“Very little indeed,” said Nigel Pack. “We’ve had a tracer on her after finding out she’d been in the village the night Mueller was murdered at Hitchcock’s cottage. She has no telephone, no address, and of course no background. “
“Meaning, in other words, she wasn’t born, she was created.” Sir Arthur exhaled. “I don’t like this one bit. Anyway, very astute of dear Miss Farquhar to have phoned us once she recognized Hitchcock from photos she’s seen of him and wondered why he was traveling incognito to a visit a former spy.” He took a breath and then continued, “And with a blonde chit who looked nothing like pictures she’d seen of Mrs. Hitchcock. Deucedly clever of the old darling. Arrange to send her something, will you, Basil? Chocolates or some books. I’d suggest cash, but I remember her pride, though it did goeth before her fall. Too bad we had to drop her.” He addressed Jennings. “By the way, the woman signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Jennings.”
Jennings chuckled and scratched an ear. “That’s nice to know. At least we know she’s aware of my identity. Now how would she know I was the detective assigned to the case? I suppose we have an informant at the Yard.…”
“Or here.” added Sir Arthur. “Anyway, let’s hope Miss Farquhar doesn’t suffer a similar fate as our bogus Lemuel Peach. Hitchcock has been leaving only corpses in his wake. Sad that we couldn’t have foreseen that possibility. What’s troubling you Basil?”
“Miss Farquhar.”
“Why she was dropped? She couldn’t keep a secret.”
“How Hitchcock and this blonde woman just happened to choose her place to spend the night.”
“I should suggest, dear Basil, that the answer would lie somewhere with this pseudonymous Miss Nancy Adair, inasmuch as I doubt Hitchcock’s ever heard of our Miss Farquhar before last night. Now then, Mr. Jennings. You’re looking anxious to get on with it.”
“I am. There’s a lot on my plate and I’d like to get to it.” He shifted in his seat as he referred to his notebook. “We’ve identified the impostor of Lemuel Peach.”
“Ah! What a nice way to start the day,” said Sir Arthur. “His real name is Nicholas Haver, and he was born in Munich. He has visited this country before on two occasions, and on both occasions was apprehended and deported for suspicions of espionage. I emphasize suspicions, as nothing could be proved, but the authorities deemed it expedient to kick him the hell out.”
“And unfortunately for him, he bounced back a third time.” Sir Arthur clucked his tongue. “How do these people keep slipping back in after they’ve been booted out? They’re so awfully good at that sort of thing. Every time one of ours gets caught, we have to work out elaborate exchanges to gain their freedom or else arrange to fix pensions for their widows.”
“May I continue, Sir Arthur?” Jennings was beyond disguising his impatience. Sir Arthur nodded his head, wondering why Basil Cole was still looking distrait. “Haver was a musician by profession. In fact, he was a violinist in a trio at the Emelka Studios in Munich when the pianist of that trio was Rudolf Wagner.”
“How marvelous!” exclaimed Nigel Pack. “Well, that should tidy that up.” At the mention of “tidy,” Basil shot Nigel a look.
“It doesn’t tidy anything up,” said Jennings, “because if he had murdered Wagner, the other violinist would have seen him. As it was proved, both musicians’ hands were busy with violin and bow. Also, there’s no record of Haver’s espionage activities until two years ago, which means he’s fairly new at it.”
“How’d he get to the King’s Cross Church?”
“Through the caretaker, who’s done a flit.”
“You think he’s one of them, too?” asked Sir Arthur.
“I don’t think so. He’s had the job for years and probably found Haver’s offer of a sop irresistible.”
“Anything about when Haver joined the Nazis?”
“Some two or three years ago. Recruited by some woman. I’ve little more there. At any rate, Haver was part of the chain set up here to transfer information.”
“Now how do you suppose Fredrick Regner knew all that? It’s there in his manuscript, so he had to know.”
“We know Regner’s had access to many secret documents, which is why he had to flee Germany. They’ll kill him if they catch him.”
“What else have you got?”
“Hans Meyer continues at large. We can’t get a thing on him.”
“Well, he’s bound to surface sooner or later,” said Sir Arthur grouchily. “They always surface sooner or later. Is that all, Mr. Jennings?”
“That’s all this morning, sir. And if there’s nothing else from you, I’d like to return to the Yard.”
“No, and thank you very much. I think we’re progressing nicely. Basil, what the hell is bothering you now?”
“If I could have a private word with you, Sir Arthur,” said Basil as the other two rose to leave.
“About what?” snapped Sir Arthur.
Basil Cole drew himself up bravely. “It’s about tidiness,sir.
“Tidiness?”
“Tidiness.”
Twelve
Phoebe Allerton was aptly named. She twittered like a bird. Her hands fluttered when she spoke, and her eyes were as big as an owl’s, if not especially reflecting wisdom. Her charming cottage at 22 Hollyhock Lane in the very modest little village of Medwin dated back to the early sixteen hundreds and, during the nineteenth century, Miss Allerton told them, had been the scene of a series of brutal murders.
“They found six bodies under these very floorboards,” said Phoebe Allerton. Hitchcock didn’t believe one word. They were seated in the sitting room, where the tables were stacked with piles of murder mysteries. Miss Allerton was probably a feminist, as she seemed to favor women authors. Hitchcock saw books by Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers and Ngaio Marsh and Mary Roberts Rinehart and Mignon Eherhart but not the work of a single man.
“And what
