“Of course you didn’t. Timid men don’t plunge knives in the backs of rescuers. Timid men stand to one side and cower and make strange noises. I’ve seen them in the war and I’ve seen them in whorehouses. Hans Meyer murdered Angus McKellin.”
“Then it was him on the intercom!”
“Of course. How else could they get into your house? Oscar told us all this after delivering your wife to our safe house. Hans hid behind the staircase leading to the floor above you. After the others left and the detective, who had been coshed at the kiosk across the street from you, revived and went running to your apartment, Hans came in after him and killed him with the knife you were holding. Or maybe Hans was already in the apartment when McKellin found him there and Hans killed him.”
“And he’s still at large?”
“Very much so.”
“And where’s Fredrick Regner?”
“He’s safe.”
“Is he really ill?”
“He’s dying. The Nazis apprehended him last year. They held him in a hospital established for the purpose of systematically destroying their enemies. I will not describe to you what horrible brutality was inflicted on him. After we ransomed him—and a very expensive negotiation it was—he spent three months in a sanatorium in Switzerland. Some repairs were effective. Others, unfortunately, were not. But he’s a good soldier. He persisted with the scenario and we brought him here so he could continue to participate. It was his wish and we owed him that.”
The publican brought the bill, and Herbert paid. “I say,” Hitchcock asked the publican, “is there a back way out?”
The publican was no stranger to odd requests. “If it’s the WC you want, we’ve got indoor plumbing.”
“Well, actually it isn’t. My friend here”—he indicated Herbert—”is trying to avoid someone at your bar.”
“Bill collector?” asked the publican.
“Nothing that simple,” said Hitchcock. “You see, my friend is having an affair with that man’s wife and that man has threatened to kill him if he ever runs into him.”
The publican looked at Herbert with undisguised admiration. “So it’s like that, is it? Well, then, just follow me.” He led them to the kitchen, which, had they toured it prior to eating, would have convinced them to depart without ordering. The back of the inn was piled with overflowing trash cans around which a mangy dog snuffled. The publican kicked the dog, which yelped and then scurried away.
“Thank you very kindly,” said Hitchcock, restraining an urge to kick the publican, and he and Herbert hurried away.
In the bar, the man had caught a glimpse of the publican leading Hitchcock and Herbert to the rear exit. His glass of beer, which was at his lips, became stationary as his hand froze and his eyes pierced the departing figures he recognized in the bar mirror. He put the glass on the bar, picked up his coins, and hurried out.
Herbert gunned the motor and they were on their way as the man in coveralls emerged from the inn and trotted to the red lorry. Herbert saw him through the rearview mirror. “He’s on to us,” he said grimly.
“Can we outrun him?” Hitchcock wondered why his voice had gone up a pitch.
“Let us now pray.” He hunched over the wheel while his foot pressed down on the accelerator. “We’re almost into Harborshire. Somewhere in the village, I will drop you, if it’s at all possible without his seeing it.”
“No. We’re in this together. You saved me. You’re my rescuer.” His eyes were glued to the rearview mirror. “Haven’t you heard that famous Chinese adage? A rescued man’s life belongs to his savior.”
“Sorry, Hitch, but I’m not in the market for fresh possessions. I travel light.” The lorry wasn’t gaining on them, but he had them well in sight. “When I drop you, you go in search of Sir Rufus Derwent. He’s the final link in this chain. He must be the connection to the man we want.”
“Supposing Sir Rufus is our man?”
“Well, then, then we’ve got him, haven’t we?”
“But he’s not, is he? You would have picked him up long ago.”
“Sir Rufus lives very high on the hog.” They could see the lights of Harborshire ahead of them.
“Why not, he has considerable wealth, hasn’t he? Look at what he’s spent on Madeleine Lockwood.”
“That was old money, when money had value. Most of it went when the markets collapsed in ‘29. He had a very hard time of it back then. And then suddenly and conveniently, at the time the Nazis came into power three years ago, Sir Rufus had a fresh infusion of wealth. Extraordinary, no?”
“What Alma would refer to as the short arm of coincidence. I think we’ve lost him.”
“I’m going to make a turn into the Channel Road. It’s the outskirts of the village. You’ll have to make your way to Sir Rufus’ on your own. You remember it is called The Thirty-Nine Steps.”
“How could I ever forget? Now listen, Herbert, what about you, what are you going to do?”
“Get rid of the son of a bitch. “The car skidded to a halt. “Get out! Quickly!” Hitchcock hadn’t moved that fast since menaced by a field mouse at the cottage. He lost himself in an alleyway as Herbert disappeared in a noxious cloud of exhaust fumes. Hitchcock stayed hidden until the circus lorry passed him. He whispered a prayer of deliverance for Herbert Grieban, and then set about looking for Sir Rufus Derwent’s villa.
There was a precipitous and dangerous drop from the Channel Road to the rocks below. Angry waves crashed against the rocks, sending walls of saline foam upward like roaring rockets, which just as quickly crashed back down against the rocks, only to be sent back up. The wind whistled and blew, and although the sky was clear and star-studded, Herbert wondered if there was a freak storm coming in from the sea. The lorry had found him, and Herbert had decided how to rid himself of the enemy. They
