“But if the Hitchcocks are in danger?” questioned Nigel Pack.
Sir Arthur waved his hands with irritation. “We’re surrounded by danger! Everyone’s surrounded by danger! We could be struck by a bus or a taxi or a lorry! We could be hit by a stray bullet!”
“Where from?” asked Basil Cole.
“Basil,” said Sir Arthur wearily, “I’m beginning to suspect you could use a vacation.”
* * *
From the landing outside their apartment, Hitchcock shouted down the stairwell, “Hans, is that you?” There was no reply. Alma stood in the doorway.
“Hitch, I don’t like this one bit. Come back into the flat at once.”
“Well, you heard him plainly on the blower. He said he was Hans, it sounded like Hans!”
Alma screamed.
They hadn’t heard the men who had come soundlessly up the stairs. Professionals. Experts. They knew their job well. Hitchcock was pushed from behind and fell face forward into the sitting room. Alma ran to the window to cry for help, but one of the assailants was too quick for her. He grabbed her and pinned her arms behind her. Hitchcock got to his knees and shouted at the man. The man said to the men behind Hitchcock, “Shut him up.” Hitchcock looked behind him and saw a man coming at him, right hand upraised, wielding a cosh, ready to bring it down on Hitchcock’s skull. Hitchcock, with amazing grace born of desperation, scrabbled to his feet and raced into the kitchen. He found a meat knife, but the other two men were prepared for him when he came running back into the sitting room to defend his beloved Alma. Each man stood against the wall at opposite ends of the doorway, and as Hitchcock came dashing in, one tripped him, sending him back to the floor again, the other coshed him, and Hitchcock, still clutching the knife, passed out. Alma struggled with her captor, who snarled at the man with the cosh. “Let’s get her the bloody hell out of here, before the other one comes to.” The man with the cosh, Alma noticed, had a facial tic just under his left eye. Hitch, she was thinking, my darling Hitch, don’t be dead. My dear, dear darling, don’t be dead. As they dragged her from the flat, she thought she saw the shadow of a fourth person from the stairwell leading to the roof. Whoever you are, you bloody fool, she thought, help me. Help me.
In the phone kiosk across the street from the Hitchcocks’ house, Angus McKellin, huddled on the floor with an ugly bruise on his right temple, began to stir. He began to rouse himself, but not in time to see Alma being dragged from the house by the three men and spirited away in a hearse. He struggled to his feet and fought to orient himself. It was an automatic reaction to dial headquarters, but the phone’s wires had been clipped. He fought to focus his eyes and could see the door to the Hitchcock house was ajar. He staggered across the street and up the stairs, and when he came to their landing, through the open door he could see Hitchcock lying on the floor. He did not see the knife in Hitchcock’s hand because it was no longer there. It was in the hand of the fourth person, who had been waiting to search the flat after the three men went off with Alma. “Mr. Hitchcock!” shouted McKellin, “Mr. Hitchcock!” He ran to the fat man and knelt at his side. The knife was cruelly and brutally plunged into McKellin’s back. He died instantly, his mother would later be glad to know. The bloodied knife was withdrawn from the body and replaced in Hitchcock’s right hand. Then the phone wires were cut, and from the kitchen, Hitchcock’s sheet of notes was taken.
The man with the tic was at the wheel of the hearse. In the back, Alma had been bound and gagged. The windows of the hearse had been blacked out from within. The two men with Alma were smoking and joking, and the man with the tic was confident they had little idea where he was taking the hearse.
* * *
Hitchcock’s eyes opened slowly. The pain at the back of his head was excruciating. He was clutching something in his right hand. It felt like a knife hilt. Slowly and with great care, he turned his head to look at his right hand. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. The blade was covered with blood. Hitchcock released the hilt and struggled to his knees. Alma! Where in God’s name was Alma! He got to his feet, and it was then that he saw Angus McKellin’s body. Hitchcock’s body began to tremble. “Alma!” he cried, “Alma!” but there was no response from Alma. He kneeled beside the body and stared at the face. Although the incident with the three assailants had been nightmarish, Hitchcock registered their faces in his memory. The man with the tic under his left eye who had attacked Alma, the other two who were perfectly cast as thugs, but the dead man on the floor was neither of them. Hitchcock went from room to room crying Alma’s name, but she wasn’t there. Then he stared at the knife. My God, he realized, my God! The knife killed the man lying there, that ugly red stain on his back. I was holding the knife when I came to.
My God! I’ve killed a man!
The police! I’ll be taken into custody! He was perspiring, and yet his blood had gone cold. Not the police. Not for him, not the police. Alma. He must find Alma. Hitchcock sat on a chair staring at McKellin’s body. He had to think, and think hard. It was uncanny. This was in Regner’s scenario. Hitchcock a murderer, Alma abducted. The son of a bitch! Had he
