by Mark Graham
Mansell heard a high-pitched voice. He heard a train whistle, the squeal of brakes, and the rumble of a bus. “Did we get a written statement?” he asked.
“The lady gave me her name and address, but she’ll only swear to the part about the Mabasu woman leaving the bus. She did say the car was small, a ‘dinky thing’ she called it, and yellow in color.” Mansell waited in silence. Merry recognized a deep sigh. “I think I better stay up here, Nigel.”
“Stay with it,” Mansell agreed, and they rang off.
The desk sergeant passed Mansell a note that read “The D.P. wants to see you immediately.” Mansell slipped the crumpled paper into his pocket and stepped into the street.
****
Detective Piet Richter didn’t like his latest assignment. Stakeouts gave him too much time to think. Fancying himself a misplaced sociologist, he outlined each task like a social worker with a guilty conscience.
In South Africa, Richter mused over the incessant crackle of the police radio, the study of demographics is more than a statistical science; an enumerative art described it better.
“Yes,” Richter whispered. “Yes, of course. An art form. How depraved.”
In the modern community, he thought, such as Port Elizabeth, this artistic sleight-of-hand is accomplished through townships.
The white folk live in the town proper adjacent to the harbor and downtown. They live in houses built of stone and brick, on streets lined with eucalyptus, willows, and pine.
Greenbelts, Richter mused, provide a comfortable buffer between the whites and their coloured brethren further north. In Gelvandale, homes are adobe and brick. The streets are paved. Rosebushes flank the sidewalks. In Bethalsdorp, municipal housing and relief units are clumped side by side, and the grass is brown from a lack of city water.
The blacks are further north yet, but their townships are conveniently surrounded on three sides by the industrial park that lies between them and the city proper.
Anthony Mabasu was living proof of this convenience.
He lived in New Brighton, a shantytown eight kilometers from the train station. Paved streets ended outside of New Brighton, and arteries of dirt began. Old women and naked children gathered at communal water pumps to fill cans and buckets for the evening meal. Houses were fashioned of tin with corrugated roofs or of plywood with sheet-metal roofs—shades of gray, brown, and black. Electricity was a luxury, shared privies the rule of thumb. Laundry hung from clothes wires and trash piled roadside provided the only color. Coal smoke hung disconsolately in the air and, with every breath, festered in the lungs.
Detective Richter sat on the passenger side of a beat-up Volkswagen bug parked on a dead patch of tussock forty meters from the shack Mabasu and his wife shared with another family. He nibbled fish-and-chips and drank hot tea with lemon.
Directly ahead, a column of dust shadowed the approach of an onrushing vehicle. The car, a tan-and-white GM sedan, swept around the corner and rolled to a halt in the middle of the road. It was Security. Richter knew that without thinking. He was reaching for the police radio when he heard a shuffling sound outside the car. A shadow fell across the hood, and a fist flew through the opened window and slammed into his temple. Richter slumped into his seat.
Three men clambered out of the sedan. One climbed onto the hood of the car. The other two walked through a broken gate to Anthony Mabasu’s front door.
Forty-five minutes later, Chief Inspector Nigel Mansell received a second summons to appear at the district prosecutor’s office. Mansell had just finished typing his daily report and was deep in conference with Joshua Brungle. Their discussion centered upon a psychological profile of Martin Engels, the Men’s Club attendant at the train station. The profile noted a strong tendency toward schizophrenic behavior, and a car was dispatched to deliver Mr. Engels for questioning.
Ten minutes later, Mansell tapped at the office door of J. Peter Hurst, the Thirty-second District’s chief prosecutor, on the third floor of city hall. Inside, the office smelled of cigar smoke and furniture polish. Mansell’s feet sank into thick ocher carpet. Armchairs of wood and velvet were strategically positioned around the room, and floor-to-ceiling windows looked out upon the courtyard. Center-stage was a desk of spit-polished mahogany.
Behind the desk sat Hurst, a moustachioed Afrikaner with a brick-red complexion, black-rimmed glasses, and a glowing Don Diego trapped between pursed lips. Captain Oliver Terreblanche occupied a chair to Hurst’s left, and Mansell greeted him with a brief nod.
A second chair, at Hurst’s right, was laden with Major Hymie Wolffe. Their acknowledgment reeked of two stray dogs meeting amid overflowing trash cans in a back alley. A bow-legged bulldog with folding jowls, and a high-strung setter with loose limbs.
“You’re late, Inspector,” snapped Hurst.
“Late, sir?”
“I should have heard from you yesterday, Mansell. Instead, I’m leaving messages for you today.”
“My reports weren’t delivered?” Mansell set a copy of today’s daily on the edge of the desk. “I apologize.”
“I received your report, such as it was.” The air-conditioning tripped. A soft purr infiltrated the room, and smoke swirled uncertainly along the ceiling. “More importantly, Inspector, there’s been an arrest. In the Elgin case.”
A hand passed through Mansell’s hair. Narrowed eyes sought out Captain Terreblanche. “This was done without my knowledge,” he said.
“Of course it was done without your knowledge, Mansell.” A nasal whistle accompanied the intrusion of Hymie Wolfe. “When the evidence is at hand, Security Branch does not consult with malingerers on its operations. I believe it was you who said it first: cooperation between offices is a mere courtesy. The tables turn, do they not? So while you’ve been in your office sipping Scotch and munching pastry, we’ve been occupied with the business of finding a killer.”
The severity of the inspector’s gaze brought Wolffe up short, and Mansell faced the prosecutor. “May I ask the details?”
“The accused is Anthony Mabasu. He was arrested approximately one hour ago at his home. A warrant issued by Judge-President Lehman of the Provincial Court was served upon arrest. The charge is second-degree murder subsequent to assault and robbery. The accused is being detained at Security headquarters in the Hall of Justice.”
“Standard procedures,” Mansell said following a deep sigh. He heard children’s voices outside the window. A dog barked. “I’m more concerned about evidence, Prosecutor. Our office, for one, doesn’t have sufficient evidence to convict Mabasu. Does Security Branch?”
“I believe they might.”
“Then charges have been filed?”
The prosecutor relit his cigar. He peered upward. A brief silence ensued, and Captain Terreblanche cleared his throat. He said, “The Justice Ministry is asking that our office file charges, Nigel.”
“The minister of justice. Ah. Without the cooperation of the arresting branch. I see. And can we discuss the evidence here, perhaps, before we walk into a court of law and fall flat on our faces?”
“Complete documentation,” Wolffe interjected, “will be presented at the preliminary hearing on Monday. You see, this case no longer belongs to CIB, Mansell.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Mansell noticed the CIB commander stiffen in his chair.
“I think I’ve heard enough sparring, gentlemen,” Terreblanche said. “If you’ve got something worth showing, Major Wolfe, I suggest you do so. You’re wasting my time, and I don’t imagine our cohorts in Pretoria would appreciate your show of animosity.”
“If you insist.” Wolffe labored to a standing position. “The accused had not one, but two motives. His wife was having an affair. Mabasu knew that. He sent his wife off to see her sister in Transkei the day before the murder. She never made it. Coincidence? Infidelity is a particularly strong motive amongst the Bantu. Even our esteemed chief inspector would admit that.”
“Mabasu suspected she was seeing Elgin
or just someone?” countered Mansell. “There is a difference.”
“It may be that Sylvia Mabasu wasn’t seeing Elgin,” the prosecutor interjected. “But we know that Mabasu suspected her. The effect is the same.”
“Nigel, your report here,” said Terreblanche, holding up Mansell’s daily, “says that Elgin did have some type of liaison going on at the station. Perhaps with a black woman.”
“Suspected, not proved.”
“But it still supports the motive,” said Wolfe, pacing now with hands clasped behind his back. “Motive number two. Not only does Mabasu suspect that Elgin is screwing his wife, he also blames Elgin for his release from the docks and for the denial of his appeal. The effect is like throwing water on a grease fire.”
“Pure conjecture.”
“The accused makes two trips to the locker room that night. First, the reconnaissance run before his shift. The lady at the soda fountain sees him, notices that he’s agitated, sweating. Then comes the fateful trip during his break. He knows no one is filling in for his wife, that the lounge is empty. He goes inside with the rope beneath his jacket. Elgin is there. Drunk, waiting for his rendezvous. His coat is already in the sleep room. He’s pacing, trying to work off some of the booze. The girl, whoever she is, is late. Mabasu probably expects Elgin to be in the sleep room, so he’s surprised when he finds him in the aisle between the lockers. Mabasu panics. He strikes Elgin from behind. Elgin staggers and turns. He sees Mabasu’s face. This time Mabasu hits him square, and Elgin goes under. The rest we all know.” Wolfe circled the office, his hands working as he talked. “Then, the fabrication. Mabasu claims to be the first person on the scene. That’s easy. But then he starts to make mistakes. He says that he ran straight for the information booth, that he didn’t touch a thing. Now we know that his prints were all over the locker door—”
“An instinctive maneuver considering the circumstances.”
“And we know that his prints were on the money at the base of the locker. Money from the victim’s pocket.”
“He was scared. Also broke. He saw the coins on the floor. He picked them up, realized his mistake, and then set them back down. Those aren’t criminal behaviors. Those are human behaviors.”
“What I believe happened was this. After he hung Elgin’s body in the locker, Mabasu reached frantically into his pockets, scrambling for anything that felt like money. When he pulled his hand out, three coins fell on the floor. Either he didn’t notice, or he panicked. But there they remained. He also left his bandana behind. Why? Perhaps panic again. Perhaps the confusion of the moment. Or perhaps he figured the victim’s blood was on it, and he left it on purpose. He did, after all, deny even owning such a bandana.”
Mansell grunted, a half laugh. “Two official reports,” he said, facing the prosecutor, “mine and Forensic Chief du Toits, point out that not only did Major Wolffe disturb and defile state’s evidence by handling the bandana before it was documented and tested, and not only did he tamper with the victim before proper procedures were followed, but it was Wolfe who wiped blood onto the bandana. Dried blood, not the stain of fresh blood. Brilliant police work. I’m sure some smart defense counsel will have a field day with that one.”
Hurst held up a hand. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. Producing a folder from his desk drawer, he said, “And you, Major Wolffe, and your associate, Lieutenant Rhoodie, have offered statements indicating the stains on the bandana were a result of Mabasu’s efforts to remove dried blood from his own hands.”
“A pack of lies,” said Mansell calmly. “Fiction. Cheap fiction. I’ll read it when it comes out in paperback.”
“The point, Inspector,” said Hurst, “is that we cannot go into court until some meeting of minds occurs on the matter. Otherwise, we have a relatively strong case.”
“Someone entered the ladies’ lounge through a window sometime during that night. We’ve narrowed down the type of vehicle. We have footprints. We know it wasn’t Mabasu. I think before we take Mabasu to court on circumstantial evidence we should attempt to find out who it was. Another coincidence? I doubt it.”
“I believe,” said Wolffe, “your very own Chas du Toits indicated that the break-in could have happened anywhere between six the previous evening and four that morning.”
“Within the time frame of the murder. Exactly my point, thank you,” replied Mansell. “We know Elgin collected a lot of enemies over the years. We know a lot of people will benefit from his death, and we’re just starting to put names to some of these people. We have two potential suspects from the train station. We know Elgin had contact with several other people that night. There’s the woman, Mrs. Blackford. She and Elgin dined together. She drove Elgin to the station. She—”
“But she didn’t have these in her possession,” Prosecutor Hurst interjected coolly. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. “These were found in a shallow crawl space beneath Anthony Mabasu’s house when Major Wolffe’s men searched the premises tonight. Both items have been positively identified as belonging to our victim, Ian Elgin.”
Hurst held up a plastic bag, tagged but not yet filed, Mansell noticed. Inside was an Accutron wristwatch with a gold stretch band and a gold ring set with a diamond the size of a sweet pea.
****
At the Bay Ridge Terminal in Brooklyn, New York, a harbor pilot boarded ARVA II dockside. He took his station on the bridge deck. A customs agent returned Captain Aidoo’s papers, and at 3:05 New York time, the 620-ton freighter received harbor clearance. Lieutenant Colonel Karl Simon Brinker passed Aidoo two bottles of Portuguese wine. Anchors were raised.
Forty minutes later, her holds loaded with 253 crates of near battle-ready weapons valued at two million dollars, the vessel cleared Ambrose Channel. At the Ambrose Light the pilot departed. Left to his own devices, Captain Aidoo steered his ship in an eastwardly direction along the fortieth parallel intent on reaching international waters by midnight.
A summer storm set their time schedule back twenty minutes, but by the time ARVA cleared the international boundaries two hundred miles from New York, stars were peeking through narrow avenues in the clouds. A slice of silver moon revealed itself off the bow. Exactly one hour later, a tiny blip appeared on the radar screen.
The two vessels converged, exchanging coded messages until visual contact was made. ARVA’s counterpart proved to be a small frigate flying a Turkish flag but under contract to a Czech exporting firm.
The purpose of the rendezvous was the transfer of a single passenger. Captain Aidoo knew the man as Andrew Van der Merve. According to his passport, which Aidoo had been required to inspect on their first trip together six years past, Van der Merve was born and raised in the Orange Free State in South Africa. His travel papers and passport listed his occupation as chief purchasing agent for the East Fields Mining Corporation; home office, Johannesburg. Tactfully, Captain Aidoo had never questioned the information.
Rendezvous was accomplished at 1:58 in the morning. The transfer was made, the frigate departed, and four powerful diesels and the currents of the Gulf Stream drove the freighter out across the Atlantic. Its only stopover would be a refueling station in Freetown, Sierra Leone, the first leg of a ten-day voyage.
****
Following the meeting that afternoon in his office, District Prosecutor Peter Hurst placed a long-distance phone call to a man to whom he owed a certain allegiance. In recent months, the man had exerted considerable influence on Hurst’s behalf, and, until Ian Elgin’s murder, had asked nothing in return. Now he was asking to be kept “abreast” of the investigation’s progress. Hurst knew there was more to it than that, but the man had earned his payback, and the prosecutor knew the importance of playing by the rules.
The connection was made, and a voice more like a whisper said, “This is Martin Montana.”
“Things, I’m afraid, are moving a bit faster than we anticipated, Mr. Montana.” Hurst rendered his report in brief, crisp terms, and then concluded by say
ing, “With Elgin’s watch and ring, the evidence is just too strong not to act upon.”
The man named Montana was more than a little disturbed by the district prosecutor’s news. Disturbed enough, in fact, to drive eighty-five kilometers to a municipal airport in Witbank on the East Rand where his own Cessna 164 was docked. Within an hour he was airborne, heading south by southwest, and, left to his own imagination, spent the better part of the trip anticipating the actions of a certain chief homicide inspector.
****
The road was bathed in darkness except for gas lanterns and coal fires. A tractor roamed dirt paths collecting night soil and trash.
Mansell saw the VW bug on the side of the road with a dozen natives huddled around it. The car was awash in a circle of gas light. He toyed with the idea of throwing the portable flasher onto the roof of his car, but thought better of it. There was no reason for theatrics, he told himself.
Mansell held up his badge as he approached. A corridor opened. Relief swept over him when he saw a woman supporting Richter’s head against the front seat, while another held a damp cloth over his temple and eyes. He was coming to in stages.
“He’s a police officer,” Mansell announced.
“No shit,” said a tall, muscular black man. His voice was throaty, challenging, curious. “We knew that. What the hell is he doing here?”
“Doing his job.” The threat diminished. Had it ever existed? Mansell wondered. Always and never.
“Not too well by the looks of it,” the man countered. “Where’s Anthony?”
“We fucked up,” answered Mansell. “Security’s detained him.” “Fucked up is right. Shit.” Detained was a word vile among South Africans, all South Africans; an understatement that led, thought Mansell, in a hundred directions, all bad. A trapdoor. He regretted its use.
Ten minutes later, he dropped Detective Richter at the local hospital’s outpatient clinic on La Roche.
At his office, other realities intruded: sleep, home, an empty couch. He sat in a state of dread. He cracked the window, fought the urge to smoke. The words It’s over resounded in his head like a dull bass drum. A heavy hand on the receiver of the telephone; twice he tried dialing his home number. Anger: the pill that cursed weakness, the tonic that cured failure. Anger prevented it both times.
