Cities of the Red Night (7 page)

“Who found it?”

“I did. I happened to be down at the port double-checking the possibility that the boy may have left by freighter, and I saw a trunk being carried aboard a ship with Panamanian registry. Well, something about the way they were carrying it … the disposition of the weight, you understand. I had the trunk returned to customs and opened. The uh the method of embalming … unusual to say the least. The body was perfectly preserved but no embalming fluid had been used. It was also completely nude.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Of course.…”

*   *   *

The Greek doctor had studied at Harvard and he spoke perfect English. Various internal organs were laid out on a white shelf. The body, or what was left of it, was in a fetal position.

“Considering that this boy has been dead at least a month, the internal organs are in a remarkable state of preservation,” said the doctor.

I looked at the body. Pubic, rectal and leg hairs were bright red. However, he was redder than he should have been. I pointed to some red blotches around the nipples, crotch, thighs and buttocks. “What's that? Looks like some kind of rash.”

“I was wondering about that.… Of course it could have been an allergy. Redheads are particularly liable to allergic reactions, but—” He paused. “It looks like scarlet fever.”

“We are checking all hospitals and private clinics for scarlet fever admissions,” Dimitri put in, “… or any other condition that could produce such a rash.”

I turned to the doctor. “Doctor, would you say that the amputation was a professional job?”

“Definitely.”

“All questionable doctors and clinics will be checked,” said Dimitri.

The preservative seemed to be wearing off, and the body gave off a sweet musky smell that turned me quite sick. I could see Dimitri was feeling it too, and so was the doctor.

“Can I see the trunk?”

The trunk was built like an icebox: a layer of cork, and the inside lined with thin steel.

“The steel is magnetized,” Dimitri told me. “Look.” He took out his car keys and they stuck to the side of the trunk.

“Could this have had any preservative effect?”

“The doctor says no.”

Dimitri drove me back to the Hilton. “Well, it looks like your case is closed, Mr. Snide.”

“I guess so … any chance of keeping this out of the papers?”

“Yes. This is not America. Besides, a thing like this, you understand…”

“Bad for the tourist business.”

“Well, yes.”

I had a call to make to the next of kin. “Afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Green.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the boy has been found.”

“Dead, you mean?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Green.…”

“Was he murdered?”

“What makes you say that?”

“It's my wife. She's sort of, well, psychic. She had a dream.”

“I see. Well, yes, it looks like murder. We're keeping it out of the papers, because publicity would impede the investigation at this point.”

“I want to retain you again, Mr. Snide. To find the murderer of my son.”

“Everything is being done, Mr. Green. The Greek police are quite efficient.”

“We have more confidence in you.”

“I'm returning to New York in a few days. I'll contact you as soon as I arrive.”

The trail was a month old at least. I was fairly sure the murderer or murderers were no longer in Greece. No point in staying on. But there was something else to check out on the way back.

FEVER SPOOR

I stop over in London. There is somebody I want to see there, if I can find him without too much trouble. Could save me a side trip to Tangier.

I find him in a gay bar called the Amigo. He is nattily dressed, with a well-kept beard and shifty eyes. The Arabs say he has the eyes of a thief. But he has a rich wife and doesn't need to steal.

“Well,” he says. “The private eye.… Business or pleasure?”

I look around. “Only business would bring me here.” I show him Jerry's picture. “He was in Tangier last summer, I believe.”

He looks at the picture. “Sure, I remember him. A cock-teaser.”

“Missing-person case. Remember who he was with?”

“Some hippie kids.”

The description sounds like the kids Jerry was with in Spetsai. Props. “Did he go anywhere else?”

“Marrakesh, I think.”

I am about to finish my drink and leave.

“Oh, you remember Peter Winkler who used to run the English Pub? Did you know he was dead?”

I haven't heard, but I am not much interested. “So? Who or what killed him?”

“Scarlet fever.”

I nearly spill my drink. “Look, people don't die of scarlet fever now. In fact, they rarely get it.”

“He was living out on the mountain … the Hamilton summer house. It's quite isolated, you know. Seems he was alone and the phone was out of order. He tried to walk to the next house down the road and collapsed. They took him to the English hospital.”

“That would finish anyone off. And I suppose Doc Peterson was in attendance? Made the diagnosis and signed the death certificate?”

“Who else? He's the only doctor there. But what are you so stirred up about? I never thought you and Winkler were very close.”

I cool it. “We weren't. It's just that I started out to be a doctor and I don't like to see a case botched.”

“I wouldn't say he botched it. Shot him full of pen strep. Seems he was too far gone to respond.”

“Yeah. Pen strep is right for scarlet fever. He must have been practically dead on arrival.”

“Oh, not quite. He was in the hospital about twenty-four hours.”

I don't say any more. I've said too much already. Looks like I'll have to make that side trip to Tangier.

*   *   *

I checked into the Rembrandt and took a taxi to the Marshan. It was 3:00
P.M.
when I rang the doctor's bell. He was a long time coming to the door, and was not pleased to see me.

“I'm sorry to disturb you during the siesta hour, Doctor, but I'm only in town for a short stay and it's rather important.…”

He was not altogether mollified but he led me into his office.

“Doctor Peterson, I have been retained by the heirs of Peter Winkler to investigate the circumstances of his death. The fact that he was found unconscious by the side of a road has led them to speculate that there might be some question of accidental death. That would mean double indemnity on the insurance.”

“No question whatsoever. There wasn't a mark on him—except for the rash, that is. Well, his pockets were turned inside out, but what do you expect in a place like this?”

“You're quite sure that he died of scarlet fever?”

“Quite sure. A classical case. I think that the fever may have caused brain damage and that is why he didn't respond to antibiotics. Cerebral hemorrhage may have been a contributory cause.…”

“There was bleeding?”

“Yes … from the nose and mouth.”

“And this couldn't have been a concussion?”

“Absolutely no sign of concussion.”

“Was he delirious at any time?”

“Yes. For some hours.”

“Did he say anything? Anything that might indicate he had been attacked?”

“It was gibberish in some foreign language. I administered morphine to quiet him.”

“I'm sure you did the right thing, Doctor, and I will report to his heirs that there is nothing to support a claim of accidental death. That is your considered opinion?”

“It is. He died of scarlet fever and/or complications attendant on scarlet fever.”

I thanked him and left. I had some more questions, but I was sure he couldn't or wouldn't answer them. I went back to the hotel and did some work with the recorder.

At seven o'clock I walked over to the English Pub. There was a young Arab behind the bar whom I recognized as one of Peter's boyfriends. Evidently he had inherited the business. I showed him Jerry's picture.

“Oh yes. Mister Jerry. Peter like him very much. Give him free drinks. He never make out though. Boy just lead him on.”

I asked about Peter's death.

“Very sad. Peter alone in house. Tell me he want to rest few days.”

“Did he seem sick?”

“Not sick. He just look tired. Mister Jerry gone to Marrakesh and I think Peter a little sad.”

I could have checked hospitals in Marrakesh for scarlet fever cases, but I knew already what I needed to know. I knew why Peter hadn't responded to antibiotics. He didn't have scarlet fever. He had a virus infection.

THE STRANGER

The next day the five boys signed on with
The Great White
and moved into the forecastle. Three youths were already there. They introduced themselves as Bill, Guy, and Adam. Noah noticed that they all had the same pale faces and fish-eyes as Captain Jones. The forecastle was clean and newly painted, with a faint hospital smell of carbolic.

An impish red-haired boy of about fifteen brings mugs of tea on a tray. “I'm Jerry, the cabin boy. Anything you want, just let me know. It's a pleasure to serve you, gentlemen.”

Bill, Guy, and Adam wash down black pellets with the tea.

“What's that?” Brady asks.

“Oh, just something to keep out the cold.”

The boys are kept busy loading cargo and supplies. Mr. Thomas gives instructions in a quiet voice. He seems easygoing and good-natured. But his eyes make Noah uneasy—they are cold as winter ice.

*   *   *

Pages from Noah Blake's diary:

Tuesday, Feb. 5, 1702: Today we sailed. Despite Captain Jones's slighting remarks about freshwater sailing, our experience on the lakes stands us in good stead. I notice that Guy, Bill, and Adam, though they are very thin and pale and sick-looking, are good seamen and seem immune to cold and fatigue.

An hour before sailing, a carriage pulled up at the wharf and two people got out and came on board. I could not see them clearly, for they were wearing furs with hoods, but I could tell that they were young and looked much alike. When the ship was clear of the harbor and on course, the cabin boy brought tea.

“Two passengers on board,” he told us.

“Have you seen them?”

“Aye, I carried their luggage to the cabin.”

“And what are they like?”

“More like leprechauns than humans. Green they are, green as shamrock.”

“Green?”

“Aye, with smooth greenish faces. Twins, one a boy and one a girl. And rich too. You can smell the money off them.…”

Feb. 6, 1702: Neither the two passengers nor the captain has appeared on deck. Bert Hansen and myself have been given turns at the wheel. The food is good and plentiful and I have talked with the cook. His name is Charlie Lee. He is about twenty years old, half-black and half-Chinese. I'm thinking there is something between him and the cabin boy. We will dock in New York tomorrow.

Feb. 7, 1702: Too late to dock. We are riding at anchor. There is naught to be done, and after the evening meal we had a talk with Guy, Adam, and Bill. I have found out what it is that they take with their tea night and morning: opium. They have enough to last them the voyage.

“And should we need more, we have but to ask the Captain,” said Guy.

“Sure and he should be made of the stuff,” Sean Brady put in. “Seeing his name is Opium Jones.”

It seems they have shipped with Captain Jones before. “He pays double because he only wants certain type people on his ship.”

“And what type would that be?”

“Them as do the work, mind their own business, and keep their mouths shut to outsiders.”

Feb. 8, 1702: Today we docked in New York. Captain Jones appeared on deck and guided the ship into the harbor. I will say for him he knows his business when he chooses to mind it. A carriage was waiting at the pier and the two passengers got in and were driven away.

We were kept busy most of the day loading and unloading cargo under the supervision of Mr. Thomas. Captain Jones went ashore on business of some kind. In the late afternoon we were allowed ashore. There is more bustle here than in Boston and more ships, of course. We were immediately set upon by panderers extolling the beauty and sound condition of their whores. When we told them to be off and fuck their wares they showered us with insults from a safe distance.

I have a letter to the Pembertons, the parents of my stepmother, and father impressed on me the importance of paying my respects and instructed me in how to conduct myself. It seems that the Pemberton family is well known here, and I had no trouble finding the house, which is of red brick and very imposing, with four stories.

I rang the bell and a servant came to the door and asked my business in somewhat peremptory tones. I presented him with the letter. He told me to wait and went inside. When he returned a few minutes later, his manner was quite respectful. He told me that Mr. Pemberton would be happy to entertain me for dinner the following night at eight o'clock.

Feb. 9, 1702: This night I had dinner with the Pembertons. Arriving a few minutes early I walked up and down until the chimes sounded eight. My father has admonished me always to be punctual for appointments and never under any circumstances to be early. The servant showed me into an ornately furnished room with portraits and a marble fireplace.

Mr. Pemberton greeted me most politely. He is a trim smallish man with white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He then presented me to his wife, who extended a hand without getting up, smiling as though it hurt her to do so. I took an immediate dislike to her, which I am sure was reciprocated.

The other people present, I soon realized, were none other than the passengers on board
The Great White
: two of the strangest and most beautiful people I have ever seen. They are twins—one a boy, the other a girl—about twenty years old. They have greenish complexions, straight black hair, and jet-black eyes. Both possess such ease and grace of manner that I was quite dazzled. The names I believe are Juan and María Cocuera de Fuentes. When I shook hands with the boy a tremor passed through me and I was glad of the diversion when Mr. Pemberton offered me a glass of sherry. While we were having the sherry, a Mr. Vermer was announced. He is as portly as Mr. Pemberton is trim, and gives a great impression of wealth and power.