His eyes widened. “The little old lady who disappears! She teaches the two young people a melody she’s learned in the mountain inn where they were all staying. And at the end of the story, the melody turns out to be a secret code. Now how the hell do you suppose eleven years ago in Munich some spy foresaw that I’d be using a coded melody in a film I hope to be shooting a few months from now?”
“The answer is terribly obvious. Nobody foresaw any such thing. It’s a coincidence. Coded melodies have appeared in several spy films made by the Americans. There was that awful one with Constance Bennett…”
“I wonder if she’d be right for The Lady Vanishes. She’s shooting here at Gaumont-British some thriller with Oscar Homolka and…”
“Hitch! We’ve got to get that melody decoded.”
“Not so fast, my girl. Not so fast.” The kettle whistled and Hitch watched distractedly as Alma prepared their tea. “Tomorrow morning, I suggest we move back to the flat in London.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s so beautiful here.”
“Beautiful? There’s a miserably bloodstained carpet in the next room. I had a murdered man fall into my arms. We’re delivered a mysterious manuscript that predicts me as a murderer and you as a kidnap victim, and you want to sit in the country and admire the beauties of nature. Why, my dear Alma, whatever became of your terribly British sporting instinct? My dear, if we are being set up, I say we must cooperate.” He held up the manuscript. “You know what a bloody awful time we have finding some good filmable material. Well, here’s a potential right here in my hand. But we must go about this carefully, very carefully. We have the welfare of our daughter to consider.”
“Oh God!” cried Alma,
“What? What is it?”
“I’ve just thought of that dreadfully persistent Nancy Adair person! If that poor creature only knew what went on here and she missed it all, I think she’d slit her wrists!”
“And not a moment too soon,” said Hitchcock, as he lifted his mug of tea and sipped.
The door opened and Hans Meyer poked his head in. “Good morning!” Startled by his sudden appearance, Alma cried out.
“I’m so sorry if I startled you!”
“Oh, my God, Hans,” cried Alma, “I’d forgotten completely about you.”
“I didn’t,” said Hitchcock softly, and took another sip of tea.
Seven
It pleased Sir Arthur enormously when running into old friends he hadn’t seen for years to hear them exclaim, “Why, Arthur, you haven’t changed one bit.” But he had; they knew it, and he knew it, change being inevitable. Early the morning after the Hitch- cocks’ unpleasant adventure at the cottage, Sir Arthur sat in the conference room at Intelligence headquarters reaming the bowl of his pipe with a matchstick. With him were his longtime aides, Nigel Pack and Basil Cole, and Detective Superintendent Michael Jennings. Nigel Pack’s thinning red hair had gone the way of all thinning hair. He was bald, fifteen pounds heavier, and unhappily married to the woman he’d begun dating eleven years earlier when she was a secretary. Basil Cole had remained a bachelor, and all traces of facial hair had long ago disappeared when he overheard a woman in a restaurant commenting on his thick mustache and sideburns. “The last time I saw a face like his, Tarzan was feeding it a banana/’
Jennings was staring out the window at the thickening fog, an odd occurrence for a day in June, waiting for Sir Arthur to comment on the previous night’s event at the Hitchcock cottage. Sir Arthur was now tamping down tobacco into the pipe bowl and wondering aloud why a fresh pot of tea hadn’t been ordered. Nigel Pack buzzed a receptionist and ordered the tea, “What about this actor person, Hans Meyer?” asked Sir Arthur. “What do we know about him?”
Jennings referred to his notebook. “Recently arrived seeking refuge from the Nazis. Apparently blacklisted in their film industry for some months. Has had a pretty fair career acting in Germany, France, and Italy, fluent in several languages. Has applied for a visa to the United States. Worked in a Hitchcock film in Munich back in ‘25.”
“Anything political?” asked Basil Cole.
“We’ve still to complete our research on him.”
“No family ties? No wife?”
“No wife. Family left Germany several years ago.”
“Jewish? Homosexual?”
“No, and probably no. But then, one is never too sure about that these days, is one?” He heard a chair squeak, and Jennings looked at Basil Cole, who seemed uncomfortable.
“Well, you’re doing a good job, Mr. Jennings. I assume you’ve got some of your best people on the Hitchcocks?”
“Around-the-clock surveillance. I’ve put several men on the actor.” Jennings stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes as a secretary entered with the fresh pot of tea.
“Ah! Here’s the tea! That’ll perk you up, Mr. Jennings. Give me your cup.” Sir Arthur sounded like a pantomime dame. Jennings was thinking what Jennings needed was a day’s sleep, but oh, what the hell, for king and country (not that he thought this bloody king was a symbol to respect).
In their cozy flat at 153 Cromwell Road, Alma was slicing bread for toasting. The fog was seeping through the windows, and Hitchcock had tried caulking the window seams with towels, but it never worked. He had been on the phone all morning with refugee organizations, trying to locate Fredrick Regner, but with a frustrating lack of success.
“Stop scowling, darling,” advised Alma, “it makes you look a villain.”
“It’s absolutely maddening. I wish that detective would get back to me.”
“If you stay off the phone, he might be able to get through.” The phone rang. “See what I mean?”
Hitchcock cradled the phone between his chin and shoulder as he studied a section of the Regner manuscript. Into the phone he said somnolently, “Yeeeessss?”
“Mr. Hitchcock? At last!” chirped Nancy Adair. “I’m Nancy Adair!”
Hitchcock, his hand over the mouthpiece, said to Alma, “Gangrene’s set in.” Into the phone he said with mock affability, “Ah, Miss Adair, we seem to
