The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  “And?”

  “And your prints are all over it, pal.”

  The Colt Detective, he thought. Jennifer hadn’t taken it after all. How stupid. Rhetorically, he asked, “Model?”

  “A six-shot .38. A Colt Detective Special. Know it?”

  “I know it,” answered Mansell. “What about the report?”

  “A phone tip. Yesterday. Somebody notified Security. And guess what? Wolffe’s in charge.”

  “Merry. For the record, I—”

  “Hey, pal, you don’t have to say that to me,” Merry cut in. “You’re on to something, aren’t you? The Elgin thing.”

  “I need help, Merry. Quiet help. Dangerous help, maybe. The department can’t know.”

  “You came to the right place, you know that.” Merry’s eyes darted across the Pit. At the foot of the stairs he saw the district prosecutor talking in earnest with Captain Terreblanche and Joshua. “But I’ll need to know it all, Nigel. The works.”

  Mansell hesitated. Disobeying a federal warrant could spell the end to a cop’s career. But Merry knew that, too.

  “All right, then,” he said at last. “I’ll need the complete file on the Elgin-Mabasu murders. It should be in my office. Can you get to it?”

  “Meet me at my place in an hour.”

  “Thanks, Merry,” Mansell said, but the connection had already been broken.

  Mansell showered. He made English tea and toast.

  On a yellow legal pad he started a systematic daily log dating from the early morning of July 4.

  At ten o’clock, the phone rang.

  “Delaney?”

  “Hello. Did you sleep?”

  “Like a baby. You have the most comfortable couch in the world.” “The couch? I’m disappointed.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where are you?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m in Johannesburg. Our friends made their drop. On location. I have it all on film.”

  “Don’t pass the film on to anyone but me. Please. Joshua included.”

  “I don’t understand. Joshua?”

  “You will.” Mansell gave Delaney a telephone number at the Clavers’ residence, an answering machine and its coded message return. “I’ll be away from P.E. for two or three days. Wait for my call.”

  In the systematic assignment of residential areas that placed Port Elizabeth’s whites at the foot of the harbor, the coloureds in the central corridor between highways and greenbelts, and the blacks enclosed by factories to the north, there was a flaw. Not a flaw really; an exception. The township of Stuart.

  Stuart was a parcel of land two kilometers square. It was located at the southernmost border of the city, across from the mansions of Walmer and Mill Park and adjacent to the airport. The streets were paved and lined in yellow. Small plots were terraced with grass and shrubs. Electricity lit the interior of brick houses, and plumbing was used instead of night soil tractors. Yet the residents were black. A corporate lawyer in a brick tn-level on Cooper Street. A textile exporter in a Spanish two-story on Ocean View. A police detective in a framed one-story on Fairplay Avenue.

  Mansell toured the neighborhood by car, scouting for telltale signs of entrapment. Then he parked the Audi a block away. He walked down the alley behind Merry’s house, reconnoitering. He pushed aside a picket gate and stepped between two hibernating rosebushes. A sagging badminton net bisected a lawn in need of mowing. Old-fashioned clothespins perched on a clothesline like emaciated sparrows. The siding on the back of the house was half painted, light blue over white, but the incomplete job served only to call attention to the graffiti it had been intended to cover. “Black Beans and White Bread. . . . Pig Soup. . . . Die You Mo. . . .”

  Mansell stared at the words until they became a blur, until a car churning sand in the back alley cut into this foggy retreat and he forced himself to move. An opened screen door led to a tiled porch. Two opened beers sat on an oval coffee table between deck chairs.

  “Merry.”

  A short chuckle accompanied approaching footsteps. “Hey, it’s the back-door man,” Merry replied. “You must be hiding from the law or something, pal.”

  Merry extended a hand, and Mansell grasped it. “Still trying to get used to this outlaw image,” he said, gesturing with his thumb toward the backyard. “Nice paint job. The neighbors are green with envy, right?”

  “Yeah, they’re just dying to get hold of my decorator.”

  Mansell put a hand on Merry’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind getting ahold of the bastard myself.”

  Merry gestured to the deck chairs. They made themselves comfortable and drank White Crown beer while Mansell related the entire story. Merry interrupted only once, frowning as the chief inspector recounted the aborted hit that followed his meeting with Terreblanche and Joshua.

  “It had to be Jurgen,” Merry said. “The old bastard probably has a thousand connections.”

  “I don’t know,” Mansell replied. He gazed out at the backyard. A stiff breeze shook the badminton net. “I don’t know. It could’ve been.”

  Merry looked grim. “Terreblanche has Joshua in charge of this de Villiers thing.”

  Mansell toyed with the label on his beer. “He’ll do a good job,” he said flatly.

  He finished the narrative, concluding with Delaney’s news that morning, and Merry went into the kitchen for another round. Mansell followed. He sat on the counter, while Merry retreated to a high seat next to the telephone. The detective tugged pensively at his beer.

  “You want me to go into that mine, don’t you, pal?”

  Mansell drew a deep breath.

  The sudden, shrill ring of the telephone filled the room, and Mansell noticed Merry’s momentary start. Good, he thought, the call was not expected. It rang again.

  “Bloody hell, Merry, it’s probably one of your pining lady friends. Go ahead and answer it.”

  Merry drank beer, ignoring the phone. “How do I get in?”

  “You walk straight through the front gate.” The ringing ceased. Silence stepped eagerly into the void. Merry peered down at the phone, and Mansell followed his eyes. He said, “Remember the Boyer investigation? Ten months ago?”

  Merry nodded. “Yeah, I remember.” Leonard Boyer had been the Labor Bureau’s chief commissioner until his death the previous October. He had been accused of selling forged work permits and falsified identity cards to blacks facing relocation. “What was he getting? A thousand rand apiece for the permits? Half that for the cards? A real class act.”

  “Acquitted on a technicality.”

  “Yeah, and a week later convicted and executed by a conscientious maniac with a firebomb. Poor bastard.”

  “We confiscated sixty-five I.D. cards and a hundred work permits from the ‘poor bastard’s’ office. All blank. All officially stamped and initialed. All ready for use. And they’re still in a filing cabinet in my office.”

  Merry slumped into his chair, striking a pose of deep thought. Mansell accommodated him, sipping beer, studying the kitchen of a bachelor. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink; trash accumulating in paper bags beside a crusty stove; a refrigerator stocked with beer and TV dinners instead of broccoli and milk.

  “You know, I would like to find out why Sylvia Mabasu died the way she did,” Merry said at last. “I’ve got the weekend off. I’ll report in tomorrow. Say I’m following up on a lead out in Uitenhage. Something about the bakery fire. I can take R32 straight out of town.”

  Mansell shook his head. He dug a roll of hundred-rand notes from his jacket pocket, the result of a reckless trip to the bank on his way here. He counted off ten bills, crossed the floor, and set the bundle next to the phone.

  “Take a plane. Have a drink on me.” Mansell took a pen from his jacket and scribbled seven numbers on a note pad. He passed the paper to Merry, saying, “This is a phone number. Very safe. It’s an answering machine at a neighbor’s. They’re away. Use it, please.”

>   Merry studied the number and then shredded the paper. He stashed the money in his shirt. “If getting out’s as easy as getting in,” he said, valiantly, “I’ll be back on the beat by Monday morning.”

  ****

  Delaney stuffed a toothbrush, a hair comb, and a jar of facial balm into the side pocket of her carry-on. Humming a classical melody, she checked her wristwatch. It was 10:22. Her plane was scheduled for departure in an hour and ten minutes. A taxi was on the way.

  She locked her briefcase and was in the process of storing her camera gear when a heavy knock shook the front door. Her first thought was maid service, the planned distractions of motel living. Go away. The intruder knocked a second time.

  Reaching for her walking stick, Delaney crossed to the door. She opened it. Standing in the hall were two business suits occupied by sterile men with grave faces. The younger face cracked a smile revealing straight, polished teeth.

  “Good day, Mrs. Blackford. How are you this morning?” Courtesy laced with condescension. He produced a wallet from his slacks. He opened it long enough for Delaney to glimpse the silver-and-gold shield. “I’m Lieutenant Baumgartner. District Two Security Police. This is Sergeant Linder. May we come in for a moment, please?”

  Delaney reached out with her hand, and the lieutenant shook it. She corrected him. “Your I. D. May I look at it?”

  “Oh, do tell. So sorry.” He grinned, sheepishly this time. His partner exuded morose boredom.

  The photo depicted Lieutenant J. R. Baumgartner of Pretoria Police District Number Two in a criminal pose. The description was a perfect fit, the credentials genuine. Delaney composed herself.

  “Come in,” she said, returning the wallet.

  “The film,” said Baumgartner, drumming fingers over the dresser top. “We’d’ like it, please.”

  “I’m sorry?” Delaney understood Security Branch. A smile backed by a sword. A sword backed by three hundred pieces of suffocating legislation that granted SS liberties to men in leisure suits like the lieutenant and his enforcer. Prosaic, insecure, and thus, she thought, extremely dangerous.

  “You’ve exceeded your authority as a union official, Mrs. Blackford. Not only have you infringed upon the rights of interprovincial trade, but you were seen taking photographs of an East Rand mine last night without the consent of the rightful owners.”

  “Was I?” she countered. “And if I was, is that now an infraction of the law, Lieutenant? Photographing property owned by a publicly held corporation?”

  The polished smile evaporated. Now the threat, Delaney thought. Baumgartner crossed his arms. He leaned back against the dresser and said, “I don’t intend quoting constitutional law, Mrs. Blackford. We can search the premises if need be. The motel owner has given his consent.”

  “Did he? For film that doesn’t exist? Such a model citizen. And tell me, Lieutenant, presuming I am guilty as charged—and I’m sure you are presuming—why wasn’t I stopped in the act?” Delaney walked from the entryway to the bed. She unzipped her camera bag, removed the thirty-five-millimeter camera, the light meter, the speedlight, the telephoto lens, and two canisters of film. She laid each neatly on the spread. “Since you’re chomping at the bit to do so, why don’t you start with these? Sergeant Linder, I imagine this is your specialty.”

  The rotund Linder, whose flat, oval face was scarred by a poorly manicured moustache and drooping eyes, was standing in the bathroom doorway with hands locked about a protruding girth. Baumgartner nodded curtly, and the sergeant trudged forward. He bent over the bed. Stubby fingers opened the back of the Minolta. He emptied batteries from the speedlight and dissected the light meter. He tossed the lens aside. He ripped the film from each reel.

  “Unexposed,” he announced.

  “Let’s take a closer look,” ordered the lieutenant.

  Sergeant Angus Linder was a fettered bulldozer awaiting emancipation. He concentrated, initially, on the bed. Using the long blade of a pocket knife, he shredded two pillows. Goose down filled the air like shedding cottonwoods in summer. Gathering steam, he set loose the steel blade on the mattress, slicing diagonally, spewing foam rubber from one end of the room to the other.

  Baumgartner, in the meantime, dismantled the dresser, searching for false bottoms and loose panels. He picked up the table lamp and casually smashed the base against the edge of the dresser. Shards of porcelain tumbled to the floor.

  Drawn by the escalating tumult, the motel operator hurried into the room. He stopped cold two steps past the threshold. His mouth hung agape. Hands covered his cheeks. He whispered, “Oh, dear Lord,” and walked out.

  Neither officer seemed to notice. Baumgartner was fumbling through Delaney’s overnight bag, strewing clothes from one end of the dresser to the other. He reached for the briefcase. Delaney offered him the key, mutely feigning indifference.

  Linder, having disposed of the mattress, set his sights on the box springs. He stood it on edge, ripped away the undercovering, and hand-searched the interior. Delaney saw Baumgartner retreating to the bathroom, but she couldn’t move. She was far too fascinated and repelled by the heated sergeant, who traded the box springs for the room’s one overstuffed chair. He dissected it front to back, cushion to armrests, wielding the knife like a crazed blacksmith. The baseboard heater came next and then the air-conditioning.

  Delaney turned aside as the carnage consumed the entryway, the closet, and the nightstand. She repacked her clothes, stowed her camera equipment, and filed wayward documents back into her briefcase.

  By the time they’d finished, sweat beads were rolling down Linder’s nose and chin, and Baumgartner was forced to loosen his tie and top button against the bulging veins in his neck.

  Delaney surveyed each with disgust and amazement. “Was that stimulating, gentlemen?”

  The detention order unfolded from Lieutenant Baumgartner’s breast pocket. He held it up. “Come with us.”

  ****

  Castle Drug was located on the corner of Castle Drive and Apple. It was owned by an elderly Jewish couple and open to all race groups. Judith Goldstein, the pharmacist, glanced up from her platform scale when Nigel Mansell entered. A jocose grin creased her face.

  “Ah, the inspector. The skinny one with no cheeks.” Mrs. Goldstein was amused by what she considered underfed men. She had married one thirty-two years ago and had been trying to fatten him up ever since. Without much success, Mansell thought, remembering her frail husband. “Has that wife of yours learned anything yet about the art of cooking?”

  “No, Mrs. G., I’m still on the same starvation diet.” The chief inspector couldn’t help but admire the Goldsteins. Nineteen years ago, they’d left the security of a prominent Jewish community in Johannesburg to seek a quieter existence here in Port Elizabeth. They’d bought an abandoned market across from the Industrial Park and a thriving pharmacy now included a delicatessen and a photo lab. The gray-haired matriarch ran the deli and the pharmacy. The reclusive old man did the developing. “How’s the Mister?”

  Mrs. Goldstein followed Mansell around the store, telling him about Jacob Goldstein’s bronchitis and her hip injury. Glancing out a side window at a passing patrol car, Mansell ordered a roast beef sandwich to go, set a carton of Camels on the counter, and then crossed to the photo department. He filled in the information on the red envelope and stashed the film from his trip to the East Rand inside.

  “I need blowups of four shots, Mrs. G.,” he told her, gesturing toward the film. “Toward the end of the roll. Two of a white man standing on a railroad flatcar, just the face, and two of the wooden crates on the same car. Can they be done by Saturday?”

  “Can they be done by Saturday, he asks.” Mrs. Goldstein patted Mansell’s cheek. “For the inspector with no cheeks, why not?”

  ****

  Affiliated Union President Daniel Masi Hunter reminded Cecil Leistner, morbidly so, of Idi Amin. The features of his coal-black face were uncanny in their resemblance. And the vastness of his girth, Leistner
thought, only serves to enhance the specter, while the manner in which he plunders his food only helps to explain it.

  In the company of the Federation of Mineworkers Union President Lucas Ravele, they dined in a private room at Café Alessandria on Storrar Avenue in Pretoria. The menu of the day included baked apples, samoosas, smoked snoek, sauteed salmon, and blueberry cheesecake.

  The waiter brought a second bottle of French Chardonnay.

  Table conversation centered on the stalled contract negotiations between the FMU and the Chamber of Mines, and the pending arbitration between the General Union of Stevedores and the Harbour Association. Leistner was ecstatic. Privately, he was urging members of the Chamber to take a harder stance on union benefits such as housing and family boarding, and proposed dental and medical plans—all key issues in the miners’ negotiations.

  “Arbitration favors the union in this day and age, Minister,” Daniel Hunter boasted. “Damnation, our demands for retirement benefits and a shorter workweek are more than fair. The bloody Harbour Association hasn’t a leg to stand on, and I think they know it.”

  “They’re talking a twenty percent across-the-board raise, Daniel,” said Leistner. “Seems damn generous.”

  “The Harbour Association’s idea of generosity is a new Coke machine in the employees’ shack, a used dart board in the men’s locker, and a ten-minute break in the afternoon. But pay equalization?” The fat man was enjoying himself, pecking at morsels of samoosas and slurping wine. “Damnation, Minister, the bloody white forklift operator still makes three times what the black doing the same job does.”

  He’s leading right into it, thought Lucas Ravele as his counterparts continued to debate. Ravele was eager to see it all out in the open. Since his first meeting with the minister twelve days ago, and the lengthy follow-up on Monday, deep concern had been replaced by a sense of anticipation, opportunity.

  “The situation is not unique, Daniel,” Ravele said, filling the minister’s wineglass. “We all know that. A black miner sleeps alone on a straw pallet in a prefab compartment, while his white buddy hangs his hat in a carpeted apartment and sleeps on a firm mattress with clean sheets.”