the notes Hitchcock would give her during the hour-and-a-half screening. In front of her sat Herbert Grieban, his face swathed in bandages from newly discovered plastic-surgery treatments he was undergoing with a Harley Street specialist. The projectionist was not yet ready to roll the film, and Hitchcock sat down.
“When do the trials begin, Herbert?” asked Hitchcock.
“It will be months. Maybe years. There is so much preparation necessary. Tell me, Hitch, will I recognize the MacGuffin in this picture?”
“If you don’t, I’ll be terribly surprised.” He shouted to the projectionist. “What’s holding us up?”
“Half a mo!” the projectionist shouted back.
Half a mo’, thought Hitchcock. Oh, well. He had all the time in the world. His adventure would always be fresh in his mind. He recalled that afternoon months ago when he and Alma were reunited and, after Sir Arthur Willing was finished with him, they drove to the cottage to be alone together, and Hitchcock told Alma the entire adventure in his own interpretation. He could still hear her laughter when he finally settled back, hoarse from talking. “What are you laughing at?”
“You, you innocent. Don’t you realize what you’ve been?”
“No, I don’t. What do you mean, what I’ve been?”
“My darling,” said Alma, taking his hand, “you’ve been the MacGuffin!”
Sir Arthur Willing fought hard against his recurring bouts of depression, but it was a difficult fight. Basil Cole had been like a son to him, if a bit of a prissy son, what with his passion for neatness and tidiness. Well, it was all neat and tidy for him now, with nothing in his future but the hangman’s noose. Sir Arthur applied a blazing match to the tobacco in his pipe bowl and stared across his desk at Detective Superintendent Jennings. Their job was finished. The men had grown to like each other. Tonight they were dining together at Simpson’s in the Strand. Now they were completing odds and ends, categorizing odd items of information, some pertinent to Basil Cole’s case, others of little value but put in the file nevertheless.
“Snap out of it, Arthur,” said Jennings. “You won’t be made to suffer for Basil Cole, you know that.”
“The
re are subtler ways of causing suffering, my boy. It’s his deception over all these years. Why didn’t I suspect? Why didn’t I have a clue?”
“Why didn’t anybody else?” Jennings smiled at Sir Arthur.
Sir Arthur was scratching his head. “Well, there’s one thing to be grateful for.”
“What’s that?”
“Basil didn’t turn out a queer.”
* * *
In the projection room, the film was nearing its end. Hitchcock had given Alma very few notes. The film was good, very good. All it needed was the opening and closing titles and musical score to be ready for the exhibitors. Margaret Lockwood had made a marvelous heroine, a delicious lady in distress. Young Michael Redgrave in his first important role in films was certainly destined for a big future. Paul Lukas was a superb villain, though Hitchcock kept seeing Hans Meyer from time to time, visualizing what he might have been. And of course there was dear old May Whitty as the little old spy, the lady who vanished. And here were the final scenes, Lockwood and Redgrave arriving at British Intelligence trying to remember the little melody, the secret code the old lady had taught them in case she didn’t reach London alive. They were coming down the hall heading to the office of the head of British Intelligence, but their minds were a blank. Then they opened the door to his office and at the piano sat May Whitty, and the melody she was playing still sent a shiver up the spines of the four in the projection room watching this final scene.
La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
