“Oh, really?” said Hitchcock blithely. “I once directed a musical, Waltzes from Vienna. It was a disaster. It was neither Viennese nor did it waltz very well.”
Jennings returned the script to Hitchcock. “I’m afraid what little I’ve scanned means nothing to me. Murders in Munich, a disappearing girl…” Alma thought her breath would stop. “And this melody composed by the… am I correct? Is there such a thing as an atmosphere musician?”
“There was, back in the days of silent movies. It was supposed to help put the actors into the mood to emote. On occasion it was effective.”
“I see. One last question, and then I’ll let you get to bed. I suppose we could all use some sleep.” Peregrine Hunt was already asleep sitting upright on the couch. The doctor had long since departed, and Hunt’s callow assistants sat near the door to the kitchen with expressions of total disinterest. Jennings was addressing Alma. “You’re positive you didn’t see the car you heard driving away shortly after the murder?”
“Heavens, no. I heard it from a distance, obviously out on the road somewhere, and besides, the hedges lining our driveway are quite tall. It’s impossible to see over them.”
“Only if you stand on the top rung of a ladder,” advised Hitchcock. Jennings could tell it was time to end his investigation for the moment. There was no escaping the underlined irritation in Hitchcock’s voice, and it was now almost four in the morning. There’d be little sleep for any of them.
A few minutes later, as Jennings and his two assistants got into their official car, with Dowerty taking the wheel, Jennings asked, “Could you find a decent tire print of the car Mrs. Hitchcock heard?” The third man, Angus McKellin, a dour Scotsman who had made his way to London from Glasgow as a teenager, spoke up:
“It was all scuffled and useless, sir. The car had been parked on a stretch of grass. I could try again if you like.”
“No point in bothering,” said Jennings, as Dowerty drove out of the driveway, “it was probably a hire car. Even if we trace it, we’ll find a false name and driver’s license.” McKellin said cheerfully, “Mrs. Hitchcock is a bonny woman, don’t you think, Chief?”
Chief was thinking, but not about Alma Hitchcock. His mind was on Fredrick Regner’s manuscript. He had seen enough to convince him a more thorough investigation of the material was called for, but he did not wish to arouse the Hitchcocks’ suspicion. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. A call to Sir Arthur Willing would have to wait for a few more hours. The irascible old gent would never tolerate the interruption of his beauty sleep.
Hitchcock and Alma were in the kitchen, seated next to each other at the table, hungrily reading the manuscript. “The typewriting is a disaster,” commented Hitchcock. Alma was too absorbed to comment. She read faster than Hitchcock and prodded him to hurry it up a bit. “Stop rushing me,” said Hitchcock testily. “This has to be read with great care.”
Half an hour later he sat back and rubbed his eyes. Alma’s head rested in the palm of her hand, her elbow propped up on the table. “Well, my beloved, what do we make of it?”
“It’s quite obvious, Hitch. We’re in the midst of an espionage intrigue. We’ve been smack in the middle of it beginning with the murders in Munich. And it’s quite obvious the protagonists in the London section, the film director and his wife, are you and I.”
“How terribly unpleasant. In this story”—he tapped an index finger on the manuscript—“I murder someone, you’re kidnapped, and I flee in fear of the police and go on this long dangerous search throughout the countryside for the head of the spy ring. We already did that one in The Thirty-Nine Steps!”
“And the melody’s there. La-la-la-la… la-la-la…” She clapped her hands together. “I’ll bet it does have words. You remember, Rosie Wagner said perhaps it does have words; well, I’ll bet you a shilling will get you a pound it’s in the notations. Let’s go to the piano.” With alacrity, Hitchcock picked up the manuscript and followed Alma to the piano, where she seated herself. She took the manuscript and flipped the pages until she found the musical notations. She sent Hitchcock to the desk to find a pencil, and he grimaced at the bloodstained carpet. Once Alma was in possession of the pencil, she softly played the notes so as not to awaken Hans Meyer, whose room was above them. She studied what she had written and then shrugged with frustration. “Just notes. Do mi fa sol, sol fa sol… it means nothing to me.”
“We need some sleep. We’re all fuzzy now. There’s too much to think about and we must think about this clearly.”
“Do you think we’ll find Freddy Regner?”
“What makes you think we won’t?”
“I suppose Mr. Jennings will call all the German refugee organizations in search of a lead, but still, but still…”
“But still what?”
“I think Freddy Regner will be found when he bloody well wishes to be found.” She thought for a moment and then said, darkly, “Hitch? Do you suppose we’ve been set up?”
“Set up as what?”
“I was just remembering. When we were in Munich after we completed shooting on The Pleasure Garden.”
“Well, what about it?”
“You were shouting over the phone to Mickey Balcon in London how desperate we were for fresh funds. And he told you then someone’d been around from Whitehall asking questions about us.” Hitch was no longer sleepy.
“Yes, I remember. I’ve never forgotten.” Alma followed him back to the kitchen. Hitchcock almost forgot the rnanuscript, but Alma reminded him and he reclaimed it from the piano. In the kitchen, Alma plugged in the teakettle and set out two mugs. Through the window, the first rays of dawn were appearing, but neither Hitchcock nor Alma entertained thoughts of getting some rest. Their adrenaline was hyperactive.
“Hitch. In The Lady
