Oh, very nicely done. However, Kramer was not there to settle old scores, but a new one. And he still had no idea who the enemy was.
“Did any member of your family see Boetie again after his incident?”
“No. I’m quite sure they would have mentioned it.”
“Nevertheless, could I have a word with your daughters this evening, Captain? After school?”
“Caroline is in the nursing home having a cyst removed. I wonder if you’d not—”
“Sally, then?”
“I sent her up to her grandmother on the Witwatersrand.”
“When was this?”
“On Monday, directly I saw the news in the paper. It would have upset her dreadfully. I know what I said about their little liaison, but the child’s had enough to contend with recently.”
Kramer got up and put his glass on the tray. He had the air of a man who had suddenly lost interest in the matter in hand and just wanted to beat a friendly retreat.
“Of course, I’d forgotten,” he said. “You also had that sad business concerning the American youth. I was in Zululand at the time.”
“Lovely part of the world, that,” murmured Jarvis, accompanying him over to the door. “I’ll show you out myself.”
“There was one thing I never quite did understand about that accident.”
“Really, Lieutenant? This is your mackintosh, I believe.”
“The bit about the American’s clothes. The story goes he was stripped down and probably about to have a swim when he fell in accidentally.”
“That’s what happened.”
“But where was his swimming costume? I’ve never seen that mentioned.”
Kramer took his raincoat from the hands outstretched to help him on with it so that he would be able to keep his eyes on Jarvis’s face. A slight tremor.
“Then your colleagues have kept their word,” Jarvis said quietly.
“Not that I’ve been asking questions, but I’d like to know out of curiosity.”
“You’re an astute man, Lieutenant, but the explanation is simple: he often swam alone without one. He was rather given to that sort of thing.”
“Walking round nude?”
“Something of that order. Surprising what American youth considers normal these days. Even so, we felt obliged to be discreet in the matter for his parents’ sake. Sergeant Brandsma was most understanding. We didn’t want the papers calling Andrew a hippie either—it’s such a vulgar expression—and they would have leaped at it. As it was, the press wallahs did rather overdo—”
“But was he a hippie, in your opinion?”
“Sheer affectation! Came of excellent stock—told me his father liked his pimp’s trousers no better than I did. Never could get him to have a decent haircut, but we did calm down his clothes a bit. His manners themselves were remarkably good.”
“What did your daughters and their friends think of him?”
“Sally and Caroline were all right, but I’m afraid the others suspected him of being—er—sissy. Hair that length is effeminate by South African standards.”
“No girl friends, then?”
“Hardly had time, old boy. Poor little blighter.”
“He had a month, Captain. I’ve known a bloke set himself up in a week.”
“The devil he did.”
The great door stood wide and the rain tapped its way towards the Persian carpet.
“One more thing, if I may, Captain.”
“Fire away.”
“Was ‘sissy’ really the word for Master Cutler?”
Jarvis looked wary, then broke out a man-to-man smile.
“Deuced difficult to tell ’em apart these days,” he murmured. “But that’s not for publication.”
They shook hands silently.
As Kramer ran through the wet to his car, he turned once to look back at the house. Remembering then that he had, in fact, seen a third English film: one about a country mansion which became haunted. Not, however, by the ghost of a clean-living boy who told dirty stories—nor of a homosexual youth who left his socks in girls’ beds. Man, it had been dull.
10
LUNCH BREAK WAS almost over when the call finally came through. Lisbet snatched up the receiver, aware that the secretary had paused for only a brief exchange with a raucous pupil outside the office door.
“Trompie? Listen hard because I haven’t got time to repeat anything. It’s the magazine—Boetie has a letter in the latest issue. No date but you can work out roughly when it was written. This is what it says:
“‘Dear Sir, I think the Detective Club is very good. But I have a complaint. The new station commander has chased us all away. He says it is not children’s work. Now there is just me left of the Midnight Leopards. Of course he is wrong, but he will not listen. I think I have found a way of proving to him a big mistake has been made. Only I do not have all the right information yet. Respectfully yours,’ et cetera.
“And underneath it says: ‘Leave this matter to me, old pal. Send me the name of the police officer concerned and I will pass it on to the brigadier for his attention. Keep up the good work!’ ”
Lisbet nodded.
“That’s just what I thought, Trompie. Yes, I’ll be in all evening. Why?”
The line went frustratingly dead.
* * *
Pembrook, who had been typing to Zondi’s dictation, dragged the sheet of paper out of the machine and handed it to Kramer.
“Word for word, Sergeant?”
Zondi, still toying with the telephone’s extra earpiece, shrugged modestly; it had not been much to memorize. The mission where he had been educated could never afford to issue textbooks.
“That’s quite a trick he’s got there,” Pembrook observed. “Where did he pick it up?”
“Ach, from a nun.”
“Hey?”
“Back to work, Johnny—what do you make of this letter?”
“It’s ambiguous, isn’t it, sir? I can see how the magazine read it so the ‘big mistake’ was referring to the station commander’s attitude. I can also see Boetie could have been referring to some other ‘big mistake.’ ”
“Like the wrong verdict at an inquest?”
“Yes, sir. But we have no evidence to—”
“Look at his last line, man. That could mean he didn’t have, either.”
Pembrook rubbed his brow and gave it a couple of thumps.
“Sorry, I can’t think straight,” he said. “This cold is a bastard. Can Zondi go out for some tissues?”
“In a minute. First tell me if you have any ideas, Mr. Memory.”
“Many, boss.”
“Let’s hear them, then.”
Kramer offered a cigarette to Pembrook, which was politely refused, and tossed another over to the stool in the corner. Zondi caught it in his hat and lit up. He enjoyed an audience but kept his tone respectful.
“My woman gave me two boys at one time thirteen years ago, boss. I have studied their ways—and the ways of others. From when they suck the breast until they are so high, there is no trouble for them in this world. It does not matter if their singing is like a dog crying to the spirits. Or if the drawing they make in the sand is like where the dung beetle has been running. Then one month they are not children. Because why? Because soon they will have time to find their own bread; we have told them this is so, we have said you must learn well in school now, we have shaken our finger at childish things. There is a big exam for the high school and they must pass it. This is the change, boss, they do not like to try something unless they can do it nicely. They do not like people to laugh at them.”
He paused.
“Is it the same for white children, boss?”
“Can’t remember. Certainly they lose confidence for a while.”
“But it is the laughing that is the big matter here. You have asked why the little master did not go to the police straightaway—maybe this is what he feared.”
Pembrook sighed, caught Kram
er’s eyes, and turned it into a dry cough. Zondi clicked his tongue sympathetically before going on.
“There is also another idea I have been thinking. If the little master had seen this foreigner being killed, he would have to admit to the policemen that he was trespassing on private property.”
“So what? That would be overlooked under the circumstances.”
“Unless they knew already there had been a murder, boss. They would laugh and say,‘What the hell were you doing there, you little bugger? Didn’t we tell you to keep away from Greenside?’ ”
It was an impertinent bit of mimicry.
“Wait a minute!”
Kramer jumped up with an expression of dawning comprehension. He dithered a moment and then disappeared from the room.
Zondi took it very calmly, concentrating on smoking his cigarette right down to the pinch of his forefinger and thumb. Pembrook watched him do it, wincing once, and then blew his nose on a piece of notepaper.
The rain stopped.
Nothing else happened.
Until Kramer returned with a box of paper tissues that he flung at Pembrook.
“Hell, sir! But you shouldn’t have gone out for—”
“Oh, belt up. I wanted a walk. Why not? You owe me thirty-five cents.”
“I’ll—”
“Later, man. I’ve got it all worked out.”
“All of it?”
“Enough. One thing I want to check first, then I’ll tell you. Meantime you book yourself a seat on the five o’clock plane from Durban.”
“Where to, sir?”
“Jo’burg—where else? Got a nice little girlie lined up for you there. Try not to give her your cold.”
Providence did Kramer proud. The house and grounds were completely deserted, apart from the driver; having dropped off Captain and Mrs. Jarvis at their weekly bridge party, he was taking his time over waxing the Rover round the back. The other servants were out visiting.
Kramer left Zondi to have a quiet word with him, and began his tour of the property’s perimeter. This established that it was completely secure except for an almost invisible hole in the wire fence hidden within the high hedge alongside the road.
He stood with his back to it and studied the lie of the land. There was a long stretch of lawn, a flower bed, more lawn, some large shrubs, the tops of the tennis court poles, and, out of sight, but very much in mind, the swimming pool. The house was also impossible to see from this point—and, presumably, impossible to be seen from.
It was an excellent access for the uninvited. Kramer headed in a straight line for the shrubs, taking the flower bed in a single stride, and not halting until forced to by the shrubs. There was a gap in them slightly to the left and he pushed his way into it. The sun had been out for an hour but the leaves were still very wet. He scowled but persevered.
Finding he had not far to go. Quite suddenly the tennis court lay before him, and—beyond its walls of wire netting—the pool. He examined the ground at his feet. Nothing.
The patio was on the far side of the absurdly blue water; a pebbled wedge of concrete on which stood some cast iron furniture painted white, a furled café umbrella, and a child’s swing missing its seat. He could take in every detail. Even the oyster shell ashtrays.
Another, more careful, examination of the ground where he stood revealed nothing.
Then Kramer had an inspiration: he bent at the knees until he approximated Boetie’s eye level. The patio was now blotted out of view by some azalea bushes in the foreground.
So that was it. Edging along like a bad case of piles, to keep his head at the right height, he discovered a gap in the azaleas through which he could see very clearly.
Still nothing on the ground. But a sapling just to his right caught his eye. Someone had been tearing the twigs off it. Someone who had not seen it bore an important-looking botanical label. Maybe because it was dark.
And anyway, a Midnight Leopard probably did not give a damn where it sharpened its claws.
The dispatch manager at the Gazette finished his day at two in the afternoon, having had to be there before sunrise to supervise local deliveries. He was about to take a farewell ogle at the new filing clerk when Grandfather Govender hobbled in.
“Out!” shouted the manager.
“Master, one more time I am asking you to come help by Danny’s side. That poor children, master, he—”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Please, master. God blessing you. I can see you are a kind man in your heart.”
“But I won’t be so kind if you come back again, Sammy. I’ve already told you the kid was too good to be true—always knew he was up to something. Now the cops have him and I’m not interfering with them for you or anyone else. Bugger off.” Grandfather Govender struck the floor with his staff, in the manner of Moses installing a plague, then withdrew with patriarchal dignity.
Whereupon the new filing clerk said he had given her goose pimples all over.
And the foreman asked to see them.
Three cups of coffee from the Greek café were very welcome. Zondi poured one into his tin mug and retired to the corner.
“Too bloody hot!” said Kramer, sucking his upper lip. “Any milk?”
“No, boss.”
“Ach, I’d better just get started then. But first, did Zondi give you Sally’s address in Jo’burg, Johnny?”
“It’s 39 Woodland Drive, Parktown.”
“Or Avenue—the driver was not positive about that.”
“I’ll find her, sir. But what line do I take?”
“There is one thing about Boetie we know for absolute certain,” Kramer said, “and that is he behaved out of character for the four weeks before his death. Or seemed to.”
“Sir?”
“I don’t believe anyone changes so much so fast. What we have to do is keep both Boeties in mind and see how they can work together. Okay?”
Zondi gave a nod of understanding.
“Right. The next step is to pinpoint when this—shall we say—apparent change took place. Any suggestions?”
“On Sunday he overslept.”
“Perfectly normal if he was very tired. Nor is there anything really remarkable in the fact he didn’t do his homework and seemed somewhat peculiar on Monday morning. This was all very passive, if you get me.”
“Then what about when he bought the paper?”
“We’re getting closer, but even that action appeared acceptable when he said he wanted it to better his English. The first time he actually did anything that shocked anyone was on Tuesday when he gave Hester the boot.”
“Yes, it was crazy, that. He could easily have two-timed her. The girls lived worlds apart.”
“What about spies like Doreen West, who saw him at dancing?”
“Just a chance he had to take, sir. Anyway, he could have lied. Hester would believe him sooner than a spiteful English dame.”
Kramer shook his head.
“But this is Boetie Swanepoel you’re talking about,” he said. “Lying and two-timing are not part of a strict Christian upbringing—and we know he had a hatred of cheats. I think he would have taken steps to avoid having to do either if he could.”
“Huh! And what about the lies he must have told Sally?”
“Perhaps they could not be avoided. Some lies make you feel bad; others don’t, if you feel you have good enough reason for them.”
The coffee was now cool enough to drink. The three of them sipped in thoughtful silence.
“Even so, sir, if Boetie was the upright bloke you say, then it couldn’t have been easy to drop Hester without telling her why.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. Not something to be done on the spur of the moment. I’m sure Boetie gave it a lot of thought. How long would you make it?”
“A day, sir?”
“Agreed—although it’s purely arbitrary. The interesting thing is to count a day back from Tuesday lunchtime and see where you end up.”
“With him buying the newspaper?”
“And whose name appeared in that story?”
“Sally’s?”
“It also gave her age.”
Zondi tipped his head sideways like a puzzled jackal.
“Age was the common denominator, you see,” said Kramer. “Something he could work on if he wanted an ‘in’ to the Jarvis family.”
“But why—”
“Once upon a time,” Kramer interrupted, “there lived a bloke called Boetie who wanted to catch a burglar.
“Bonita told us that on Saturday, November 15, he went out at night on his bicycle; Hennie told us he was still patrolling Greenside; Mr. Swanepoel told us Boetie overslept; and so Boetie was out very late on patrol in Greenside on the night of Andy’s death.
“There are not many street lights in Greenside and most of the properties are difficult to see into. Boetie was going along, relying on his ears to alert him to suspicious circumstances.
“We have one address in Greenside with which we can connect him—10 Rosebank Road. He also claims to have seen something. This couldn’t have been at No. 10 unless he entered the property.
“So what we have is Boetie passing by when he hears a sound or sounds that make him curious. He finds a hole in the fence inside the hedge and crawls through. All he sees is lawn—and it’s dark, too, remember. He makes for the next bit of cover.”
“The shrubs where you—”
“Shhhh, man. He forces his way through the shrubs and then finds the way blocked by the tennis court wire. Does he then go round sideways?”
“If he has any sense.”
“Unless, of course, he can identify from where he is who or what is making those sounds.”
“Naturally, sir! He can see all right and that’s why he stands there, buggering up that little tree, looking right onto the patio …”
“Through two lots of wire netting. That’s important because although your eyes put it out of focus—like when you’re gawking in a zoo—it still blurs the vision slightly, particularly at night. I’ll come back to that.
“The question now is: What does he see? Take the official version. Andy is walking about bare-arsed, falls in, and doesn’t surface.
The Caterpillar Cop Page 14
