“Why else do you think you were being wooed so arduously by Fritz Lang’s wife, Thea von Harbou?”
The film of memory in Hitchcock’s mind was winding backward. He and Alma were in the restaurant with the Langs, and Thea who was trying to persuade him to remain in Germany with promises of a great future in their film industry. “So that’s what it was all about that night.”
“Poor Lang. How he despised his wife. Well, he’s safe now in Hollywood.”
“And she?”
“Oh, she’s a very good Nazi. Still writing film scripts. Still heil-Hitlering it all over the place, an aging cockatoo.”
“The circus is a nest of German spies, isn’t it?” Herbert chuckled. “So the penny’s dropped at last.” Hitchcock was very disgruntled. “Well, if that is so, why aren’t they rounded up and imprisoned?”
“In the first place, it’s heavily infiltrated with our own people. And there are others with the circus who are quite innocent of its clandestine operation, you must understand. “
“Of course.”
“Poor Oscar was freshly placed there yesterday. We were a long time getting him into the orchestra. Anyway, why they aren’t exposed? We keep hoping they’ll lead us to the man who heads this whole network in Great Britain. Otherwise, they’re no great threat to our security.”
Hitchcock exploded. “But they’ve been touring the coast where there are naval installations!”
“That’s right. But they see only what we permit them to see. They’ll be rounded up soon, though, let me tell you. They’ll soon be of no value to us whatsoever.”
“Why was the man in the lorry sent after us?”
“To catch Nancy Adair.” He chuckled. “And they’ve got her.”
“Well, I must say, if she’s in a precarious predicament, I’m quite sorry for her, but I don’t quite see what the problem is other than the fact that I think she’s a bit of a fraud.” He thought again, and the blood rushed to his face. “Well, I am the damnedest fool in the world! Of course she’s a fraud! Trying to tell me she was South African when I knew she was continental. The continental lilt in her speech was impossible to disguise despite her perfect English. Is she a Russian spy?”
“No, she’s with the Nazis. We should stop for some dinner. I’m getting very hungry.”
“She’s with the Nazis! Then she was assigned to me because they thought I was a spy. And Alma was kidnapped for the same reason.”
“Mr. Hitchcock… by the way, may I call you Alfred?”
“Call me idiot.” He paused. “Call me Hitch. Only Alma calls me Alfred, and that’s only when she’s about to pick a fight.”
“Hitch, the answer to Nancy Adair is right under your nose. You’ve known her for years, or at least you met her years ago.”
Hitchcock emitted a yelp of self-anger. “You’re not telling me Nancy Adair is Rosie Wagner!”
“That’s right. Rosie Wagner. Rosie murdered her father and my wife. Few would have guessed the shy little mouse was a ferocious tigress. Now she’s in trouble with her own people. She was supposed to have murdered you.”
Sixteen
Herbert,” said Hitchcock, “my blood has just gone cold.”
“Her people are stupid. They should have sent her out to pasture when she suffered her breakdown, remorse over killing her father, though she professed to despise him. Still, that should have been the warning right there. In espionage, sentiment is the Achilles heel. But Rosie’s lover convinced them she’d continue to be an asset once she was fully recovered and assigned to the field. Actually, she’s done some very nice work for them these past ten years, and I say that begrudgingly. “
“Who was Rosie’s lover? She was so unattractive a girl.”
“She kept herself deliberately looking homely. It was a good facade. Just like Nancy Adair became a good facade.
But underneath that mouse’s exterior there seethed a sexual volcano. Didn’t you lay her last night at Miss Farquhar’s?”
“Good God, no! I could never be unfaithful to Alma!”
“Probably that’s what delayed her killing you. Had you fucked her and been inadequate, she’d have cut your gizzards out.”
“Really, Herbert, this is most embarrassing.”
“So you’re a man of the cinema, but not a man of the world.”
“I’m a good husband, a good father, a good Catholic”— and he drew himself up—”and a perfectly magnificent director.”
“Nancy Adair has fallen in love with you.” He heard Hitchcock’s intake of breath. “That’s why she couldn’t kill you.”
“How do you know this? Or are you just taking a wild shot?”
“Oh, no. When you had your palm read or whatever you were doing with the knife thrower’s widow, I kept my eye on Adair. She spoke to the man in the Indian costume, and I went over to his stall ostensibly to inspect the junk he was hawking. They spoke in German, so it was easy for me. I caught snatches and what I could piece together is that he was chewing her out and she said she couldn’t, that someone else would have to do it. When she saw you coming out of the tent, and she ran to you, it was to hurry you away from the circus.”
“She did try to do that, I must give her that. But it was Cupid who intervened!”
“Deliberately. He was sent to lure you to the freak tent. They had taken it upon themselves to kill you, but the Indian-suited person didn’t want you murdered on the premises, for obvious reasons. That monster of a midget took it in his own hands to kill you, but he was a lousy shot.”
Hitchcock’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me the arrow that killed your Oscar was meant for me?”
“That’s right.” Hitchcock’s mouth was agape as Herbert emitted his familiar chuckle. “Anybody who can miss a target like you has to have his eyes examined.”
“You know,” said Hitchcock quietly, “I recall the sound of that arrow whistling past my ear.”
“I’m sure you did. Then of course, when you set up that hue and cry, Nancy had to get the two of you
