“I’m sure it’s as much fun as Guy Fawkes Day.”
“You guessed right. There’ll be a bonfire too. It’s always lit just before midnight. Mind how you go. Mason’s Lane isn’t very well lighted.”
“I’ll watch my step,” said Hitchcock, with sincerity. He thanked the constable and went in search of Sir Rufus Derwent and The Thirty-Nine Steps.
It was a familiar gathering in Sir Arthur Willing’s office—Jennings, Basil Cole, and Nigel Pack. Sir Arthur Willing was replacing the phone in its cradle and turned to the others, who looked at him expectantly.
“They’re in Harborshire. Unfortunately, they’ve been separated. “He repeated Herbert’s report on the affair of the circus lorry. “Hitchcock is on his own.”
Basil Cole said, “Surely Mr. Grieban will catch up with him.”
Sir Arthur said, “That’s what he was intending to do.” He told them of the near miss in the granary. “Amazing bloke, Hitchcock. Absolutely amazing. Grieban offered him an out at dinner, but damned if he took it. I’m glad we put our money on him. Basil, order up some coffee and sandwiches, will you, like a good fellow? Cheer up, Nigel, it can’t be too long now.”
“Oh, I’m fine, sir. I’ll be better after some coffee.” Nigel Pack altered the expression on his face.
“And now, Mr. Jennings. What’s going on with your jailful of freaks?”
“It’s the Siamese twins, Sir Arthur, Helga and Lisl. Helga’s the mother of the midget. A ferocious woman. She’s not getting along with Lisl. Lisl loudly professes her innocence, says she wasn’t mixed up in any espionage shenanigans but had to go along because obviously she had no choice. They keep cursing each other and slapping each other about. It’s an absolutely bizarre sight. What happen’s to Lisl if she’s proven innocent and Helga is found guilty?”
“How the hell should I know?” replied Sir Arthur, as he lit up his pipe. “I’m not King Solomon.”
Alma Hitchcock was curious. After dinner, she had asked of Dempsey and Brunhilde that she at least be permitted to walk about the secluded garden. They acquiesced and Brunhilde accompanied her. Alma said to Brunhilde, “I suppose you’re worried I might cry for help?”
“Why should you cry for help? You are safe here. And if you did”—she held up a beefy hand—”I’d clap this over your mouth.”
Alma looked up at the sky and wondered where Hitch was. She hoped he too, somewhere, might be looking at the sky and wondering about her. She asked Brunhilde, “Whose room is that?”
“What room?”
“The one directly up there.” Alma pointed. “Where the light’s just gone on.” Dempsey appeared in the window and drew the curtains. “Another prisoner?”
“Prisoner’ is such a harsh word,” said Brunhilde. She had a sweater draped across her shoulders and drew it closer. It was chilly. Alma had been provided with a shawl but was oblivious to the chill. “You are a guest.”
“And who’s the guest up there?” asked Alma.
“There’s no other guest.”
“I know you’re not deaf. I heard the cry just now. You must have heard it too.”
“Very well, I suppose your knowing will do no harm. They didn’t say I shouldn’t tell you.” ‘They,’ thought Alma, which ‘They?’
“It’s a sick man. A very sick man. He’s dying.”
“Why isn’t he in hospital?”
“He goes in the morning.”
The man cried out again. “Poor soul, he’s in such agony,” said Alma. “I’ve had some nursing experience, perhaps I can be of some help.”
“What could you do? He is given all sorts of sedation and it doesn’t help. He’s been through hell, that man has. Bloody Nazis.”
Bloody Nazis. Alma felt very cheerful at last. She said to Brunhilde, “You’re with British Intelligence, aren’t you?” Brunhilde said nothing. “Why am I kept here? Why can’t I go home?”
“Because, Mrs. Hitchcock, home is still not safe. It is for your own good that you’re here. Your husband knows you’re here.”
“Then he’s all right?” asked Alma eagerly.
“Let us hope so. “And Alma wasn’t all that cheerful anymore. Another cry from the bedroom.
“Please take me to him. It might help if I sat beside him and just held his hand.”
Brunhilde thought for a moment, and then led Alma back into the house and to the sick man’s bedroom. They ran into Dempsey as he was emerging. From a look he got from Brunhilde, he did not try to bar their way. Alma preceded Brunhilde into the room. It was lit by a solitary lamp near the bed. On the table she saw a variety of medicinal bottles, vials of pills, a syringe, and a basin filled with water and a sponge. On the bed was a form covered by a thin blanket. Skeletal fingers twisted the edge of the blanket, and from the mouth came a series of heartrending moans. The man was emaciated and his body shrunken. Alma wished he wanted death as eagerly as Death wanted him. There was a chair next to the bed. Alma moved it closer to the dying man and sat down.
There was something familiar about him. She studied the emaciated face and tried to imagine him as a hale and healthy person. His eyes fluttered open as though he had sensed her presence, and his eyes focused at her face. The lips moved but no words formed. Dear God, she thought, he’s smiling. He seems to think he knows me.
She leaned forward. “Hello. How do you feel?” Stupid question that, she knew, but what eloquence is there reserved for the dying?
He whispered and she leaned closer to catch his words. “I wish… Hitler… felt… the way… I… do… Alma…”
And now she recognized him and cried out, “Oh, my dear, my dear Freddy, what have they done to you?”
Seventeen
Hitchcock counted the thirty-nine steps slowly. He could hear the music coming
