“We could be in Hampstead or Hammersmith.” She knew he was playing with her. “Mrs. Maugham has on occasion condescended to work those lesser territories.”
She was beginning to suspect that the man with the tic was possibly to the manor born, not just in a manner born. Or else he subscribed to some very posh magazines. Now she remembered Patricia. “My daughter!”
“She’s with her Aunt Nellie. Quite safe and by now comfortably tucked into bed and asleep.”
“You know so much about us. Who are you? What’s going on? Where’s my husband?”
“Ah! Here’s dinner.” A butler entered, followed by a woman pushing a serving cart. The butler looked as though he might have had some experience in the prizefighting ring, and the woman looked as though she might be more comfortable as a matron in a women’s jail. “Mrs. Hitchcock, you must be famished!”
In the fish-and-chips shop, Hitchcock was demolishing his third serving and feeling once again on top of the world. The next step was to get to the village of Medwin and locate Madeleine Lockwood. He remembered on the map the village was somewhere to the west of Brighton, which meant trains for Medwin or connecting to Medwin would leave from Victoria Station. He looked at his pocket watch. He might still make it to Victoria before the last trains left, which was usually around midnight. But first he would phone John Bellowes and have him relate the adventure at the church to Jennings. Probably by the time Jennings got around to raiding the church, the bogus Lemuel Peach would have decamped. On the other hand, probably not. Spies, as Hitchcock had come to know them, especially when portrayed by Peter Lorre, could be a thoroughly brazen lot.
The shopkeeper’s harsh voice jolted Hitchcock. “I’m closin’ up.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry if I’ve kept you.”
“Want another portion first?” He’d been silently admiring Hitchcock’s appetite. He himself was a spare eater, finding the rancid odor of fish and chips reprehensible, although the business was profitable.
“Thank you, no. I think I’ve had enough.”
“You’re not from around these parts, are y’?”
“Well, actually, I’m not. How could you tell?”
“From your speech and the way when you eat, you don’t slop all over yourself.”
“I had very strict parents. Good night.” He reluctantly returned to the chilling fog while anxiously seeking a phone kiosk. When he found one, it was on a street that seemed dark and sinister, foreboding of danger, and Hitchcock found himself looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t see too far under the circumstances and he entered the kiosk while fishing in his pocket for some pennies. Bellowes’ line was engaged, and Hitchcock cursed the solicitor under his breath. He dialed again after a brief wait, and it still was engaged and Hitchcock hoped it was because one of the children had been taken suddenly ill. He didn’t like the Bellowes children; they had expressed a desire to grow up to become policemen, which immediately placed them in the enemy camp. The hell with it, thought Hitchcock; I’ll throw caution to the winds. He dialed Scotland Yard and asked for Detective Superintendent Jennings. It was a long shot. He assumed the man had gone home to his comfortable bed by now. He wondered if he had a comfortable wife or an un-
comfortable mistress or both. Jennings was there. “This is Hitchcock speaking.”
“Where are you?”
“In a kiosk.”
“Where?”
“In greater London.”
“We’ve a warrant out for your arrest.”
“I did not kill that man. Didn’t my solicitor get through to you?”
“He did.”
“Didn’t he explain the facts to you?”
“He did. At the moment I find them prejudicial.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Mr. Hitchcock, that was one of my best men who was murdered.”
“Oh, dear. That is unfortunate.”
“It’s more than unfortunate, Mr. Hitchcock; it’s damned tragic. The murder of a police officer calls for death by hanging.”
“And well it should. I’m sure you’ll find the killer.” Hitchcock reminded himself this phone call could be traced and began to hurry the conversation. “Now listen to this. I’ve just had a very strange experience that warrants your immediate investigation.”
Jennings listened attentively to Hitchcock’s adventure in the church at King’s Cross Station. So did Peter Dowerty, who listened on the extension, and so did an engineer who was trying to pinpoint the location of the kiosk from which Hitchcock was speaking.
“And then,” concluded Hitchcock, “he threw the bread knife at me, and as I look back at it, it was quite a professional effort. Fortunately, it missed me by a hair. Mr. Jennings? What news of my wife? Is there any word of Alma?”
“Not yet. Now listen, Hitchcock—”
Hitchcock interrupted, “Th-th-th-that’s all, folks,” and abruptly hung up. He left the kiosk, his mind on Victoria Station, but he found he was disoriented. He couldn’t remember the direction of the tube station. When he fled from the church, he had run blindly until coming across the fish-and-chips shop. He hastened back to the shop to ask directions of the owner, but when he got there, the place was dark and the door was locked. There wasn’t a soul on the street. Hitchcock decided to stumble along in the fog until he came upon someone who would direct him to the tube.
And then, from somewhere ahead of him, he heard the buskers.
It unmistakably had to be buskers. He could hear the plunk-plunk of a banjo and the rattling of finger sticks and the tap dancing of feet on the pavements and high whining voices singing of Burlington Bertie, and with renewed hope, Hitchcock hurried in the direction of the sound.
What a strange place for buskers, thought Hitchcock. They’re a long way from their usual turf. They belong in the West End under the bright lights of the theaters and in the shadows of the expensive restaurants, not in King’s Cross. Perhaps they’re a local group.
And how come they were about at this hour of the night? He began to feel apprehensive, with second thoughts of the advisability of approaching them for direction to the
