Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (63 page)

After the hearing Hobart borrowed Kirby's cellular telephone and went off to a quiet corner to make a call. He came back a few minutes later, looking somber.

“Chet Wilkins,” he said.

“Who is Chet Wilkins?” Kirby asked.

“It's who I was with when Sarah … when her garage caught fire,” Hobart said. “I was at his house, praying with him. Chet is one of the deacons of my church. He's just tested positive for HIV.”

“And you were with him that night?” Kirby asked. “He's willing to testify to that?”

Hobart nodded. “He'd rather not, but he will if it's necessary. You can see why I couldn't tell you where I was. There are some members of our church—maybe most of them—who wouldn't understand. They think AIDS is God's curse. Chet's a good man. He's made some mistakes, but he sincerely wants to get right with God.”

Kirby looked at him for a moment. “Come on, let's get out of here,” he said. “I'll take you home.”

“Could you take me to Sarah's house?” Hobart asked. “I have a lot to make up for. If I'm not too late.” He smiled sadly. “But I can't believe I'm too late. I don't think God would do that to me. I think the Lord set all this up, to show me what's important in my life. I told you the Lord would take care of me.”

Kirby nodded. He wasn't comfortable with all the talk about God. Nor was I, for that matter. Catholics don't talk about God like He's the neighbor down the street. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Let's go.”

Rather than tag along to Hobart's reunion with his daughter, I took a cab back to the office. The cabbie had Christmas music on his radio, so I was nearly murderous by the time I got there.

I'd been there just long enough for the teapot to come to a boil when Joop came in. He was carrying the scorched Hindu statue from Sarah Hobart's studio/garage.

“What's that?” I asked.

“Ganesha,” Joop said, “You remember. The Lord of Obstacles.”

“Yes, but what are you doing with it?”

“I bought it,” he said.

“You what?”

“Bought it. Which word didn't you understand?”

“You bought it? How much?”

“Eight thousand American dollars,” he said. “That's what it was insured for.”

I stared at him. “Are you
mad?
Where did you get eight thousand dollars?”

“From Hobart,” he said. “He said we could bill him.”

“So that's what you cooked up with Hobart,” I said. “Am I right in thinking Sarah will now cancel her insurance claim?”

Joop nodded. “It was the only logical solution,” he said. “Hobart didn't want his little Sarah to lose her soul. And he didn't want her to commit insurance fraud. And Sarah wanted the cash to finish her thesis. This way everybody's happy.”

He was awfully full of himself. But I had to admit, it was a neat solution.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

“I'm going to clean the little booger up,” Joop said. “He's not that badly damaged.”

“And then what?”

“Then I'm going to put him in that corner,” he said, pointing. “Sweeney, bud, if there's any folks in the world who need a god to clear away obstacles, it's us private detectives.”

Lord Mansfield,
resplendent in his scarlet robe and long white wig, stared at the man in the dock. The accused was a large black African dressed in what had once been very fine livery, and his tiewig, although indifferently powdered, was of the highest quality. The learned judge's gaze shifted to Sir Richard Pelles for the defense, and he wondered again how a slave had managed to engage one of the finest barristers in England.

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!”