“Don’t ever mention that awful film again. Edgar! What the hell is going on? This is the road to Guildford, not Le Mans!”
“It’s not me, Hitch, it’s that bloody woman in the car behind us. She’s a right proper menace, she is!”
“Well, try losing her!”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Edgar was perspiring, which was unusual for the always cool and collected young man.
Hitch turned to the actor. “What did the doctor tell you?”
“She seemed to have vanished in the night. No one saw her go. And if there were accomplices, no one saw anyone entering the hospital or leaving with her. Now isn’t that some puzzle?”
“Indeed, it is quite some puzzle. Now let me think— that charming detective, Farber. I think it was Farber.”
“Oh, yes. Wilhelm Farber.”
“Did you ever have an occasion to cross his path again? On the last day of shooting of that awwwful film, he came by to say good-bye and thank Alma and myself for what little help we could give him, and he said he’d keep in touch and let us know if he ever solved the murders. But alas, we never heard from him again.”
“As far as I know, they remain unsolved.”
“And is Farber still in Munich?”
Meyer moistened his lips and then told Hitchcock, “Farber is dead.”
Hitchcock’s hand flew to his heart. “Oh, no!”
“Well, if you remember, he was rather a strange man. A sense of humor…”
“So unbecoming in a detective, unless it’s in fiction,” commented Hitchcock wryly.
“… and a rigid sense of proportion. I heard he offended the Nazis and… well, he was found dead in the village of Dachau.…”
“Dachau. Oh, yes, that’s not too far from Munich.”
“About ten miles.”
“Why would anyone want to be found dead in Dachau?” Hans Meyer shrugged. “From what little there was in the newspaper, he’d gone there unofficially, to investigate something on his own, and he was found in a ditch outside the village, his car wrecked, the body strafed with bullets.”
“The poor soul. I wonder if he was on to something involving the murders of Anna Grieban and Rudolf Wagner, or if it was something else? We’ll never know, will we?”
“Never, I suppose.”
Hitchcock rolled down the window and shouted at Nancy Adair as her car passed theirs. “You bloody stupid incompetent bitch. Edgar! Pull into that driveway ahead and let’s be rid of that woman! Imagine! And she’s a stunning blonde, too!” Hitchcock rolled the window back up and then sat back. They rode in silence for a while, Hitchcock waiting for his rapid heart beat to return to normal and for his blood pressure to settle down. La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
Hans Meyer smiled. “I remember that tune!”
“Alma doesn’t let me forget it. It continues to haunt us both after all these years. Alma’s convinced it had some significance. You know, when Alma said to Rosie Wagner before her father was murdered that she wished it had words, Rosie said very mysteriously, ‘Perhaps it does have words,’ or something like that. Now let’s stop dwelling on the past because you’ll have to rehash all this for Alma and you can do that while I try to solve my way out of the enigma of this disappointing script my writers have handed me.”
“This part you think might be right for me…”
“Doctor Hartz. A right proper villain. Trouble is, as he’s written here, he has no charm. I like my villains to be charming. I like the audience to like them. So what do the writers tell me when I tell them Dr. Hartz has no charm? They tell me to hire a charming actor.”
“I can be very charming, Hitch.”
“I know, Hans. I know. I’m considering you very seriously. If this doesn’t work, I’ll see what I can do to help you here.” He sighed a very deep and very heavy sigh. “There are so many refugees in London now looking for work in films. Half come from Germany and the other half are here because they’re washed up in Hollywood. Conrad Veidt wants the part. Paul Lukas wants the part. And the actor’s union is after me to hire a Briton for the part. Life can be so difficult.”
Edgar the chauffeur crowed ecstatically. “She’s blown a tire! The bloody menace has blown a tire!”
Ahead, they saw Nancy Adair struggling to change a tire. Hitchcock rolled down his window and shouted as they drove past her, “Hire a horse!”
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the cottage. The chauffeur, anxious to return to his wife in London, refused refreshment and left. Alma kissed Hitchcock as he led Hans Meyer into the pretty sitting room. Hitchcock asked her, “And do you remember this young man? He’s eleven years older, minus his pencil-thin mustache, there are now some distinguishing shades of gray at the temples, and he’s on the run from the Nazis!”
Alma threw up her hands and laughed. “The mountain climber! I can’t for the life of me remember your name, but you’re the mountain climber!”
“Hans Meyer,” he told her and they embraced warmly.
“What a nice surprise! Hitch, fix the drinks. Dinner will be a while yet, I’m having a problem with the sweet.”
“Oh, no sweet for me!” said Hitchcock, “I’m starting a diet.”
“Catch me, Hans!” cried Alma, “I’m about to faint!”
Two hours later, after dinner, they sat in the sitting room with coffee and brandy. Over dinner, Meyer had rehashed everything he had told Hitchcock in the car, holding Alma engrossed. Now she asked him, “But what about your family? It must be awful leaving them behind. My goodness, we don’t even know if you’re married. Are you?”
“I’m a free man,” said Hans. “I was orphaned when I was a young boy and raised by my mother’s family. They’ve left Germany for Austria, so they’re quite safe.”
“Well, then, we must try to do something for you here,” said Alma, “mustn’t we,
