“We shall do our best. More brandy?” Meyer held out his snifter, and Hitchcock poured generously.
“By the way, Hitch. Some freelance journalist named Nancy Adair has called here several times to try to set up an interview with you. I told her to call the studio.…”
“She has, and I have no time for her. Tell her to stop phoning here. Bloody nuisances, journalists—except, of course, when you need them.”
The phone rang.
Alma’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s her again…”
“Well, I’m not answering the phone,” said Hitchcock as he poured himself a refill.
“Perhaps it would help if I took the call?” volunteered Hans.
“Oh, by all means!” said Alma with a smile of delight. “Of course it might be Patricia, but you go right ahead.”
Hans crossed to the phone. “Yes?”
“Could I please speak to Mr. Hitchcock? My name is Nancy Adair.…”
“Well, Miss Adair…” Hitchcock and his wife wearily exchanged a look. “… he is not available now.”
While Hans Meyer handled Nancy Adair, Alma asked Hitchcock, “I think we should ask Hans to spend the night. Then he could go back into London with you in the morning.”
“If it won’t inconvenience you, darling.”
“Oh, not at all, and I’d love to continue nattering. There’s so much more I want to know about what’s going on over there.” She became suddenly grave. “Those lovely people we worked with in Munich. I wonder what’s become of them.”
Hans returned and overheard Alma. “A lot of them are now very loyal Nazis.” Alma’s shoulders sagged. “Miss Adair is in the village.”
“Oh God!” cried Hitchcock.
“She wanted to come by, but I discouraged her.”
“Bless you, dear Hans,” said Alma. “And now, we think you should spend the night, unless you have pressing business back in London. Then we could arrange for a taxi from the village, but the expense is prohibitive. Otherwise, you can drive into town in the morning with Hitch. Edgar usually picks him up around nine. Do stay, I’d love so to hear more about what’s—”
The phone rang.
“I don’t believe it,” said Hitchcock, “I simply don’t believe it. If it’s that woman again…” He waved the others back as Alma and Hans made a move to the phone. “I’ll take it!” He struggled out of his comfortable chair and lumbered across the room to the phone. “Who is it?” he barked.
“Herr Hitchcock?” The voice at the other end was a man’s and very faint.
“This is Hitchcock here. Who is this, please? I can barely understand you. Could you speak up, please?” He listened.
“Herr Hitchcock, this is Fredrick Regner.” He seemed to be speaking with an effort. “Do you remember me? Munich? The Emelka Studios? I gave you a script to read…”
“Which I did not like! Freddy Regner, how the hell are you?”
“Freddy Regner!” cried Alma. “It’s not really Freddy!” Hans Meyer stared at Hitchcock and sipped his brandy.
“It’s really Freddy,” Hitchcock said to Alma in a droll voice. Into the mouthpiece he said, “That was Alma to ask if it’s really Freddy. How are you, Freddy? Where are you? Are you well?”
“I’m in London. I stay with a friend.”
“We would like to see you as soon as possible. How can we arrange it?”
“Herr Hitchcock, I am not well. You see, I had a very bad time in Germany.”
“How awful, Freddy.”
“And getting out was not easy for me. But now I am here, and I hear you have this cottage in the country, and when there is no reply from your flat in London, I phone you here. Is this all right?”
“Of course it is. Where is this you’re staying? If you’re ill, I’ll come to see you.”
“I have a script for you, Herr Hitchcock.”
“Not the same one you gave me eleven years ago,” Hitchcock joked.
“I think you will find this one very interesting. I wish to send it to you now. Tonight.”
“But if you’re ill…”
“My friend, Martin Mueller, with whom I stay, he will bring it to you. If this is all right, please, I will put Martin on the phone and you will give him the directions.”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you will read the script right away?” There was no escaping the urgency in Regner’s voice. “It is very important you read it right away. You see, it deals with Munich. When we were in Munich. The murders.”
“How marvelous! Alma and I have been trying to do one of our own, but we’ve had no luck. Alma, darling! Freddy’s done a script about the murders in Munich!”
“How marvelous!”
Hans Meyer smiled at Alma, and they listened as Hitchcock gave simple instructions to Martin Mueller. Then Regner came back on the phone for some final word.
“Herr Hitchcock. You must be very careful. The script must not fall into the wrong hands. There are many dangerous people here in London who are friendly to the Nazis, and the script is a danger to them. Do you understand me, Herr Hitchcock. Do you? Do you understand?”
“I do. I most certainly do. Do you have a doctor looking after you?” But the line had gone dead. Hitchcock stared at the phone, and then hung up the receiver. “Most mysterious. Most mysterious indeed. Imagine Freddy Regner after all these years. You knew Freddy, didn’t you, Hans?”
“Oh, many years ago at the studio. But we were merely acquainted. He sends you this script with his friend?”
“Yes. Someone named Martin Mueller. Does that ring a bell, Hans?”
“Mueller is a very common name in Germany. Like Jones or Smith here.”
“Here, Hans, Smith is Smythe.” said Alma, “and Jones never stands alone. It is usually combined with a hyphen and a pretentious other surname, like Jones hyphen Hepplewhite. Something like that.”
Back in his chair and warming his snifter of brandy between the palms of his hand, Hitchcock was preoccupied. “Is something wrong, darling?”
“I’m not sure. That’s what I’m puzzling.” He repeated Regner’s words of warning.
“How melodramatic, Hitch,” said Alma. “It’s like a scene out of one of our movies.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it reminded me of Lucie Mannheim’s warning to Robert Donat in The Thirty-Nine Steps when
