“And now they’ve got her. Do you suppose they’ll kill her?”
“Perhaps yes. Perhaps no.”
“None of this was in Regner’s scenario. Not any of it.” He thought for a moment. “My God, was Fredrick Regner Rosie’s lover?”
Herbert laughed. “No, Hitch. Her lover was Hans Meyer.”
Hitchcock slumped against the door. “I would never have suspected he was a spy. The casting was all wrong. That’s why I’ve been so hesitant about using him in The Lady Vanishes. That’s the title of the film I’ve got in preparation.” He added with a weary sigh, “If I ever get to making it.” His stomach grumbled again and he wished a country inn with good solid British cuisine would magically materialize. Then his mind flashed back to the cottage and Martin Mueller’s murder. “Of course!” he exclaimed.
“Of course what?” Herbert shot him a sidelong glance of inquiry.
“Nancy Adair must have murdered Martin Mueller!” His adrenaline was bubbling. “It couldn’t have been Hans Meyer; he was in the house with us all the time.”
“She also murdered Nicholas Haver, the false Lemuel Peach.”
“She’s a fast girl with a knife. Oh, my God. I feel faint. I was that close to being murdered. She could have done me in last night at Miss Farquhar’s!”
“Oh, no, then she’d have had to kill Miss Farquhar too, because Minnie Mouth… as we sometimes refer to Miss Farquhar… could have exposed her immediately to the police. Anyway, she knew about Farquhar and chose her house for the safety she figured it offered. No, Nancy Adair could have pulled over to a lonely side of the road at some point and dispatched you then.”
“We were at a lonely side of the road when we parked the night of the fog. She could have killed me then.”
“By then, we must assume, she was smitten. You see, Hitchcock, Nancy Adair has one vice known only to a select few. She is what is known as a chubby chaser. She dotes on fat men, they’re her secret passion.”
“Thank God I’ve delayed dieting. So when do we eat?”
“We’re not too far from Harborshire. There must be an inn nearby. Wait! What’s that up ahead?”
Hitchcock peered through the windshield. “It’s an inn. The sign promises good food and wine. Dinner’s on me.”
“Oh, no. Dinner’s on the British government. I’m on overtime.”
Half an hour later, both were cutting into their roast chicken. Over preliminary Scotches and sodas, Hitchcock learned Alma was being guarded in a safe house in Mayfair run by the firm. Oscar, whom Hitchcock had seen overpowering her, had infiltrated the group set up to abduct Alma and to hold her as a hostage, as Hitchcock had deduced, to trade for their safety. At the time, both sides wanted Hitchcock to lead them to the master spy through Regner’s manuscript, which was stolen from their apartment by Nancy Adair. It was Hans Meyer who had impersonated Regner on the phone, luring the Hitchcocks away from their flat while Nancy had the opportunity to use a skeleton key and steal the scenario.
“I thought she knew too much about the progression of the scenario when she caught up with me in King’s Cross,” Hitchcock commented.
“Anyway,” said Herbert, “It was arranged that Oscar would meet up with our own people in Regent’s Park, and that’s how your wife was rescued.”
Now with their meal in front of them, they ate in silence, savoring each mouthful of food. Over coffee, Hitchcock watched as Herbert lit a cigar and leaned back contentedly, the picture more of a successful businessman dining with an associate than of a professional spy nearing the end of his mission.
“What are you thinking about, Hitch?”
“I was thinking of a good night’s sleep.”
“Not here, I’m afraid. Look out the window on your right.”
Hitch saw the red circus lorry parked on the opposite side of the road. The van was unoccupied. Hitchcock said to Herbert, “Tenacious bugger, isn’t he? How do you suppose he traced us here?”
“He hasn’t.” Herbert was staring into the adjoining lounge. “He’s at the bar having a sandwich and a beer. He’s changed into coveralls.”
“Do you think he’s seen us?”
“He might, through the bar mirror, once he stops wolfing his food. His manners are execrable.”
His dark glasses had slipped down his nose and he pushed them back. They were sitting in a secluded corner, selected by Herbert, who was sensitive to reactions to his disfigured face, especially in a public dining room. On this occasion, there was only another table occupied, by what Hitchcock would later describe as two gentlewomen engrossed in mediocre food and excellent gossip. Their voices carried.
“I think we should settle the bill now,” intoned Hitchcock gravely, “and then we should try to escape his attention by leaving the back way.” He signaled to the publican.
“Supposing there isn’t a back way.” Herbert flicked ash gently into a tray.
“There has to be a back way. There always is in spy thrillers. I always have them. They’re such a comfort.”
While waiting to be presented with the bill, Herbert said, “You’re a remarkable man, Hitch.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a very timid man in a very intimidating situation. I suppose, if I were so inclined, I could demand you take me back to London at once. But I can’t do that now. Not because I’m particularly brave, because I’m not, but because we’re coming to the end of the trail, and I have to know how the story ends. I can’t back away from the story now. I wouldn’t forgive myself, and in a sense, I don’t think Alma would either.” He didn’t dare turn around to see if the danger still lurked at the bar.
Herbert read his mind. “He’s still there. He’s just been served another beer.”
Hitchcock shifted in his seat. “Herbert, I didn’t really kill the
