She sat on the other bed after removing her jacket. Hitchcock could now see she was sensibly dressed in a skirt, blouse, and the jacket. The beret she’d been wearing she now flung across the room, where it landed atop a dresser. She kicked off her shoes, and as she unrolled her stockings, she asked him, “What are we looking for in Medwin?”
“It isn’t a what. It’s a who. A woman named Madeleine Lockwood.”
“And who is she?”
“All I know is that she was once in the music halls and was at one time the mistress of a highly placed person.”
“You read this in the scenario?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t bring the scenario with you?”
“It was stolen from the flat yesterday.”
“You didn’t tell me that!”
“I didn’t tell you a lot of things.” If Alma were in the room, she’d recognize he was on the verge of dropping off. His responses were getting slower and softer.
“But you memorized it?”
“I made my own notes. I always do a breakdown of scenarios for myself. Not much of a scenario. Very sloppy on Regner’s part. I more or less memorized my notes. Went over them so often, and then…” He was snoring softly.
Nancy Adair took her purse and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, she stared at her face in the mirror and then smiled a wry, crooked little smile. She whispered, “So far, so good,” and then ran the bath.
At three o’clock in the morning, there was a heated argument going on in Sir Arthur Willing’s office between him and Detective Superintendent Jennings. Also present were Nigel Pack, Basil Cole, and Peter Dowerty, the latter still disguised as a bum.
“I insist not a word of this be leaked to the press,” said Sir Arthur, “at least not for another twenty-four hours. You have got to go along with me in this. Hitchcock is in enough jeopardy as it is. I mean, having a bread knife hurled at him…”
“And it miraculously reversing itself and landing in his assailant’s back.”
“You can’t think Hitchcock killed the man!”
“The man isn’t who he was claiming to be. He told Hitchcock he was the vicar, Lemuel Peach, but Lemuel Peach is away on holiday. He’s at a retreat somewhere north. I got this from the church caretaker, whom we roused in the building next door.”
“Then who’s the dead man?”
“We don’t know. I should know by morning.”
“Didn’t he have any identification?” asked a mystified Sir Arthur.
“He’d been stripped clean. There was nothing in his pockets.”
“And no prints on the knife hilt.”
Jennings was wishing the man would disappear in a puff of smoke. He was tired. Dowerty looked as if he needed toothpicks to prop us his eyelids. Sir Arthur’s aides were staring ahead like zombies. They all needed some rest. “Sir Arthur, we’ve been through all this. We need some rest. You want this kept out of the papers, I’ll defer to your demand. But it’s not helping us trace Hitchcock or locate his wife.”
“She’s quite safe,” snapped Sir Arthur.
The look on Jennings’ face was one of incredulity. “You know this for a fact?”
“Mr. Jennings,” said Sir Arthur as he ignited the tobacco in his pipe bowl, “I wouldn’t lead you up the garden path.” A well-beaten trail, he silently surmised. “There are times when one should have faith in British Intelligence.”
“It doesn’t help when you keep things from me.”
“Sometimes that’s necessary. Please trust me, Mr. Jennings. I’m one of the oldest whores in this game, and I’m usually respected for giving full value.”
Nigel Pack interjected with what he thought was great charm, “He doesn’t always confide in us completely either, Mr. Jennings, if that’s any comfort to you.”
“I’m not looking to be comforted,” said Jennings coldly, “I’m looking to solve three murders, locate a missing woman, and prevent further bloodshed.”
“Well, I’ve told you the missing woman is safe,” said Sir Arthur, “and I certainly wish to see justice done. And as to the avoidance of further bloodshed, I’ve never been very good at prognostication. But let us hope there won’t be any.”
“I think we should call it a night,” suggested Jennings. Dowerty seconded the motion.
Basil Cole said to Sir Arthur, “You must be dead-tired, too, sir.”
“I’m not dead yet,” said Sir Arthur as he continued to puff on his pipe, “or hadn’t you noticed?”
Alma couldn’t sleep. She’d been provided with nightgown and robe and other necessities, and the man with the tic had been terribly charming when he bid her good night and locked her into the room. There were bars on the window, too, and her view was of a small garden guarded by a wall that seemed at least five storeys high and obscured any further view beyond. What was being done to find her? she wondered. And Hitch. What of her poor darling Hitch? She’d seen him coshed and fall forward to the floor still clutching the kitchen knife he’d so bravely tried to use to rescue Alma. She prayed he wasn’t seriously injured.
She paced the floor, her head aching with thoughts that were mostly confusing and puzzling. Her lavish surroundings (and this bedroom was an absolute stunner), the kind deference with which she was being treated, the thoughtfulness in telling her Patricia was quite safe. Sleep, sleep, she thought with a sigh, perchance to dream. Where are you, Hitch? Where are you now? Are you at home asleep?
Hitchcock was not at home, but he was asleep, and he was snoring. Nancy Adair lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, damning herself for not owning a pair of earplugs.
BOOK THREE
The MacGuffin
Eleven
Basil Cole was a tidy man. His obsession with fastidiousness had resulted in the defection of friends, lovers, and relatives, all expendable as far as Basil was concerned. His devotion to British Intelligence bordered on the fanatical, which made him a valuable asset to Sir Arthur Willing. Where the firm, as it was known in Intelligence headquarters, demanded utmost loyalty, Basil demanded
