“Careful, Sergeant,” warned one of the constables, “I can feel a gun through his jacket.”
“Did you hear that? A gun!” the taxi driver announced excitedly to the crowd of motorists that had gathered.
“Hold him nice and tight and I’ll help myself,” said the sergeant, taking a wad of documents from Pembrook’s inside pocket. He turned to read them in the beam of his riot van’s headlights.
The crowd went up on tiptoe.
“Is he a saboteur, Sarge?” asked the taxi driver, adding, for the benefit of late arrivals, “It was me who caught him!”
“Are you really this?” the sergeant asked, turning on Pembrook and holding out his identity card.
The probationer detective constable said good-bye to all that, brought himself back into the present, and nodded.
“What’s he?” begged the crowd.
“I’m entitled to know!” demanded the taxi driver, grabbing the sergeant’s arm.
“A policeman, sir. Do you want to leave your name? For a medal?”
Even Pembrook found a smile to go with the ignominious retreat by a citizen who might still have won praise for vigilance if he had not gone about it with the gusto of a vulture.
Well satisfied, the crowd discreetly withdrew.
Leaving Pembrook very much alone.
“Ach, you are all done in, son,” said the sergeant. “I think I’ll leave my questions for later. Best we get you to a doctor.”
Kramer read the label upside down because he was loath to change his position.
The Ultimate in Comfi Sleepware—Summer Cloud—the Mattress that Makes your Night.
It also made one hell of a fine haystack.
His body, partially supported on cantilevered elbows over a dozing Lisbet, was entirely relaxed, emptied of striving, and no longer nagging for a piece of action. His mind was experiencing a state of tranquil detachment like having the moon for a head.
So he serenely surveyed what had come to pass on an earthly plane and accepted it amounted to very little. His only achievement being the establishment of a nebulous link between Boetie’s murder and the death of an American student. No more than that because his theories so far had been based on assumptions rather than deduction. While the decoded message went a long way to confirm them, there was still the possibility they could apply equally well to some other situation—or to nothing at all, being merely part of a kid’s wild imaginings. What was needed was one tangible something that tied the two cases together, beyond a reasonable doubt.
Kramer slipped out of Lisbet and rolled over on his back. She cuddled up.
Everything rested now on what Pembrook could discover from the younger daughter in the morning. She was the sole member of the Jarvis family they could approach without arousing suspicion and, with the contents of the toffee tin exhausted of information, their sole source of fresh fact. Kramer hoped to God the Telex statement would come through before midday as the press would soon start getting restive. When that happened, bigger brass than the Colonel would dictate how the investigation was run—maybe take charge themselves. And as Zondi said, a man should share nothing but his bed.
Such thoughts broke his mood, making him restless again. Lisbet, however, had fallen deeply asleep. He decided to have a smoke.
What a gorgeous sight she made from the doorway. It was worth dwelling on—toasting, even, with the dregs of the demijohn.
He found enough to rinse out his mouth and, after another pause, went in search of his Lucky Strikes. They were there in the jacket with his other clothes stacked on the phonograph. It had been a ritual as solemn as any church ceremony. Then had come the extraordinary business with the jazz record. He had soon put a stop to it by teaching her instead a few healthy games.
The match flared brightly, hurting his eyes. He waited for them to readjust before going over to the drinks cabinet to pour something special. He opened the doors and looked in.
To see himself reflected dimly in the mirror that backed the cabinet’s interior. Hell, this was how that tennis player champ must have looked that night; a naked, muscled body in semi-darkness with a cigarette tip glowing like an illuminated boil.
“Jesus!”
Kramer let go of his tumbler where he thought a table stood and it shattered on the floor. A startled sound came from Lisbet’s bedroom. He was on his way over when she staggered into his arms.
“What’s happening, Trompie?”
“Ach, I’m sorry, my poppie! It’s just I’ve suddenly realized …”
“Oh, yes?”
“You’re still asleep, though. Let me take you back.”
“Please tell me.”
“Come over here, then. That’s right, sit. I’ll put the little light on because I’ve got something to show you.”
Lisbet battled to keep her head up as she watched him hurriedly sort through the junk from his jacket pockets. He bulged open an envelope.
“See this?” Kramer said gleefully. “It’s the stub of a Texan found at the scene of the murder. I discounted it before, thinking it had been dropped in the glade by the young bloke who found the body. He told me he had one to steady his nerves after dressing and before going for help. What I overlooked was that his clothes were in the other glade—like mine were in this room.”
She beat off a yawn with her fist.
“Couldn’t he have gone back with it?”
“I’ll check, of course, but under the circumstances, that’s very unlikely. The girl with him had flipped her lid and I’m sure he’d seen enough of the body.”
“Now you’re bleeding on my carpet,” she groaned.
So he was, having rushed in bare feet across broken glass without noticing.
12
THE REPORT KRAMER received from the laboratory at eleven o’clock the following morning enabled him to be philosophical about Pembrook’s misfortune.
“Jo’burg CID say he should be all right by tomorrow,” he told Zondi, “so I said not to trouble themselves with the matter. Anyway, once we’ve seen where this lipstick thing leads, we might get a lot more out of that interview with Miss Sally.”
“But what were you laughing at, boss?”
“Some cock-and-bull story about him being arrested. By the way, he’ll be coming back by bus this time and so we’ll have to fix for a van to pick him up at the station.”
“When?”
“Late tomorrow night.”
“Okay. You were going to tell me what was in the report.”
Kramer opened it with a flourish.
“It says here that the sample of lipstick I took from the girl at the dance—Penny Jones—was a cheap brand on sale at bazaars, shops, and most chemists. Now, the lipstick on the cigarette looks the same color in artificial light, but is a much more expensive make and you can see the difference in daylight. It’s called Tasty Tangerine. The maker’s name is Rochelle.”
“And so?”
“Rochelle is one of those swanky firms that make a big fuss about who sells their products. Their agent in Durban says the only outlet in Trekkersburg is the chemists’ on the corner of De Wet Street and the Parade. That’s where I’m going right now.”
“And the cigarette?”
“Read that part for yourself, you lazy bugger.”
From his high window, the Colonel stared down at the street and saw nothing. He had problems. Big ones.
A reporter had just left after spending half an hour coming as close as he dared to being forthright. It appeared his editor was receiving an unusually large mail concerning the police. Anxious as always to act in the public good, the Gazette had so far published none of it on the grounds that space was currently very restricted. But the leader-page columnist was getting fed up at having to churn out so many extra paragraphs—and, anyway, it would soon be obliged to use at least one or two. If only there was something about either the sex killing or the fire tragedy that was new they could print. People were getting the idea there was political significan
ce to be found in the absence of news. Rumors about terrorists were even doing the rounds. The reporter himself had been informed in a certain bar that the Swanepoel boy had been found with the insignia of a guerrilla movement carved on his back. And as for the Indian burned in the police van, the grandfather had been in to the news editor to say he had heard the child was alive and well; which, when taken with the story that the charred body was that of a Nigerian midget trained to incite school children, made one think.
It had made the Colonel laugh—as it was supposed to have done. Not very heartily, though, because the message was still there, and such fears had a rational basis.
He was also able to deal with the matter of the Govender boy by declaring it sub judice as a departmental inquiry was being held that very afternoon. But all he could say about the other case was that a senior officer had it well in hand and particularly requested the press’s cooperation in not interfering with the families involved.
In the end, all he could offer the reporter was an official denial that politics were involved—insisting, at the same time, none of the rumors were printed. Result: a muted howl of dismay.
The Colonel was not accustomed to being under pressure from a newspaper. It annoyed him considerably and yet he could not deny things were proceeding very slowly. How unlike Kramer this was. He hoped the man’s sex life with the teacher at Boomkop Lower School was not distracting him.
Speak of the devil, there he went now, moving like six feet of whirlwind—towards the Parade.
The Colonel decided he could afford to concentrate on his own work for another day, half of which was unavoidably going to be taken up by that idiot Constable Hendriks.
Zondi spoke to the Widow Fourie for ten minutes when she rang. Then he copied down a message and stuck it in the dial.
The report’s findings with regard to the cigarette end were understandably limited. The Texan bore traces of Rochelle cosmetic, had gone out before having to be stubbed, and was—according to a test of the tobacco’s moisture content—perhaps about a month out of its airtight packaging. The technician added in parentheses that the crinkling of the paper was the result of the handling received subsequent to being smoked. How obvious. A small amount of tobacco was also missing for the same reason.
Pity there were no such things as lip prints.
Then a really practical idea struck Zondi that occupied him for the next half hour, at the end of which he called in a Bantu detective constable to make an express delivery. He gave him a verbal message and said it came from the lieutenant—anyway, that was what he had to tell the doctors.
It was noon when Kramer came hobbling back into the office with a grin like a nymphomaniac’s at a love-in. He waved a receipted invoice at Zondi.
“Got it,” he said. “We had to go through every bloody carbon, though, because the Rochelle girl is on leave. A delivery made to the Jarvis home six weeks ago included an order for a stick of Tasty Tangerine.”
“And how many other people have been buying it, boss?”
“Christ, don’t give me that! What other people did Boetie know who were loaded enough to afford the stuff?”
Zondi laughed, moving out of Kramer’s chair and back onto his stool.
“You know who you are like, boss? There was this old priest by the mission who used to tell us that God was the great spirit behind everything. With you it is Jarvis.”
Kramer knocked his hat off as he passed.
“That’s called faith, you bloody pagan. You’ve got to have it if you want to get anywhere in this world.”
“The priest was eaten by a crocodile.”
“You don’t say.”
His lacerated foot hurt so much from all that fast walking he had to rest it for a while. When he had more time, he would get Strydom to put in a few stitches.
“Well, what can you tell me?” Kramer said over the top of his shoes propped on the desk.
“It was as you said, boss. Sergeant Frans took a message from the tennis boy; he did not go back into the glade where the body was.”
“Fine! Now all we have to do is sort out how the thing got there. Remember it had rained that afternoon for a short while. I think we can discount the actual murderer for a start: women don’t kill like that and—”
“It was fake, though.”
“Even so, the chances are nil. Also that branch where the sickle was left would make her about six feet tall to reach up. They would remember her at the chemists’ if she was so big, but they don’t.”
Zondi had begun linking paper clips into a pair of miniature leg irons, and generally behaving nervously as if he was waiting for something.
“Ach, don’t fidget, man! What was I saying?”
“That the murderer had to be a man.”
“Ah, yes, and a careful one, too, because he took care not to leave anything behind. But what if he had an assistant?”
“Never, boss!”
“Stranger things have happened, I know that for a fact, Zondi. For example, they caught a young couple in England who had murdered about six kids altogether—and in much the same way. Got sadistic kicks from it. Just picked them up in the street and took them into the veld.”
“But did they ask them to their house?”
Kramer was about to snap back at Zondi when his jaw mutinied.
“Holy Jesus,” he said, “that’s exactly what happened with the last one—they got careless! Even had a friend there. A couple not much older than this bloke Glen and the eldest daughter. Man, it could have been a proper sex killing after all. Only …”
“Boss?”
“No, it can’t be! Why have we been pussyfooting all round this case? Because we’ve got to be sure we’re on the right trail, that’s why. The Jarvis bunch are a respected family, not rubbish like these English ones, and there would be a hell of a stink if Boetie leads us into making a wrong move. What do you think? You haven’t put forward anything so far.”
“There are those who would say it is not my job,” replied Zondi.
“Come on, you’ve got your hoof in something!”
Before Zondi had to reply, the Bantu detective constable clumped in and deposited Boetie’s shirt on the desk. He handed Kramer a note.
“What’s this? You had it dry-cleaned?”
The shirt was indeed very neatly folded inside its plastic bag.
Kramer read the note and dismissed the messenger. Then he walked over to Zondi and knocked his hat off again.
“You cheeky kaffir! Sitting there, listening to me suck all that out of my thumb, and all the time you knew there were specks of tobacco in the little bugger’s pocket!”
“Texan, boss?”
“Naturally. And the microscope picked up a tiny smear of Tasty Tangerine.”
Ye Old Englishe Tea Shoppe off De Wet Street was crowded by office girls buying roast beef sandwiches with luncheon vouchers—and the smoothies who preyed on young lamb. There were also the usual parties of intrepid elderly shoppers who built laagers of parcels around them as if anticipating an attack by the Zulu waiters.
However, the Widow Fourie had booked a table, so Kramer was able to sit down and ease his extremity while waiting for her. It had been sly on her part to leave simply the time and the place, and the rest to his conscience. Not that guilt had brought him there; it was more the excuse of having an engagement which would postpone confronting the Jarvis household.
For he still lacked the clincher. Some spark of insight that would arc between Boetie and Andy, galvanizing him into action.
Zondi, who had done well solving the Texan riddle, was understandably impatient for him to proceed. But he chose to largely ignore the fresh questions his deduction presented. While Kramer could accept that Boetie would hardly carry the Texan around unless he thought it important, and that it was probably a vital clue in the child’s estimation, this did not account for the fact it had been found six yards from where the T-shirt lay. Zondi’s argument that it fell out during the struggle
was too feeble, as the pocket was deep and the T-shirt tight-fitting. Besides which, the medical evidence canceled out any rough stuff.
“Hello, Trompie.”
Kramer pushed out her chair.
“Thanks. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. We’ve got a sale on.”
“Keeping busy, then?”
“Oh, yes—and you?”
“Never stop.”
“Still on the boy up at the country club? There’s been nothing in the papers.”
“How are the kids?”
“Fine. They ask after you.”
“Uhuh.”
The waiter asked for their order.
“I’ll have an omelet,” the Widow Fourie said without consulting the menu. “A cheese one with no tomatoes. Bring the boss a rump steak, very rare, with some tossed salad and potatoes in their skins.”
Kramer smiled.
“So you haven’t forgotten my little ways?” he asked, watching her burrow in her handbag.
“After three years, I’ve got a lot to remember, Trompie.”
She opened an affectionately inscribed cigarette case and held it out. He made no move to take one. What a dirty trick.
“Come on,” she said. “Your steak will be ages.”
Perhaps there was no guile.
“What’s this, then?” he asked flippantly, noticing she had changed her brand. “Smoke a Texan and cough like a cowboy?”
The Widow Fourie laughed.
Then frowned, bewildered. Kramer’s chair was empty—he had left without another word.
The headmaster’s secretary had the afternoon off, so Lisbet was at liberty to speak to Kramer as intimately as her waning modesty would permit—and for as long as she liked, too.
But when she got through, an unfamiliar voice answered the call in his office. The name was impossible to catch.
“Are you a Bantu?” she asked finally.
The reply was in the affirmative.
“Then where is your boss? It doesn’t matter who I am, boy, just tell me what I ask. Oh, it’s an order he’s given you, is it? I’m Miss Louw from the school. Are you satisfied?”
Completely, and with apologies.
The Caterpillar Cop Page 17
