“Spoken like a gentleman, sir!”
Kramer grabbed the drunk by the lapels.
“Call me that again and it’ll be blood samples! Understand?”
Hendriks flinched.
“May I have the recep-tickle?” the drunk asked meekly.
Strydom obliged.
“Now get him out of here,” Kramer ordered when the messy deed was done.
In seconds he and Strydom were left alone in the room. Then neither spoke for a full minute.
“I’m sorry, Doctor.”
“Oh, you were quite right.”
“It’s just I wasn’t in the mood-I need your help urgently.”
“Indeed?” Mollification set in.
“Come up to the officers’ mess and I’ll buy you a brandy.”
The dreary room was empty. Kramer went behind the bar and poured two stiff ones. Then, having put his name in the book, he joined Strydom in a corner.
“It’s about the Cutler drowning case,” he said after a sip.
“Now there’s a coincidence!”
“How’s that? Something new?”
“Oh, no, not the boy, I meant the family-Captain Jarvis. We had him treading the white line not so long ago. A fortnight, maybe. Banned for a whole year and I wasn’t surprised. What got me started on that?”
“I mentioned the Cutler affair.”
“Sad, sad business. That’s right, Jarvis said in mitigation it had led to him taking too much. I suppose the Yankee insurance companies want something from you?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Boetie Swanepoel.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Listen, and I’ll explain.”
Strydom listened. First with one ear, then with the other, twisting and wriggling in the soft armchair, becoming progressively more uncomfortable. His lobes turned very red.
“Damn it, man, you’re implying I made a mistake!” he finally exploded.
“Only might have made one, Doctor. Let me finish first, please. Yes, suppose Boetie was nosing around Greenside, heard a suspicious sound from inside 10 Rosebank Road, and investigated. He goes in quietly and comes across something he later describes as being of great interest to the police. Was it young Andy drowning?”
“Why keep quiet about that?”
“Exactly.”
“I see. You think it may have been a bit more dramatic in reality. A fight maybe?”
“Something along those lines.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because he died of cardiac inhibition.”
“That isn’t what you said in court. Ordinary drowning, you told the magistrate.”
“Never!”
Kramer opened the scrapbook and pushed it across the coffee table. Strydom found his spectacles, read the line pointed out to him, and grunted.
“Bloody young fool,” he said. “I even gave my evidence in English and the reporter still gets it wrong.”
“Then your words weren’t: ‘a typical drowning’?”
“ Atypical. One word. It means almost exactly the opposite.”
“Come again?”
“I was asked to be brief.”
“But Geldenhuys read your report!”
“What does he know about it? I’d said drowning and that was enough. Everyone wanted the thing over as quickly as possible.”
“So it seems.”
“Be careful, Lieutenant. I’d like to tell you something now. Before Cutler was cremated in New York, he had to be examined again by a pathologist over there-his conclusions were exactly the same as my own: cardiac inhibition due to the stimulation of the vagus nerve.”
“I need another brandy,” Kramer said.
“Medicinal? Allow me.”
An officer from the Security Branch, the one who never removed his high-crowned felt hat, was now behind the bar reading someone else’s letter over a beer. He served Strydom without missing a word-you could tell that because his lips never stopped moving.
“There you are, my dear Kramer, get that down you.”
The whip hand held out a well-charged glass.
“Ta. Now tell me how it was Andy Cutler really died.”
“Cardiac inhibition,” said Strydom, relaxing in his chair, “results from stimulation of the vagus nerve and, in drowning, this can arise in one of several ways.”
“You’re quoting, of course.”
“Naturally. All you need is a sudden rush of water into the nasopharanx or larynx, it stimulates the vagus, and phut! Imagine the vagus is a brake on your heart you push down just so much to keep the revs right. If you cut it, that’s like taking your foot off-the heart speeds up until it just burns out. On the other hand, if you stimulate it, that’s the same as slamming on anchors: it clamps down, the heart stops, and loss of consciousness is usually instantaneous. Death comes at the most a few minutes later. There are none of the usual signs of drowning.”
“Such as?”
“No foam at mouth or nose, great veins not engorged, no asphyxial hemorrhages, the skin’s pale.”
“What do you look for, then?”
“A good point-all these are negative findings. With Cutler I checked for barbiturates, injuries, other primary causes.”
“And there were none?”
“Only small grazes on the elbows and heels-consistent with the rough surface of the surrounding area including the bottom of the bath. Ah, another important thing is the element of surprise or unpreparedness. It can happen ‘duck-diving’-if someone splashes your face.”
“Or if someone creeps up behind you and gives a sudden shove?”
“I told you: there was no indication of violence, however slight.”
“It wouldn’t take much if he was near the edge.”
“Perhaps not-but would you expect to kill somebody that way?”
Kramer almost shuddered at the thought of how many childhood friends he had sent screeching indignantly into the deep end.
“A joke, Doctor?”
“By whom? The family were all in bed and the place was locked-the gates, everything. Don’t tell me it was Boetie playing the arse!”
The Security Branch man left with a secret smile. He moved like a shadow.
“There’s one other bloke we’ve been overlooking,” said Kramer, reminded of something.
“Who’s that?”
“The burglar himself.”
“If Andy had tangled with him the old fright-and-flight would have been working. You know, adrenalin-it would have boosted his heart so hard the vagus wouldn’t have stood a chance. He’d have done ten lengths easy.”
“What I had in mind was the bastard suddenly seeing this young guy out in the garden after all the lights have gone out. So he makes a run for it but his bunkhole-probably the same one Boetie used-is visible from the patio. What does he do? Creeps up behind Andy, chucks him in, and escapes in the confusion.”
Strydom raised his glass and studied Kramer through the refractive distortion of his liquor. This made the eye that was not screwed up appear hideously large from the other side.
“If that was what Boetie saw happening, Lieutenant,” he murmured, “why didn’t he come running to you blokes for his medal?”
There Strydom had him.
At last came a diversion; the scuffling and shouts in the passage had Johnny Pembrook on his feet and across the room in two strides. He whipped open the door.
And was irrationally enraged by what he saw there: a bandy-legged Indian boy in a T-shirt being dragged along between two members of the Housebreaking Squad.
“We’ve got him,” they both said together.
“Who?” asked Johnny.
“The Greenside burglar.”
“Him? That thing? You’re joking!”
“Caught him red-handed.”
“What with?”
“A spade.”
Johnny slammed the door on their laughter. Then he opened it again.
“Where in Greenside?”
“Orange Grove Road, trying to hide with his bike when we went by. Won’t tell us where you got it, will you, you bugger? We’ll find out, never you mind.”
“Big deal. Anyone seen Kramer?”
“Right behind us.”
So he was-but thankfully absorbed in thought.
“Evening, sir!”
“Who the hell? Ach, so you’re Pembrook. Got the statements?”
“Sir.”