Good for Rufus, thought Hitchcock. He said, “You keep in touch with Rufus?”
“Of course we’re in touch. Why do you think we’re in Regner’s scenario? Let’s go back to your film. It said it was based on the John Buchan book, but it bore little relationship to it other than the fact there was a spy ring at the center of the story. Well, let me tell you what disturbed Rufus about your movie and made him urge me to see it. In your film, your villain is missing a part of the little finger of his left hand.” She leaned forward. “Did you know then that Rufus is also missing a part of his little finger?”
Hitchcock was genuinely surprised. “I’ve never heard of your Rufus until this morning, when Miss Farquhar mentioned him, but she didn’t say a name then. Now I know his name is Rufus.”
“I was madly in love with Rufus. I still am. I owe all this”—she indicated her surroundings—”to Rufus.”
“He decorated?”
“Of course not!” Then she smiled. “I see you have a wicked sense of humor.” She eyed him from head to foot, and Hitchcock began to wonder if she was about to attempt to seduce him. “You’re not bad-looking, you know. I used to be partial to fat men. Rufus was once fat, but with him it was all muscle. Time, I’m told, has taken its toll. I haven’t seen him for years, although we’re in constant touch. I’ve been told he’s now quite gaunt and quite thin.”
“Who is Rufus?’ asked Hitchcock.
“Why, he’s Sir Rufus Derwent. How many Rufuses have you heard of? You’re a cinema man, you research true stories, don’t you? Don’t you remember the Rufus Derwent scandal?”
Hitchcock clapped a hand to his head. “Of course! It was 1920, wasn’t it?”
“Miranda betrayed us! We were coining a fortune selling secrets abroad, but she, the emaciated jealous bitch, had to throw a spanner into the works! My poor darling was court-martialed from the army, and only the tacit intervention of Buckingham Palace rescued the two of us from hanging. Now we’re both exiles in our own country, I here in Medwin, he and Medusa in Harborshire!”
Harborshire. Hitchcock recalled his notes. The answer might lie in Harborshire. “Where in Harborshire is he to be found?”
She smiled enigmatically. “Are you ready for this? His home is situated on a cliff overlooking the Channel. It can be reached from the road below by a long set of stairs leading upward to the house.” She folded her hands in her lap while still clasping the feather fan between them. “There are exactly thirty-nine steps leading up to the house.” Hitchcock’s mouth was open. “The house is called The Thirty-Nine Steps. Now how’s that for coincidence!”
“Miss Lockwood,” said Hitchcock, “it boggles the mind.”
“It certainly boggled Rufus when he saw your film. To be perfectly fair about it, Rufus suspected it was Buchan, the author of the book, who would have had this information. I told him he should sue, what with the steps and the missing pinky, but he said God no, it would mean dredging up the scandal again and fresh publicity and—oh, well, here we are.”
Here we are, but where are we? wondered Hitchcock. “Miss Allerton says something happened at the circus yesterday to disturb you. Was it something you’re willing to discuss?”
“I had my fortune told by an old gypsy woman.” She lifted her head proudly and bravely told him. “She said I would die soon.”
“What an awful thing to predict to a person!” Hitchcock was truly indignant.
“She saw it in my palm. I rarely remove my gloves, but she was terribly convincing. I don’t mind. Dying doesn’t frighten me. Life’s been much more frightening. It still is.” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Life is dangerous for people like you and me, Alfred Hitchcock. Regner’s manuscript, the information you say you carry in your head, is very dangerous and let me tell you why.”
“I’m grateful for all favors,” said Hitchcock as she motioned him closer to him. He left the settee and found a stool which he placed at her feet and sat on it.
“You’re doing their work for them. They’re very clever that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re searching for a double agent.”
“Surely someone must know his identity. How would he be paid off?”
“Don’t be thick, Mr. Hitchcock. Through secret bank accounts in strange little countries and exotic islands; they’re all over the place. Through trusted intermediaries. You have been sent on this journey through the device of the Regner scenario in hopes that along the way someone will slip and inadvertently provide you with the clue that will lead you to the quarry. He did fine for both the Germans and the British until they realized he was betraying them to each other; now he’s an even greater danger. I suspect he’s more of a danger to the Nazis than he is to us because they have terrible plans for the future, plans too ugly and too hideous to contemplate without seeking the solace of a church to pray in. And here you are, Mr. Hitchcock, here you are, assigned to draw in a face where only a blank exists. You’re not doing too badly, you know. I’m sure I’m being a great help.”
“You’re absolutely wonderful.”
“Really?” She was fingering her pearls. “I don’t suppose it would be too ridiculous to consider making a return. Not to the musical stage, music halls barely exist. But since films have been talking, I notice there seems to be a dearth of good actresses of my age and stature—what few films I’ve seen, that is. What do you think, Mr. Hitchcock, that is, if I survive that gypsy’s prediction?”
“I don’t think it’s beyond consideration,” said Hitchcock affably. “There’s a part in my next film, The Lady Vanishes…”
“I hope that’s not prophetic.”
“… which calls for a little old lady who just happens to be a spy.”
“Really? Wouldn’t
