Someone had been in her room. Someone who had switched on the lamp and left it on when he fled from the room upon hearing her come up the stairs. She crossed to the closet and on tiptoe reached for the shoe box on the shelf. She placed it on the dresser table, removed the top, and then examined the contents carefully. Nothing was missing. Nothing was touched, not even the pearl earrings Herbert had given her before going off to war. The intruder had had no time to invade the privacy of her closet and the shoe box. She replaced it in the closet, shut the door, and smiled. Whoever the damn fool was, he was an amateur. What did he expect to find in such mean and impoverished surroundings? Who steals from the poor? She was humming to herself as she found a jar of cold cream and sloppily removed her makeup.
The poor. Poor me. Poor Herbert. Poor pearl earrings that Herbert must have scraped for months to afford to buy for me. Poor Germany. This damned tune of Wagner s, but still, it was important.
La-la-la-la… la-la-la…
* * *
“A perfectly awful woman!” Alma and Hitchcock were in a taxi returning to the guest house. Hitchcock was stifling a yawn. “You do realize, don’t you, Hitch, that she’s a fascist sympathizer?”
“You don’t say.”
“Oh, yon.”
“But still, she’s written all his hits.”
“He doesn’t like her. I could tell. Don’t you agree?”
“I think Fritz is biding his time, waiting for the right moment.”
“To do what?”
“Decamp.”
“To Hollywood? And…” Alma mimicked von Harbou brutally: “… ‘all der filthy Jewish millions.’ How can he let her talk that way?”
“I don’t know. Especially since I’ve been told he’s Jewish.”
“Oh, no!”
“Fancy seeing Grieban at the restaurant, and with my MacGuffin, of all people. Do you suppose that’s why he was hanging around the studio yesterday?”
“Well, if that was his reason, why did Freddy Regner tell us he’d given him directions to Stage Three? We’re on Stage One.”
“That’s so, isn’t it? Well, m’dear”—he patted her hand—”and there we have another MacGuffin!”
Anna Grieban covered her hair with the cap and tried once again to shut the door of the shower stall. Damned fool, whoever it was, that broke the lock. There was a wooden stool in the stall, which she propped against the door. At least she would hear if one of the other tenants attempted to enter while she was showering, not that many of them took advantage of the shower facility, she supposed, if she could trust her nose. She stepped into the stall and drew the curtain, then, steeling herself for the first blast of cold water, turned the knobs. The water hit her, and she suppressed a shriek; no need to frighten the neighbors. Then the warm water began to flow, and she soaped herself vigorously. She began lada-la’ing Wagner’s melody at the top of her lungs. Poor little Wagner. Poor downtrodden little man with that awful daughter Rosie. Why had she let that actor, Hans Meyer, talk her into hiring Rosie? Meyer was another misbegotten soul. Oh well. Maybe he was screwing her. But who in God’s name would screw anything as unappetizing as Rosie Wagner?
She hadn’t heard the door being pushed open quietly, a hand reaching in and carefully, gently moving the stool to one side so as not to give the intruder away. Anna stood with her face into the gushing stream of water and could hear nothing. She didn’t even feel the first time the knife blade entered her body. Or perhaps not even the second. And by the third thrust of the blade, she was paralyzed by shock.
Blood began to flow from her wounds, and soon she was beginning to crumple to the stall floor in a sea of water and red. Would the knife never stop? Again and again and again the blade plunged into her, until she lay on the floor, her eyes open in death, her hands open in supplication, and of no avail.
Three
The next morning the streets of Munich were curtained with a bone-chilling drizzle. It reminded the British contingent of London, and they were smiling as they arrived at Sound Stage One for the day’s filming. Hitchcock was at the refreshment cart ordering a coffee and a sweet roll when a handsome young man with a head of thick black curly hair and a pencil-thin mustache approached him.
“This is Herr Hitchcock?” asked the young man in a voice coated with butterscotch.
Hitchcock was busy examining the tray of sweet rolls and pastries. German bakers and chefs were his downfall, and he was falling with a smile of content. Abstractedly, Hitchcock replied, “This is.”
The young man clicked his heels and bowed from the waist. Hitchcock winced. German formalities unnerved him. “Please, I may introduce myself?”
“Oh, by all means do. “ Hitchcock wondered if a pastry that appealed to him had a fruit filling.
“My name is Hans Meyer. I am an actor.”
Hitchcock’s eyes rolled up. “Oh please. Not before breakfast.”
“I hear your next film is to be in the mountains, yes?” Hitchcock selected a pastry and bit into it. “Damn. It’s cheese.”
“In the mountains, yes?”
Hitchcock showed him the contents of the pastry. “It’s cheese.”
“You do not like cheese?”
“I also loathe mountains.”
“I am very good with mountains.
