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

by Linda Landrigan

  “Then how did he get outside the window?”

  “Imagine the scene: it is late at night. Captain Muldaur has quarreled with Hero on the subject of the slave’s freedom, which had been promised him but withdrawn when Muldaur learnt that a scion of Charles Treviscoe still lived. In anger Hero departs, knowing the captain is in danger from the Ephialtes of Belfast Lough and in his rage not caring, knowing also that the captain has no power to stop him if he chooses to go.

  “Muldaur, however, is not insensitive to his circumstances, so before he retires, he hitches a line to the cleat, reeves it through the block, and coils the remaining length on the floor beneath the window so that he may defenestrate it given a moment’s warning, thus giving him a means to withdraw from the confines of the room without having to force his way through the door and down the stairs.”

  “As he fears, the danger comes. He tosses out the line and swings into space, hoping to climb down the rope to a chance at safety. It is raining, and within minutes his nightshirt is drenched; that is why it was damp when I discovered the body.”

  “There must have been two, probably three, of the murderous scoundrels come into the chamber and one to stand lookout on the street below. They would not want to face Captain Muldaur—protected as they believe by the redoubtable Hero—without a substantial superiority of force. But Hero has gone out. And so they have a greater advantage than they expected. Once in the room they see that Muldaur is not there, nor Hero, but the window is open, rain is flinging itself inside, and a rope trails out into space. They go to the window and find Muldaur dangling like a spider, not halfway to the street.”

  “They pull the rope up as if to draw him in, but at the last moment, perhaps out of a sportive cruelty, they let it go, letting his weight pull it back down toward earth.”

  “No doubt they expected the shock of the impact to send him falling off when the rope reached its full length and strained against the cleat. But they’ve underestimated his strength and, though he slips several feet, he manages to hold on, but not without corresponding wounds to his hands. They pull him up again, enough so that the bitter end of the rope is too far above the street for Muldaur to safely descend. Then one of them gets an idea and calls to the lookout below to collect cobblestones and bring them up. The lookout runs up the stairs bearing the missiles. They pelt the captain’s head with the stones, which attack he tries to fend off with one arm, then t’other, which tells how he received wounds to his head and arms but not to his body. Finally, exhausted by the struggle, wounded beyond endurance, and quite literally at the end of his rope, he loses his grip and falls, his leg breaking on the hard ground.”

  “The murderers do not want to leave his senseless body in the street, where it may attract the attention of a charlie on his rounds, so they tie the rope under his shoulders, haul him up, bruising his chest in the execution, and then remove and take away the rope to make it seem as if he had been attacked in his room. If he still lived then, it was not for long, as his wounds were too severe. That is how it was done.”

  “But surely the scene you describe is fantastic, Alan.”

  “How is it fantastic? It reconciles the facts, Magnus. It explains the burnt hands, the wet nightshirt, the bruising on the body’s chest, the peculiar placement of the wounds on his head and arms, even the scattering of cobblestones at the threshold of the house. What is fantastic is that there is not a single soul in all that crowded alley who can recall such a spectacle. Such a failure of the senses is impossible.”

  “Tell me, Magnus, for you knew him: was Captain Muldaur the kind of man who would suffer such abuse in silence? He must have screamed with the fury of demons. And what about the clamor of the stones striking the side of the house and clattering on the street below, pounding like drums and thunder? How could Mrs. O’Reilly have slept through all that? It surpasses the imagination. She must have seen enough to know that Hero is innocent, or why else would she maintain such a stubborn silence about the details of the crime? Why else? Because on the way out the bravos let her know how it will be for her if she talks.”

  “How can you get Mrs. O’Reilly to testify?”

  Treviscoe frowned. “As much as it disgusts me, if Hero is to avoid the gallows, there is no other way. I must somehow get the permission of Dr. Synge.”

  THE ROOM WAS dim. The man in a chair opposite Treviscoe looked like nothing so much as a fat hawk and wore a coat so long and wide it might have passed for a justaucorps from the days of the Stuarts. He wore an ornate tiewig powdered gray. Spectacles perched on his beaklike nose. He smiled gently.

  “Mr. Treviscoe, I am honored by your request for this interview, but I hardly see how I can be of any assistance.” The voice was soft, mellifluous, with more than a hint of Irish charm.

  “Dr. Synge, I come on behalf of the prisoner Hero, late the property of Captain Ragnall Muldaur, deceased, and now awaiting trial for murder. I believe it is in your power to retrieve him from the gibbet.”

  “You have a flatteringly high opinion of a mere scholar, Mr. Treviscoe, if you think I can perform such a feat of legerdemain,” replied Dr. Synge.

  “And you must have a correspondingly low opinion of my perspicacity, doctor, if you expect me to believe it is not in your power to acquiesce in this matter. All that is required is that Mrs. O’Reilly be allowed to testify as to what she saw the night of Captain Muldaur’s death. There are no names that need be mentioned and no prisoners besides Hero who are to be identified. Her testimony can in no way compromise your activities.”

  “You mystify me, Mr. Treviscoe.”

  “I think not, Dr. Synge. I beg you to recall my profession, which, to my knowledge, is unique in London if not the world. I expose frauds to the world for the benefit of compensation by assurance men who would otherwise lose fortunes. As you may be aware, I have met with considerable success in my endeavors. Normally, my fee is ten percent of the value of the insurance. In this case, however, I am prepared to perform the same service on my own behalf, and forgo remuneration, should Hero be hanged.”

  “I do not understand you.”

  “I believe you do.”

  There was silence.

  Dr. Synge cleared his throat. “Am I correct in apprehending that you are threatening blackmail to some lawless personage? Blackmail is a crime itself, Mr. Treviscoe.”

  “I prefer to think of my words as a pledge of vengeance, Dr. Synge, even aware as I am that this entire episode is the result of reciprocal pledges of vengeance.”

  At length Dr. Synge sighed. “You are obviously a man of some courage, Mr. Treviscoe, to take upon yourself such a dangerous course of action. But as I understand your proposal, it would seem to me, speaking entirely as a philosopher, mind you, that Mrs. O’Reilly has no need for a commensurate courage simply to tell the truth in court, which is the duty of every loyal subject. Providing, as you assert, she cannot make any identifications of the miscreants you seem to believe she observed.”

  “There is also the matter of five hundred pounds’ prize money, though some make it nearer a thousand—and a missing ear trumpet,” said Treviscoe. “You may be unaware, Dr. Synge, that I am Captain Muldaur’s heir, so that money and the ear trumpet are rightfully mine. I can understand why the murderers would steal the money, but the collection of the ear trumpet can only be attributed to someone wanting a most peculiar trophy.”

  “A trophy? Of what?” There was a smug amusement in Dr. Synge’s voice.

  “First, of the fell deed of murder,” replied Treviscoe, “and second, perhaps to remind him of his satisfaction in doing an earlier injury to Muldaur many years ago in Belfast Lough. But I reckon these things—the money and the trumpet, I mean—are beyond recovery.”

  “No doubt,” said Synge, his eyes narrowing.

  “Then accept my gratitude, Dr. Synge. I am, of course, your servant.” Treviscoe bowed with punctilious formality.

  “Your servant, Mr. Treviscoe,” Synge said stiffly, failing to rise. “Go
od afternoon.”

  “THE DEFENSE CALLS Mrs. Frances O’Reilly.”

  She was all nerves. Sir Richard questioned her gently, and bit by bit the description of the murder that Treviscoe had given Captain Gunn was confirmed. As she gave her testimony, she became progressively agitated. Sensing she would not long continue to give helpful evidence, Sir Richard ended his questioning after she described how Muldaur’s body was hoisted back to his room.

  It was now the turn of Mr. Juddson.

  “Mrs. O’Reilly, can you explain to the court why you did not come forward with this amazing and incredible story whilst the prisoner, whom you describe as an innocent man, languished in prison?”

  “Which I was afraid to, sir,” she responded, gripping the rail before her as though to let go would send her plummeting to death like Muldaur.

  “Afraid? Afraid of what, or of whom?”

  “I can’t say, sir, don’t ask me to say. I am not allowed, sir. He said I could tell the truth as I saw it, but there was to be no names, sir.”

  “Do you then refuse to answer?”

  “I can’t, sir, I can’t—”

  “Are you aware of the penalty for perjury, Mrs. O’Reilly?” Juddson thundered.

  “Objection! The witness cannot have perjured herself by refusing to answer.”

  “Perjury?” Mrs. O’Reilly laughed, on the edge of hysteria. “What’s perjury to a creature like himself? The very devil’s own spawn is Dr. Synge.”

  Sir Richard engaged in a loud debate with his learned colleague, and Mrs. O’Reilly collapsed, howling and weeping, and had to be led off the stand by the bailiff. Hidden in the gallery a bespectacled man of raptorial aspect frowned deeply. Drawing his enormous and richly decorated coat around his broad girth and pulling his fine beaver tricorn over his eyes, he made a quiet exit.

  “HAVE THE JURY reached a verdict?”

  “We have, m’lord. We find the prisoner, Hero the African, not guilty of the crime of murder.”

  “The prisoner is free to go. This court is adjourned.”

  The gavel smacked down.

  ON FLEET STREET Treviscoe and Hero walked together away from the Old Bailey. “You are a free man, now, Hero, in every sense of the word. What do you intend to do with your liberty?”

  “’Tis a condition so long dreamt of that I hardly can believe it is a reality, Mr. Treviscoe. I suppose I shall enter service, for in Barbados I was a house slave before Captain Muldaur bought me away from my master. Aside from the ring it is the only trade I know.”

  “Then take my hand, Hero, and with it my best wishes.”

  “My thanks to you, sir,” said Hero, seizing Treviscoe’s hand with both his own. Powerful emotions played across his face, but before another word could be said, he turned and walked swiftly away.

  IT WAS LATE in the evening when Alan Treviscoe went home. The street lamps on the houses were well lit. But there were shadows enough to hide the three men who lay in wait for him.

  They were large enough to be chair-men by day but at night they had less honest employment. They bore no weapons but their fists, which were curled tight into cudgels of flesh and bone. They bore down upon their victim in a rush.

  Treviscoe was reaching for his smallsword when he was grabbed by a fourth man from behind. The sword was pulled from its sheath by one of the bravos and clattered on the pavement.

  “’Ere’s summat to remember us by—remembering there was to be no names—” sneered the leader, swinging his massive fist into Treviscoe’s stomach.

  Treviscoe doubled with pain, only to be struck in the face. Colors obscured his vision, and his ears rang as he was slammed again.

  He dropped to the pavement, and then he heard cursing. He lifted his head and saw a blurred figure strike his assailant with the suddenness of a blacksmith’s hammer, then swiftly withdraw and engage the next tough with the same powerful stroke.

  Heads snapped back, and Treviscoe imagined he was back at the boxing match, watching Hero demolish Butcher Bill. He vaguely heard the crack of yielding bones and cries of pain. The altercation was short-lived, however, and he next heard running footsteps fading away.

  He felt hands under his shoulders, and he was lifted to his feet. Hero picked up the smallsword from the ground and presented it to him hilt first. “Let’s be going now, sir,” said Hero urgently, leading him up the stairs.

  “Thank you, Hero—”

  “’Tis only just, sir,” said Hero.

  They struggled to the door of Treviscoe’s room. Hero sat him on the bed and helped him lie down.

  “I’ll just fetch the apothecary, sir.”

  “I will be all right—”

  “That is God’s truth, Mr. Treviscoe. I’ll see to that.”

  Treviscoe shook his head. Waves of pain surged through him. “I cannot afford a manservant, Hero.”

  Hero laughed. “I think you can’t afford otherwise, in your line of work, sir. And ’tis certain you won’t find a better man than me for this kind of task.”

  “Perhaps so. My head!”

  “I’ll be off then, sir. Not to worry, won’t be but a moment.”

  “Yes, all right. I will lie here quietly till you fetch the apothecary.”

  “That’s as it should be, sir.” Hero noiselessly shut the door behind him.

  And things were as they should be, reflected Treviscoe. Things were exactly as they should be, except for Dr. Synge. But Dr. Synge was sure to have fled London, dodging his debts and the law alike, before daybreak.

  Magnus Gunn came to attend Treviscoe the next morning.

  “I have often thought that there is never so dangerous a course as to injure a proud man’s honor,” said Gunn. “I am fair amazed at the lengths Captain Muldaur resorted to so that he might reclaim his own.”

  “But it cannot have been honor, Magnus,” said Treviscoe. “’Twas pride and hatred. It were to satisfy honor if Captain Muldaur had challenged Dr. Synge to a duel and kept the combat between them. Instead he saw fit to involve a slave, a man without recourse to his own will, and submit him to the indignities of bondage and the boxing ring, and even to renege on a promise of manumission so his pride might be salved through an act of vengeance. I cannot call that honorable behavior.”

  “But Hero is free at last.”

  Treviscoe nodded.

  “Yes, there is that. I do not think that a man of his parts will long be satisfied to submit to a life of service, having so recently gained his liberty. Yet he is old to ’prentice to any trade.”

  “He has skills you may find useful in your profession, Alan. It may be just the calling for him.”

  At that moment Hero entered the room. “I have just been to Lloyd’s, sir, to collect your correspondence,” he said. “When it became known I was acting on your behalf, a gentleman made so bold as to ask if you might entertain a proposal for a commission.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, sir. It seems there may be some question as to the confidentiality of maritime reports arriving on the Plymouth post coach.”

  Treviscoe exchanged a meaningful glance with Captain Gunn. He sat up and said quietly, “Tell me more, Hero. There may be work for us here.”

  STEVE HOCKENSMITH

  ERIE’S LAST DAY

  May 2000

  “ERIE’S LAST DAY” was Steve Hockensmith’s entry into the mystery field, and the start of a series of stories featuring the depressive ex-cop Larry Erie and his more upbeat pal Bass. A former editor of The X-Files Official Magazine and Cinescape, Hockensmith created a column for AHMM devoted to crime television and movies called “Reel Crime.” In 2006 he published his first novel, Holmes on the Range, about a couple of ranch hands who share an addiction to Sherlock Holmes stories in Harper’s Weekly.

  7:00 A.M.

  The radio alarm by Larry Erie’s queen-sized bed turned itself on. A deep-voiced announcer began telling Erie about the morning’s top stories. Erie didn’t really care what the morning’s top stories might be, but he
lay there for a while and let the announcer ramble.

  There was nobody there to give him a playful kick and tell him to shut that noise off. There was nobody there to make breakfast for. There was nobody there to fetch pills for. It was just him and the announcer.

  7:19 A.M.

  ERIE FINALLY PULLED himself out of bed and went out to the porch in his pajamas and robe to pick up the morning paper. It was cool outside, just like the cheerful people on the radio said it would be. A storm passing through in the night had left puddles on the pavement.

  He scanned the yard for the little black shape that sometimes came bounding up to him from behind shrubs or garbage cans, meowing greetings at him as if he were a long-lost relative. But the cat wasn’t there. Erie went back inside.

  He ate breakfast sitting on the edge of the bed. It was a habit he couldn’t drop even though there was no longer anyone there to keep company.

  7:42 A.M.

  ERIE SHOWERED, shaved, flossed, brushed, gargled, rinsed, and repeated. Then he carefully picked out his clothes. He pulled on his best white shirt, his best suit, his favorite tie. He shined his shoes before putting them on. He looked at himself in the mirror, straightened his tie, smoothed a few errant hairs into place. Then he pulled his gun off the bureau and clipped it onto his belt.

  Some cops started to get a little sloppy years before they retired. Others waited till just a few months or weeks before their last day to start letting themselves go. Erie remembered one cop, a fellow detective, who came in for his last day in a Hawaiian shirt and bermuda shorts. It gave everybody a good laugh.