“I always favor types. They add such flavor to my ridiculous plots and take the audience’s mind off the incongruities. I call them my MacGuffins.” She questioned the MacGuffin and he explained it.
“How very clever.” She had a faraway look and then said, “In truth, so many of us in this field are MacGuffins.” Hitchcock got back to the business at hand. “This gypsy woman at the circus. Is she part of the network? Is she a spy?”
“The circus is called the Pechter Circus. It’s continental, and for continental you can read German, although the staff is somewhat serendipitous. There are French and Greek and smattering of Italian and Spanish performers.” She paused. “They were a bit upset yesterday. They were missing their knife thrower.” Hitchcock blanched. “He’d gone to London a few days earlier on an errand and his return was overdue.” Hitchcock reminded her of the bread knife thrown at him in the basement of the church in King’s Cross. “Well, you most certainly had a fortuitously narrow escape if that was him. You’ll find the circus today at Lingate, which is twenty miles up the Channel coast en route to Harborshire.”
“Isn’t there a naval installation there? I seem to recall doing a reconnoiter there as a possible location for Secret Agent, but there was some problem gaining government clearance.”
She smiled the enigmatic smile again. “You’re learning, Mr. Hitchcock, you’re learning. They’ve been playing the coastal cities for weeks, especially those where there are installations.”
“You’ve been wonderfully helpful. I didn’t expect this. Dare I ask why?” Hitchcock held her hand, and she squeezed his warmly in return.
“I’m an old lady. Rufus is an old man. Our time is almost past, finished. We’re both so unhappy. We both wish to put paid to all this, but we’re trapped. Yes, Mr. Hitchcock, we’re still spying. Once it gets in the blood, it’s like most social diseases, incurable. But please, don’t worry about me. Gypsy woman or no gypsy woman, whatever will be will be; que sera, right?”
“I must remember that,” said Hitchcock, “que sera, whatever will be will be. They’re awfully slow with the tea.”
“I planned that with Phoebe upstairs, in case I decided not to trust your blond self-styled accomplice. And I don’t trust her. I must caution you, Mr. Hitchcock, there’s something unreal about her.”
“I don’t much like her myself, but I’m stuck with her. I can’t think of a way to be shot of her. Although I must say, having her chauffeuring me about has been rather handy.”
Miss Lockwood whispered in his ear, “Chauffeurs have been known to misdirect. 1’m sure I can trust you to do the misdirecting when she begins questioning you as to what you managed to learn from me.”
“You can trust me, my dear Madeleine Lockwood,” said Hitchcock with a twinkle, “I told you I’m a master at creating MacGuffins.”
The door behind them opened, and Phoebe Allerton entered wheeling the tea cart, followed by Nancy Adair, whose face foreshadowed a tempest. “Tea!” twittered Miss Allerton.
Miss Lockwood boomed, “What kept you?”
Thirteen
Sir Arthur Willing was a stickler for continuity. Digression disturbed him, as did any other form of wasting time. As a result, he was able to understand Basil Cole’s passion for tidiness. Their conference after the departure of Detective Superintendent Jennings and Nigel Pack had proved satisfying and gratifying to both parties, like a meeting of potential lovers who’d finally made it into bed and discovered the affair could probably work. It amazed Sir Arthur that in the twelve or more years he’d been associated with Nigel and Basil, they’d never socialized. They’d never gone to the theater or to a movie or to a cricket match or breakfasted or lunched or supped unless it was in the line of duty. Sir Arthur had been to dine with the Packs and found the wife, Violet, a bit of a wet noodle, but even then, the evening’s conversation was monopolized by talk of the threat of the Bolsheviks and the suspicion that Colonel DeBasil’s Monte Carlo Ballet was a hotbed of spies. (Their investigation proved it to be a hotbed of second-rate dancers.)
Basil Coles fifteen-minute discourse on tidiness, equally logical and impassioned, had most impressed Sir Arthur. He had often dwelt on what there might lie in Basil’s life other than British Intelligence and was delighted at last to be presented with a clue: tidiness.
“You’re quite right, Basil. There are too many strings left untied, but it’s that kind of case. We’re not quite sure where we’re going, so we can’t gather in the threads until we’re sure they’re ready to be woven into the pattern. A bit florid all this, but it’s the best way I can explain it. Am I getting across to you?”
“Oh, quite,” said Basil, adding vaguely, “I suppose.”
“I thought it was understood that what we’re searching for is a spy who is serving two masters, us and them, whose identity is certainly unknown to us and now I’m quite certain is also unknown to them.”
“The man must be a genius to be able to work both sides against each other without revealing his identity. “ Basil was impressed with this anonymous adversary who was obviously a sporting man.
“It’s not the first case of its kind. There were others, there probably are others, and the Lord knows there will be others. They’re simply brilliant craftsmen in espionage with this unique ability to create networks to serve them. Fredrick Regner, in his own way, was brilliant enough to come up with his theory and put it down on paper in the form of his scenario. And then, when he realized it was the sort of story that needed to be married to the Hitchcocks, he decided to go ahead with it.” Sir Arthur puffed on his pipe and stared out the window at the fogless day, watching a barrow of flowers being trundled along the road, probably destined for Green Park. “Unfortunately, the ideas been leaked to the Germans,
