“Hau!”
“Three spoons of Nescafé, three cups—you’ve got the picture? Have yourself a quiet day.”
“Hau!” Luthuli exclaimed again, and disappeared mumbling.
Then Ferreira arrived with Willie, looking far less sloppy than he’d done the time before, and without those idiotic sunglasses. His smile lingered like the damp feel of his handshake.
“I’m told you want a list of everyone,” he said, taking the chair pointed out to him. “Is this some development regarding Tommy? Willie didn’t seem to know.”
Kramer saw no reason to start explaining anything at this stage either, and settled for what was immediately important. “I can tell you both this much, hey? I’m engaged in trying to trace where a certain woman and her young son stayed for a long weekend on a farm in this district about twenty-five years ago. That isn’t as impossible as it sounds, and when I get the answer, I’ll be a long way towards solving a serious case.”
“Of …? Please, sir,” said Willie.
“Call it suspected murder,” Kramer replied, being careful to keep within the framework he’d laid down for himself. “How many farmers do you reckon there are?”
Ferreira needed a second longer to function again. “Around two dozen. Taking those nearest, we’ve got Peter Crowe, George van der Heever, Gysbert Swanepoel, Karl de Brain, Mr. Jackson—”
“Write neatly,” ordered Kramer, sliding the sheet of foolscap across. “Full names, farm names, home language, approximate ages, any comments.”
The list was returned to him twenty minutes later.
“I wasn’t too sure what you meant about comments,” Ferreira admitted, having failed to make any. “Newcomers I’ve left out.”
“Thirty-two!” said Willie. “Phew!”
Kramer looked down the names with equanimity. Compared with some elimination jobs he’d done—like when one of 1,400 black workers had stitched up a bullying foreman in a boot factory—this was a walkover. Of those thirty-two names, none was foreign, but he had been expecting that. Twenty-seven of them had Afrikaans as their home language, and the rest English; he’d been expecting that, too. The five English-speakers would be his prime target.
“Not that I see how you’ll pinpoint this bloke,” Ferreira murmured deferentially, having had time to think. “Not if he’s mixed up in any way—which I can’t imagine for a start. I mean, he’s not likely to say, ‘Oh, ja; I was the bloke who had them to stay.’ ”
“There was a party,” explained Kramer.
Willie waited, then said, “And, sir?”
“Ach, I’m relying on people who were at this party to remember those two. When they do that, then we’ll know who the host was—and take it from there. From these figures I would conclude that if one of the English-speakers gave a party, he’d have to have Afrikaners among his guests, too, to make up the numbers.”
“Jackson’s the only stuck-up redneck in the district,” said Ferreira. “The rest of us—man, you wouldn’t know the difference. Was this party specifically for these people?”
“I don’t reckon so. But—”
“Then you’ll excuse me saying, Lieutenant, that having folk for the weekend is quite common out in the country, and twenty-five years is a long time to forget one little party.”
“I was thinking the same,” said Willie.
“Not if she was tempted to do her party trick,” Kramer told them, a smile quirking his lips. “The lady concerned was an Italian mamma mia who could speak some Afrikaans. That should jog a few memories—or do you get them here pretty often?”
Ferreira grinned his defeat and sat back. “Okay, you win. The only wops we’ve ever had here could only speaka da English.”
“ ‘We’ve’?”
“You know, at the hotel when I was a kid.”
Perversely, Kramer’s mind skipped sideways to investigate why he had always presumed that the Ferreira family were late on the scene and hardly an established part of it. Then he recalled the farmhouse-like architecture of the hotel—which wasn’t an uncommon feature in itself, of course—and tried to reconcile this with the fact that the building wasn’t very old. You surely didn’t design something one way to convert it almost in the next breath.
“Spa-kling Waters,” Willie said helpfully, in response to the uncomprehending silence.
“No, not then,” Ferreira contradicted him. “It was still Tobruk Guest Farm; my dad called it that when he made a mess of trying to be a farmer after the war. He’d dreamed too much in the desert.”
An unlucky family, mused Kramer, seeking distraction in the three changes of name for the grotty place he’d come across. A family of losers struggling to find the right words for the sign writer; the right spell, if you liked, to fend off their fate. None had worked so far, and yet here was the surviving son still mixing self-deception and bad magic, still trying to prove a point nobody else cared about.
“Right, Mr. Ferreira,” he said, rising in sudden restlessness. “Tell me all about the wops at your hotel.”
“What I remember best was my dad kicking up hell over having them to stay—I mean, he’d been sticking bayonets in their backsides not so long before—but my mum liked the lady and really put her foot down.”
“She had a son?”
Ferreira glanced at Willie, then went on: “Ja, and a husband. I played with the boy quite a bit, showed him round—y’know? He wasn’t bad for a banana boy; quite daring, in fact. Usually the kids we got were skits of horses and all that, y’know? And Jesus, could he swear! Which is why I nearly peed myself at the barbecue that Saturday night—when him and his uncle started singing.”
“Really?” said Kramer, sitting down again. “His uncle, you say? What was so funny?” He’d said nothing about an uncle to either of them.
“You had to be there, man! You know how soft these bloody farmers get? I mean, they all took it so seriously some even got tears on their cheeks; first stood as if they were in church on Sunday, then they started swaying—like this. I had to run with the coons to the peach tree by the barn or they’d have seen us laughing. Naturally, it was in Italian, being opera or something, and there these old fools were saying he was just like a little angel and pretending they knew the words. It was Ava-something—can’t remember, although I’ve heard it on the radio. Him a little—”
“Italian?”
“Of course,” said Ferreira, looking puzzled. “I mentioned they were wops at the beginning. This bloke off a ship, his sister, the husband, and the kid. There’s always a sing song once the party gets warmed up.”
Kramer nodded. “I see. Is it possible to say why they’d chosen Witklip of all places?”
“That’s what my dad kept on asking!” said Ferreira with a fond laugh. “While my mum kept on telling him it was the uncle—him and his sister looked like twins, hey?—who wanted to give the family a treat, show the kid what the country was like and all that. My mum said if you put adverts in all the papers, you had to take what you got—especially if you were just starting up and trying to make a go of it.”
“Off one of those Itie ships that used to go up the coast to Egypt?” Willie wanted to know. “Did he work on it?”
But Kramer cut across: “So you’re saying it was simply a matter of chance that they came here?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant?” Ferreira glanced again at Willie, who shrugged. “Isn’t that how they all come, one way or the other? Even if it’s only a friend making a personal recommendation?”
“True,” said Kramer, after a pause. “How very, very true.” He felt sick.
And saw nothing to laugh at when Goodluck Luthuli, in all seriousness, placed three spoons of Nescafé and three empty cups before them. That seemed to sum it all up.
14
DESPITE ALL ZONDI’S attempts to jog the memories of the women by the river, the white tramp had remained a total mystery. The witch doctor, however, had been immediately identified from his photograph with some cries of amazement. He was that
old rogue Msusengi Shezi, the women had said, better known by his nickname of Izimu—and it had been years since anyone had last seen him.
From that moment on, Zondi had felt certain he was earning his keep: Izimu was Zulu for “cannibal.” Dozens of slanderous stories had then been told to him about Izimu, but he’d begged off after hearing one about a child who had gone missing, and now, in order to have the same story from a more reliable source, he was making for the kraal of the local headman. The upward path was steep, and loose pebbles caused it to be slippery in parts.
“Hau, rat,” he said vindictively, correcting a stumble. “This is not going to be a good day for you, which gives me much pleasure.”
Then he turned his attention to the cattle being herded on the slopes above him, picked out the finest beast, and memorized its characteristics. Higher up, the young herdboys were practicing two-stick fighting, prancing about with a fine show of aggression, yet pulling their head blows rather clumsily; soon someone would get more than a bump to rub if they weren’t more careful. The pasture was fair to poor, he noticed.
Absalom Mkuzi proved to be a headman of the old school. Although none too well off, to judge by the patched raincoat he wore without a shirt, his hospitality was as carefully observed as the dignity of his position. After an exchange of compliments lasting several minutes, he summoned his wives to the squatting place outside his hut and ordered them to bring refreshments for the visitor. The sour milk was excellent, having curdled to just the right thickness, and Zondi was most grateful for it after his walk.
By way of getting down to business, a certain brindle cow was mentioned. Zondi confessed to having never seen a finer animal, and—so that the headman would be able to seek it out for his own eye’s delight—he went into the finer detail of its haunches, its horns, its broad belly, and its left foreleg, which was marvelously marked. And when the headman admitted, with all due modesty, his ownership of the beast, Zondi gasped enviously. This rigmarole, in which the deceit involved was understood by both sides and welcomed for its civility, brought the inviting pause that begged the visitor to speak his mind.
“I have heard it said, my father,” Zondi began, taking a little snuff from the proffered gramophone-needle tin, “that there was once a witch doctor in these parts known to your people as Izimu. It is also said that he stole children to take their fat. These are matters which concern me.”
Mkuzi’s rheumy eyes narrowed as they tried to see him better. “You are police?”
Zondi said nothing. He sniffed up his snuff.
“They come and they shout at me,” Mkuzi said angrily. “They pull open my door, they grab my youngest wife. They say they will shoot my dog if it does not cease barking. Hau! And what is the reason?”
After a moment’s thought, Zondi still said nothing.
“The reason is that they want me to report any stranger to them. There has been a farmhouse broken into, they say, and the white boss is very angry. Is this a thing to come and tell me in the middle of the night?”
Mkuzi took the sour milk and drank deeply from the pot.
“Luthuli and two Xhosa baboons from Brandspruit did this to me,” he added, wiping his lips. “They gave me these orders.”
A smugness sweetened the old man’s wrinkled face, and Zondi knew that had six Zulu regiments been discovered lurking about Witklip and the reserve, not a word of this would have reached the appropriate authorities.
“You ask about Izimu,” said Mkuzi, settling down comfortably on his haunches again, and passing the pot back. “He was a fool, that one. He could not give you a medicine to take without making false claims about it—or, if they were not false, then he was encouraging you to imagine terrible things about himself. I, of course, would never use his medicines; instead I have always gone to the nuns’ clinic and to Jafini Bhengu, a very fine witch doctor to the south.”
“Was it child’s fat that he spoke of?” Zondi inquired.
“Never spoke, young man; with Izimu it was always the words he did not say—they rang loudest in the ear. He would lead you to form these words on your own lips, as when an old crone is becoming tedious with her tales and you know, when she stammers, what is to come next. But with a name such as the people gave him, need I say more? How proud he was of it, too, for it undoubtedly gave him more power and influence among the stupider types. Then came the time when he wished to be known as Izimu no longer.”
“This is of great interest, my father.”
“There was a woman living in these parts who was called Mama Buza. A widow woman, whose husband had been killed in the mines, who had five small children. One day the youngest of these children, a boy of some six months, was taken from his sleeping place during the afternoon. Mama Buza had gone to borrow from a neighbor some article—I cannot remember what. For a long time, she thought that maybe the older children were playing a trick on her, and so she waited and listened for its cries. The neighbor came and was told of this curious happening, yet still nobody could believe that a baby had been taken, like a pumpkin from the hut roof. It must also be said that Mama Buza was not a very good mother to her children, and jokes were whispered that she had left him lying somewhere, perhaps beside the river. I know that many people were surprised by how very distressed she became.”
“Did you, my father, play a part in this?” Zondi prompted, shifting his weight off his heels as a cramp threatened.
“I was asked to take charge very soon after that. We began a search of every hut and granary and chicken house around there. When the sun started to grow red, I went to the village and spoke to Mr. Botha, the good man in the trading store. Then Mr. Botha told Police Chief Jonkers and a big, big search began. All the white bosses said to us, ‘Not to worry.’ ”
Zondi chuckled at this unexpected mimicry.
“Do you know, my son, for four days we looked for that child? But long before this, the rumors concerning Izimu were already on everyone’s lips. On the fifth day, God came to help us.”
“Hau! You found the child?”
“Dorothy Jele was led to it. She is the chief servant girl up at Mr. Jackson’s farm, which is on a hill with many trees around it. These trees come close up behind the servants’ quarters, right near to her room—or so those who have worked there say. This was the fifth morning, as I have told you, and these were the trees where we were going to look that day. Mr. Jackson was very kind, and said we may cross his whole farm, look anywhere we liked. It was not necessary because, just after the dawn, Dorothy heard the cry of a baby. She is a brave woman, that! She took up the wood ax and went towards the trees. For just a short moment, Dorothy says, she saw a figure running away, and that it looked very like Izimu to her from behind. The baby was wrapped up in an old sack and so dirty and hungry she washed it straight away. She also gave it food and a small blanket, then she woke Mrs. Jackson to tell her.”
“Izimu had become frightened of the police search, not thinking Mama Buza would worry to tell them, and he’d left the baby to be found?”
Mkuzi nodded, and fondled his yellow dog’s tattered ear. “Such is my belief,” he said, “but others think Izimu was attempting to escape that way when Dorothy Jele gave him a fright. The trouble was that she is a true Christian woman: she told the police she could not swear by God’s holy name it was definitely the witch doctor she had seen.”
“And what about Izimu himself, my father?”
“Oh, they did not trouble with him long,” sighed Mkuzi. “How could it be proved? He said he had been far away collecting herbs that day. We beat him also, three or four times, yet he stayed just as stubborn. Then, when his mother died of shame, and his wife fled to Nongoma, he suddenly went from us overnight, saying no farewells. I cannot tell you where he is now, although it is probably a great distance from here!” Then Mkuzi added politely: “Do you know, perhaps?”
“I know. It is a very, very great distance.”
“That is good. Have I told you what you wish to hear?”
Alone in the gloom of the station commander’s office, which was darkened by the approach of the four o’clock thunderstorm, Kramer sat hunched over the desk and glowered at some jottings he had made on the case. Only with an effort did he drag his mind back from worrying about what had become of Zondi—who was now several hours overdue—to the present state of the investigation.
The night before everything had been there, slotting together as snugly as anyone could wish: farm—party—uncle—hangman. But now, like alkalis added to acids, the words guest farm and barbecue party and Italian uncle had neutralized the whole process of deduction.
“Buggeration,” he said, losing concentration. “Come on, Mick! Let’s get out of here, man!” There was anxiety in his voice as well.
He doodled a noose and wrote Erasmus underneath it. He drew another to go above Ringo. The ballpoint dithered, trying to find a way of connecting them. The telephone rang.
“Tromp?” said Colonel Muller. “How goes it, man?”
“I’m getting Ferreira disease,” Kramer replied with a crooked grin, pathetically pleased to hear the old bastard’s voice. “I’m sure there’s a couple of—”
“The lead wasn’t any good?”
Mamabola looked in, holding out a large brown envelope.
“Hold on a sec, please, Colonel.”
Kramer opened the envelope and unfolded a huge wad of Telex. The DS had gone to town with a vengeance: it looked as though the screeds of figures might even include the hangman’s inside leg after all. Such a mass of mumbo jumbo was strangely comforting, if only as something to grasp onto when all else had gone to pot, and Kramer thought for a moment of the Bible in Tollie’s dead hand.
“The lead was fine,” he said, “but it led us nowhere, as I’ll explain.” Very briefly, he went over the main points.
The Sunday Hangman Page 15
