He saw several Adolf Hitlers and the Marx Brothers, and there were at least three Noel Cowards. A Mussolini was dancing crazily on the grass with Joan of Arc, and through the open French windows leading to the villas ballroom, Hitchcock saw the orchestra led by a cadaverous young man sporting an ill-fitting toupee that looked like a golf mound. As Hitchcock mingled with the cleverly masked and costumed crowd, he marveled at the ingenuity of some of the guests in the ballroom. There were Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich and Winston Churchill and Clark Gable. Beyond them at the sumptuous buffet was a hopeful but inadequate Tarzan in a loincloth revealing a body sadly in need of muscles, with a Jane sadly in need of a bosom. A Russian czar fumbled clumsily at a two-step with a Chinese empress, and before him were two oddities, a man wearing a costume festooned with thumbs and a woman in a costume decorated with ears, their eyes covered with harlequin masks.
“Hello!” said the man cheerily to Hitchcock, “I’m all thumbs. This is my girlfriend, she’s all ears. And what are you?”
“I’m all in,” responded Hitchcock truthfully.
“Oh, he’s all in! Isn’t he heavenly?” said All-Thumbs to All-Ears.
All-Ears extended a spindly hand and said, “I’m Rosemary. Everyone remembers me. Tee-hee.”
Hitchcock wondered who among those present was his host. “I suppose you’re thirsting to know my name.”
All-Ears tee-hee’d again. “You’re reading my mind!”
“It’s an easy read,” said Hitchcock. “My name is Alfred.”
“He’s Alfred the Great!” said All-Thumbs. “Isn’t that what you are? Aren’t you Alfred the Great?”
“Actually,” said Hitchcock, thinking that if these youngsters were the future, the Commonwealth was doomed, “I’m quite magnificent.”
“I think you’re utterly captivating, tee-hee,” said All- Ears. “You don’t have a drink! Where’s your drink?”
“If you could direct me to the bar,” suggested Alfred. They pointed him toward a room just past the orchestra, which was now betraying Cole Porter with “Just One of Those Things.” The crush of masqueraders was a solid wall of human flesh. Very gently, Hitchcock made his way through the wall, smiling affably and even chatting or responding when spoken to.
“Oh, darling,” shouted Garbo to Mussolini. “Have you seen my husband?”
“Yes, darling, just a few minutes ago!”
“Where was he?”
“In despair.”
A Tallulah Bankhead put her arm through his, halting his progress. “I say, whoever you are”—her voice was huskier than Bankhead’s—“engage me in conversation. Quickly, darling. I’m trying to shake that boor coming up behind me.” Coming up behind her was Abraham Lincoln. Hitchcock thought it amazing—not only did the Americans dominate our film industry, they dominated our masquerade balls.
“Is he anyone you know?” asked Hitchcock, wishing her grip would ease up.
“Yes, he’s my lover. Tomorrow he gets the old heave-ho. Doesn’t spend a farthing to amuse me. He’s tighter than the bark on a tree.” Abraham Lincoln kept walking right past them.
“I think he’s gone in search of greener pastures,” commented Hitchcock.
“It doesn’t matter, darling,” she said, releasing her grip on Hitchcock and adjusting her mask, “our affair’s been one long smirk. Who are you, darling; is that a mask or is that your face?”
“It’s my face, which on occasion has been a mask. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He left the tiresome lady and continued his pilgrimage to the bar. How, he wondered, do I go about unmasking Sir Rufus? Probably, he decided, by just asking somebody if they know his costume. He reached the bar and, after much signaling, won the attention of a bartender and got himself a Scotch and soda. At his elbow, Little Bo-Peep materialized. She asked for and received a ginger ale, and then, resting her crook against the bar, raised her drink in a toast to Hitchcock and took a long swallow.
“By Christ, I needed that,” said Bo-Peep. Both the voice and the half of her face that was not hidden by a mask told Hitchcock Bo-Peep was long past Mother Goose stories and well into middle age. She continued unprompted, “What a bore this party is. Let me tell you, Columbus was wrong. The world is flat. And so’s this ginger ale. What’s that you’re drinking?” He told her. “I shouldn’t, but I shall. Bartender!” While her Scotch and soda was being mixed, she asked Hitchcock. “We haven’t met before, have we?”
“I don’t know. Who are you?”
“I feel like the Spirit of Christmas Past, but in real life I’m Angelica Thornwell.”
The way she stood looking at him, Hitchcock was expecting a clap of thunder. “I’m Alfred,” he said.
She lifted her mask revealing her eyes, pale-gray eyes that told him she was capable of seeing more than one wished to expose. “Don’t you recognize my name? Angelica Thornwell. The novelist.”
“Ah! Of course!” He was totally insincere.
“I write murder mysteries!”
“Of course!” Mystery novelists bored him. They were usually so intense.
“Haven’t you read me?” Her mouth was working like a snapping turtle.
“I don’t read much fiction,” he lied gracefully.
“Well, shame on you! I’ve written over twenty bestsellers in the past twenty years.” She retrieved her crook and held it like a scepter as she led Hitchcock away from the bar. “Time has been terribly kind to me. The critics haven’t. But
