Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

“Oh,” he said in the same tone, as if I’d just told him his horse ran fifth. “Well, it doesn’t really matter because it could have been one of the others.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I don’t really want to know. But I’m going to ask, just because we’re old buddies and I can see you want to tell me. What do you mean, ‘one of the others’?”

He looked up and down the corridor again. “It’s a Nazi plot against the studio, especially this trip. The Child Star will be the next target; they wanted to get her sent back by killing Mrs. Marr, but when that failed, they had to start on her. Without her, we’ll have to cancel the trip, and we won’t sell nearly as many bonds.” He patted his pocket. “But I’ve got a slingshot, so she can defend herself.”

“Very good,” I nodded, and patted him on the cheek. “But who is it you’ve outwitted so cleverly?”

“I was wrong,” he said again. “It really is everyone here with a foreign name; I figured it out when Laszlo wouldn’t answer my questions. It’s Laszlo, Lorenzo, Jewell, and Olivia.”

I blinked. “You, um, do know they hate each other, don’t you? Except maybe Olivia and Lorenzo. And you know those mostly aren’t their real names.”

Now he nodded and patted my cheek. “Don’t worry. They started on this scheme years ago, before they’d met or taken new names. Germany sent them one at a time, to work their way into the movies and wait.”

“The Child Star wasn’t even born that long ago.”

“Tsk,” he said, frustrated at my unwillingness to learn from the master spy. “They knew there’d be a war, and morale to undermine. Where could they do that better than in the movies? They had orders to be ready for anything. That’s just the way it worked in Stuttering Smith in San Francisco; the Nazis undermined millions through the movies.”

Before I could suggest that Mammoth Titan was not a studio that could undermine even thousands of morales, the engine started to stutter. I had to grab hold of the wall. The door at the far end of the corridor opened and Laszlo stumbled through. Spying us, he clapped his hands. “All right, people! We’re coming up on French Willow in thirty minutes! We’re just pulling onto the siding to tack up the extra bunting! Thirty minutes!”

This was sounding “Charge!” I plunged at the door of The Child Star’s boudoir just as Velvet charged through it. I repeated the news for those inside who weren’t so swift. Bevis patted The Child Star on the head and sauntered to the door.

“See ya!” he called and moved out.

“Another of your big fans,” I told The Child Star as I tried to pry Sissy from her notes.

The Child Star set her cards back into their case. “He’s trying to make me,” she replied, voice flat.

Sissy was concentrating and difficult to distract. “What?” I said, pulling on a shoulder.

The Child Star rose and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. “He’s trying to make me.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Sissy, come on! And how would you know?”

She shrugged. “He asked Mrs. Marr about maybe bringing me over for a weekend when we finished the trip. I heard them talking about it. He said he wanted me to have the big room right next to his in the big house. There was a door between, he said, so he could check if I needed anything in the night.”

She said all this without even blinking. I swallowed. “What did your... Mrs. Marr say.”

“She said, ‘We’ll see.’ ”

This was something to think about as we hustled along to the women’s half of the dressing car. It could have been a lie, of course: something to implicate Bevis in the murder instead of whoever had helped out The Child Star. If Mrs. Marr had said, “Absolutely not! Get out!” it would have been grounds for murder, with Bevis trying to keep his proposition a secret. But Mrs. Marr’s saying “We’ll see” didn’t fit the scenario. It was too close to something Mrs. Marr might actually have said; it was perfectly in character. And it was just one more good reason for The Child Star to bump off her ersatz parent.

It all provided so much food for thought that I didn’t watch where I was walking and bumped full into our loyal conductor. “Buncha thugs,” muttered George, moving on. “All alike: no consideration.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t kill you, you know.”

I didn’t hear his answer, if he’d even been listening, because there were far more important things to think about than a conductor’s feelings or Mrs. Marr’s murder. There were hats, coats, hair, and faces as we submitted to the ministrations of Carmen, Misty, Annie, and Kay.

“You think when I push my lower lip out I look more like Lana Turner?”

“No, dear; Charles Laughton.”

“Can’t you at least air these coats out between stops?”

“Whatchoo want from me? Is a war on, and is winter besides.”

“What can you do to make me look younger?”

“Take off my glasses.”

We started up again just as Jewell was painting her mouth. “They do that on purpose!” she shrieked, spitting out a mouthful of beauty. “And I’m trying to conserve the stuff.”

“Okay, people!”