“Well, Herr Hitchcock,” said Farber, “it seems the knife that killed Wagner is the same weapon that killed Anna Grieban.”
Hitchcock’s eyes widened with astonishment. “You mean the murderer carried that weapon onto the lot, as brazen as you please?”
“Why not? It can be brought in a briefcase, a handbag, a paper bag containing presumably a sandwich and a piece of fruit; it could be concealed in a newspaper. And now we know for sure there was a link between Grieban and Wagner.”
“Perhaps they were lovers and a jealous lover decided to put paid to the situation.”
“I can’t much envision those two cooing at each other, could you?”
“I don’t remember noticing any intimacy between them here on the set. But on the other hand, I haven’t been noticing too much of anything except that I’m about to get behind in my shooting schedule and I can ill afford that. I know they’ve known each other for some time, but that’s not unusual in film circles, especially in one so incestuous as this one in Munich. Film people are terribly clubby, even when they despise each other.”
“How many more shooting days are left to your film?”
“I can afford another ten. Then I must start preparing the next one.”
“Well, maybe the solution will materialize before you are finished here.” Hitchcock doubted it, but did not voice the thought. He knew enough about murder to accept that, without witnesses or clues, the chances of apprehending the murderer would be slim.
“By the way,” asked Hitchcock, wondering that if in fact there was a clue, information that Farber might have elected to withhold from him, “were there any fingerprints on the knife?”
“The hilt was wiped clean. And, what’s worse, it’s an ordinary kitchen knife, one that can be bought all over the country. A very cheap utensil.”
“But effective.”
They saw Alma walking briskly toward them. “Ah so, Miss Reville,” said Farber with a smile, “and how is the daughter?”
“Well, you won’t believe this, but Rosie’s hysteria has developed into catatonia. She’s been taken to a sanatorium.” Alma took Hitchcock’s cup and sipped his tea. “Awful.”
“Yes, that’s very sad,” said Farber.
“I meant the tea.”
Hitchcock reclaimed the cup and, his face screwed up with thought, stared into space. Alma busied herself ordering coffee and a sandwich while Farber made notes in his pad. “I wonder if catatonia can be faked. “
“Not this case,” said Alma. “I was there in the studio doctor’s office. That nice young actor… what’s his name again… Hans something…”
“Meyer… Hans Meyer… he climbs mountains…”
“Yes, Hans Meyer. He helped carry her to the office.
We saw her sink into this spell and for a moment there the doctor thought she’d had a stroke or some form of apoplexy. She went all gray…”
“She was gray to begin with,” said Hitchcock.
“This was a paler shade, dear, and then she broke out into this dreadfully cold, clammy sweat, and you can’t fake that, my darling.”
“No, I suppose you can’t.”
“Anyway, Herr Farber, Im sure you’ll want to discuss this yourself with the doctor.”
“Oh, yes. I shall discuss it with the doctor. Then I shall write my report, and like the efficient detective that I am, I shall pursue all leads, especially when they are as nonexistent as in this case, and then go on to another case. And perhaps someday in the future, with any luck the near future, there will be a sudden stroke of luck and someone will remember something and bring it to me and I will have found my killer. And now, having shared one of my favorite fantasies with you, I shall go and speak with the doctor.” He patted Hitchcock on the shoulder and then, to Alma’s surprise, took Alma’s hand, the one holding the sandwich, and kissed it. “Ah,” he added, “knockwurst. How I adore knockwurst. “And with that, he went in search of the doctor.
“Well, for heaven’s sake! I’ve never had my hand kissed before.”
“Don’t become addicted. I’m not versed in continental manners. I suppose there’s no point in resuming shooting until after the lunch break.”
“The company’s been at lunch for the past half hour. I told the third assistant to let them go when we took Rosie to the doctor’s office. I might also add, our two American stars have gone back to their hotels…”
“No!”
“… much too upset by Wagner’s murder to be of any use to us in front of the camera. They promise to be on hand bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“That blows it.” He sought the comfort of the pastry tray.
“Not at all. I took the liberty of laying on a sequence of atmosphere shots you can take with the chorus, the dress extras, et cetera, et cetera, and that can give us a full afternoon’s work. Besides, it’ll give you more footage to work with when we get down to editing. It’ll give the film a bit of an expensive look.”
Hitchcock smiled warmly as he caressed Alma’s cheek. “You are devilishly clever, Miss Reville. Promise to remain forever on my team.”
She crossed her heart with an exaggerated gesture. “Now what do you think?”
“About what?”
“The murders, of course.”
“Frankly, I’m not too sure what to think.” He shared the information he’d received from the detective, and then they walked about the set for a while in silence. “It’s patently obvious Anna and Wagner were mixed up in something together, or perhaps were privy to the same dangerous information.”
“What kind of information, do you think?”
“I’m not quite sure. The
