Dead Before Dying

He tried getting in through the door. The room was full of people and smoke. In one corner, sitting at a table, was a big man with hair that was too long and too untidy to be a detective’s. It tallied with the description he’d been given. He walked toward him. The man had a cigarette in one hand and a pen in the other. He was talking to a fat man in front of him.

“They must divide the Peninsula into sectors, Nougat. And not skip an arms dealer or a gunsmith, no matter how small. Now we’re just waiting for the bloody ballistics report.”

“Here it is,” said the man with the cannonball head and handed Joubert a brown envelope.

Joubert looked up in surprise. “Thank you,” he said. “Did the General send you?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Joubert looked at his watch. “He’s a man of his word.” He tore open the envelope and read the report.

“Twenty-two Long Rifle caliber. According to the marks on the case and the cartridge, a Smith & Wesson Escort, the so-called Model 61.”

“Point two two. Shit. Common as muck,” Nougat said.

“It does help us, though. They must question the dealers, Nougat. Has someone bought a Smith & Wesson and perhaps had a Mauser serviced. Or bought .22 long ammunition. Or had a Smith & Wesson and a Mauser serviced. Or just a Smith & Wesson . . .”

“I catch your drift.”

“Anything, Nougat. We’re looking for needles in a haystack. That doesn’t mean asking a few simple questions and going on to the next shop. They must do it properly. Apply some pressure. Threaten with inspections. The Mauser isn’t licensed.”

“Leave it to me, Cappy. We’ll get our man.”

“Woman,” said the man with the cannonball head.

“What did you say?” asked Joubert, slightly irritated.

“I think it was a woman, Captain.”

“Oh?”

“The Model 61 is a woman’s weapon, Captain.”

“And who are you, if I may ask?” said Nougat O’Grady.

“I’m Adjutant Mike de Villiers. From the armory. The General phoned me and asked me whether I’d look through the ballistic report and bring it to you. He said you could ask me questions if you want to. I . . . er . . . I know something about guns, Captain.”

Joubert looked at the man opposite him, the round head, the absence of a neck, the blue overalls covered in gun oil marks. If the General had sent him . . .

“What do you know about the .22, Adjutant?”

Mike de Villiers closed his eyes. “Smith & Wesson made the Escort for the female market. In the seventies. Short grip, small weapon. People called it the Model 61. Fitted easily into a handbag. Semiautomatic pistol, five in the magazine. Not a great success, especially the first produced, which had a weak safety indicator. Smith & Wesson built a magazine safety mechanism into the second model, in ’70, but owners had to take the pistol back to the factory for adjusting. Four models between ’69 and ’71. Good penetration capacity, better than the Baby Browning. Accurate at short distance. Jamming rare but not impossible.”

Mike de Villiers opened his eyes.

Joubert and O’Grady stared at him.

“That doesn’t mean a man won’t use it,” Joubert said, still bemused.

The eyes closed again. “Short grip, Captain, very short. Small weapon. Your finger won’t even fit into the trigger guard. Doesn’t fit into a man’s hand, doesn’t fit a man’s ego. A man looks for a large gun—9-millimeter, .45 Magnum. Statistics show that eighty-seven percent of handgun murders are committed by men with large calibers. Shooting incidents by women are rare, generally in self-defense, generally small caliber.”

The eyes opened slowly, like a reptile’s.

O’Grady’s jaw had come to a halt and dropped slightly. Joubert frowned.

“But the Mauser is a man’s weapon.”

“I don’t know anything about the Broomhandle, Captain. If it was made before 1918, I’m not interested,” de Villiers said.

“Is Captain Joubert here?” the leader of a group of uniforms who had walked through the door called out.

“Here,” Joubert said and sighed. The place was a madhouse.

“Did the Captain want to know anything else?”

“Thank you, Adjutant. I know where to get hold of you if there’s anything else.”

De Villiers nodded, said good-bye, and quietly left.

“Looks like a lizard, talks like a computer,” said O’Grady. “Man’s a fucking genius.”

Joubert didn't hear him. His thoughts were frustrated, confused by the new information. “Nothing in this investigation makes any sense, Nougat. Nothing.”

* * *

He phoned Stellenbosch University and asked to speak to Dr. A. L. Boshoff.

“Anne Boshoff,” a woman’s voice answered. He sighed quietly. Another female doctor.

He explained who he was and asked whether he could speak to her that afternoon, explaining that it was urgent.

“I’ll prepare in the meanwhile,” she said.

* * *

He closed the station commander’s door. “How peaceful the silence is,” said Lieutenant Leon Petersen.

O’Grady wiped his handkerchief over his forehead. “All we need is air-conditioning,” he said. Next to him sat Gerrit Snyman with his notebook in front of him.

“Get on with it,” said Joubert.

“His full name is Alexander MacDonald, born in Humansdorp on April 8, 1952. Unmarried, no dependents. He is the sole owner of two fishing trawlers, the

High Road

and the

Low Road.

According to his documents he still owes the bank 110,000 rand on the

Low Road.

He had a contract with Good Hope Fisheries and delivers solely to them. John Paulsen is the skipper of the

High Road.

He’s worked for MacDonald for eighteen years. He says the man was good-hearted but had a terrible temper. When we asked him who would have had reason to murder MacDonald, he said he could think of at least two hundred with no effort. MacDonald never drank at sea but when they were in the harbor . . . He has a criminal record. Driving under the influence, Hout Bay, ’88; assault with intent to cause severe bodily harm, ’89; fifteen complaints of disturbing the peace since ’79. One conviction for deliberate injury to property. He and a few crew members smashed up a bar in Simons Town. And here’s an interesting one. An accusation of rape was laid by one Eleanor Davids two years ago. She later withdrew it. The investigating officers suspected that MacDonald threatened her with violence, but they couldn't prove anything.”

“A difficult customer,” Petersen said.

“A chat with Eleanor Davids could be interesting,” Joubert said.

“That’s the idea, Captain, that’s the idea.”

26.

He drove to Stellenbosch, late for his appointment with Dr. Anne Boshoff. The district manager of Premier Bank, in his luxurious office, had been impatient. The robber was bad for business, bad for the bank’s image. All the negative publicity. Nor was he impressed by the SAPD’s plans. A plainclothes policeman in every branch? What would happen if a policeman scared the robber? He could start shooting. Premier Bank didn't want to expose its clients or its employees to danger.