The pirate ship was commanded by Skipper Nordenholz, a renegade from the Dutch Navy who was still able to pass his ship as an honest merchant vessel flying the Dutch flag. Strobe was second in command. Barely had they left Tangier headed for the Red Sea via the Cape of Good Hope when a mutiny broke out. The crew was in disagreement as to the destination, being minded to head for the West Indies. They had also conceived a contempt for Strobe as an effeminate dandy. After he had killed five of the ringleaders they were forced to revise this opinion. The mutinous crew was then put ashore and a crew of acrobats and dancing boys taken on, since Nordenholz had already devised a way in which they could be put to use.
Kelley claims to have learned the secrets of death on the gallows, which gives him invincible skill as a swordsman and such sexual prowess that no man or woman can resist him, with the exception of Captain Strobe, whom he regards as more than human. "Voici ma lettre de marque," he says, running his fingers along the rope mark. (A letter of marque was issued to privateers by their government, authorizing them to prey on enemy vessels in the capacity of accredited combatants, and thus distinguishing them from common pirates. Such a letter often, but by no means always, saved the bearer from the gallows.) Kelley tells me that the mere sight of his hemp marks instills in adversaries a weakness and terror equal to the apparition of Death Himself.
I asked Kelley what it feels like to be hanged.
"At first I was sensible of very great pain due to the weight of my body and felt my spirits in a strange commotion violently pressed upwards. After they reached my head, I saw a bright blaze of light which seemed to go out at my eyes with a flash. Then I lost all sense of pain. But after I was cut down, I felt such intolerable pain from the prickings and shootings as my blood and spirits returned that I wished those who cut me down could have been hanged."*
* Daniel P. Mannix, The History of Torture (New York, Dell, 1964).
The reader may question how I find time to write this account on a sea voyage in a crowded forecastle. The answer is that I made very short notes each day, with the intent of expanding them later. I now have two hours of leisure each day to reconstruct a narrative from these notes, since Strobe has placed a desk and writing material at my disposal, being interested for some reason in printing my account.
Each evening all the boys strip and wash in buckets of salt water, whereupon various sexual games and contests take place. In one such game each boy places a gold piece on the deck, and the first to ejaculate wins the gold. There are also contests for distance.
Since there is plenty of powder and shot on board, there have been a few contests with pistols and muskets. I have won some gold, being careful not to best Kelley, though I am sure I could have done so. I feel that he could prove a most dangerous enemy. There is much here that I do not understand.
Are you in salt
Back in New York I call the Greens from my loft. I've put $5,000 worth of security into this space, The windows are shatterproof glass with rolling bars. The door is two inches of solid steel from an old bank vault. It gives you a safe feeling, like being in Switzerland.
Mr. Green can see me right away. He gives an address on Spring Street. Middle-class loft ... big modern kitchen ... Siamese cat ... plants. Mrs. Green is a beautiful woman, red hair, green eyes, a faraway dreamy look. I notice Journeys out of the Body, Psychic Discoveries Behind the Iron Curtain, the Castaneda books. Mr. Green mixes me a Chivas Regal.
I clarify my position...."Private investigator...no authority to make an arrest ... I can only pass evidence along to the local police....Frankly, in this case I can't hold out much hope of obtaining an arrest, let alone a conviction."
"We still want to retain you."
"Why, exactly?"
"We want to know the truth," said Mrs. Green. "Whether the killers can be brought to trial or not."
I pull out the questionnaire with Jerry's medical history. "It says here that Jerry had scarlet fever at the age of four."
"Yes. We were living in Saint Louis at the time," said Mrs. Green.
"Who was the doctor?"
"Old Doctor Greenbaum. He lived next door."
"Is he still alive?"
"No, he died ten years ago."
"And he made the diagnosis?"
"Yes."
"Would you say that he was a competent diagnostician?"
"Not really," said Mr. Green. "But why is this important?"
"Jerry apparently had an attack of scarlet fever or something similar shortly before he was killed." I turned to Mrs. Green. "Do you remember the details? How the illness started?"
Why, yes. It was a Thursday and he had taken a ride with an English governess we had them. When he got back he was shivering and feverish and he had a rash. I thought it was measles and called Doctor Greenbaum. He said it wasn't a measles rash, that it was probably a light case of scarlet fever. He prescribed Aureomycin and the fever went away in a few days."
"Was Jerry delirious at any time during this illness?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact he was. He seemed quite frightened and talked about 'animals in the wall.'"
"Do you remember what animals, Mrs. Green?"
"He mentioned a giraffe and a kangaroo."
"Do you remember anything else?"
"... Yes," she said after a pause. "There was a strange smell in the room ... sort of a musky smell ... like a zoo."
"Did Doctor Greenbaum comment on this odor?"
"No, I think he had a cold at the time."
"Did you notice it, Mr. Green?"
"Well, yes, it was on the sheets and blankets when we sent them to the cleaners.... Exactly how was Jerry killed, Mr. Snide?"
"A massive overdose of heroin."
"He wasn't—"
"No, he wasn't an addict, and the Greek police are convinced the heroin was not self-administered."
"Do you have any idea why he would have been murdered?"
"I'm not at all sure, Mr. Green. It could have been a case of mistaken identity."
When I got to the office the next day my assistant, Jim Brady, was already there, having come straight from the airport. He is very slim, six feet, 135 pounds, black Irish. Actually he is twenty-eight but he looks eighteen, and often has to show his I.D. card to be served in a bar. He handed me a packet from Athens: a photograph, and a message from Dimitri typed on yellow paper in telegraph style:
HAVE FOUND VILLA WHERE JERRY GREEN WAS KILLED STOP ON MAINLAND FORTY MILES FROM ATHENS STOP HEAD STILL MISSING STOP VILLA RENTED THROUGH LONDON TRAVEL AGENCY STOP FALSE NAMES STOP
DIMITRI
The photo showed a bare high-ceiling room with exposed beams. There was a heavy iron lantern-hook in one beam. Dimitri had circled this hook in white ink and had written under it: "Traces of rope fiber."
"A Mr. Everson called," said Jim. "His son is missing. I made an appointment."
"Where is he missing?"
"In Mexico. A Mayan archeologist. Missing six weeks. I sent Mr. Everson the questionnaire and asked him for pictures of the boy."
"Good." I had no special feeling about this case, but it was taking me in the direction I wanted to go.
Back at the loft we decided to try some sex magic. According to psychic dogma, sex itself is incidental and should be subordinated to the intent of the ritual. But I don't believe in rules. What happens, happens.