Hans Meyer handed her the envelope and, clutching it to her bosom, Alma returned to Hitchcock’s side. Hitchcock was gently pressing the man for Freddy Regner’s phone number and address, but Mueller’s eyes were closed and his ears unheeding. Hitchcock felt with his fingers gently at the base of the man’s neck. There was no pulse beat. Hitchcock sat back on the carpet. “I think he’s dead.”
“Your poor carpet,” said Hans Meyer, “it’s soaked with blood. I’m afraid it’s ruined.”
Alma looked up at him and thought, what a strange observation at this tragic moment. “The carpet is replaceable,” said Alma in a shaking voice, “the man isn’t.” From somewhere out in the road she heard a motor revving and then the sound of a car driving off with a screeching of tires. She went to the window and drew the curtain aside, and although she could hear the car driving off, she could see nothing.
“Thank God Patricia isn’t here,” said Hitchcock. He had risen and gone to Alma at the window and put his arm around her shoulder.
“I just heard a car drive off. Do you suppose…” Hitchcock read her mind. “You’ll tell the police.” As if on cue, in the distance they could here the shrieking of the on-off, on-off of the police siren.
“I suppose that’ll be the sheriff,” said Alma.
Hitchcock groaned. “I hope he’s brought a translator. I can never understand a word he says. Come on, we need brandy. It isn’t every night we have a murdered man falling into our arms. Here. I’ll take that.” He took the envelope from Alma, went to his desk, opened the center drawer, and, after placing the envelope inside, locked the drawer and pocketed the key. “Brandy, Hans? You might as well. I’m afraid we’re in for a long session with the local police. Everything they know they’ve gleaned from watching Hollywood movies; we must be very patient with them.”
Five minutes later, Peregrine Hunt, the village sheriff, arrived with his two constables, who were callow youths with a shared IQ, in Hitchcock’s opinion, of less than thirty. Peregrine’s wife was the local postmistress and telephone operator. Between them, they ruled and terrorized their small world. The Hitchcocks called them the Lunts. Peregrine’s false teeth were ill-fitting, and he was frequently inarticulate. The Hitchcocks, however, had more or less learned to unscramble him on the frequent occasions when they came across him shopping in the village. As the local celebrity, Hitchcock suspected Peregrine lay in ambush waiting to attack the director and engage him in conversation. Peregrine’s wife, who had the strange name of Effinasia (which Alma pronounced “Euthanasia” and when with the woman sometimes wished to commit), was a movie buff and could recite great gobs of dialogue from almost all of Hitchcock’s talkies, a reputation recently overshadowed by her devastating impersonation of Mae West at a local charity ball. In the policemen’s wake arrived the local doctor, Oliver Grundle, whom Alma had described, when he was first introduced to her several years earlier, as belonging in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He was a spare, angular man, certainly past fifty, and given to saying “oh my” and “tsk tsk” and prescribing aspirin and strong tea for everything from influenza to tuberculosis. When he saw the body he tsk tsk’d, said, “Oh my,” and then knelt at Mueller’s side.
“He’s dead,” said the doctor, and Hitchcock restrained from congratulating him. “Stabbed in the back,” the doctor continued, and Hitchcock refilled his brandy snifter. “Murdered,” the doctor said. “Nothing much I can do here except have him removed to the morgue.” He thought for a moment. “We don’t have a morgue.” Hitchcock briefly played with suggesting the body be placed on display in the window of the general store but then decided frivolity would only add to the doctor’s confusion.
“We’ll have to take him into Guildford,” said Peregrine Hunt with almost admirable authority. He turned to one of his underlings and said, “Ring Effinasia and tell her to send the coal wagon.” That wasn’t exactly what it sounded like, but the young man was studying decoding in his spare time and was able to convey the order over the phone to Mrs. Hunt, who usually closed the switchboard down at one A.M. but in a police emergency gallantly stood by her post like the captain of a sinking ship.
“Coal wagon’s coming,” said the young man with a big smile for everyone that largely went unnoticed.
“Now then, Mr. Hitchcock, what can you tell me about the deceased and how he came to be lying on your carpet with a knife in his back?” Peregrine produced a pencil and notebook, and for a brief instant, Alma hungered for the presence of the late, urbane German detective, Wilhelm Farber.
The testimonies of the Hitchcocks and their guest were brief and to the point. They told the sheriff the whole story from Regner’s phone call to the delivery of the envelope by the murdered man. Hitchcock could see Peregrine Hunt knew he was in over his head and tactfully suggested Scotland Yard be notified and asked to participate. While the sheriff procrastinated before coming to a decision, Dr. Grundle helped himself to a shot of gin and wandered around the room admiring the prints with which Alma had decorated the walls. By the time the coal wagon arrived, Peregrine Hunt had asked his wife to connect him with Scotland Yard, and Hitchcock, foreseeing a long night ahead of them, suggested to Alma a large pot of coffee and some sandwiches would be in order. Hans Meyer accompanied Alma to the kitchen, and she was grateful for the assistance he had volunteered.
Hitchcock took a seat at his desk, aching to unlock the top drawer and have a look at the manuscript. Peregrine Hunt had suggested they cover the corpse with a sheet, and Hitchcock directed one of Hunt’s young men to the hall cupboard at the head of the stairs. He was too
