Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense

by Linda Landrigan

  Sir Richard was questioning the young man with the somnolent eyes from Lloyd’s, whose testimony was evidently to be of prime importance to the defense.

  “Mr. Treviscoe, where did you make the acquaintance of the accused?”

  “At a prizefight in Hyde Park, sir. Hero was one of the combatants …”

  A POWDERED Frenchman collided with Alan Treviscoe in the milling crowd and nearly knocked off his tricorn. Steadying himself, Treviscoe put his right hand on the hat and his left on the hilt of his smallsword to keep it from swinging out and striking somebody’s shin. Monsieur’s right hand went likewise to his own sword, his black eyes flashing above his rouged cheeks, anticipating a challenge. Recognizing that Treviscoe had no obvious intention to draw, he relaxed and ceremoniously bowed in apology. Treviscoe returned the bow, careful not to let his hat fall from his head, and he and Captain Magnus Gunn of the Royal Navy continued threading their way through the throng.

  “Gunn!”

  Gunn stopped and touched his hat to a richly dressed man in his forties whose face was a map of dissipation. “Sir Beaumont Clevis,” he said, his Scottish accent failing to hide his dislike. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Alan Treviscoe of Lloyd’s.”

  Sir Beaumont looked at Treviscoe as if he were a horse for sale at a country fair.

  “Your servant, sir,” said Treviscoe, bowing.

  “Now is the time to change your mind,” Sir Beaumont said to Gunn.

  “My wager has been laid, Sir Beaumont.”

  “Then you’ll stand to lose it all! Strong bastards, these blacks, but boxing is an art that requires more than strength. Oh, I warrant they have low cunning enough, but Muldaur’s buck can be no match for a white man, especially not an Englishman.”

  “I’m afraid it were not in my power to agree, Sir Beaumont, having seen Hero fight, and low cunning’s no’ in it. But if ye’ll excuse us, we must pay our respects to Captain Muldaur.”

  “Respects,” Sir Beaumont snorted sarcastically. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn ye.”

  They parted with a mutual display of unfelt respect by bowing, and Gunn and Treviscoe flung themselves back into the crowd.

  “There he is now,” said Gunn, gesturing toward a knot of people ahead of them. He boldly advanced, and Treviscoe followed.

  “Captain Muldaur! This is my particular friend, Mr. Alan Treviscoe of Lloyd’s.”

  The stout Irishman sported a trim military mustache and was armed with an ear trumpet. Treviscoe wondered at its necessity, since Gunn was roaring away in his quarterdeck voice.

  “Alan Treviscoe, allow me to introduce Captain Ragnall Muldaur, formerly of the Royal Marines. He owns the boxing slave we came to watch.”

  “What was that name again?” asked Muldaur, staring fixedly at Treviscoe’s lips.

  “My name, sir?” Treviscoe asked.

  “Of course your name! What other person would I be asking the name of?” Muldaur stepped forward, a short step that drew Treviscoe’s attention to the stout peg the man had in lieu of a right leg below the knee. He rotated the ear trumpet so that the bell hovered in Treviscoe’s face.

  “My name is Treviscoe, sir—Alan Treviscoe, at your service.”

  “Treviscoe? Did you say Treviscoe?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Then you are a relation to the late Captain Charles Treviscoe?”

  “That was my father’s name, sir. Did you know him, sir?”

  “Was your father a naval man?” asked Gunn. “I never knew that.”

  “For a time he was purser to Boscawen,” replied Treviscoe, “but he held no royal commission, and later in life he was a merchant captain who tried to find his fortune in the West Indies trade.”

  “Charlie ne’er mentioned any whelps,” exclaimed Muldaur. “But ’tis no matter. Aye! Knew him! Fine man, he was, young—Alan, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Muldaur nodded again, his short and battered scratch wig bobbing as he did so. “Come to see me Hero, have ye?”

  “We have, Captain Muldaur,” interjected Gunn. “I reckon ’twill be a bonny fight.”

  “Ye’ve never seen the like,” Muldaur said smugly. “Hope ye’ve placed your wagers anon.”

  “Oh aye,” replied Gunn. He turned to Treviscoe and spoke in a lower tone of voice. “Our money’s on Muldaur’s black—learned the art in Barbados, I’m told. An old Irish hallion Muldaur may be, but he’s never the man to sell his pride. ’Twill be an honest battering, I promise.”

  Treviscoe nodded. Since Jack Broughton had lost the championship to Jack Slack twenty-one years before in 1750, boxing had fallen into some disrepute without losing any of its popularity among the gaming set. In these corrupt times the usual trick in betting on a boxing match was to know who was being paid to lose.

  Muldaur took Treviscoe by the sleeve and spoke with a conspiratorial earnestness.

  “Not to worry, my boy. Always pay me debts—more dear than blood is the honor of a Muldaur—as soon as the Malian’s debt is discharged, but Ragnall Muldaur is no breakvow.”

  “This is a fine wager, Alan,” said Gunn gleefully. “I got five to two. Who among these bluidy Sassenachs—present company excluded, mind ye—who among ’em will admit that some poor black savage can best a brawny Englishman at fisticuffs, eh? But win he will, I am certain of it.”

  A clamorous cheer erupted from the carousing multitude, and Treviscoe’s attention was drawn to the center of the green, where an area had been roped off.

  The combatants had taken their places.

  The Englishman, Butcher Bill Blankett, was a beefy youth of near eighteen stone, his balding forehead a stark contrast to the ursine mat on his chest. The slave Hero, who like Blankett was stripped to his breeches, was as different from his opponent as a man of roughly the same age could possibly be. Treviscoe’s first impression was of an ebon Apollo. His head was completely shaved, reflecting the sun like a polished cannonball, and the curves of his muscles shone like black marble. He was tall, taller even than Magnus Gunn, and whereas Blankett was built like a broad ship of the line, Hero was constructed like a sleek frigate, all lines for speed.

  The two men faced off.

  The referee hoarsely called out, “May the best man win!”

  There was another rousing cheer and the contest began. Treviscoe would never recall the exact details of the fight—his knowledge of the pugilistic art was too poor. His first impression was of a succession of violent images: heads snapping back, sweat and blood being flung onto the rowdy onlookers, the boxers grappling and wrestling each other desperately, like Titans, and an endless and merciless shower of pummeling to face and torso. He began to sense a little of the rough science of it, not unlike fencing—the parries and ripostes, the maneuvering for position and room—and finally it seemed to him that he was watching a kind of chess match, witnessing the headlong race to checkmate between two masters, and all the blows and grapples were nothing more than pieces advancing and colliding.

  Each time a man was forced to the ground, a round was called. In the early stages of the combat Treviscoe’s inexpert eye judged that the fighters were evenly matched, and he began to worry about his ten-guinea wager. But as the contest drew on, it became increasingly clear that Hero was getting the better of his opponent. Cheers became less frequent, and boos and catcalls increased.

  Finally, inevitably, Butcher Bill collapsed like a shack in a hurricane, smearing the grass with the freely flowing blood from the cuts on his face. He failed to rise. The referee declared Hero the winner.

  Hero seemed insensible of his victory. He gasped for air, made difficult by his swollen face. His dark skin was mottled with crimson.

  The outcome was not popular. The crowd growled with anger and disappointment. Treviscoe glanced around with worry, his normally half-lidded eyes wide open in apprehension.

  “The mob is close to riot,” he whispered urgently to Gunn.

  Gunn laughed ebulliently. “Nonsense, Alan
. They’re sore that they have had to pay for their sport is all. Now to collect our winnings!”

  Sir Beaumont, fuming with wrath, pushed his way through the crowd, filling the air with oaths and deprecations, until at last he approached Captain Muldaur, whose gap-toothed grin displayed a vicious glee. “Laugh, will you, Muldaur?” cried the gentleman. “We will see about that!”

  “Remember Othello’s words, Sir Beaumont: ‘They laugh that win,’” replied the Irishman, his mirth unchecked.

  Sir Beaumont glared at the panting Hero with undisguised malice. “’Twould be well for you to remember the blackamoor’s fate, Muldaur.”

  Muldaur’s joy transformed instantly into a snarl of contempt.

  “Thou Iago! Nay, not even, art naught but Iago’s creature!”

  Sir Beaumont raised his hand back still clutching his walking stick and with an effort controlled his temper.

  “I have no need to demand satisfaction from a one-legged deaf Irish son of a bitch,” he said acidly, “most especially when I observe that his wretched body has already been compensated for the nature of his character. Good day!”

  Muldaur’s barking laughter followed him.

  Captain Muldaur turned next to Treviscoe. “If you would pursue your own interests, I beg that you call on me at my lodgings: Number 5, Red Rose Alley, off White Cross Street, the day after tomorrow. We have somewhat to discuss.”

  “AND DID YOU accept the invitation?”

  “I did,” said Treviscoe, “and went to keep the appointment at the designated hour. It had thundered furiously during the night, and the rain was still considerable that morning …”

  TREVISCOE MADE HIS way under a recent investment he had made to protect his large and expensive tricorn: a fine black umbrella. They were becoming something of a fad in the city. He addressed the problem of muddy streets by wearing boots as if he were a soldier on campaign. Although they were not fashionable, he did not expect Muldaur to care.

  Muldaur’s habitation was in the warren of tenements that catered to London’s impoverished Irish. The captain’s presence there was somewhat incongruous: as a king’s officer he was at least nominally a Protestant, and the exclusively Catholic populace would view him with suspicion. But he must have had his reasons.

  Murky puddles had collected in holes where the dismal street was missing cobblestones. Some of the displaced stones were scattered around the door to Muldaur’s domicile.

  A worn and harried woman whose wide and darting eyes reminded Treviscoe of a field mouse watching for an owl answered the door and told him timorously that the captain lived on the second story and that his slave lodged in the attic. The stair was narrow and decrepit. It could not have been an easy climb for a man with a wooden leg.

  The door to the room was ajar. He placed his hand on the door, and it swayed gently back.

  Muldaur was face up on the floor. His head and open nightshirt were horribly bloody, and his face was swollen almost beyond recognition. Treviscoe knelt and knew from the coldness of the flesh that there would be no pulse. He quickly examined the body.

  The most obvious injuries were to his face and arms, but his left leg, the whole one, was bent unnaturally. His chest and abdomen were pale and unmarked except for a fresh, thin bruise across his chest stretching from armpit to armpit. The palms of his hands were raw, red, and chapped, and some of the skin had been scraped away. The knuckles were unmarked. His nightshirt was damp, but the floor around him was dry.

  Rain gusted in from the open window, falling short of where the body lay.

  Treviscoe went to the window to pull it shut. Hanging from the eave of the roof was a black iron hook from which depended a wooden naval block, but there was no rope reeved through it. It had obviously been installed so that something might be lifted to the window directly from the street.

  He pulled the window shut and surveyed the room. He remembered how, at the prizefight, blood had freely spattered the observers. But there were no bloodstains anywhere except in the immediate vicinity of the body, where small pools of blood had dripped off the face. Under the bed he found a cleat, such as were used to belay lines aboard ships, affixed to the floor. He looked back to the window, at the image of the block through the closed window swinging in the wet wind, smeared by the cheap glass and spattering raindrops.

  Where was the rope?

  “WHAT SIGNIFICANCE did you attach to your observations, Mr. Treviscoe?” Sir Richard asked.

  “Objection, m’lord!” The crown prosecutor stood. “Of what conceivable relevance can the speculations of Mr. Treviscoe be to the court? May I remind my learned colleague that the jury and the jury alone are the triers of fact.”

  “Perhaps the distinguished advocate for the crown has forgotten Mr. Treviscoe’s particular profession as an investigator of fraudulent claims against the insurance underwriters of Lloyd’s. I am sure it is not necessary to remind the court that many times ere now, and in this very room, his testimony has served the cause of justice, although he has not previously been before Your Lordship. A man’s very life is on trial, and to deprive the jury of Mr. Treviscoe’s expertise were to flaunt the purpose of this assembly.”

  “Just so,” said Lord Mansfield after a considered pause. “You may continue.”

  “Mr. Treviscoe?”

  “The only conclusion I drew with certainty was that Captain Muldaur had not been murdered in his room, but that his corpus had been transported thither after the commission of the crime. Otherwise blood would have been spattered on the walls or on the bed.”

  “But there were no clues as to the identity of the murderer, were there?”

  Treviscoe paused. “There were none to identify anyone positively, that is true, but by scientific reasoning some parties could easily be ruled out. His wounds were not consistent with those sustained by fisticuffs. I should say his assailant, or more precisely his assailants, were not boxers.”

  “He was beaten senseless. Is not that consistent with being struck repeatedly by a powerful fighter?”

  “He was never once struck ’tween belt and shoulder, judging from the entire absence of bruising on his torso save the thin line I mentioned, and he never returned a blow with his own hands, which though obviously distressed were unmarked on the obverse. A man striking back would surely have marked his knuckles. The wounds to his forearms showed he had tried, with a lamentable lack of success, to protect his face. It were a strange boxer who insists on pummeling a man’s head when his midriff is exposed.”

  “Objection, m’lord! Mr. Treviscoe is pleased to say who the murderer cannot have been solely on the basis of what was not done. We are not to imagine, I hope, that should a baker commit murder he should always make of his victim a pie.”

  “Your objection is sustained, Mr. Juddson, even if your metaphor exceeds the proper decorum expected in this court,” said Mansfield coldly. “The witness will confine himself to only those positive observations that may be derived from the evidence of his own eyes, and the jury will disregard speculative testimony that the murderer cannot have been a boxer.”

  “Very good, m’lord,” said Sir Richard, satisfied, knowing that what is said cannot be unsaid. “Mr. Treviscoe, were there any other clues as the identity, or identities, of Captain Muldaur’s assailant or assailants?”

  “As noted, not at the scene …” replied Treviscoe, pausing.

  Looking directly at the judge, his tentative manner suggesting that he delicately weighed whether or not he might be silenced for exceeding His Lordship’s instructions, he continued, “But that is not to say there were no clues. There was his unusual history, and his strange words at the prizefight …”

  “HAVE YOU SEEN this, Alan?” Gunn waved a broadsheet in Treviscoe’s face. “Hero is caught! He has confessed!”

  “What do you mean?” Treviscoe put his clay pipe in his mouth and accepted the newspaper. The common room at Lloyd’s buzzed with the usual flurry of activity beneath a thick pall of smoke. “‘The Blac
k Spartacus Captured.’”

  “He was heard to say, ‘Then my actions have killed him.’ That’s the end of the mystery, I would say.”

  “Confessed?” Treviscoe’s forehead furrowed. “I would never’ve imagined it. But ’tis a strange confession. ‘Then my actions have killed him.’ What actions?”

  “Murder, surely,” said Gunn.

  “My dear Magnus, on infrequent occasions I have observed that people actually choose the words that express most precisely what they mean. Hero certainly did not actually say he had murdered the captain; contrariwise, his diction seems to indicate he did not know of the consequences of his actions till he was informed of the crime upon his arrest.”

  Gunn frowned. “Well, ’tis clear that Captain Muldaur and Hero quarreled the night of the murder. The landlady, Mrs. O’Reilly, heard Hero shouting from two floors above.”

  “What of it? Muldaur was deaf, and his ear trumpet was not in his room when I discovered his body, else I have lost any capacity to effect a thorough search.”

  “Do you then perversely insist that Hero is innocent?”

  “Innocent? Of murder, perhaps, but of what else I can only guess. There are too many strange little facts in this case, Magnus, for me to be satisfied that the most obvious culprit is the true culprit, although I concur as to the matter appearing—I almost said black, but this is no matter for levity; bleak is mayhap more apposite—for the slave. Consider: why were there no blows to the captain’s ribs and abdomen? Is that consistent with being beaten to death by a boxer? I think not, and neither would you think so if it were not convenient to so do. Remember also that Captain Muldaur had other enemies beyond any disputation if his relationship with Sir Beaumont Clevis is to be judged at face value. It would be instructive to know more of his history, to glean who those enemies were. I wish I knew, for example, how he came to lose his right leg, and his deafness seemed unusually pronounced for a man of such hearty middle age.”

  “Why, ’tis no mystery there. Both the debilitations followed the explosion of HMS Leonidas in Belfast Lough in the year ’60.”