Dead Before Dying

hear

his craving.

“I want to hear it,” Basie Louw said. “May I attend the press conference, Captain?”

“Yes.”

“I want to hear what she says. I want to hear whether she knows that Wilson was queer. And whether she knows that Wallace screwed around.”

Behind him walked the thin crime reporter of the

Argus.

She heard Louw. Her trained ears were flapping in the breeze but he said nothing more. She checked to see whether any of the other media had heard him but saw that they hadn't been near enough.

“Anyone want a lift back to the hotel?” she asked with an English accent, loud enough for Louw to hear.

“You going back to the office, Captain?” Louw asked.

“Nienaber’s house,” Joubert replied.

“May I come with you?” Louw asked the reporter.

“Of course,” she said.

* * *

“The boys are with the neighbors, Captain. I talked to the eldest. He said his father’s brother was on his way from Oudtshoorn. The neighbors phoned him. The hospital says Mrs. Nienaber is still under sedation,” Snyman said.

“And the desk?”

“These documents, Captain.” He pointed to a neat pile on the floor. “Nothing of importance. Family stuff. Marriage certificate, baptismal certificates, children’s school reports, photos . . .”

“Good work.”

“What now, Captain?”

“Did you ask the boy about the other names?”

“He’s never heard of them.”

“Oberholzer?”

“No.”

“Now we simply start all over again, Gerrit. I’ll phone Mrs. Wallace and Mrs. Ferreira. You take Wilson’s mother and colleagues. Ask about Nienaber.”

Snyman nodded and turned but Joubert saw that the constable didn't agree with the connection theory. Then Joubert walked to Nienaber’s study, past the photographs and the certificates, sat down behind the desk again, and took out his notebook. Dr. Hanna Nortier. He would see her again tomorrow. But then it would be official. Now it was personal. He dialed the number.

“Hello. Unfortunately I’m not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you and good-bye.” An electronic beep sound followed. He said nothing. She was probably busy with someone. He cut the connection, dialed again.

“Hello. Unfortunately, I’m not . . .” He thought she had such a pretty voice. She spoke as if she was truly sorry that she was unable to take the call. Her soft, melodious voice. He could see her mouth moving, the pretty mouth in the pretty, angular face, the long, pointed nose. Did she sound tired? That slender body, which had to carry the heavy weight of other people’s problems. He so much wanted to help her to relax. He wanted to make things easier for her . . .

Softly he replaced the receiver.

You’re in love, you fool.

He put his hand out to his coat pocket, to reach for a cigarette. It stopped halfway when he remembered.

Your timing is bad, he thought and watched his shaking hand.

Oh, dear God in Heaven but he was desperate for a cigarette right now.

Just smoke less. Four a day. Three would be fine. Three cigarettes a day, could, true as God, not do anyone any harm. One with his coffee . . . No, not before swimming. The first one in the office. At about nine o’clock, say. And one after he’d had his diet lunch. And one in the evening, with a book and a small drink. He would have to think about drink. He could no longer drink beer, it was fattening. Whisky. He would teach himself to drink whisky.

What will you drink, Mat, Hanna Nortier would ask him on Friday evening when she had invited him in to her house or her flat or whatever and they were sitting in easy chairs and she had put on some or other piece of opera music on her CD player, softly, with only the beautiful standard lamp in the corner lit, the room shadowy.

Whisky, he would say, whisky, please, Hanna.

Hanna.

He had never said her name out loud.

“Hanna.”

Then she would give a satisfied nod because whisky was a drink for cultivated operagoers and she would get up and disappear into the kitchen to get each of them something to drink and he would lean back, fold his hands behind his head and think of intelligent remarks to make about the opera and his blood brother Rossini when she came back to give him his whisky and sit down on the chair again, her legs folded under her, comfortable, her brown eyes under the heavy eyebrows fixed on him. They would discuss things and later, when the atmosphere and the feeling were right, he would lean over and kiss her mouth, lightly, to test the water. Then he would sit back in his chair again and wait until later . . .

He dialed the number again, filled with compassion for Hanna Nortier and her busy days and the dreams he dreamed about him and her.

“Hello. Unfortunately I’m not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you and good-bye.”

“This is Mat Joubert,” he said softly, after the beep. “I would like . . . I . . .” Earlier he’d known what he wanted to say, now he was having difficulty. “

The Barber

 . . . I have two tickets for Friday evening . . . you might like to come with me. You can phone my home, later, because I’m still working and I still have to go and . . .” He suddenly wondered how much time there was on the cassette and ended abruptly. “Thank you very much.” He put down the telephone and patted his pockets again and decided three cigarettes a day wasn'’t too much and dialed Margaret Wallace’s number.

Her son answered and went to call her. He asked her whether her husband had known Oliver Nienaber.

“The hair person?”

“Yes.”

“He did.”

Joubert leaned forward in a dead man’s chair.

“How did he know him?”

“They were both finalists in the Junior Businessman of the Year Award. Nienaber got it.”

Joubert looked at the certificates. He found the one he was looking for.

“We sat next to them at the awards ceremony. That was what . . . two, three years ago. His wife is such a beautiful person. We got on very well.”

“Did they have any other contact?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think James liked the man very much. There was . . . tension at the table. But I suppose it was because they were adversaries, in a sense.”

Margaret Wallace was quiet for a moment. “Don’t tell me he’s . . .”

“Yes,” Joubert said with sympathetic caution. “He was shot this morning.”

He heard her sigh. “Dear Lord,” she said resignedly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and didn't know why.

“What does it mean, Captain? That Jimmy knew the Ferreira man and now Nienaber. What does it mean?”