“Regner. Fredrick Regner.” Detective Superintendent Michael Jennings of New Scotland Yard was a twelve-year veteran of the force and a man begrudgingly admired and respected by his peers. He was a no-nonsense police officer who had divorced his wife two years after joining the force when he found her constant complaints about his line of work prevented him from concentrating fully on his job. He later heard she’d left England and worked as a nurse in a leper colony in Hawaii. In a crowd, Jennings became every - man, unrecognizable. This helped make him a superior asset in an investigation. Hitchcock admired his brisk efficiency as he took statements from the Hitchcocks and Hans Meyer and then turned his attention to locating Fredrick Regner. Til contact Immigration first thing in the morning. They’ll have to have a record of him. Can’t enter the country without registering, you know.” He once again returned to the place on the carpet where Martin Mueller’s body had lain, the corpse long since having been removed by coal wagon to the morgue in Guildford. He stared down with such intensity, Hitchcock wondered if he expected to find some answers written there. Another Scotland Yard officer entered the house and gently closed the door behind him, grateful that the rain had stopped and hungry for the warmth of the bed he shared with his recently acquired wife.
“There’s nothing much of use in the victim’s car, sir.” His name was Peter Dowerty, and he had just recently been assigned to Detective Superintendent Jennings’ team. Jennings liked him, but would never tell him that.
“Well, tell me what you found, then we’ll see if there’s nothing much of use.”
Alma and Hans had moved through the room with their trays of refreshment, and sandwiches and mugs of coffee disappeared so rapidly that Alma was reminded of the plague of locusts sent to devastate the persecutors of the Israelites.
Peter Dowerty cleared his throat and told his superior officer he’d found a page of directions on the seat next to the driver’s, or at least he assumed that’s what it was, as he recognized English place names, but everything else was printed in a foreign language he deduced was probably German. There was a map of London and vicinities in the driver’s compartment, along with a bar of chocolate and a half-eaten cheese sandwich. “Cheddar,” said Dowerty and Alma fell in love with him.
“No registration?” asked Jennings gently.
“Here, sir.” Dowerty handed Jennings the registration. Jennings read aloud in a soft, almost cultured voice, “Martin Mueller, age twenty-eight, single, Caucasian male, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, residing at eight-oh-oh-three Liverpool Road, London. Well, we’ll have a look into that right now. Dowerty, get on to Phone Directory in London and see if there’s a listing for Mueller.” Dowerty obeyed instructions efficiently. There was no listing for Martin Mueller at eight-oh-oh-three Liverpool Road. “I thought not,” said Jennings almost smugly, “house numbers on Liverpool Road don’t run into four digits.’
Hans Meyer yawned and then apologized for yawning, and Jennings told him he could go to bed if he liked, inasmuch as Jennings had his statement and could see little else that he might add to the investigation. “Now, Mr. Hitchcock…
“Yes?” Hitchcock drew out the word as though he were pulling on a string of chewing gum. Actually, he was chewing on a ham sandwich and wondered why Alma had forgotten to provide mustard.
“This manuscript the man brought you, do you suppose it might have some bearing on the murder? I mean, let’s look upon this carefully. An old acquaintance phones and asks you to read a scenario. It can’t wait until tomorrow or be sent through the post, but it must be brought to you tonight. And “—he referred to his notes—” he warns you there would be danger if it falls into the wrong hands. Now who could the wrong hands belong to?”
“Probably some other director,” replied Hitchcock with equanimity.
“Could I have a look at this manuscript?”
“Why, certainly.” He caught Almas eye in her reflection in the mirror that hung over the desk. He also saw past her to Hans Meyer at the foot of the staircase, who was about to ascend, and then, deciding not to, turned to observe the scene between Hitchcock and Jennings. Hitchcock unlocked the drawer, removed the envelope, and then slit the envelope flap with the desk knife. He removed the manuscript, which was bound in a purple cover. Hitchcock made a face.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Jennings.
“I loathe the color purple. I find it vulgar. It puts me in mind of purple pasts and purple rages and a dreadful movie I once saw called Riders of the Purple Sage, but we mustn’t let me digress. This manuscript is terribly thin for a film script. Do you mind if I have a look first? After all,” he said with his trademark enigmatic smile, “it was meant for me.”
“By all means,” said Jennings with admirable patience. It was obvious, at least to Alma, that the man wanted to complete his investigation and get back to headquarters and instigate a wider operation.
Hitchcock announced, “It has no title.” He turned a page. “And it is not a scenario at all. It is a treatment for a proposed scenario. I assume you’ve had some experience with movie jargon, Mr. Jennings?”
“Some.”
Hitchcock handed him the script. “You have a look. It means nothing to me. Don’t let us keep you up, Hans. I think there’s very little of interest here.”
Hans took the hint and went upstairs. Jennings was flipping pages and then
