“Get it over with, as Mother used to say when spooning castor oil into my mouth.”
Nancy Adair’s voice caressed Hitchcock’s ear with gratitude while Alma wondered aloud why there was no news about the murder of Martin Mueller. Hitchcock looked at his pocket watch and said, “Perhaps there’ll be something in the afternoon papers. After all”—he puffed himself up like a pouter pigeon—“I am Alfred Hitchcock.”
Alma was buttering the toast as Hitchcock returned to the manuscript. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m doing a breakdown of all the steps Regner’s outlined for us in his treatment.”
“Stop saying us, as though we’re his protagonists.”
“Well, he has written about a film director and his wife, hasn’t he?”
“Just a device to pique your interest and your ego. There are a hell of a lot of holes in that story. There are at least three big enough to drive a hearse through.”
“What an unfortunate analogy. But you’re right. There are more loose ends here than I left dangling in Sabotage. For example, his denouement doesn’t identify the culprit behind it all. That’s very sloppy of him; his plots were always so meticulously worked out. And that melody, which I am growing to loathe and detest with the passion I usually reserve for any Ivor Novello creation, continues to make no sense. Do mi fa sol, sol fa sol.” He took a bite of buttered toast and stared out the window. “Damned fog. Damned Freddy Regner.” The phone rang. “Damn Nancy Adair.” Into the phone he said, “Yeeeessss?”
“Mr. Hitchcock? Detective Superintendent Jennings here.” Hitchcock pantomimed Jennings’ identity to Alma, who smiled as she poured their tea. “Sorry to be so late getting back to you, but I’ve been tied up in a meeting all morning.”
“I was wondering if you’ve been able to locate Fredrick Regner, Mr. Jennings.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Hitchcock. It appears he has probably entered the country illegally.”
“Is that possible?” Hitchcock knew it was possible, but often found a pose of naivete got better results when he was nosing about for information.
Jennings was a jump ahead of him. “We both know it’s very possible. He’s not registered with Immigration, which means he probably came by private boat and was landed somewhere along the coast that’s known to be unpatrolled.”
“That’s probably why he took ill,” commented Hitchcock between sips of tea.
“Oh, of course. You said Regner told you he was ill. That’s what he told you; it doesn’t mean he is.”
“That’s a thought, isn’t it? Feigning illness so as not to blow his own cover. By the way, Mr. Jennings, there’s been nothing about the murder on the wireless. Is this a deliberate omission?”
“I should think you’d be grateful. You don’t want to be besieged by hordes of reporters, do you?”
“I don’t mind,” replied Hitchcock with a trace of annoyance.
Jennings laughed. “You film people! Always hungry for publicity.”
“Mr. Jennings,” said Hitchcock solemnly, “publicity helps sell film tickets.”
“Have you a film to sell right now?”
“Where have you been of late, Mr. Jennings? Tibet? My film Sabotage is showing in the West End at the moment, and it can use all the help it can get.”
“Well, Mr. Hitchcock, for the time being, we’ve decided to keep a lid on the case, until we can get more information on Regner and the victim. But I’ll continue to keep in touch.”
“I am most grateful for small favors. Good-bye, Mr. Jennings.” Hitchcock said as he replaced the phone in its cradle, “wherever you are.” He repeated Jennings’ end of the conversation almost verbatim, and Alma put her hands on her hips, very irritated.
“Bloody cheek of the police. Why don’t we give the story ourselves?” Hitchcock found her sly look endearing.
“Do you think we dare?”
The doorbell rang.
Alma’s hands were now folded as she leaned against a kitchen counter. “You can’t be faulted for letting it slip to our beloved Miss Adair.”
The doorbell rang again. “Patience,” commented Hitchcock as he waddled to the wall intercom, “is obviously not one of her virtues. “Into the intercom he asked, “Yeeessss?” and Nancy Adair’s voice squawked back her identity. Hitchcock buzzed her in and then crossed to the door and held it open. Alma examined herself in the sitting-room mirror and decided there was no room for improvement. They could hear their visitor nimbly racing up the stairs, and Alma commented she sounded like an ibex leaping from alp to alp. Nancy Adair arrived on the landing, and Hitchcock’s heart skipped a beat. When she appeared in the doorway, face glowing like a klieg lamp, Alma’s mouth set into a grim, tight line. A blonde. A slim, beautiful blonde.
“So you’re Nancy Adair,” said Hitchcock as she came into the room and shook his hand. “This is Mrs. Hitchcock.” Nancy Adair shook Alma’s hand with a firm grip.
With a synthetic party smile, Alma asked the reporter, “Tea? Whiskey? Port? Wine?” Tea for all was decided on, and Hitchcock and the blonde sat across from each other while Alma repaired to the kitchen.
“Well, Nancy Adair. You certainly don’t look like a Nancy Adair.”
Nancy was rummaging in her oversized handbag for a notebook and pen as she inquired a bit flirtatiously, “And what did you expect me to look like?”
“Like one of the usual undersexed Fleet Street gorgons, especially the overambitious ones. Exactly whom do you write for?”
“I’m a freelance. I thought you understood that. This interview is geared toward a newspaper syndicate in the States. I understand your film Sabotage is opening there soon.”
“Yeeesss. Sylvia Sidney, who plays the spy’s wife, is quite a favorite there. You know the old saying. ‘Laugh and the world laughs with
