by George Baxt
“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 from the birthday celebration and see the reflection of the fairy lights. The closer he came to the top, the faster his heart beat. Not from the exertion of the climb but from the apprehension of what lay before him. As he climbed the steps he thought of Herbert Grieban and prayed he had outwitted and out- maneuvered the madman at the wheel of the circus lorry. As he reached the top of the stairs, the orchestra was swinging away with “Over My Shoulder,” which Jessie Matthews had introduced in her most recent film, and he wished the dancing and singing star was there to greet him. He wished any familiar face was there to greet him, and to his surprise and utter astonishment, there they were, moving in and out of the house carrying drinks and plates of food.
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 tha
t 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 bugger them, I’m terribly rich. There, see out there through the window.” Hitchcock looked out the window. In the distance, perched on a cliff overlooking the Channel, was an oversized, pretentious, ugly villa. “My books have paid for that! Isn’t it magnificent? That’s my estate. My husband named it in honor of my books. ‘Farfetched.”
“I must meet your husband,” said Hitchcock.
“Horatio is not here. He abhors parties. He especially abhors Rufus’ parties. In fact, he thoroughly detests Rufus.” She leaned into him conspiratorially. “I’m sure you know all about Rufus and the scandal that brought him down.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” replied Hitchcock blandly.
“Horatio says the Derwent family motto should be ‘Dishonor Before Death.’ Quite outspoken, my Horatio. Undoubtedly busy with his hobby.”
“Which is?”
“Butterflies. And what do you do?”
“I don’t have hobbies.”
“I mean professionally, you silly.” She poked him with the crook, which she maneuvered with the ease of a conductor wielding a baton.
And now, decided Hitchcock, for the moment of truth. “I direct films.”
“Moving pictures?” She looked as though she had just found her straying sheep.
“Talkies.”
“What did you say your name was?” Hitchcock decided if she came any closer, she’d soon be behind him.
“I only told you my first name, which is Alfred. The entire name is Alfred Hitchcock. Have you heard of me?”
“I most certainly have! You’ve rejected all of my novels for filming! You terrible man, you!”
“You mustn’t blame me. You must blame my readers.” You must blame Alma, who in my estimation will be forever blameless.
“Perhaps you’ll like my new one. It’s coming off the press next month. It’s about a girl in distress who takes a job as a tutor to a young girl who resides in a strange Victorian gothic mansion near the moors with her father who’s named Portchester, and what the girl tutor whose name is Janette doesn’t know is that Portchester’s mad wife is kept chained up in the attic behind an iron door administered to by a faithful woman servant who it turns out is as deranged as she is and—how does that strike you?” She paused to take a breath while waiting for Hitchcock to digest the thumbnail plot she’d just recited.
“It strikes me with a feeling of deja vu,” said Hitchcock solemnly.
“In what sense deja vu?” The challenge in her voice was ominous.
“My dear woman” said Hitchcock, wondering if perhaps she’d been having him on, “you have just told me the plot of Jane Eyre!”
Her face screwed up unpleasantly. “Jane Who? My book is titled Janette in Jeopardy. I see you’re not interested in this one either. How can a person of such poor judgment succeed in the film business? I suppose you married into it. You’ll excuse me. I think I see my lover beckoning.”
She swept past him with a snort of indignation, and Hitchcock watched her heading toward an Adolf Hitler who appeared to be mesmerizing her with his index finger.
“Quite tiresome, isn’t she?” The voice belonged to a woman of breeding.
Hitchcock turned and confronted the Empress Josephine. He assumed it was Josephine, as opposed to Eugenie or Carlotta, because at her side stood Napoleon Bonaparte. Neither of them wore a mask and both were quite elderly, albeit handsome. “Do forgive us. We couldn’t help overhearing you. Angelica’s voice could fell an oak. How do you do, Mr. Hitchcock? What brings you to Harborshire?” The Empress Josephine favored him with a whimsical smile.
“I’m looking for a gentleman who is missing a part of the little finger of his left hand.”
Napoleon raised his left hand. “You mean like mine?”
“How do you do, Sir Rufus?” He turned to the Empress Josephine. “And this, I assume, is Lady Miranda?” She nodded her head. “And the object prodding my stomach I gather is a gun.”
“A very small gun,” said Sir Rufus. “It’s been in the family for years, handed down from generation to generation, like a recipe for mince pie.”
The orchestra was playing “The Very Thought
of You,” and Hitchcock was thinking of Alma and Patricia and then briefly of Herbert Grieban. In an amazingly controlled voice, he said, “Surely you don’t intend to shoot me here.”
“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Lady Miranda. “I’ve just had the floors polished. Kindly precede us into the hallway. I assure you, it is to your benefit to make no fuss. We have many friends here.”
“Most of them, I assume, impersonating Mr. Hitler/’
“Aren’t you clever? Rufus, isn’t Mr. Hitchcock clever?”
“Oh, indeed. I wish he was batting his wicket for us instead of the opposition.” He prodded Hitchcock with the gun. Hitchcock turned and slowly made his way through the guests toward the hall, Rufus and Miranda directly behind him.
“Daddy? Mummy? Where are you off to?” They were joined by Shirley Temple holding an oversized lollipop that she occasionally licked obscenely. Her curls hung down in tired tassels, and her candy-striped little girls’ dress revealed a pair of incredibly shapely legs.
“We were just going upstairs to our rooms for a quiet chat, darling,” said Lady Miranda. “Do keep an eye on the party for us.”
“Hello,” said the woman to Hitchcock, “I’ve seen your face somewhere.” The bulb lit. “I know! In Picturegoer magazine! You’re a film director!”
“I am Alfred Hitchcock,” he announced, prudently refraining from adding he was in a spot of trouble.
“Oh, yes, the thriller person. I’m their daughter, Violet Pack.”
“How do you do, Miss Pack.”
“It’s Mrs. Pack, though God knows I wish it wasn’t. What’s that you’ve got there, Daddy?” She saw the gun. “Oh. Well, then, I’ll see to the guests.” She danced away, licking her lollipop, and Sir Rufus nudged Hitchcock with the gun. Arriving in the hallway, Lady Miranda signaled to a footman, and as Hitchcock led the way up the stairs, she gave some instructions to the footman that Hitchcock did not overhear. Then Lady Miranda joined Hitchcock and her husband, gently lifting her skirt so as not to trip on it as she ascended.
At the head of the stairs, Sir Rufus directed Hitchcock to his left. “There, on your right, the blue door.” Hitchcock grasped the knob and opened the door. Seated on a chair against the wall facing him was Nancy Adair.