“May I quote you?” she asked eagerly.
“That’s what you’re here for.” He had settled back in his chair with his hands folded across his stomach, wondering whether to warn her that inanities could drive him to violence. But, surprisingly enough, she had come prepared with a list of intelligent questions, most of which he replied to with cheerful good humor. Alma served biscuits with the tea and hoped they weren’t stale; the tin had been in the larder for weeks.
Twenty minutes later, Hitchcock referred to the clock on the mantel and began fidgeting. Nancy Adair asked, “And your next film?”
“It’s to be called The Lady Vanishes. It is adapted from a novel by Ethel Lina White, The Wheel Spins. It’s a spy story. “
“Your last five films have been spy stories, haven’t they?”
“Yes, I seem to be in a bit of a rut. But spies are such interesting people, don’t you think?” Actually he knew they weren’t. He knew they were usually dull, unhappy, frightened, and had bad teeth.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever met any spies.” She gave a small laugh, and Alma crossed and then recrossed her legs. “Have you?”
“I sometimes think I have.” Hitchcock was scratching his chin. “I think I met some eleven years ago in Munich. Anyway, Alma agrees with me they might have been spies, don’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” said Alma, wishing to be rid of Nancy Adair, but Hitchcock was regaling her with the story of the Munich murders.
“That’s a marvelous story!” exclaimed the blonde. “Why’s it been kept under wraps all these years?”
“I really don’t know,” said Hitchcock, “I suppose if the victims had been internationally famous, they might have merited a headline in this country. But unfortunately, they were as obscure in life as they were in death.”
“Like the man who was murdered last night?”
Alma almost dropped her teacup as Hitchcock asked, “How do you know about that?”
“Have you forgotten I was in your village at the time?”
Alma asked, “You mean you stayed on after I discouraged you?”
“Well, frankly, I was going to call back later to try to persuade you to change your mind, so I had dinner at the inn and spent the night. The woman on the switchboard apparently phoned the innkeeper’s wife and told her about the murder. While serving my breakfast she told me. I suppose by now the entire village knows the story.”
Hitchcock said to Alma, “So much for Mr. Jennings’ lid.”
Nancy Adair had gotten to her feet.
“This is such a charming flat, Mrs. Hitchcock. I’d like to put a little something about it into my story. Do you mind if I look around?”
Alma gathered up the tea-things on a tray and led the way to the kitchen. “There’s not terribly much to see. It’s quite an ordinary little flat. We don’t spend as much time here as we used to. We love the cottage so.” Hitchcock followed them into the kitchen, reminding himself to reprove Alma for serving stale biscuits.
“And are these your notes for your new film?” Miss Adair was at the table unceremoniously flipping through the manuscript pages. What cheek, thought Alma. Hitchcock took the manuscript and placed it face downward over his own sheet of notes.
“I don’t like my notes to be read by others, Miss Adair,” scolded Hitchcock.
“I’m so sorry. Once a reporter, always a reporter.”
Alma interrupted. “Hitch, I think we’re going to be late for the meeting. You’ll have to forgive us, Miss Adair, but we’ve a production meeting at the studio.”
Hitchcock was staring at the blonde intensely. Then he exploded. “You tried to run us off the road yesterday!”
“Oh, dear, I was afraid you’d recognize me.”
“Recognize you! I should throttle you!”
“I wasn’t trying to run you off the road, really I wasn’t. I was trying to get your attention.…”
“You most certainly got that!”
Alma said to Hitchcock, “You didn’t tell me anything about it.”
“I didn’t want to worry you!”
“I know it’s a bit late after the fact,” said Alma, “but I’m worried now.”
“I won’t keep you any longer,” said Nancy Adair as she hurried back to the sitting room and set about gathering up her things. “I’m so grateful for the time you’ve given me, Mr. Hitchcock.”
Hitchcock was holding the door open for her. “Be sure to send me a copy of your story when you’ve written it.”
“Absolutely. Good-bye, Mrs. Hitchcock, the tea was lovely. “
“The biscuits were stale.”
Alma glared at Hitchcock, and after the reporter was gone and the door was shut she said, “I didn’t like that woman.”
“You’re missing the important point,” said Hitchcock as Alma followed him back to the kitchen.
“And what’s that?”
“She apparently didn’t try to peddle Martin Mueller’s murder to a newspaper.”
“Oh!”
“Exactly. Oh.”
“Maybe she did, but the police got on to all the papers and asked them to hold the story.”
“Maybe. But I don’t like it one bit. I think I should advise Detective Jennings about this.” Hitchcock phoned New Scotland Yard but was told Jennings was away from his office. Hitchcock left his name and phone number. He returned to making notes while Alma phoned her sister-in-law and chatted with Patricia.
“Patricia’s having a lovely time,” Alma told Hitchcock as she placed the tea-things in the sink. “The fog’s ruined their plans for a picnic, so they’re going to a flick instead. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Hitch, you’re not listening to me.”
“It’s this bloody manuscript. Something’s not right with it, and I can’t put my finger on it. It’s quite obvious Regner expects me to fill in the blank spaces in the story, but I can’t see how.” He sat back in the chair, which groaned. “I just don’t know how to penetrate this.”
“Perhaps you should have given Miss Adair a crack at it,” said Alma wryly.
“Perhaps I should give you a crack and be done with it.” The phone rang. “That may be Jennings.” He crossed to the phone. “Yeeeessss?” He listened and then hissed to Alma for quiet at the sink. She shut the taps
