Stupid fucking bitch, I’ll do her for this.
“… Hallowed be thy name…”
“Mr. Hitchcock?”
Rescue!
“Mr. Hitchcock, do you hear me?”
“Yes!” cried Hitchcock.
“Do your best to remain calm and do not panic. Listen to me, follow instructions carefully, and I should have you out of there in just a few moments. Ready?”
“Yes!” He was afraid to speak, afraid to do anything for fear that any sound, any movement might send the car deeper into the pit. He heard a cranking noise of machinery desperately in need of oiling.
“I am lowering the hoist. I have tested it. It’s still in workable condition. While I’m doing this, I want you to open your car door very gently. I know there’s not too much space there, but there should be more than enough for you to tie the rope around your waist, gently move out of the car, and leave the rest to me.”
Hitchcock blinked his eyes as gently, very gently, he found the door handle and maneuvered it open. The car rocked slowly. Hitchcock wet his lips and slowly pushed the car door open as the rope appeared. He reached for it carefully, fingers extended, hungry for its touch, hungrier than a lover in need of a caress. He felt the rope and then slowly worked his hand around it until it was firmly in his grasp. He pulled the rope in and like an oversized woman struggling into a girdle, passed the rope around his waist. At last, he had it firmly tied.
“How are you doing?” asked his rescuer, the voice very warm and comforting, very masculine and decidedly with a trace of a continental accent.
“I’m ready,” said Hitchcock.
The car moved slightly.
His rescuer said, “Now move out of the car quickly and when you do, grasp the rope with both your hands as tightly as possible.”
Hitchcock said, “I’m not very athletic.”
“I’m not asking you to do a back flip. I just want you to hold on tightly to the rope and leave the rest to me.”
How self-assured the voice sounded, like a hack writer reciting a plot he’d freshly plagiarized.
He’d called him by name! Mr. Hitchcock. The man knew him. Dear God, what if he was one of them; what, God help him, if he was the man in the Indian suit?
The floor groaned beneath the car.
The hell with it, thought Hitchcock; if he was the enemy, he’d leave me to plunge to a certain doom. Mustering courage and strength, both freshly minted by a strong will to live and be reunited with his wife and child, Hitchcock moved out of the car. It was a tight squeeze, but he made it. As he grasped the rope for dear life, the car shuddered and the floor beneath it gave way. Hitchcock shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the worst. The car must have plunged at least a hundred feet downward. The noise of its destruction was ear- and heart-shattering, the black clouds of dust it sent upward almost blinding Hitchcock. He could hear his rescuer coughing and prayed it didn’t cause him to lose his grip on the hoist’s manual handle.
When the dust settled, the man shouted, “Are you all right?”
“Pull me up!”
For several moments nothing happened. A touch of fear began to envelop Hitchcock in its awful embrace. Then the cranking sound blissfully kissed Hitchcock’s ears, and he felt himself slowly rising. It was a slow, tortuous procedure. Overhead, the beam to which the hoist was attached was agonizing under Hitchcock’s weight. Dust in slow trickles began to descend from the beam. Herbert looked up and saw the beam showing signs of a crack. Whistling nervously between his teeth, he looked down and saw Hitchcock was just a few feet from safety. He continued cranking, his feet dug solidly into the earth. He could hear Hitchcock breathing heavily. He could also hear the wooden beam beginning to crack. He had Hitchcock almost over the top and out of the pit.
The beam, he realized, could break in two in any moment, sending Hitchcock plunging to his death. He came to a quick decision. He abandoned the crank and leapt toward Hitchcock, grabbing him tightly around both wrists. Hitchcock yelled when he felt the rope slacken, but Herbert was in excellent shape. He pulled Hitchcock to safety and the fat man lay on his back with his eyes closed, gasping for breath while managing to whisper, “Thank you, thank you.”
The beam cracked and the hoist plunged into the pit, causing the old granary to tremble as though it had been hit by an earthquake. Herbert quickly helped Hitchcock to his feet and guided him outside to his car. Hitchcock leaned against the car, still gasping for breath.
“Take it easy, old man,” said Herbert.
Hitchcock exhaled a huge sigh of relief and then turned to his rescuer. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Oh, my God!” Herbert had left his dark glasses and black cap on the car seat when he went to Hitchcock’s rescue. “You,” said Hitchcock softly, his eyes blinking, his heart pounding, “it’s you.”
Herbert was the man with the disfigured face, the man who had been skulking about the studio in Munich, the man who had argued with Anna Grieban in the restaurant the night she was murdered. “Ah! So you haven’t forgotten me,” said Herbert wryly. “My name, Mr. Hitchcock, is Herbert Grieban, and I think we’d better get the hell out of here.” He held the car door open for Hitchcock, and after he was settled, Herbert shut the door and went around the other side and got in behind the wheel. The engine purred and then roared, and they pulled out of the driveway. Behind them, with a great crash that must have aroused the countryside, the old granary collapsed into a magnificent wreck.
Hitchcock turned and looked out the back window. “Pity,” he said softly, “that would have made a magnificent shot.” He settled more comfortably and watched as Herbert placed the
