Hans Meyer spoke. “If I’m to spend the night, I must tell my friend in London so he won’t worry when I don’t return. May I, please?”
“You have to jiggle the hook for the village operator,” said Alma, “and then she’ll put you through.” Hans went to the phone, and Alma said to Hitchcock, “Imagine that. He’s written a script about the Munich murders. Poor Detective Farber. How he would have loved to have read it.” Hitchcock said nothing.
La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
“I wonder if there’s something about that in the script?” Hitchcock said.
Six
Martin Mueller was a small man with big problems. The antiquated British Ford he was driving was no match for the rutted road leading to the Hitchcock cottage. He’d had little previous experience driving in the British countryside; in fact, he had little previous experience driving in Britain. Twice he almost collided with cars coming at him from the opposite direction because he kept forgetting the British drove on the left-hand side of the road. The British—oh, these British, hospitable, yes, but friendly, no. Would he ever come to accept tepid beer and sausages that were composed largely of oatmeal? And the wireless. The BBC. All that delicate music suitable for tea dancing. And the language, the peculiar language. Boiled sweets meant hard candy. A kip was a bed for the night and not an abbreviation for a herring. And a butcher’s wasn’t a place to buy meat, it was cockney slang for having a look at something. (“Butcher’s hook, have a look, get it, Martin?”, “Nein, I don’t.”)
There was a fine drizzle, and the metronomic beat of the windshield wiper was making him sleepy. He saw a cottage ahead and referred to the directions Hitchcock had dictated. That had to be the place. It was ablaze with light, and it was after midnight; that must be Hitchcock waiting up for him. He accelerated and pressed on. As he reached the driveway to the cottage, he passed a parked car that seemed to be unoccupied. He drove a few feet into the driveway and parked. He switched off his headlights and then picked up Regner’s manuscript, which was in a sealed envelope on the adjoining seat. To protect it from the rain, he put it inside his jacket and held his hand tightly around the manuscript. He got out of the car, shut the door, and hurried up the driveway, which was lined with beautifully trimmed hedges. He heard nothing but the falling of the rain.
If this wasn’t the Hitchcock’s cottage, he had no idea what to do next except phone Regner in London for new instructions. This would make Freddy angry. It would mean Freddy would have to phone Hitchcock again, feigning illness and asking for fresh instructions. He’d have to phone Mueller back at whatever kiosk Mueller would be fortunate in locating in this desolate area. He heard the piano. The melody. Rudolf Wagner’s melody. This is it. I’m here. His face brightened.
Then the knife was plunged into his back.
Mueller gasped as he stumbled forward. The blade was so sharp, he almost didn’t feel it. But he felt the hands tearing at his arms, tearing at the jacket. This made him angry.
It was a new jacket. He had saved to buy it for months. Now there would be a rent in the back where the blade penetrated, and not even a master tailor would be able to disguise the tear. Martin scrabbled together a fistful of dirt and pebbles and rolled over on his side, now beginning to feel the pain, and threw the dirt and pebbles into his assailant’s face. Whoever it was, he wore a balaclava on his head protecting everything but the eyes, the vulnerable eyes. The assassin cried out in pain and stumbled backward. With a Herculean effort, Martin Mueller struggled to his feet and, weakly crying Hitchcock’s name, reached the front door and rang the bell. He heard his assassin curse and run in the opposite direction.
At the sound of the doorbell, Almas hands froze above the keyboard. Hitchcock said, “I’ll answer the door,” and waddled past Hans Meyer, who stifled a yawn. The Hitchcocks had urged him to go to bed over an hour ago, but he insisted on staying up and sharing their vigil. Hitchcock opened the door, and Martin Mueller fell into his arms. Hitchcock shouted for help. Alma and Hans came running and helped carry Mueller into the house.
“Inside my jacket,” gasped the dying man, “in my jacket.” Hans Meyer moved toward the jacket, but Hitchcock was already fumbling with the zipper.
“Oh, my God,” said Alma, her face pale and drained of blood, “that knife! It’s been plunged in to the hilt! Hans! Get the operator! Tell her to send a doctor and the police! Hurry!” Meyer hurried to the telephone.
Hitchcock removed the envelope from inside the jacket and flung it onto the couch. He didn’t know what to do with Mueller and decided it was best to leave him lying prone on the carpet near the fireplace. He knew it was dangerous to try to remove the knife without medical knowledge and tried his best to comfort the man. Mueller’s lips were moving, but no sound emerged. Meyer was shouting into the telephone, and Alma had poured a brandy and was holding the glass to Mueller’s lips. He shook his head with an effort, too weak to accept the liquor. Alma placed the glass on the coffee table and fought back tears. He was such a young man, so small and so vulnerable, and the jacket seemed to be new; it had that wonderful leathery smell of a newly bought wind-breaker. He’s probably not yet thirty, thought Alma, and saw a look of fear in Mueller’s eyes as he stared at something happening behind her. She turned and saw Hans Meyer lifting the envelope from the couch. Instinctively, Alma crossed to Meyer and said, “Thank you,
