Dead Before Dying

“Wallace was . . . promiscuous but heterosexual. Wilson was homosexual. Ferreira . . . I don’t know. He liked blue movies, his wife said. And MacDonald, the one we found this morning. He’d been charged with rape. But the woman withdrew the case.”

“You see— you can actually speak,” she said in a mock serious tone, frowning, and he wondered whether there was something this woman could do that didn't make him think of sex.

“It sounds to me as if they were all closet queens, Mat Joubert. Do you know how many men suppress their homosexuality with promiscuity? And the rape. Perhaps he wanted to prove his masculinity to himself. Come on, I bet you your murderer is going to be gay. It fits. The Mauser. It’s a statement. A sexual statement. By a homosexual man.”

“From the middle classes. Who was adopted,” he said and frowned as she had frowned earlier on.

“The captain has a sense of humor,” she said to her bike. She looked at him again.

“What are you doing this evening? You’re too precious to get away.”

“Doctor, the problem is . . .”

“Please don’t call me doctor. Call me anything. Call me sexy. But not doctor. Do you think I’m sexy? Where do you get your name? Mat? An abbreviation of Matthew?”

“Yes,” he said to save time.

“Yes, I’m sexy, or yes, it’s short for Matthew?”

Somewhere on her desk the telephone rang. She got up smoothly and gave one long step. She scrabbled under the books and documents. He watched the muscle of her calf tensing and relaxing and was amazed by its perfection.

“Anne Boshoff,” she said in an irritable voice. “Just a moment.” She held out the receiver. “For you, Matthew.”

He got up, put his notebook down on the carton, and took the receiver. It was the district manager of Premier Bank. Head office had agreed that the police could deploy members of the force in their branches. But they urgently requested that the SAPD consider the lives and safety of the bank’s personnel and clients. Joubert assured him that they would.

“May I use the phone?” he asked and looked round. She was sitting on a carton again, her legs crossed, paging through his notebook.

“Your handwriting is awful. The long loops of your

y

and

j

and

g

indicate that you’re sexually frustrated. Are you? You’re already using the telephone, Matthew. Just carry on.”

He dialed the number and tried concentrating on the call. He patted his shirt pocket in search of a cigarette. Then he remembered that they were in his coat pocket. He wanted to smoke. He wanted to do something with his hands to hide his dreadful discomfort and his awkwardness. De Wit answered his telephone in the manner prescribed by the circular of the office of the district commissioner. “Murder and Robbery. Colonel Bart de Wit, good afternoon.”

He told de Wit about Premier Bank’s decision. De Wit promised to liaise with Brigadier Brown about the arrangements.

“Where are you, Captain?” de Wit asked.

“In Stellenbosch, Colonel. With the crimina . . . criminologist.”

“The press conference has been scheduled for eighteen hundred. In the General’s office. Please don’t be late.”

“Very well, Colonel.”

He looked at his watch. He would have to hurry.

“Freudian slip, Matthew?” Anne Boshoff asked. Her knees were together now, almost chaste.

“No, it’s a press conference . . .”

“I’m speaking about the criminal you so very nearly mentioned. Tell me, was it Bart de Wit to whom you spoke?”

He nodded.

“I know him. He was in the criminology department at the University of South Africa. I attended a few conferences where he was also present. Good example of a small man. His nickname was Kilroy. Kilroy the killjoy. He looks exactly like Kilroy, the little graffiti man who peers over the wall. Kilroy was here. With his nose. He just doesn’t have the hormones. Didn't try it on, at even one conference. It made a girl think.”

“May I have my notebook?”

“Tell me, Matthew, are you absent, or is it merely your way of putting crooks and villains at ease?” She handed over the notebook. He took his jacket, took out a cigarette, and lit it.

“Do you know how bad that is for your health?”

“It’s a Special Mild.”

“Oh. So that doesn’t cause cancer.”

“Doctor,” he said firmly, “the weapon used in the Ferreira murder was a Smith & Wesson Model 61. According to one of our weapons experts, it’s typical of a gun a woman would use.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t match your theory, Doctor . . .”

“Doctor. You sound like a vicar. Call me Anne. And drop the ‘doctor’ bit. I like it when men are rude to me. It keeps me in my place. Of course it matches my theory. If you have a Mauser, you already have a large pistol, no matter how small your prick is.”

“Are you certain it’s a man?”

“Of course I’m not sure. It could be a woman. It could be a lesbian chimpanzee. I can only tell you what the law of averages says. I don’t have an ashtray. You’ll have to open the window.”

“I must go.”

“You’re so beautifully tall and big. Your body, I mean. I like big men. Small ones carry too much inferiority. Bodies too small for all the hormones.”

He was confused. He looked at the window to avoid the legs and the full breasts.

“You look like a bear. I like bears. I think a person’s looks have a great influence on their personality. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes were still fixed on him, her concentration aimed at him like a weapon. He looked at her and then away. He hadn't the vaguest idea of what to say.

“Do I make you uncomfortable? Are you the kind of man who likes more subtle women?”

“I . . . er . . .”

“Are you married, Mat Joubert?”

“No, I—”

“Neither am I. I’m divorced. One of those heartrending affairs that didn't pan out. He was . . . is a surgeon. We’re still friends. That’s it. Now you know.”

“Oh.” He knew he had to get the conversation under control. He decided to be decisive. “I—”

She interrupted him. “I hate social games. I hate the artificial manner in which people communicate. The superficiality. I think one should say what you want to say. Say what you mean. People don’t always like it. Especially men. Men want to be in control, they want to play the game according to their rules. The love games, especially. Why go through all the pretense first? If I think a man is sexy, I want to say so. If a man wants me, he mustn’t take me to an expensive restaurant first and send me flowers. He must take me. Don’t you think it saves time?”

He looked at her legs. “I know an eighteen-year-old student in Monte Vista who agrees with you,” he said and felt better.

“Tell me about her. Is she your lover? Do you like them young? I’m thirty-two. Does that disqualify me?”