“One last question, then: Have you noticed any change in his behavior over the last month, going right back to the beginning of November?”
“He could have done better in his exams, that’s all.”
“Thanks very much, then.”
Kramer took his things and made for the bathroom.
“But you said-” she exclaimed.
“Why not finish this in a quiet corner over at the Tudor Tavern? I noticed you hadn’t cooked your supper yet, Miss Louw, and I can’t talk any more until I eat.”
And so he made her pick him-even if it was only to satisfy the curiosity he had aroused over Boetie’s death. But she did not hurry back home afterwards. By then they were coconspirators with an ingenious plan for the morrow.
7
Zondi tried to oversleep. But when the fourth person left his bed, fought the others over the clothing strewn around it, and ended up chanting multiplication tables, he knew Wednesday had begun for him, too.
He forced open an eye.
His wife, Miriam, was through in the living-room-cum-kitchen spreading sweetened condensed milk on wedges of bread. She piled them on an enamel plate and then poured six mugs of black tea. It would have been seven if she was expecting her husband at breakfast, so he had a chance of at least staying where he was for a while.
The twins, being the eldest, were also trying to oversleep on their mattress unrolled beneath the window-and having as little success.
Zondi grunted at them.
“Good morning, Father,” they said together.
“Up!” he ordered. “What do you think I pay all that money to the teacher for?”
“So he will not beat us, Father,” one of them answered.
“So he will give us good reports,” said the other.
It was too early in the morning for that sort of thing. Zondi pressed one ear into the pillow and covered the other with his forearm. This did not cut out all of the noise, but kept it down to a minimum until it was obvious that the children had left to attend the first shift at Kwela Village school.
Shortly afterwards, Miriam came in and told him there was a municipal policeman waiting to see him.
“Bring him to me,” he said.
In marched Argyle Mslope, who halted with a great thump of boots on the rammed earth floor. He saluted.
“Greetings, Detective Sergeant Zondi!”
“Greetings, Argyle.”
“Your wife is a buxom woman, Detective Sergeant Zondi.”
“I thank you, Argyle.”
“She will bear you many brave sons.”
“She has done that already.”
“God bless you,” said Argyle.
One of the old school and no mistake about it; mission-educated, a stretcher-bearer with the white soldiers in the deserts of North Africa, a perfect Zulu gentleman, and-at times-a fearless fighter. It was a great pity, though, that Argyle had not progressed very far at the mission or he might have been an asset to the South African Police itself. However, he seemed happy enough in the municipal force, guarding beer halls, hospitals, clinics, hostels, and townships. He played the bass drum in its band and put a shine on his brass buttons that contrasted as strongly with the tatty-quality uniform as fresh blood on a stray’s fur.
Zondi could see himself stretched out and elongated in the belt buckle just three feet away.
“Why have you come, Argyle?”
“Your superior officer desires you to use the telephone.”
“Straightaway?”
“I regret that is the case.”
So did every God-fearing passer-by within hearing of Zondi as he hurried up the dirt roads to the township manager’s office.
The African clerks there were quick to smile and greet him-and had an outside line ready waiting. Zondi glared at the number the manager had noted down. It was to a call box and that was always an ominous sign.
But ten minutes later he was back telling Miriam that he had been given the day off.
The lieutenant was taking his gun up to the boy’s school, he had been told. In the meantime, he was going to sleep where he was calling from-the bird sanctuary. Mystifying.
“That is good, my husband,” said Miriam. “Now you will have the time to put a plank across the bottom of the lavatory door outside. How does the corporation think a modest woman likes to be on that squat pan with everyone looking in under?”
“I have heard,” replied Zondi with a leer, “that the corporation thinks it is part of our culture.”
He artfully lowered the door eight inches.
Probationer Detective Johnny Pembrook stood outside the Colonel’s office making sure he had no wind left to break. His gut had been in an uproar all night through sheer nerves. The order to report to the divisional commissioner had reached him in the barracks as he was turning in after a long, fruitless search for an old woman’s purse. The awful thing was that only the time had been stated and he had no idea what he had done. Not specifically, that was. It had really churned him over. A probationer detective makes a lot of mistakes. One too many and he goes back into blue for the rest of his days. And Pembrook wanted to join CID more than he wanted to play for the A team-although he would never admit it. That was the worst mistake he could make. God, how his stomach fluttered.
Then, having almost fired a live round, he decided to quit playing Russian roulette with himself and find out what it was all about.
The Colonel was surprisingly cordial.
“At ease, Pembrook,” he said in English. “How are things in CID?”
“First class, sir.”
“Good! You’re making nice progress.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It is time you did some paper work, though.”
Pembrook’s chin came up.
“Sir?”
“We want you to take some statements. These are the addresses-Swanepoel, Steenkamp, it’s all there.”
“What case is this, sir?”
“Oh, something of Lieutenant Kramer’s.”
“ Murder Squad, sir?”
“He’ll be the one to brief you.”
Pembrook could not help it.
“Why me? ” he blurted.
“I’m buggered if I know, Pembrook.”
The deputy headmaster usually acted as starter for the races at the annual interhouse gala because he had an old revolver left over from the war. So, with him away ill, it had been one less thing for Mr. Marais to worry about when Miss Louw’s friend offered to take his place.
But having now come face to face with the volunteer, and having been introduced, Mr. Marais was no longer too sure about that.
“This is very kind of you, Lieutenant Kramer,” he said in his smoothest headmaster’s voice, “yet is it very wise?”
“How do you mean, Mr. Marais?”
“Well, it might just cause an-er-awkwardness. As you can see out there, most of the parents are here this afternoon and some of them are very upset about what happened to Boetie. We even thought of canceling but we’ve got the inter-schools next week and this is how we choose our team. Also, it could make the children nervous.”
“Oh, I’m sure nobody will know who Trompie is-they’re all railway folk,” said Miss Louw.
Mr. Marais took off his rimless spectacles, polished the lenses, and replaced them over his rimless eyes.
“I’m held responsible for everything,” he said plaintively. “Bad language… Smells… You’ve no idea.”
“Look, if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. Only I can’t leave the gun behind for you because it’s government property.”
“Please don’t take that attitude, Lieutenant! We’re very, very happy to have you. An honored guest, you might say. I just needed to think a moment. No, I’m sure Miss Louw is right: nobody will know who you are.”
“That’s the beauty of it, man,” Kramer murmured, as he acknowledged the wave Mr. Marais gave him from the French windows opening out on the pool. Then he turned to Miss Louw.
“Why did you suddenly call me Trompie just now?”
“You forget-I told him we were old friends.”
“ Ach, of course. And you may just have something there, Lisbet. Now what must I do?”