“Bloody hell!” said Wessels. In the three seconds it had taken him to do that, the passenger was back in the car and was being driven off at high speed in the direction of Peacevale. In his opinion, he had just seen the impossible.
But he was given no time to dwell on it. Just then, over on the other side of the street, someone started yelling “Police!” and he jogged across to see what the fuss was about.
News of a raid on the Munchausen Café reached Kramer as he was rounding off Marais’s briefing.
“Just hang on a sec. Now, Sergeant, you’ve got that? A list of everyone who was in the club that night and check every alibi. The ones who split from their party or sat alone, anything like that, I want you to give the works to. Okay, Zondi, what’s your case?”
Zondi told him what he knew. It was garbled but enough.
Then Zondi moved them nine blocks east through rush-hour traffic in under two minutes. The Chev was left to take care of itself once they entered Claasens Street, now a traffic jam, and the crowd outside the café had two holes barged through it.
“Jesus Christ,” said Kramer.
Through the wide doorway he could see Wessels, Constables Smit and Hamlyn in uniform, and an old woman kneeling over a body, while a tall foreigner looked on.
“That’s more than just shooting, boss,” Zondi murmured with a nod.
“Eyewitnesses,” said Kramer.
“Right,” said Zondi, and turned to the crowd.
As Kramer entered the café Wessels came up and gave a concise account of what he had seen and heard, adding that the victim was breathing his last, following a bullet wound in the head.
“Uh-huh. Tell Smit to get outside and clear a path for Kloppers and the doc. Hamlyn better stand on the door.”
“And me, sir?”
“What about that car number?”
“I’ve given it to Control, sir.”
“Good. Ach, start on interviewing the nonwhite staff—how many?”
“Just that cook and a waiter.”
“Then while it’s still fresh, hey? You know how fast these kind of memories can dwindle.”
Kramer sat down at a table near the window, took a straw from the glass of them on the checked tablecloth, and looked round the room. It was nothing special. A typical café. A typical café whether run by Indians, Greeks, Italians, or Portuguese. Yellow walls, blue floor tiles, wooden tables, chairs made out of chromed pipe, big electric fans, pictures of sunsets and snowcapped mountains, a jukebox, menus in plastic stands, all as plain and simple as its fare, made inviting by the aroma of hot dogs and soup. When the man died, that’s when it would look different.
The general impression would go, and in its place would come tedious exact measurements, notes on its little oddities and exclusive features, photographs by the bucketful, and a requirement that all this should reconcile with what could have happened. Had happened.
The tableau about the body changed. The old woman sat back on her thin heels, and the foreigner crossed himself.
What made the Munchausen look different from many other cafés was the mezzanine floor, or balcony, above Kramer’s head, which brought the ceiling down to a much cozier height. Or what would have seemed cozier if its structure had not been so flimsy and doubtful. He would check what was up there. Then again, there was not much of a counter, and that stuck away in the far corner with the till on it, and glass cases of cigarettes behind it. On the near side of the till was a rack festooned with cellophane packets containing potato chips, biltong, dried beef sticks, and other goodies. The rack could well obscure a view of the doorway. He would check on that first.
Skirting the dead man and mourners, Kramer went and placed himself behind the open till. Visibility was good. He then noticed that the kitchen door could also be seen from this position, off to his right, and assumed that the manager liked to keep an eye on both his customers and his staff without having to move about much.
The balcony, he noted, was reached by a single flight of wooden stairs screened off against the outer wall. The left-hand third appeared to be a small office, and the rest had three more tables to offer. Yet plainly for a better class of meal, as he could make out napkins folded like bishops’ hats, and the décor included fishing nets, big glass balls, and old wine bottles with straw around them.
He looked again at the street.
Wessels came out of the kitchen and wandered over.
“The chef was doing lunches for boys to fetch for their bosses, the waiter was helping him, and Mrs. Funchal—that’s the old lady—was whipping up something special. I was wrong, sir; there’s also a black dishwasher who is down at the clinic getting a tooth out.”
“But what did they see?”
“Nothing. Heard the bang and Mrs. Funchal told the chef to see what was going on—it didn’t register with any of them it was a gun—and he stuck his head out. Nobody was in the café. Then he put his head out further and looked this way to see if Mr. Funchal—that’s the old woman’s son—knew what it was about. He saw the till open and then Mr. Funchal’s hand. They dragged him out onto the floor there.”
“What about him?” said Kramer, nodding at the man still standing beside the body.
“That’s Da Gama, their nephew. He was yelling ‘Police’ when I ran in. He’d been up on the balcony, working in the office. He also thought it was a backfire and didn’t come down immediately. His aunt’s scream brought him.”
“She was screaming for you first, then?”
“That’s right, sir. I wasn’t in time to stop them moving him, but that’s where he was.”
And Wessels pointed just to the left of where Kramer was standing.
“So, man, where did the bullet hit?”
“Smack between the eyes, sir. He’s not as tall as you, and I reckon that the killer fired it from his own shoulder height straight across the counter because otherwise it would’ve gone through this stuff and I can’t find any holes.”
Wessels demonstrated what he meant, holding an imaginary firearm at right angles to the counter between the till and the rack.
“Looks like it, but we’d better wait for Doc Strydom’s little words of wisdom.”
“Hell, the bastard was fast, sir!”
“Ja, so I’ve heard. How much was taken?”
But just then the tall man approached, very shaken, and shyly took off his hat. He surprised Kramer by having very blond hair while otherwise conforming to type—not the squat and jolly one, as the dead man appeared to have been, but its twin, the thin and miserable one. His eyes had the hardness of a man well acquainted with suffering.
“That is my uncle,” he said.
“Mr. Da Gama?”
“Mario Da Gama. Are you the police chief?”
“Lieutenant Kramer, Murder and Robbery.”
“That’s what it was,” Da Gama said bitterly.
“Know how much is missing?”
Da Gama went over to the till.
“Don’t touch!” Kramer warned.
“Phew! Eighty—one hundred? I must check in my cashbook. It was little.” And he shook his head.
“Looks like someone’s arrived, sir,” said Wessels. “Oh, must be relatives that have got the news.”
“I ring them,” said Da Gama. “They come to take Mama away. Would you like me to look in the book now?”
“Fine, on my way Wessels, go and tell Smit he can let two women in, but they must take the old lady and get out again, hey?”
“Sir.”
“No trouble. I fetch the book,” Da Gama offered.
“Less trouble if I come,” replied Kramer, eager to quit the ground floor before an emotional scene began.
And he followed Da Gama up the staircase onto the balcony, feeling he had gone up on deck, for a strong breeze was buffeting in through little windows that were open over the street.
“Smell of the cheap food,” explained Da Gama, noticing his raised brow. “The hamburger, you know? It all comes up here and
can spoil the work of many hours. This place is for the specialty customers.”
“Oh, ja?”
“The special dishes of the house that Mama makes. I serve them myself sometime. Only at night, you understand?”
“Very nice.”
“Oh, I must have the roll from the till, Chief. How can I take if I don’t touch? Just one button I must press.”
“Okay, you get it then,” Kramer said, disenchanted with tills as a source of incriminating fingerprints.
But thought he had better see that Da Gama didn’t paw everything, so he went over to the balcony railing. The thing extended farther than he had realized and, without actually leaning over it, all he could see was the counter and a bit of unoccupied floor. He was grateful for these limitations, as the sound of the old woman being dragged away was quite enough.
He concentrated instead on the crown of Da Gama’s curious blond mop, and on where the man was putting his hands, but it seemed all proper care was taken.
“Well, how does it look?” he asked, when the record of the morning’s business arrived.
“Not a good day, Chief. Twenty-one rand—plus float. Come inside.”
They went into the small office, which was stacked with old invoices and other stuff that should have been thrown away years before. Their weight made the thin floor seem even more likely to give suddenly.
Da Gama started small avalanches on the cluttered desk in his efforts to find the cashbook, and hurt himself when he slapped a hand down to prevent a wad of slips on a wire spike from falling, too.
Kramer sat astride the larger of the two chairs and waited, looking around at the pictures of bleeding hearts and bloody lambs, and wondering what the water in the dish screwed near the door would taste like.
“Eighty-seven rand, maybe fifty cents,” said Da Gama, circling his grand total on the back of the telephone directory.
Kramer could not help a short laugh. That was peanuts. The crazy bastards had done it again.
Marais had been charmed by Shirley’s manner.
Usually an accent like that set his right foot on edge and not, he thought, without reason. Once, as a very new man on the beat, he had responded to a break-in report at a big posh house, only to be told the occupiers weren’t going to be disturbed twice in one night, and he’d jolly well better come back in the morning. Some people.…
But Shirley had been quite the opposite on the phone: polite, friendly, and very happy to be of assistance with routine inquiries, although he could not imagine how. The only snag had been finding a suitable time to meet, as he already had a number of unbreakable engagements planned for the afternoon. Then they had hit upon the idea of making it a date for four-thirty, when Shirley would be popping home to do a quick change before cocktails at Justice Greenhill’s—yes, of the Supreme Court, the very same.
So, feeling far less daunted now by the thought of having to mix in Trekkersburg high society, Marais decided to pay surprise visits on the rest of his list; the post office had been very helpful in giving him addresses to match the business numbers he had collected.
If they were all like that, he could not go wrong.
Da Gama, now apparently maudlin with grief, was insisting on telling Kramer his whole life story—or something like it. Kramer was not really listening, but intent on what Strydom might be able to tell him when the examination was finished. What he did gather was that Uncle Jose, apart from being a lovable old eccentric who owned nine tearooms and still felt a need to work in the most humble, had lived in South Africa practically all his life. In contrast, pathetically painted, to Da Gama, who had wasted his years in Mozambique before being driven out. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Uncle Jose, who had no sons of his own, and whose daughters were all nuns, Da Gama would not have known where to turn. But the old man had taken him to his heart, had put clothes on his back, and had even found a little job for him. Truly the man was a saint.
“Uh-huh,” said Kramer, thinking the old bugger had at least made a start in the right direction.
“So what happens now, Chief?”
“You show one of my men how you want the place locked up, and then you’d better get along to the family.”
“It is not our custom,” mumbled Da Gama, turning his hat around in his hands by the brim. “Also the priest is coming. I must wait for him.”
“Then wait in your office, okay? Sorry, but this officer here has got pictures to take, and you’ll be in his way.”
“Okay,” said Da Gama, and went upstairs.
“How’s it?” asked Gardiner, stopping by while he changed lenses.
“How do you think, man?”
“I heard Wessels maybe had an ident on one of them.”
“Ja, but he says they were in heavy shade all the time. Still, I’ve sent him back to CID to look through the books.”
“And Zondi?”
“Zero.”
“So we go through the motions,” said Gardiner, and wandered off behind the counter to take a wide shot.
But Kramer refused to succumb to the shoulder-sagging apathy that had begun to pervade the place. Perhaps a proper look at the corpse might restore a sense of purpose.
He walked over briskly and stood beside Strydom, careful not to get in his light.
Jose Funchal had a hole where his thick eyebrows met that looked like a jab made with a red-hot poker. After that you noticed the deeply bruised eyelids, the cigarette burn on the broad upper lip, and the stubble on the bull-mastiff cheek. He wore a gold signet ring, bearing the same design as the one Da Gama had, and no other jewelry. His clothes were freshly laundered, but obviously bought at a bazaar. Which all fitted the legend.
“Losing faith in me?” asked Strydom.
“Always.”
“It’s the twenty-two again.”
“Uh-huh. Nice neat hole, hey? Perfect round shape.”
“The bullet must have struck at right angles almost precisely, level with the ground, which may give you some idea of the assailant’s height. The shot must have been fired sighting on the eye.”
“Same again then, Doc? Around five-eight?”
“Ja, that should narrow things down by a few million,” said Strydom, closing his notebook and pointing with his pen to the area around the wound.
“No tattoos from powder, no smoke marks. Range the usual three feet to thirty.”
“Say four, with the counter taking up two of them.”
“Say what you like, Tromp, but this isn’t how we’re going to catch them.”
Strydom stood up and made a face to convey his apologies for that remark.
“True, but it just shows what cold-blooded bastards they are. No warning, no struggle—just bam. And another thing I don’t get: they’re damn crack with their guns. Where did they practice?”
“Now you’re just trying to add to your problems.”
“No, I mean it.”
They moved over to a table and sat down, waiting for Kloppers to arrive. Strydom began to thumb through his notebook.
“What you really mean is they fire one shot and they’re away.”
“They have to, for the speed,” said Kramer.
“Ja, but in the matter of accuracy, take the butcher, for instance: that twenty-two was fired inches from him and went in at an angle. In Lucky’s case, they hit him as he was turning away, and the thirty-eight traveled just inside the skull up the left-hand side. Only one of the others came near to being a fluke like this one, and then it wasn’t nearly as good.”
“Uh-huh? And what’s a fluke? Getting something right and then letting it become a matter of opinion?”
Strydom laughed and threw down the paper napkin he had been fiddling with.
“Okay, you win on words,” he said. “But in practical terms, could you guarantee the same result with a twenty-two in your hand—even four feet away?”
Kramer shook his head.
“But tell me, Tromp, there is something behind this nonsense of yours. What is it
?”
Kloppers had clumped in with his metal tray before the right reply had been found—or something close to it.
“Doc, if crime was a sport, what would these buggers be? Champions?”
“Too true!”
“And what does a boxing champ do before his first big fight?”
“I see! He works his way up on small purses.”
“Ach, no. He gets himself some bloody sparring partners and works on his weaknesses. You think about it.”
Strydom had not moved much when Kramer glanced back at him through the café window.
10
BUT THE COLONEL found Kramer’s notion fanciful, and suggested some good sense of his own.
“Now listen, Tromp, you know how their mind works. If a man is white, then he is automatically rich. It doesn’t matter whether you and me can see he couldn’t find two cents to pay the rent with; as far as they are concerned, white is the color of money.”
“True,” Kramer conceded, flicking his match into the CID courtyard below. “But that’s with your petty criminal.”
“And what are these? Okay, so they can shoot, and they can drive, and they can run bloody fast, but what else can you say about them? They’re bloody stupid, like all the rest. I tell you what did me good today: I had lunch with the brigadier and we discussed this matter. ‘Hans,’ he says to me, ‘what do you blokes think you’re doing? Just stop a moment and see this in its true perspective. Tell me how many cases of armed robbery on small businesses you’ve dealt with, and how many times you found one eyewitness to help solve who did it.’ Then I had to admit that in all my years it was only twice, and both times a European came forward. All the other times we acted on information received once the bastards started spending their money or getting drunk and boasting in the shebeens. ‘That’s how it is with robbery investigation,’ the brigadier said, and I tell you that made me feel a fool.”
“In other words, sir?”
“With murder, you look for a motive,” the colonel said, his tone becoming circumspect, “but with robbery, it is staring you in the face. They want money, so they kill and rob for it—every day, all over the country. Life? Life matters nothing to them. Yet now you start trying to read something new into this, as if it was a specific case where you were asking, Why kill this man?”
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