“One runs into the strangest people at parties,” said Hitchcock.
“I’m sorry, Hitch. I’m so sorry,” she said. Hitchcock heard the door shut behind him. The gun was no longer in his back. Sir Rufus and Lady Miranda had moved away. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d left you to die.”
Hitchcock said, “It was a tight situation, but I managed to wiggle out of it.”
“You won’t wiggle out of this one,” said a familiar voice behind him.
Hitchcock turned and looked. Hans Meyer was seated in an easy chair against a floor-length wall mirror. Hitchcock could see himself reflected in the mirror, along with Nancy Adair and Lady Miranda, who had sat down on a settee, and Sir Rufus, who stood with his back against the door aiming the gun at Hitchcock. It if weren’t for the gun in Sir Rufus’ hand, it could have been a tableau more appropriate to a Noel Coward drawing-room comedy.
“Well, Hans, I gather you’ve been quite busy. I guess you won’t find the time to appear in my film.”
Hans Meyer laughed. “I have to hand it to you, Hitch.” Hitchcock now resented the familiarity coming from him. “You’re really quite marvelous. I was almost willing to bet you wouldn’t show up tonight. I was sure that by now you’d have turned tail and given yourself up to the police.”
“But there was no need to. I know the police know I’m innocent. They know you murdered that poor wretched detective.” He turned to Nancy Adair. “And as for you, Rosie Wagner, you are most certainly a mean-spirited woman. All those murders you’ve committed! I can assure you, murdering is a phase one never outgrows.”
“Oh, Hitch,” she sobbed, “I wish we had met under other circumstances. I could have made you so happy.”
“Crippen’s very words to the wife he murdered. Well, Sir Rufus, you know why I’m here.”
“Indeed I do. A futile quest. I’d never betray my people.”
“That’s not the way I’ve heard it told. I must say you’re a shameful lot, throwing in with a nation that is doomed to defeat in its futile attempt to hasten history.”
“You are very naive, Hitch,” said Hans. “Today we are only Germany. But tomorrow the world.”
There was a knock at the door. Rufus crossed to it, switched his gun from his right hand to his left, and admitted Violet carrying a tray with a glass of milk. Lady Miranda addressed her sharply. “What are you doing here? Where’s the footman?”
“His feet hurt, so I brought Mr. Hitchcock’s milk.” Sir Rufus shut the door and returned the gun to his right hand.
“I don’t drink milk,” said Hitchcock, his eyes riveted to the glass of milk, as Violet approached him slowly.
“You’ll drink this one,” said Lady Miranda. “There’ll be no gunshots heard tonight. Come along, Mr. Hitchcock, don’t dally. It’s quite a painless death.” Violet stopped a few feet away from Hitchcock. Their eyes met. Hers were tormented eyes, and he felt she was trying to convey something to him, or perhaps in desperation he was grasping at straws. He had to stall what to them must be the inevitable. He had one hope and one hope only, and that was Herbert Grieban. If Grieban had eluded the lorry, Hitchcock knew he would make his way to The Thirty-Nine Steps. Hitchcock had no intention of handing them his life as though it were a stick of chewing gum.
He said to Violet, “Surely, Mrs. Pack, you don’t wish to be a party to murder. Don’t you all realize that whether or not I gain the information I’m after, you will all be rounded up and taken into custody?”
“We won’t be here,” said Lady Miranda. “There’s a boat waiting in the Channel. It shall take us abroad, where we’ll be quite safe.”
“You see, Mr. Hitchcock,” said Sir Rufus, “we’ve been offered a fresh start in life. Perhaps you think us too old, but we don’t. Mr. Hitler has promised us Transylvania, and that’s where Miranda and I shall rule. Violet will come too; won’t you, Violet? Of course not with Nigel. Nigel is Violet’s husband, and he doesn’t like us. He’s so stuffy about the notoriety connected with us. Poor fool, had he known it, he would never have married Violet when he did, ten years ago. She was a secretary at British Intelligence. She took the name Violet Danvers, changing her name for obvious reasons.” He chuckled. “Well, let me tell you, when Nigel discovered he’d married into the Derwents, well, now, there was a proper dust-up. Our son-in-law is an aide to Sir Arthur Willing. How’s that for a joke, Mr. Hitchcock?”
“Nigel Pack,” said Hitchcock, “then he’s the one, isn’t he?” Violet laughed. “I’ve got it. Of course. That’s how he’s made use of you. That’s how he’s been one jump ahead of British Intelligence, because he’s a part of the firm!” He watched as Hans Meyer and Rufus and Miranda exchanged glances. Nancy Adair’s eyes were fixed on the glass of milk, and Violet Pack’s eyes never left Hitchcock.
“Mr. Hitchcock,” insisted Lady Miranda, “be a good little boy and drink your milk.”
Hitchcock heard a crashing noise behind him. Nancy Adair screamed and leapt to her feet. Hans Meyer reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a revolver, and a bullet whistled past Hitchcock’s head. Hitchcock leapt behind the chair so newly abandoned by Nancy Adair and saw Herbert Grieban kneeling on one knee between the parts of the shattered door that lead to a balcony. Herbert was not alone. There were two plainclothesmen with him; Hitchcock would later learn they were part of a group of British Intelligence stationed in the area. Hitchcock could hear the bed-room door being kicked open as Sir Rufus drew a bead on Herbert. Herbert’s gun barked, and Sir Rufus dropped his gun, clutched his stomach, and fell dead to the floor.
