“How about taking a look at what Boetie actually said in the coded message?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
He slid the slip over and brought back his refilled cup on the return trip. The light from the two red candles gave her a glow that warmed his eyes. And, to be entirely honest, his heart.
For he had suddenly grasped she was the genuine article: the haystack girl for whom he had searched much of his life. Right from when he was ten and saw the archetype on a calendar in a garage workshop; a cheerful, tomboyish, smooth-limbed girl sprawled smiling an invitation to an energetic game. Part of his response had been envy-there was not enough grass on his father’s farm to make even a small pile for jumping on-and part the curious precognition of a child who sees a Cadillac and declares it will ride in one someday. As he had grown older, however, compromise had smudged the image, like the greasy thumbs of the mechanics tearing off the months. The years. The long trail of discarded nylon trivialities leading only to the fear she would never appear in her checked shirt, freckles, and blue jeans.
Lisbet had freckles and wore blue jeans to relax in. Her blouse might be plain pink but the tablecloth was a bright red- and-white gingham.
Christ, she was frowning.
“What’s up?” Kramer asked anxiously.
“You told me there was nothing in these to connect the cases. Personally, I don’t see how Boetie could have made it any clearer than this, using the joke.”
“Show me!”
She turned the slip around his way.
“The word before ‘sitting on him,’ Trompie-that’s ‘bath,’ isn’t it?”
Of course it was-in Afrikaans.
“Damn that bloody fool Zondi! It was his idea all this was in English and we never thought of it any other way. He said so even before we got the code.”
“What gave him the idea, though?”
“The c ’s.”
“But that’s clever, you’ve got to admit.”
“Zondi’s too bloody clever half the time.”
“ Ach, Trompie, don’t get so angry. You should have realized that Boetie would probably have to use every language he could to make anything of such a small selection of words. You’ve got the connection now-it would be too big a coincidence to mean anything else-and that proves you’re on the right track.”
Kramer rose and went over to the telephone.
“I’ve got to put a trunk call through to Pembrook in Jo’burg before anything else happens,” he said.
“What do you mean by that, Trompie?”
There it was again-only a fifth-rate comedian would try to capitalize on such a commonplace ambiguity of words, but the tone alone was suggestive.
“I meant-hello, is that the exchange? I want a call to Johannesburg. From Trekkersburg 42910-the Jo’burg number is 7723612. Two hours’ delay? At this time of night? I don’t care if you’re having to route calls via Bloemfontein!”
“Tell them you’re the police.”
Kramer looked over his shoulder at Lisbet. She had closed the sliding doors across the alcove where they had eaten and was now sprawled smiling on the settee.
“Hello, exchange? Are you still there? Make it a person-to-person fixed-time call for eleven o’clock. The name’s Kramer. I want to speak to Johnny Pembrook. Thanks.”
“That was a funny thing to do, not to use your position,” Lisbet said.
“There’s wine left in the bottle, isn’t there?”
She pouted.
“You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”
“Is there any reason why I should?”
“No.”
This time he was certain, the denial had been so softly spoken. She moved slightly to give him space to sit.
“You’re strange,” she said, touching his hands. “You seem so hard and tough yet you’re gentle as well.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The Swanepoels.”
“Hey?”
“You’ve never once been to see them. You can’t face the idea, can you? Not after seeing what actually happened to Boetie.”
“ Ach, no, I stay away because I don’t like saying sorry for something I haven’t done.”
“No emotions?”
“They reduce efficiency.”
“In private life, too?”
“I haven’t got one,” Kramer countered.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Am I wasting my time?”
Jan Smuts International Airport was agog with the discovery of a bomb on an Alitalia jetliner. All passengers on the flight had been hustled aside for questioning. There were police everywhere.
But, to Johnny Pembrook’s relief, none of them had a moment to spare on assisting a colleague in distress. By waving his identification card at each checkpoint, he was able, despite being lightheaded, to reach the taxi rank within minutes of touchdown. The stewardess, who had been very quick with the sal volatile, was probably still searching for him.
He was obsessed with one thought: to see Sally Jarvis and complete his mission before falling over.
The taxi door swung open and he climbed in.
“Where to, sonny?”
“Parktown.”
“It’s a big place.”
“Er, 39 Woodland Drive.”
“What’s that off? Woodland Avenue?”
“Could be.”
“Never been there before?”
“Just drive.”
“Hey…”
“Get going. I haven’t got all bloody night!” bellowed Pembrook, betraying his state of extreme agitation.
The taxi driver made a casual adjustment to his rear-view mirror. In it he saw a disheveled youth with a very pale face and the shakes.
“Just a minute, son, while I take a look at my map. You just got in?”
“Yes, on the Durban plane, five minutes ago.”
“I see.”
“Have you found the address yet, driver?”
“But what about your suitcases?”
“Just this bag.”
“You can’t have much in there.”
“What the hell business is it of yours? Give me the map-I’ll guide you.”
“It’s all right, we’re on our way. As the bishop said to the actress.”
Pembrook sat back and glared at the funny man who fully deserved to have ears that stuck out at right angles like Mickey Mouse. He hoped the sod got leprosy in them.
For this was certainly no time for idle chitter-chatter and pedantry. Pembrook felt terrible; he wanted desperately to flop down on a bed in the barracks-to see a doctor even, for the pain. But he knew such a move could bring immediate suspension from duty and that would not help the lieutenant. Hell, no, old Kramer was depending on him. Whatever the reasons, he had been given a chance to shine, and shine he would as long as he could. This meant he would be foolish to take a chance of being well enough in the morning to carry out his assignment as arranged. It had to be seen to without delay. His plan of action crystallized: extract fact from Sally Jarvis, telephone same reverse charges to Trekkersburg, find a cheap hotel to lick his wounds in. With luck, he would be fine come sunrise. If not, too bad-at least the investigation could continue.
Pembrook focused with difficulty on some flashing lights ahead. There were several vehicles parked on the highway itself and he spotted a policeman.
The taxi slowed down.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t stop,” Pembrook said. “It’s just an accident.”
“That’s what you think, you bugger,” muttered the driver, suddenly accelerating and then slamming on his brakes.
Pembrook was flung hard against the front seat. His forehead struck a chrome ashtray and he slumped, momentarily stunned, to the floor.
“It’s a roadblock!” the taxi driver shouted triumphantly as he leaped from his seat.
“Hey, what’s going on?” an authoritative voice inquired.
“The bomber! I’ve got him in there-grab him quick.”
The back doors of the taxi were wrenched open. Pembrook was dragged out and put on his feet. A couple of thick-set constables held him there, his arms pinned.
“Look,” he said and got no further.
“Came out of the main building like a bat out of hell, Sarge,” the taxi driver burbled. “All shaking and white, with just a bag. Very jumpy. Wanted to be taken to Woodland Drive in Parktown-there isn’t such a place. Then he says he got straight off the Durban plane but it gets in an hour before that!”