“How kind of you to receive us,” said Nancy Adair, while Hitchcock awarded her full marks for a charming display of civility.
Madeleine Lockwood led the way into a drawing room.
The windows were heavily draped, and at Miss Lockwood’s command, Phoebe Allerton fluttered about letting in daylight. Here again they were in the midst of an antiquarian monstrosity, one that Hitchcock would relish describing to Alma then they were reunited. Miss Lockwood indicated a sofa for them to sit on while she sat opposite them in a throne chair that Hitchcock suspected was either Adam or Hepplewhite. She imperiously exiled Phoebe Allerton to the kitchen to prepare tea, and the old woman slunk out of the room with her shoulders slumped.
“I wasn’t going to see you,” said Miss Lockwood in a voice so totally unmelodic, Hitchcock couldn’t much imagine her enchanting an audience in a music hall.
“Thank you for changing your mind,” said Hitchcock.
“It was Phoebe who was most persuasive. You’re supposedly writing a book about espionage.” She smiled, baring her false teeth. “Why are you really here?”
Hitchcock plunged in. He told her rapidly and concisely about Regner’s manuscript. It was obvious she too knew Hitchcock’s true identity, and he could see the only way to gain her cooperation was to level with her. When he finished, she struck a pose, her chin resting in her open palm.
She finally spoke. “So I too am a character in this rather strange chronicle.” She sighed a very weary sigh. “I show up in some of the strangest places. I don’t recall ever meeting any Fredrick Regner, though God knows I’ve encountered many a kraut spy in my day, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes. Jane Farquhar told us a bit about you.”
“That fat mouth.” She sighed again. “Spying isn’t what it used to be. In the good old days we had charisma and ambience. Even a fat-rumped pig like Mata Hari had a soupçon of finesse. I mean when you were betrayed by that wench, it was classy, if you know what I mean. By the way, we can drop the charade of Jennings, right? You are Alfred Hitchcock, n’est ce pas?”
“I am indeed, and I trust, on this occasion, you will keep my secret.”
“You’ve no problem with me. But Farquhar, she’d warn Eskimos about impending heat waves. Can you imagine the damn fool spent months in that place they had Nijinsky incarcerated trying to persuade him to become a spy and train in coding messages? She had this idea messages could be choreographed and danced all over the place.” Hitchcock didn’t think it was that bad an idea at all and filed it away for future consideration. She turned to Nancy Adair and asked sharply, “Who are you? You’re not his wife. Who are you?”
At first taken by surprise by the sudden attack, Nancy quickly recovered and said, “I’m Nancy Adair. I’m a reporter, a freelance reporter. I’m helping Mr. Hitchcock.”
“I’d like you to help Phoebe in the kitchen.”
“But you see I’m—”
“My dear Miss Adair.” Miss Lockwood had sliced into Nancy Adair’s attempt at an explanation like a fanatical vivisectionist. “I know Phoebe can use help. Phoebe, as I’m sure you’ve been told, can be very helpful to others, as she is to me. But on her own, she is frequently known to need help. I’m sure you’ve heard the clatter coming from the kitchen.” Hitchcock had heard nothing, assuming the kitchen, like the kitchens in all stately homes such as this one, was somewhere well to the back of the house. “Phoebe needs help. Through that door there, down the hall, turn right at the Tintoretto, and there’s the kitchen.” Nancy Adair stared at the woman, and Hitchcock knew that in a battle of wills, Miss Lockwood would prevail. He also knew he’d get nothing from the old spy until Nancy was out of the room. It was quite obvious the old lady either disliked or distrusted Nancy. Miss Lockwood’s eyes pierced into Nancy Adair’s like some infernal rays, and Nancy suddenly jumped to her feet and left the room. Hitchcock started to say something, but Miss Lockwood waved him quiet with a gesture, then she tiptoed stealthily to the door through which Nancy had exited. She listened at the door and then swiftly flung it open, expecting no doubt to find Nancy Adair crouched and eavesdropping. Nancy Adair was not there. Miss Lockwood gently closed the door and returned to her throne chair. “Who is she?” she asked.
“My dear, what she’s told you is what she’s told me.” Hitchcock related the events of the previous two days and Miss Lockwood struck the pose again, chin propped up by the palm of her hand.
“There’s something about her I neither like nor trust. I’m very good at sizing up women; it was a woman who betrayed Rufus and me. I’d warned Rufus about her, but oh, no, not Rufus, no woman would betray him, certainly not his faithful and loyal wife. Not Miranda. Medusa!” she spat the name. “Medusa with a hairdo straight out of a snake pit. Can you believe it, she’s with him still, while I linger here, alone, unwanted, unnecessary… a frozen asset,” she added with a pitiful dry sob. She fanned herself for a while and then said, “I think it must be quite obvious to you by now that this Fredrick Regner is himself a secret operator.”
“Quite obvious. But I’m rather flattered he chose me for his outlet, albeit putting my poor Alma in danger.”
“I saw your film The Thirty-Nine Steps.” She sounded as though she hadn’t much liked it.
“I had no idea you occasionally broke this sequestration to catch a movie.”
“Yesterday I went to the circus, but we’ll come back to that later. I’ll tell you why I stole into the village to
