“You’re not lost, you’re on the road to Lingate.”
“Spare me your whimsy, Mr. Hitchcock; what we are involved in is serious business. Don’t you realize we too might be targets for the murderer? Well, don’t you?” He said nothing. “What happened to Madeleine Lockwood to make her feel faint at the circus yesterday?” He said nothing. “Didn’t she tell you? Didn’t she tell you anything? Why else is she in Regner’s scenario?”
Hitchcock sighed. He decided to placate her somewhat. It might relieve the nagging. “An old gypsy woman at the circus told Miss Lockwood she didn’t have long to live.”
“Ha! You don’t have to look in her palm to tell her that! You just look at her and you know any day now she’ll be dust!”
“How do you know she looked in her palm and not in a crystal ball?”
‘How do you mean, how do I know? I don’t know at all! I said looked in her palm because it’s the first thing I thought of. What else did she tell you?”
“There’s no need to shout.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d raised my voice.”
“She told me their knife thrower had gone missing.”
“Knife thrower! Ah! I see! You think he was the man in the basement of the church.”
“Oh, indubitably.”
“Did Miss Lockwood think this too?”
“Well, she didn’t disagree.”
“What else did you talk about?”
“The good old days.”
“What good old days?”
“When spying was an honorable profession.”
“You are making fun of me.”
“No, I was just putting a little irony in the fire. Actually, I’m beginning to realize a subtle point in which I’ve failed in my spy films.”
“Oh, yes? And what is that?”
“My spies were all suave and ladies and gentlemen. No such thing. Spies are very foolish people.”
“That’s what you think. Shame on you. Look how clever they’re being with you.”
“That’s because it’s been written for them. They’re playing parts like my actors. No, spies are the failures of the species. They turn to the profession of betrayal because they’re totally incapable of gainful recognition. Look at foolish Miss Lockwood. She was obviously a mess as a professional singer and was probably a very woeful child. So she was easily seduced by the glamour of espionage—”
“And the financial gain,” interposed Nancy.
“Hers is from the lover, my dear, and not gained by professional acumen.”
“And what about this lover? Who was he?”
“I don’t know.” It was so easy to lie to her, and Hitchcock reveled in the deception. What an improvement his viewpoint of spies and spying would be in The Lady Vanishes, he thought with satisfaction. Alma would be so pleased. Alma. He must get to a telephone, reach Jennings. He had to know what progress there was in the search for Alma. Maybe she’d been found; the thought consoled him a bit. Maybe all was well. Maybe, a word he usually loathed and rarely used.
Sir Arthur Willing’s man at the wheel of the black sedan felt relieved. When they’d pulled into the petrol station, the sudden swerve had taken him unawares and he cursed himself for that. When alone on an assignment his mind tended to wander, and that was bad, but no professional operator is perfect, that’s why so many are apprehended. Surprised by the sudden swerve, he was forced to continue driving, leaving them behind him, but with luck, he found a shoulder in the road where he could park and ponder his road map until they appeared again. For a moment, he dwelt with a sinking feeling on the thought they might have reversed and gone back and he lost them. When after five minutes they hadn’t appeared, he entertained the option of turning back in search of them. But the gods were good. Nancy and Hitchcock drove past, and in the brief glimpse he caught of them over the rim of the road map which he had positioned to mask his face, he saw what looked like a coolness between them.
That bitch. That loathsome bitch. He put the car into gear and resumed the pursuit. How he loathed Nancy Adair.
He hummed, La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
Fourteen
At lunch, which they frequently took together, Basil Cole directed his attention from his shepherd’s pie to Nigel Pack, who was picking with disinterest at a soggy salad. “I say, Nigel, is there something troubling you?”
“Hmmm? What? Oh, troubling me? No more than usual. What took place at your confrontation with the old man?” Then he added quickly, “Of course, if it was a private matter…”
“Well, actually”—he wished there were less slimy grease oozing out of his food—”we discussed tidiness.” He elucidated for Nigel, who looked as though he thought he was being subjected to a leg pull, and when his discourse was over, Nigel agreed with him about the proliferation of loose ends.
“He let anything drop that I should know about?”
“Like what?”
“Like about this case. Hitchcock.”
“Oh, well, actually, his trail’s been picked up. Forgive me, old chap, meant to tell you earlier, but it slipped my mind. He and the girl were in Medwin at the Lockwood person’s place. Nigel?”
“Yes?” Nigel was thinking his ham didn’t look like ham. He wondered if it wasn’t silverside. He pushed the sliver of meat to one side on his plate and carefully sectioned a slice of tomato.
“Have we a Herbert in the firm?”
“Herbert who?”
“Just Herbert.”
“First name or last name?”
“Don’t know. I can’t recall any Herbert.”
“Maybe he’s a new recruit. Why do you ask?”
“Herbert is tailing Hitchcock and the girl.”
“Why didn’t you ask the old man?”
“I did. And old sly puss said apologetically that that too was to remain an untidy loose end.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to leave it there, won’t we?”
“How are things at home?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t mentioned Violet lately. “
“There are times when Violet is unmentionable.”
“I see; it’s like that, is it?”
“It’s like nothing, actually.” He pushed his plate away and took a sip of
