Kramer liked the way Bob handled the box, setting it down first before removing the lid. He was no fool, despite his sad little tricks.
“Ah, someone’s tried to put a match to this.”
“Seems likely.”
“Burnt a section like a slice of cake right through to the spindle. You’ll lose a lot on the outer winding, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right, any info you can give me is more than welcome.”
“I’ll do my best. I’m off tomorrow, so I can work right through.”
“So you said on the phone. When do I come round?”
“Make it about nine.”
“Okay.”
Kramer got up to leave before any more questions were asked but did not move quickly enough.
“Where did you get it?”
“In a rubbish bin.”
“I’d guessed that, it’ll need some cleaner before I get started. But haven’t you any idea who it belonged to?”
“It’s a personal effect—the only one of its kind, or that’s what I’m hoping.”
“You aren’t saying much, are you?”
“No. There are good reasons.”
“But I bet I know where you got it all the same.”
“Ach, never in a hundred years.”
Kramer was at the door before the next sentence spun him round like a .45 slug.
“You got it from the Le Roux girl’s place.”
“How the jesus do you know that?”
“It’s been on page one since the first edition,” Bob stuttered, shaken solid. He tugged a rolled copy of the Gazette out of his jacket which lay on the chair.
Kramer snatched it. Some bastard was going to pay for this, pay through the nose and every other orifice. His eyes flashed over the headings, starting with the 72 pt Caslon Bold lead banner and going in five jumps down to a 24 pt Gothic Condensed five-liner over an 8 pt panel:
Mystery
death
of a
mystery
girl
Trekkersburg police today disclosed that a city music teacher had been found dead in her flat—and that foul play had not been ruled out.
She was Miss Theresa le Roux (24), of 223B Barnato Street, who lived on her own.
Colonel Japie Du Plessis, Chief of the CID Division, told the Gazette last night: “The circumstances surrounding the death of Miss le Roux are giving cause for grave concern. However, we will not know what action to take until the full results of the post mortem are in our hands.
“In the meantime, a senior police officer has already begun preliminary investigations in an attempt to trace anyone who can tell us anything about her. As far as we are aware, she has no next-of-kin.
“May I take this opportunity of asking members of the public to come forward if they have even a small piece of information—leave it to us to decide whether or not it is important.”
Col. Du Plessis added that he had every confidence that the matter would be treated with dispatch and referred to the division’s high rate of success in the past.
That was all. But it was enough to make Kramer deliver a string of obscene threats which placed the entire universe in peril.
“How the hell did the Press get on to this?” he demanded finally, shaking Bob by the arm.
“I’m not the editor,” he replied, “but I seem to remember something on the social pages which might help—try four and five on a thirty-two pager.”
Kramer turned to them. Christ, he should have guessed: right across the top of page four was a five-column picture taken at the Brigadier’s braaivleis and immediately behind the old bull, as he stood with beer can raised, lurked the beaming figure of Colonel Du Plessis. What an ideal moment to take the opportunity; he was already beckoning over the reporter as the flash went off.
“Bob, you’re right, man—this is the case. I thought I had a long start on the buggers but now I must have the stuff on the tape before six.”
“Six?”
“Isn’t that when the Gazette deliveries start?”
“Deliveries, yes, but don’t forget the first edition is off the presses at ten.”
“So? It’s for the farming areas, isn’t it?”
“We also sell a few dozen to the cinema crowds as they come out—and on the station. Some people can’t resist a morning paper the night before.”
“Jesus.”
It was all Kramer had left in him to say. At ten he had still been taking his time in the cottage. In fact, he had not left until after eleven, because he had checked his watch just after seeing Miss Henry move away from the light. An ice cube slid slowly down his spine: all he had seen was a silhouette—backlighting would have had the same effect whether the watcher was inside or outside the house. And another thing—those six cars outside Dr Matthews’s place in Arcadia Avenue. If you had to keep watch in what would otherwise have been a deserted street, where all the residents garaged their cars at night, it was quite an idea to invite your friends along and make a party of it. Zondi could be in danger. He had to move fast.
Bob followed him to the door, promising to do all he could but apologetically emphasising that nine o’clock was the earliest he could expect results.
“Fine,” said Kramer. “This lot is so buggered up now it doesn’t matter that much. Thanks a lot, man.”
The corner of De Wet Street and the Parade was deserted. Zondi should have been waiting there for at least an hour—the two calls had taken far longer than Kramer anticipated.
He parked the car and sat. He needed to think carefully before making his next move. It would be very rash for a white, even armed, to attempt to follow in Zondi’s footsteps. On the other hand, he rebelled against the thought of calling in help. His mind reacted to the dilemma by blanking out.
He was staring across the pavement at the statue of Queen Victoria, which had presumably survived into the Republican era because it was so incredibly gross, when something stirred on the Great White Mother’s lap. He saw a slim brown hand reach up for a snap-brim hat hung on the sceptre. Moments later Zondi slid down and strode casually over.
“No Shoe Shoe,” he said. “His wheelbarrow is round the back of the City Hall but not one fellow knows where he is.”
“You asked plenty?”
“Oh yes, boss,” Zondi licked his knuckles.
The wind had gone. It was very cold and very early in the morning.
“Get in, I’ll take you home.”
“How come? We can go out to Peacehaven, boss.”
“Not tonight—I’ll explain why. Move it.”
As Kramer drove out to Kwela Village, he filled in on all that had happened. If that was the Colonel’s attitude, then he could not expect them to miss another night’s sleep.
Zondi lived with his wife and three children in a two-roomed concrete house which covered an area of four table-tennis tables and had a floor of stamped earth. He always had to direct Kramer to it as there were several hundred other identical houses in the township. All that distinguished his home was a short path edged with upturned condensed-milk cans too rusty to catch the car’s headlights.
“Go for Gershwin Mkize in the morning,” Kramer instructed him after they had stopped. “He should know where his merchandise has got to. Maybe Shoe Shoe’s sick? I’ve got to see the Colonel and Mr Perkins, then I’ll be in the market square if you’re not back in the office by ten.”
“Right, boss, see you.”
Kramer waited with his lights on the door so Zondi would not fumble the key, and then started off down the hill into town again.
Lucky man, that wife of Zondi’s was a good woman with a fine wide pelvis. Kramer caught himself wondering if it was not time he got lucky; he liked the idea of a loyal woman and he liked children. But no, he was a man of principle. It was not fair taking on such a responsibility in his job—you never knew when you might fetch up grinning at Strydom with your stomach. Anyway, he had found himself a widow with four kids. She would love a surpr
ise guest.
5
FOR THE SECOND time running, Kramer awoke startled and lashing out. He was being kneed in the groin.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing!” someone yelled.
He pulled the sheet off his face. A delighted boy of five was advancing up him on all fours.
“Good morning, Uncle Trompie,” the child said, grinning round at his mother who stood by the wardrobe.
“You nearly took poor Piet’s head off,” chided the Widow Fourie.
“I don’t mind, Ma,” Piet said generously.
And the noise brought his siblings scrambling into the room to bounce on their Uncle Trompie. They were all older and that much bonier, but Kramer would have willingly put up with it for longer than their mother.
“What’s all this?” she demanded. “Out you go and let your Ma dress in peace. She’ll be late for work in a minute.”
“How long is a minute, Uncle Trompie?” asked Marie, the eldest, who knew anyway.
“Out!” shouted Widow Fourie.
“Hold it,” said Kramer, sitting up and reaching for his cigarettes. He had bought them from a machine and there was some change slipped into the cellophane wrapping. He added it to what was in his trouser pocket.
“Yes?” Marie moved eagerly forward.
“If you can tell me how long a minute is, then all of you can have a fizzy drink down at the Greek shop, it’ll be open by now.”
“Sixty!”
“Seconds! Right first time—now you lot get out of here and don’t come back till you’re burping.”
The flat emptied like a greyhound trap.
“You spoil them, Trompie.”
“I spoil myself.”
Unwarily, the Widow Fourie had wandered too close in a search for her stockings. One hand was all Kramer needed for the wrist lock which brought her tumbling on top of him.
“Hey! You bloody police think you can do what you like!”
“Don’t you like it then?”
She giggled and nuzzled.
“I’ve been late twice through you.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“That’s lovely,” she said as she went under.
Lust was a many-splendoured thing, Kramer decided, as he watched the enchanting ritual of a full-bodied woman jigging her way back into a tight corset. Pure lust that was, none of your permissive society muck the Government banned from the news stands. He had seen a Playboy magazine once in the Vice Squad’s office and it left him thinking of dogs watering lamp-posts to excite other dogs they would never know. Filthy, degrading muck. But real lust—
“Isn’t it about time you started thinking about getting up?”
“Uhuh.”
“Just because you’re mad at the Colonel doesn’t mean I’ve got to be late for work, after all. Marie will have to give the kids their breakfasts as it is.”
“Uhuh.”
“Come on, Trompie, there’s a razor I use for my legs in the bathroom.”
With a groan, Kramer staggered out of bed and went through into the bathroom. The Widow Fourie threw his underpants in after him and was gratified to hear the sound of the wash-basin taps running. She hooked up her bra and looked around for her stockings again.
“Seen my nylons?” she called.
Kramer appeared in the doorway, scrubbing his chin with a bar of laundry soap in a final bid to get a good lather. He had his underpants over one shoulder.
“What colour are they?”
“Pink,” she answered, hurriedly pulling on her spare overall—she would never have time to change in the locker room at Woolworth’s.
“Pink,” Kramer repeated. “That’s not for stockings.”
“Fat lot you know. We’re all wearing them in haberdashery, the counter’s so high the customers can’t see.”
And then the thought struck him. Kramer dropped both soap and underwear in his rush across the room. The Widow Fourie glanced up irritably.
“Come on,” said Kramer. “Undo your buttons.”
“Keep your hands off me, they’re wet!” she protested. “Have you gone crazy, Trompie?”
“Undo them!”
She looked frightened, which he regretted, but the matter was too important to waste words.
“This must be how they see you,” she said softly as her fingers worked down the row of large white buttons on the plain blue uniform. “Please don’t do it again, that thing with your mouth.”
Kramer was not listening. He was intent on examining her undergarments as they appeared longitudinally in the gap. The low bra was a brilliant red, trimmed with a black lace frill with a dot sewn into it. The corset was scarlet with a bold pattern in deep crimson. The panties were an odd pair in poster green, cut very high at the hip and embroided on the more substantial areas with yellow roses.
The Widow Fourie was standing stiffly as if she expected to be touched where her flesh would crawl.
“Relax,” mumbled Kramer, finding a smile.
“I just wanted a look.”
“Oh, yes?”
She began rebuttoning. Her expression was grim and obviously her mind made up.
“I think we must have a talk in the car.”
“Tell me something: why do you wear those things? It’s very important.”
Now she was completely taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Why such fancy stuff? Why not the ordinary white you see in the shop windows?”
“I dunno. I suppose it’s because I have to wear this uniform all day long.”
“Go on.”
Kramer scooped the stockings off the floor right at her feet and handed them over.
“Oh, ta. Well, all the assistants at Woolworth’s wear the same one and it’s a horrible blue. Drab, I call it.”
“Yes?”
“Ach, work it out for yourself, man.”
“You tell me.”
“If you wear the bright undies you like then—even though no one can see them—you’re still different. That’s it: I put them on because they make me feel more the person I really am.”
Bull’s-eye.
The stocking on her left leg had got itself twisted. Kramer gave her his arm as she hopped over to sit on the bed while adjusting it.
“So what would you say about a dolly of twenty-two who is her own boss, can do what she likes, but goes around in drab frocks with a rainbow underneath?”
“I’d think there was still something forcing her to.”
“Forcing her?”
“Of course. What woman wants to give the wrong impression of herself?”
“True.”
Flattered now by the rapt attention being paid to her every word, the Widow Fourie added: “What I say, and I’ve told the manager this umpteen times, I say that a little colour cannot hurt anybody.”
It seemed, however, that Miss Le Roux had feared it might. Hurt her very badly. And as she had been, it was something else to think about. But not now.
“I’ll shave at the office,” Kramer said, dragging on his clothes. He was dressed before the Widow Fourie had found her other shoe. He scrounged it from under the bed, slipped it on her foot, and said: “Okay, Cinderella, the Pumpkinmobile is downstairs waiting.”
She found herself laughing fondly as they reached the passage to the lift.
“You’re a nasty bit of work, Trompie Kramer,” the Widow Fourie said. “But come around again soon, hey? The kids like you.”
“Poor little bastards,” he chuckled—and ducked.
The way Mrs Perkins looked at Kramer when she opened her door made him uncomfortable. So did the dried lather which felt like localised rigor mortis.
“My Bob’s been up all night,” she said reproachfully. “I had no idea.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ll see he is looked after properly.”
“It’s not that. It’s his health. He isn’t very strong you know. Asthma.”
That figured. It also accounted for the yoga books.
“
I’m sorry,” Kramer said again. “It’s just he was the only man who could do the job.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, your Bob’s a very clever bloke,” he confided, gaining his entrance and starting off down the corridor to the workroom.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes?”
“Er—have you had breakfast?”
“Well …”
“You poor thing, you can’t have had a wink either—I’ll bring you an egg and some toast.”
Guilt was not Kramer’s favourite emotion. And he felt very bad when he opened the workroom door to find Bob on the floor in the lotus position, his eyes closed.
But the bulky lad was on his feet in an instant.
“Got it all ready for you, Lieutenant,” he said cheerfully. “Excuse the socks.”
“Good man. Anything interesting?”
“Very, very peculiar. I thought I had it and then I didn’t. Let me show you. You see I carefully spliced in some clean tape exactly the length of each burnt piece. This meant I could play it although there were silences in between.”
“Yes, that’s clear enough.”
“I’ll put it on then.”
The threading took a little longer than before, then sound came from the amplifier. It was piano music. A few bars. Silence. More music. Silence. The tune changed but remained very basic, real beginner’s stuff. Silence.
These continual interruptions worked on Kramer’s nerves. “How many more numbers like this?”
“They stay simple right to the end.”
“Which is?”
“The tape is an hour altogether.”
“Hell, somebody must have been keen.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I can’t bloody well concentrate with all these breaks in it, man. Sorry.”
“Nor could I—that’s why I made this other tape from it, leaving out all the joining pieces and bringing it into one. It’s still a bit of an ear-ache, but easier to follow.”
The reel was already in position on a second tape deck. Bob switched over to it.
Kramer listened for the first ninety seconds and then had enough.
“Okay, thanks Bob,” he said.
“I think you should listen to a bit more than that, Lieutenant.”
The Steam Pig Page 6
