“And finally,” said Kramer, shifting the position of his feet on his desk, “I wrote down for this Doc Wilson the line in double quotes typed on the end of Naomi Stride’s last page. You know the ‘two, comma, two’ that had us so fooled?”
Zondi nodded, doodling ‘II, ii!’ on a report form.
“Ach, he didn’t bat an eyelid, man! Came straight out with the answer! It stands for ‘Act II, scene ii,’ when you’re talking about a play.”
“Hau! And did this Doc Wilson give you the reason why the killer chose to make this reference, boss? Did it explain the motive?”
Kramer took out his notebook and opened it at a page marked with his last supermarket receipt. “Wilson said the whole scene was summed up in the final words spoken by Hamlet. ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ ”
“Boss?”
“Apparently Hamlet suspects the king was the bloke who murdered his own pa, so he puts on a play about a murder to make him blush and fart and give himself away. ‘Hey, hang on there,’ I said to this Wilson, ‘remember it’s a lady, not a king, that’s been murdered in real life. How does that fit in?’ ‘Ach, no problem,’ he says, ‘the lady—that’s Hamlet’s ma—was also guilty.’ Then we really started arguing, because I couldn’t see how this was even close to being a motive in the Stride case. In the end, he said he would think about it some more, and in the meantime he’s given us a copy we can look at, but I still stick to the mad-popsie theory.”
“You mean Miss Liz Geldenhuys? But, boss, if—”
“Now, listen to me, Mickey. At last we know one thing for definite about this murderer: it’s somebody who knows the play Hamlet—agreed?”
“Agreed, boss.”
“We also have reason to believe this person is of the female sex, because it was a woman’s words that the killer used the pansies and the rosemary to symbolise. A young woman upset by ‘thoughts’ and ‘remembrances’ who has lost the love of her life, OK? Someone so bitter that even using a sword would seem—”
“But, boss, what would turn her bitterness against—?”
“Just wait till I’m finished, hey? We have evidence to suggest that Liz Geldenhuys was such a woman. She was badly treated by the deceased, who did not think her fit for her son, and who may even have plotted with Tess Muldoon of the sexy voice to drive her away from young Kennedy. Just say that, after leaving Afro Arts, Liz Geldenhuys somehow found out about this—wouldn’t that give her more than enough motive for revenge? Just say, also, that first she wrote a whole lot of letters to Ma Stride on the sort of cheap blue paper her kind would buy, but Ma Stride just ignored them, never answered. That could have been the fatal snub, Mickey—and, one other thing, remember that Liz Geldenhuys had been to the house that night with Theo, and that would have given her a chance to see its layout and know her way around.”
“This young woman who goes mad is also in Act II, scene ii, Lieutenant?”
“Of course, man—but check it yourself if you like.” Kramer tossed across a dog-eared stage copy of the play. “The name’s O-something. Ophelia?”
Zondi opened it. “Is this play a big poem?” he asked. “All these short lines.…”
“Ach, no, it’s more likely the crude printing in those days. You’ll notice they can’t bloody spell, either.”
“Hau, ‘Kwa Hamlet by William Gagonk’!”
Colonel Muller walked in. “What you two find to laugh at just amazes me,” he said, and Zondi sprang to his feet. “Tromp, what’s this you’ve been telling Piet Baksteen about the sword being the University’s?”
“Colonel, I was just on my way to see you, sir,” said Kramer, getting up, too. “I first wanted to get Zondi here out on his bicycle, making some urgent follow-ups. How are Jones and Mbopa doing? Have they caught up yet with Ramjet Pillbox?”
The Colonel’s brow darkened. “Don’t talk to me about—” Then, glancing at Zondi, he said: “Fine, finish off giving your orders, by all means, but I want you in my office in exactly two minutes.”
“My orders are, boss?” asked Zondi, as soon as he had gone. “Mickey, you’ve got the broad picture now?”
“I think so, Lieutenant. First on our list is to find Miss Liz Geldenhuys, and then we must see if she—”
“Except none of that is your concern right now.”
“Boss?”
“I’m switching you to the Zuidmeyer job.”
“Hau!”
“Unofficially, of course, old son. In this case, what we know for definite now is how the lady was made to slip and kill herself. Who dreamed up the idea is a different matter, but at least I think we can safely say it was one of two known suspects, the father or the son. At the moment, the son is most under suspicion, because of Doc Strydom’s opinion concerning the bruise marks, but we must keep an open mind and—”
“Prove it was the father, because that is what we believe, boss?”
Kramer cuffed his hat off, but caught it before it reached the floor. “Hey, kaffir, just you watch it, man!” he said with a wink. “Now, here’s a couple of things I want you to check out for us. Ready?”
It wasn’t until Ramjut Pillay had folded his masterful copy of the anonymous threatening letter sent to Naomi Stride, and had sealed it in its envelope, that he realised something that made him feel quite ill.
There was Nurse Chatterjee, absorbed in a first edition of the evening paper, across the front of which the headlines read NAOMI STRIDE SLAIN BY SWORD, and here he was, Ramjut Pillay, about to address a letter to her! A letter, moreover, which he had to hand to Nurse Chatterjee if he wanted it posted.
We have made terrible slip-up, thought Ramjut Pillay. Speak for yourself, said another side to him, Naomi Stride wasn’t her only name, little do many people know.
“Euphrates!” exclaimed Ramjut Pillay.
“Bless you,” murmured Nurse Chatterjee, engrossed in the murder case.
Mrs. Kennedy, Ramjut Pillay printed on the cheap blue envelope, wishing its flap had had a nicer-tasting gum. Then he hesitated and glanced back at Nurse Chatterjee’s paper.
WOODHOLLOW IN PICTURES—SEE INSIDE said another heading in red letters.
Now what do we do, wondered Ramjut Pillay, when Woodhollow must now be one of the most famous addresses in the land? Instantly recognisable by an astute chappie such as Nurse Chatterjee?
So another side to him simply took over, and wrote 30 Jan Smuts Close, Morningside, Trekkersburg—the correct address, little did many people know.
“Done,” said Ramjut Pillay.
He experienced only one more bad moment after that, which was when, having arrived at Nurse Chatterjee’s desk, he noticed the dateline on the newspaper. This acted as a reminder that the anonymous threatening letter would now be arriving at Woodhollow days rather than merely hours after the deceased’s decease. Another side to him, however, reasoned that as the first letter had been late the second letter ought to be late as well.
“You have completed your epistle?” said Nurse Chatterjee in a friendly way, but without bothering to look up from his paper. “Just slip it into my drawer, Peerswammy, there’s a good fellow. Now, why would anyone wish to kill this poor lady with an old sword of all unsterile things?”
“Ho-hum,” said Ramjut Pillay, for whom the newspaper’s dramatic revelation that day had come, false modesty aside, as really no surprise at all.
Far, far away, Mbopa could hear the sound of people speaking long words, and then, through a swirling white mist, he thought he saw the hand of Zsazsa Lady Gatumi reaching out to him. She laid this hand very briefly on his forehead, and not where she generally placed it, which surprised him. He grabbed for her buttocks, but was pushed back.
“Signs of life anyway, Nurse,” some white man remarked.
“Built like a bloody tank,” said another. “Took half the steering-column with him on his way through the windscreen, apparently. That’s how they found him, sitting in the road, going barp-barp and wiggling the
wheel this way and that.”
“Isn’t quite the story I heard,” said the first voice, growing steadily fainter. “The ambulance crew said he was sitting on his boss’s head doing the barp-barps, using the poor bugger’s nose as his hooter, and saying, ‘Which way now, you damn fool jackal?’ ”
The Colonel stared disconsolately at the badly chewed mouthpiece of his new briar. “You’d never believe I bought this just last Tuesday,” he said. “The strain has been terrible, and now … and now.… Well, you heard it for yourself, Tromp, two CID vehicles written off in one day, and Jones having to be given blood by the gallon.”
“Hell, think of the nice rest it’ll be for him, Colonel, not having to go out in his big cloak tonight on the off-chance some popsie’s left her window open.”
“Tromp?” said Colonel Muller, mystified. “What sort of allegations are these?”
“Ask Mrs. Muller, sir—we had a talk about it at the last police ball. But, before all this, you were saying …?”
“I was saying—h’m. Oh ja, Jones asked for a pen and paper while he was still in the ambulance, and he wrote what looks like a name on it. Here, see for yourself. Could be worth a follow-up; he obviously thought it important.”
Perswami Lal, the note said.
Kramer thought a moment, then decided the quickest way of getting rid of this particular irritation would be to pocket it. “Fine, sir,” he said, “and how do you rate what Zondi and me have come up with today?”
“It’s, er—well, not easy to co-ordinate, Tromp.”
“You’d like more information first, sir?”
“Please.”
“Then I’ll be going, hey? I—”
“By the way, what did you think of this picture?” asked Colonel Muller, pointing to something under the heading POLICE DIVERS WHO MADE SWORD FIND. “I look quite nice in it, don’t I?”
“You’re doing a great job on the publicity, sir.”
“Talking of which, anything new on the Zuidmeyer front?”
“No, Colonel, nothing worth repeating,” said Kramer, who had already made up his mind to save everything until after the arrest, when it’d be too late for anyone to interfere with him. “In fact, I think they’re both still in a state of shock and inclined to talk nonsense, so I was leaving further interviews to tomorrow. It’ll only take one of them to change his story, and it could end up as just an accident after all.”
Colonel Muller looked pleased, then said with a wag of his pipe: “But what about Doc Strydom’s evidence about the bruises?”
“He was never a hundred percent certain, Colonel.”
“Ja, that’s true. I hear he’s sent some slides down to Durban for a second opinion. OK, fine, and so it’s this Liz Geldenhuys you’re after right now?”
“As soon as I find out where to contact her, Colonel.”
“Well, man, here’s the phone—ring up your plump lady friend at Afro Arts; there’s just a chance she’s still on the premises, even if it’s after five.”
So Kramer dialled and waited.
“Afro Arts, but I’m afraid we’re closed for business now. Could you call again in the morning?”
“Er, it’s the CID here. Winny Barnes, is she still around?”
“I like that!” she said, switching to Afrikaans.
“Ach, so it’s you, hey? Tell me, Winny, any idea where I can contact Liz Geldenhuys?”
“Yes, I’ve got an address somewhere, mixed up in her tax whats-its I’ve still to send in. Just a mo.… It’s 24 Sweethaven Avenue, which is near the aluminium factory and the drive-in. Anything else I can do for you, Tromp?”
“Ach, not right away. But thanks, and see you, hey?”
The Colonel watched him replace the receiver. “What’s the problem, Tromp? Why the funny look? You’ve got the address, what more do you need?”
“No ‘funny look,’ Colonel; and, as you say, I’m ready to go, so I’ll go. Thanks for your help, sir.”
That was twice I’ve lied to the old bugger tonight, thought Kramer, as he went down the stairs. Once about the Zuidmeyers, and again when what must have been a funny look had crossed his face. Disembodied, he’d just discovered, overweight Winny Barnes had a very sexy voice on the telephone when she spoke in English.
Zondi turned left into Lawrence Street and cruised slowly past the municipal abattoir. The place had been rebuilt two or three years back, but looked no more inviting than its red-brick predecessor. The slaughter-house itself had no proper windows, just narrow fanlights very high up, and the only access appeared to be the huge doorway, now closed, at the top of the offloading ramp. Three enormous cattle-lorries were parked in the yard, which had a new chain-link fence around it, but the carpark was empty outside the adjacent small block of offices. Then another doorway to the slaughter-house came in view, round the far side. A sort of crane projected from above it, equipped with block and tackle, and below this was a loading-bay. Zondi left the street and drove along the dirt track towards it. What interested him were the half-dozen huge waste-disposal bins, hazy with flies even at this hour of the day, and surrounded by other garbage packed into big black plastic bags.
The stench was terrible. He stopped breathing through his nose and got out. Behind the row of garbage-bags he found four used DH-136 containers, tied loosely together with a length of string through their handles. He unscrewed each of the four containers and poured their contents into an old baked-bean can. The liquid was slow and viscous, but before too long he had about a cupful; more than enough, he calculated, to make the floor of a small shower lethal.
“So what does this prove, Lieutenant?” he murmured to himself.
Simply that a person did not have to work at the abattoir in order to get hold of some of its DH-136, not while the rubbish dump remained accessible to anyone who chose to venture in off a street that was generally deserted after five o’clock.
* * *
The light was fading fast and the man with his head under the bonnet of his battered Buick was using a cigarette-lighter to see by.
“Trying to find a petrol leak?” asked Kramer. “They tell that method never fails.”
The man looked around with a scowl, then opened his watery eyes wide.
“My God, if it isn’t the great train robber himself,” said Kramer giving his trousers a hitch. “How goes it, Bippy? Still sleeping snug as a bug, hey?”
This brought the scowl back. Some years ago, Bippy Unwin had boarded the overnight mail train to Johannesburg, forced the guard at gunpoint to heave a pile of sealed canvas bags out of the guard’s van, while the train was slowly climbing the escarpment above Trekkersburg, and had then jumped out after them into the night. Which was when things had started to go wrong for Bippy Unwin. He broke his nose on a tree trunk and twisted his ankle on landing. He had hobbled back down the line, snuffling so loudly that he’d been followed by two herd boys in search of a sick calf, and then had made a discovery that demonstrated how travel really did broaden the mind. Never having taken a night train anywhere before, Bippy Unwin had been unaware that the South African Railways always used lead seals on its big canvas bags of bedding rolls to prove nobody else had slept in them.
“Are doo here just to tordure a man?” he asked, his nose never having fully recovered.
“Ach, no, Bip—far from it, hey? I was trying to raise somebody across the way at Number 24. Doesn’t look like anyone’s at home and I see all the windows are shut.”
“Dey’re away.”
“Oh ja?”
“Dast Sadderday. Geldenduys took dem all to his brudder’s farm. His daughter’s dot been doo good.”
“You mean Liz? She also went with them?”
Bippy Unwin nodded.
“How far away is his brother’s farm?”
“Dunno, but it’s dear Dundee.”
“Oh, so they’re still in Natal? You don’t know the farm’s name, do you?”
“Dope.”
“You’re right,” said Kramer, “an
d you always have been.”
The second of Zondi’s two enquiries for the Lieutenant was proving something of a tall order. “Find out for me, Mickey,” he had said, “where this girlfriend of young Jannie Zuidmeyer lives. Her name’s Marlene.”
Not much to go on, and made even more difficult by the fact that Zondi hadn’t the slightest idea of what either of them looked like.
He dared one trip down Acacia Drive, knowing how conspicuous a black at the wheel of a car would be in such a neighbourhood, but saw nobody in the vicinity of the Zuidmeyer bungalow, let alone Jannie and Marlene sitting in front of it having sundowners, as he’d fantasised for a moment.
His eye did catch one thing, however, that he found encouraging. Parked beyond the shiny red Datsun in the driveway at 146 Acacia Drive was a motor scooter which looked like it belonged to a young man, to go by the unnecessary number of rearview mirrors sticking out from its handlebars. This indicated that Jannie Zuidmeyer had to be either at home or visiting someone within very easy walking distance. Young white males, in his experience, never went anywhere on foot that would take more than five minutes, although, show them a rugby field and they’d run up and down it for hours.
Narrowing down Jannie Zuidmeyer’s whereabouts could be done by telephone, of course, and if Zondi limited himself to a couple words, spoken with a guttural Afrikaner accent, then he reckoned he could get away with it. More than a few words, however, and Major Zuidmeyer, who’d been no fool whatever his other reputation, would be on to him in a twinkling.
So Zondi drove a little way out of the neighbourhood, found a telephone box near a small row of shops, and tried dialling the Zuidmeyer number. The phone rang and rang. His gaze wandered over a wall plastered with old posters and stopped at a faded blue one with black lettering. Hamlet, it said, and beneath that gave other details, including the name of the actor in the leading role, Aaron Sariff. The play had been over for three weeks, Zondi noted.
“Hello?” said a drunken voice.
“Jannie?”
“He’s at Marlene’s.”
“Where?”
The Artful Egg Page 23
