by George Baxt
From behind the handkerchief, Hitchcock said, “I’m feeling much better now that we’re indoors.” He had found a pound note and a shilling in his pocket and offered it to their hostess. “You said a guinea?”
“Oh, you can pay in the morning after breakfast,” said Miss Farquhar, but Hitchcock pressed the money on her. He had every intention of being out of the place before breakfast. “The bathroom’s just across the hall, and I can assure you you won’t disturb anyone when you use it. There aren’t any other guests in residence at the moment. I guess the fog’s discouraged that. I’m usually quite full at this time of the year. You’ll find plenty of towels, and there are extra blankets in the cupboard. Would you care for a cup of Bovril before turning in?” Poor lonely thing, thought Hitchcock; she’s so loath to leave us.
“I don’t think so. We’d as soon turn in. It’s so late and we’re so terribly tired, but you’re most kind.” Miss Farquhar bid them good night and went slowly upstairs to her bed-room.
Hitchcock shoved his handkerchief into his jacket pocket and asked Nancy, “Did you bring the map in with you?”
She waved it at him. He got up, crossed to her, and unfolded the map. “Medwin, Medwin, Medwin,” he muttered as he looked for the village. “Here it is. Medwin. Just north of Ridgewood. I suppose we can breakfast in Ridgewood.”
“What’s wrong with breakfasting here? It’s paid for.”
“I can’t quite hold a handkerchief in front of my face while dining. I plan for us to be out of here long before breakfast.” Without undressing, he stretched out on one of the beds.
“Don’t you want to wash up, or anything?”
“I’ll wash in the morning, and I have no pressing urge to do anything.”
She sat on the other bed after removing her jacket. Hitchcock could now see she was sensibly dressed in a skirt, blouse, and the jacket. The beret she’d been wearing she now flung across the room, where it landed atop a dresser. She kicked off her shoes, and as she unrolled her stockings, she asked him, “What are we looking for in Medwin?”
“It isn’t a what. It’s a who. A woman named Madeleine Lockwood.”
“And who is she?”
“All I know is that she was once in the music halls and was at one time the mistress of a highly placed person.”
“You read this in the scenario?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t bring the scenario with you?”
“It was stolen from the flat yesterday.”
“You didn’t tell me that!”
“I didn’t tell you a lot of things.” If Alma were in the room, she’d recognize he was on the verge of dropping off. His responses were getting slower and softer.
“But you memorized it?”
“I made my own notes. I always do a breakdown of scenarios for myself. Not much of a scenario. Very sloppy on Regner’s part. I more or less memorized my notes. Went over them so often, and then…” He was snoring softly.
Nancy Adair took her purse and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, she stared at her face in the mirror and then smiled a wry, crooked little smile. She whispered, “So far, so good,” and then ran the bath.
At three o’clock in the morning, there was a heated argument going on in Sir Arthur Willing’s office between him and Detective Superintendent Jennings. Also present were Nigel Pack, Basil Cole, and Peter Dowerty, the latter still disguised as a bum.
“I insist not a word of this be leaked to the press,” said Sir Arthur, “at least not for another twenty-four hours. You have got to go along with me in this. Hitchcock is in enough jeopardy as it is. I mean, having a bread knife hurled at him…”
“And it miraculously reversing itself and landing in his assailant’s back.”
“You can’t think Hitchcock killed the man!”
“The man isn’t who he was claiming to be. He told Hitchcock he was the vicar, Lemuel Peach, but Lemuel Peach is away on holiday. He’s at a retreat somewhere north. I got this from the church caretaker, whom we roused in the building next door.”
“Then who’s the dead man?”
“We don’t know. I should know by morning.”
“Didn’t he have any identification?” asked a mystified Sir Arthur.
“He’d been stripped clean. There was nothing in his pockets.”
“And no prints on the knife hilt.”
Jennings was wishing the man would disappear in a puff of smoke. He was tired. Dowerty looked as if he needed toothpicks to prop us his eyelids. Sir Arthur’s aides were staring ahead like zombies. They all needed some rest. “Sir Arthur, we’ve been through all this. We need some rest. You want this kept out of the papers, I’ll defer to your demand. But it’s not helping us trace Hitchcock or locate his wife.”
“She’s quite safe,” snapped Sir Arthur.
The look on Jennings’ face was one of incredulity. “You know this for a fact?”
“Mr. Jennings,” said Sir Arthur as he ignited the tobacco in his pipe bowl, “I wouldn’t lead you up the garden path.” A well-beaten trail, he silently surmised. “There are times when one should have faith in British Intelligence.”
“It doesn’t help when you keep things from me.”
“Sometimes that’s necessary. Please trust me, Mr. Jennings. I’m one of the oldest whores in this game, and I’m usually respected for giving full value.”
Nigel Pack interjected with what he thought was great charm, “He doesn’t always confide in us completely either, Mr. Jennings, if that’s any comfort to you.”
“I’m not looking to be comforted,” said Jennings coldly, “I’m looking to solve three murders, locate a missing woman, and prevent further bloodshed.”
“Well, I’ve told you the missing woman is safe,” said Sir Arthur, “and I certainly wish to see justice done. And as to the avoidance of further bloodshed, I’ve never been very good at prognostication. But let us hope there won’t be any.”
“I think we should call it a night,” suggested Jennings. Dowerty seconded the motion.
Basil Cole said to Sir Arthur, “You must be dead-tired, too, sir.”
“I’m not dead yet,” said Sir Arthur as he continued to puff on his pipe, “or hadn’t you noticed?”
Alma couldn’t sleep. She’d been provided with nightgown and robe and other necessities, and the man with the tic had been terribly charming when he bid her good night and locked her into the room. There were bars on the window, too, and her view was of a small garden guarded by a wall that seemed at least five storeys high and obscured any further view beyond. What was being done to find her? she wondered. And Hitch. What of her poor darling Hitch? She’d seen him coshed and fall forward to the floor still clutching the kitchen knife he’d so bravely tried to use to rescue Alma. She prayed he wasn’t seriously injured.
She paced the floor, her head aching with thoughts that were mostly confusing and puzzling. Her lavish surroundings (and this bedroom was an absolute stunner), the kind deference with which she was being treated, the thoughtfulness in telling her Patricia was quite safe. Sleep, sleep, she thought with a sigh, perchance to dream. Where are you, Hitch? Where are you now? Are you at home asleep?
Hitchcock was not at home, but he was asleep, and he was snoring. Nancy Adair lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, damning herself for not owning a pair of earplugs.
BOOK THREE
The MacGuffin
Eleven
Basil Cole was a tidy man. His obsession with fastidiousness had resulted in the defection of friends, lovers, and relatives, all expendable as far as Basil was concerned. His devotion to British Intelligence bordered on the fanatical, which made him a valuable asset to Sir Arthur Willing. Where the firm, as it was known in Intelligence headquarters, demanded utmost loyalty, Basil demanded from the firm utmost neatness. Lying in bed at 4 A.M. in the morning after the marathon session with Sir Arthur, Jennings, and Nigel Pack, Basil was too troubled to sleep. Leaving the Intelligence offices and not able to find a taxi,
he had walked home, a distance of less than a mile. The fog was beginning to ease and drift out to the Thames, and from there presumably out to the sea where, as far as Basil was concerned, fogs belonged. The walk had refreshed Basil, and by the time he arrived at his very tidy flat just off upper St. Martin’s Lane, he was wide awake and annoyed. While walking, he had thought back on the meeting and had come to the conclusion it was most untidy. There were too many loose ends dangling, and Basil wanted them neatly threaded into place. To Basil, every assignment should be like a well- planned sampler, such as the perennial ‘God Bless Our Happy Home’ neatly stitched by himself (a hidden vice), which hung in his foyer.
As far as he was concerned, the sampler that represented Hitchcock, his wife, and the murders was too hastily designed. The colors of the threads were all wrong and were clashing. Over his head there hung a cloud that Basil labeled ‘The Sin of Omission.’ Information was either being withheld, or misfiled in several minds, or just untidily ignored. For example, Sir Arthur was an incredibly intelligent man, yet he never dwelt on those two unsolved murders in Munich eleven years ago. Every attempt Basil made to allude to them was waved away, yet most of the principals involved in that case were once again headliners. The Hitchcocks, Hans Meyer, Fredrick Regner. The only missing character was Rosie Wagner, who, when last heard of prior to her disappearance, had been judged to be battier than a failed movie starlet. Neatly, tidily, Basil lined up the facts as he got out of bed, put on his Sulka bathrobe, went to the kitchen, and prepared his morning tea. In Munich in 1925, Anna Grieban, script girl-informant for British Intelligence, brutally stabbed to death in the shower. Rudolf Wagner, pianist and composer, another informant for the firm, stabbed in the back at the studio, where the murderer might easily have been apprehended but nevertheless escaped de-
tection. Eleven years later, there is Regner with his strange scenario deliberately directed at the Hitchcocks, and his emissary, Martin Mueller, is stabbed to death on Hitchcock’s doorstep. The next day, the manuscript is stolen, the Hitchcocks are attacked, Mrs. Hitchcock is spirited away, and Hitchcock, while unconscious from a blow to the head, is set up to appear as the murderer of the detective, Angus McKellin.
And just a few hours ago, Sir Arthur told Jennings Alma Hitchcock was perfectly safe. How did he know? If the firm had her, why hadn’t he told either Nigel or Basil? They had been working together for over twelve years now, and to Basil’s knowledge, he had always shared all information with them, even the most highly classified, give or take an occasional omission. But now, he was in default. And that was terribly untidy.
The kettle whistled, and Basil poured the hot water into the teapot, part of a set willed him by a maiden aunt who had perished in an avalanche in Switzerland. Only her skis were recovered, and they’d been willed to his cousin Ben in Norfolk. While the tea steeped, Basil went to the window and looked out. There were the signs of a gray, somewhat reluctant dawn, which just about summed up Sir Arthur’s sudden withholding of information—gray and reluctant. Doling out that tidbit about Mrs. Hitchcock’s safety was obviously done to bring Jennings back from the explosion he appeared to be on the verge of detonating. Jennings had been very square with them. He shared everything. He withheld nothing. He was a good man to have on your team. Basil, while barely knowing him, admired him. He recognized a brother. Jennings was also fastidious, very neat, very tidy. The way he’d gone about investigating the false Lemuel Peach.
Basil poured a cup of tea and waited for the wilted leaves to settle to the bottom of the cup. And, while waiting, he became determinedly resolute. He would confront Sir Arthur and demand to know the whereabouts of Mrs. Hitchcock. After all, it was always up to him to tidy things up.
Alma was awakened from a fuzzy sleep by the sound of a cart being wheeled into the bedroom. She hadn’t heard the door unlock and propped herself up on her elbow. There they were, the unholy team, the butler who looked like a prizefighter and the maid who looked like a jail matron. For her own amusement, Alma named them Dempsey and Brunhilde. Brunhilde wheeled the cart to the center of the room while Alma wondered if she would be joined by the man with the tic. As she got out of bed and put on the negligee provided her the night before, she saw there was enough food on the cart to feed a needy family.
“I don’t eat much breakfast,” said Alma. “Is what’s-his- name joining me?”
“What’s-his-name?” asked Brunhilde as Dempsey poured tea. Her voice was a bassoon’s.
“The man who I assume is my host.”
“Oh, him. Blinky.” Blinky! Now why haven’t I thought of that? thought Alma. “He’s gone.”
“Gone? Where to?” Alma wondered if it was anything she’d said last night that had caused Blinky to defect. How dare he go when she was just getting used to him! She had even been looking forward to the possibility of breakfasting with him. He was her only familiar in this maddening situation into which she’d been caged, and as far as she was concerned, she was his responsibility. How dare he depart without so much as a “by your leave” or a “so long, honey, it’s been nice knowing you but I have to push on”?
“He’s been called away,” said Dempsey, who was surprisingly soft-spoken and cultured. “He’s got an engagement elsewhere.” The look he exchanged with Brunhilde didn’t escape Alma. “He’s a musician by profession, you know.”
“I didn’t know. I know nothing about him except that he’s kidnapped me.” Alma sat in the chair held out for her by Dempsey and eyed the stewed prunes in the bowl in front of her with suspicion. “I don’t fancy stewed prunes.”
“There’s rhubarb and apricot, if you prefer,” offered Brunhilde as she whisked the prunes away to oblivion and lifted the cover of a small salver in which the rhubarb and apricots, also stewed, looked to Alma as though they’d been laid to rest without the benefit of a clerical oratory.
“I’ll just have some tea and toast.”
Brunhilde shrugged.
Dempsey said, “He plays the saxophone.”
“What? Who does?” This is unreal, Alma was thinking, terribly unreal. Hitch will adore it. We must try and find a place for it.
“Blinky does. He’s quite good,” said Dempsey.
“Saxophone players are so rare in my life,” said Alma. “Where’s he gone to fulfill this engagement?”
“Now, mum,” chided Dempsey, “that would be telling.”
A sudden anger enveloped Alma. “So what’s to become of me?”
“I don’t rightly know, mum,” said Dempsey as he poured Alma’s tea. “I don’t read leaves.”
For the first time in hours, Alma burst out laughing.
* * *
“Why, Miss Farquhar,” asked Hitchcock, “have you been lying in ambush all night?”
He and Nancy Adair had been tiptoeing out of the bedroom at 6 A.M. and found the little lady ensconced behind the front desk, adjusting a lovely watch she had pinned to her dress.
“I see you’re over your asthma attack. I’m so glad.” It hadn’t occurred to Hitchcock to camouflage his face with his handkerchief, as he hadn’t expected to find the landlady awake at this hour.
“Thank you so much,” said Hitchcock with an affable smile. “The room was most comfortable, and now we must be on our way, mustn’t we”—he turned to Nancy Adair, who stood behind him—“… dear.”
“But I’ve breakfast for you!” Miss Farquhar looked as though she’d just been told war was declared. “Kippers and bangers and bacon and stewed tomatoes and eggs and hot muffins and butter and jelly and tea and sweet rolls…”
“… alive, alive, oh…” murmured Hitchcock.
“We really can’t,” interrupted Nancy, “we’re overdue in Medwin.” Hitchcock wanted to kick her for mentioning Medwin.
“Medwin? What a strange destination.”
“Why?” asked Hitchcock, “is something wrong with it?”
“On, no, no. It’s just that it’s such a tiny little village, nobody ever seems to go there intentionally.”<
br />
“Well, obviously you’ve been there,” said Hitchcock.
“Oh, yes, I have a cousin there. Cousin Phoebe. Phoebe Allerton. Actually she’s a cousin twice removed. We were girls together. She lived with us when she was a child. Oh, you must have some breakfast.”
Actually, Hitchcock was quite famished and admitted it. He chose to be oblivious to Nancy’s look of annoyance and her tut of impatience and followed Miss Farquhar into the small dining room, where the breakfast was charmingly laid out on a sideboard. “Oh, doesn’t this all look delicious, dear?” asked Hitchcock as he helped himself. Nancy Adair settled for tea and a sweet roll. As Hitchcock piled food on his warmed plate, he asked his hostess, “When visiting Medwin, have you ever chanced to come across a Miss Madeleine Lockwood?”
“Oh, yes,” chirruped Miss Farquhar, “she’s a spy.” Hitchcock almost dropped his plate. Nancy Adair’s chin dropped, but she hastily raised it again.
“A spy?” Hitchcock moved to the table while Miss Farquhar indicated where he should sit.
“Well, I don’t know if she’s still involved in espionage these days, but during the Great War, she was a very well-known spy. She wrote a book about it. I have a copy. Would you like to have a look at it?”
“Indeed I would, if it isn’t too much trouble.” He and Nancy exchanged a look. Nancy was lighting one of her French cigarettes, and Hitchcock demanded she wait until after breakfast. Miss Farquhar went into the next room, which was labeled The Library, while with annoyance Nancy stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette.
“Imagine that, dear,” said Hitchcock as he piled egg and bacon on his fork and then consigned it to his gaping mouth, “our Madeleine a spy. I wonder how Freddy Regner knew all this?”
“Maybe he read the book.”
“Oh, do you suppose there was a German edition?”
“I doubt that,” said Miss Farquhar, as she returned and handed Hitchcock the slim volume. “The book was privately printed.”
“I see.” There was a picture of a young Madeleine Lockwood on the back of the dust jacket. Hitchcock studied the portrait. “She was quite a beauty. Look, dear”—he showed the picture to Nancy—“wasn’t she quite a beauty?”