“I was just thinking. The climax of the story has everyone converging on this one man who has information both sides are after, but Regner never tells us who he’s actually spying for, us or them.”
“Perhaps both. He’s probably a double agent.”
“Well, if both sides know his identity, why don’t they go directly to him?”
“Because they don’t know who he is. Why don’t you read this thing carefully!”
“I have, and don’t shout at me.”
“I’m sorry, but this damned insistence of yours on logic. Everything can’t be logical! Look around us. Hitler, is he logical? He’s absolute nonsense, but there he is with his Chaplin mustache and his master race, ha! And what about our pale excuse for a king and his mordant passion for an American divorcee? I thought that situation died with silent pictures! The man I’m searching for is someone who filters the information to others; that’s who we’re looking for. And now I’m beginning to see where Regner has been so deucedly clever.”
“Kindly share that with me.”
“Be patient and bear with me. Eleven years ago in Munich, Anna Grieban and Rudolf Wagner are murdered. In the script, Regner gives them other identifications, but what the hell, it’s patently them. They were spies working for the British government.”
“You’re not sure about that.”
“I have to be sure about that, or there’s none of your bloody logic to Regner’s plot line. Now be quiet and listen.” Alma’s face was a model of stoicism. “That bloody melody of Wagner’s was a code, one that possibly still exists. If codes aren’t broken by the opposition, they age beautifully, like a decent wine. Now the person who murdered them is possibly the man with the disfigured face, remember him?”
“Oh, of course! The MacGuffin.”
“Perhaps he is, we can’t tell yet. Then there’s Hans Meyer and that dreadful daughter of Wagner’s; what was her name again, Rosie?”
“Rosie. Whatever became of Rosie?”
“God knows. She’s probably a member of the Nazi party and fingering all her neighbors. I wouldn’t put it past her. And, of course, my dear, there’s Regner himself. “
“Ahhh! I’ve had him in the back of my mind.”
“You can move him up forward now. Then, my dear, there’s us.”
“We didn’t murder them.”
“True. But remember what Mickey Balcon told me on the phone at the time? There’d been inquiries about us from Whitehall.”
“Oh, my dear, you mean they thought we were spies too?”
“Yes, but it’s more sinister than you think. They suspected us of possibly spying for the Germans.”
“What cheek!”
“Why not? We were there when the murders were committed. You adored Wagner’s melody and recommended him to Fritz Lang as a composer. And we stayed on in Munich to do a second film. Why couldn’t we have been spies? It ties up very nicely, as a matter of fact. I wish we’d used that kind of logic in Secret Agent. Anyway, we come to the present. Hans Meyer is in London. And Regner. And he phones us. He’s sending this manuscript with Mueller. The whole damned procession is listed right here in my notes, taken directly from Regner’s manuscript. Except he didn’t predict Mueller’s murder.”
“Well, he’s not exactly Nostradamus.”
“But he’s been pretty damned shrewd. The more I talk this thing, the smarter it gets. Have you noticed there’s a bit of The Thirty-Nine Steps in this story? The director thinks he’s a murderer and goes to ground, especially since he’s terrified of the police. Now that’s a bit close to the bone.”
“Oh, you probably told that psychosis of yours to Regner back there in Munich.”
“Of course I did. I’ve told it to just about everybody else.”
“I didn’t notice you trembling when the police came to the cottage last night.”
“I did perspire a bit, but not that anyone’d notice. Now stop digressing! Why would you be kidnapped, or whatever name he’s given to the woman in his scenario?”
“To make you talk, if they think you’re a spy and have information they want.”
“But which ‘they’? As the Americans would say, the good guys or the bad guys?”
“That, my darling, belongs under the heading of ‘suspense.’”
“Yes. Quite right. I wonder what’s keeping Hans Meyer? You don’t suppose he thinks he’s going to be asked to share dinner with us.”
“He’d better not. There’s just enough for the two of us. “
“What’s on the menu?”
“Chops, a vedge, and salad. You said you were dieting.”
“Must you believe everything I say?”
“You wish I would, but I don’t. And now who’s digressing?”
“Sorry.” He referred to his notes and mumbled, “Vicar… Medwin… Madeleine Lockwood…”
“Madeleine Lockwood. Nice name for an actress.”
“Regner has her as a onetime music-hall singer. Not a bad touch. Now let me see… itinerant circus… I suppose we could get a list of any of those out touring the hinterlands. According to Lockwood, there’s danger in the circus but Regner doesn’t specify what. And then the script reaches its climax in a Channel village… nice touch… village from which the villain can make a hasty exit abroad in case of emergency.” He referred to the notes again and mumbled.
“What did you say?” Alma had been making notes of her own, attempting a more orderly rundown of the bare bones of Regner’s story.
The doorbell rang.
Sir Arthur Willing wasn’t happy. The cause of his unhappiness was the purloined scenario. He said to Nigel Pack and Basil Cole, both of whom impatiently wished he’d call it a day but suspected they’d be trapped with him for hours, “The scenario is in dangerous hands. That poses a serious threat to Mr. and Mrs. Hitchcock.”
“What do you suggest we do?” asked Basil Cole, stroking his nonexistent mustache and then with embarrassment removing his hand from his face.
“I suggest we do nothing and await further developments. Jennings has them under surveillance, three men sharing a twenty-four-hour
