James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

The Colonel frowned. “Now you’ve lost me, man. Tollie’s wasn’t just attempted; it was a case of armed-and he took a shot at you! That wasn’t what I was getting at, but you just carry on. My dinner likes to get cold.”

“Then-”

“And what’s rape got to do with it?”

“It could,” replied Kramer, improvising swiftly, and rather wishing he’d left all this till the morning, “it could be the capital crime for which the tramp was executed.”

“Hey?”

“The same could apply to the witch doctor. There are nine different headings we can choose from, but those political ones seem a bit far out.”

“Unless,” said the Colonel dryly, “he had been putting evil spells on the government dipping inspector. I’m beginning to see where you’re going, and I must caution you not to slip into a trap.”

“Which is?”

“Coming back from Terblanche and using the word executed . So far, you and me have successfully avoided thinking about all this like some trashy newspaper, and that is the proper professional attitude. Stick to the correct terms, please.”

“But, Colonel, is it murder to kill a murderer?”

“Hey? If you’re speaking about doing it in cold blood, as part of a premeditated act and not where innocent lives are in any immediate danger, then obviously the crime is one of-”

“When you use a noose on a rope?”

During the clap of silence that followed, Kramer took out his Lucky Strikes, lit one, and flicked his match at the yard cat.

“The state,” began Colonel Muller, then seemed to lose the thread of what he was about to say.

“Is the embodiment of the people,” Kramer continued for him, “each being required to act in its interests. But let’s keep it simple.”

The Colonel humphed. “By all means, Tromp! By all means! What you’re going to say to me now is that this hangman bloke is just doing our job for us. And who are we to complain when he does it so nicely?”

“Not us, sir-the state.”

“My apologies.”

“I’d not actually taken it that far, though,” said Kramer. “I was looking at it in very practical terms, and just trying to see why he ever thought this was necessary. Never mind for the moment how he learned the tricks of his trade, or where he’s got his gallows; that can all come later.”

“Certainly! Who’s in a rush?”

“In each of the cases we know something about,” Kramer persisted, wanting himself to hear how it sounded, “the law-or the state-was not in a position to exact its due penalty. Rossouw’s is a prime example of the spirit of the law being defeated by the letter.”

“Hmmm. And what about the two cases we’ve nothing on? Do we conveniently overlook them meantime?”

“Hell, no! They give us all the more reason to believe that the state couldn’t act-simply because, ipso facto, it has remained in ignorance of the offenses committed!”

“Aha,” said the Colonel, bending to tickle the yard cat under her chin. “How are things with you, Ilahle, my girlie?”

“Look, sir-how many times have you known for an absolute fact that some bugger is guilty, only you haven’t been able to produce one bit of evidence to prove it?”

“Hoo!”

Evidently, the point Kramer was making had at last been handsomely conceded, and he sat back to await a more intelligent response, picking up the yard cat’s kitten as he did so. This was presumably Little Ilahle, as it too looked like a shiny lump of coal. They rubbed noses.

“I fully appreciate,” grunted Colonel Muller, “the importance of trying to form some idea of what’s going on, but you’re forcing things to fit. Do you see what I mean?”

By puffing air out of alternate corners of his mouth, Kramer-who otherwise felt undeflatable-made the kitten blink and shake its head.

“Ach, no, Tromp! I’m being serious, man! In what way would the state have been thwarted if this bloke of yours had reported Tollie’s whereabouts to us? We’d have nailed the bastard without any further assistance-correct?”

“But that’s presuming my ‘bloke’ did him for the bank job. Like I said yesterday, when we found the money, it might have been some other aspect of his past catching up. Christ, we’d had him in on suspicion often enough! Remember that unsolved shooting at the Wartburg garage?”

For a while, only the yard cat said anything. Then Kramer, who had talked his way into a clarity of thought, found himself becoming impatient with the Colonel’s apparent failure to grasp the situation. It wasn’t as if much imagination was required: the gallows provided, as it were, a ready-made and familiar framework of logic into which, sooner or later, everything must surely fit. You could no more dismiss the inherent premise of crime and punishment than you could try and call the bloody thing a weapon; it just wouldn’t work.

“I was wondering,” murmured Colonel Muller, “why Ringo had turned state evidence.”

“Hey?”

“When those two first appeared for remand, they stood every chance of acquittal: the prosecution’s case had holes in it a mile wide. I thought Ringo must have changed his mind in order to pass the buck on to Vasari, just on the off chance that things went wrong, but that doesn’t make sense anymore-not since I’ve read through the docket you brought up from Durban. That’s the trouble with these petty cases that are over quick-the newspapers don’t give you enough details. Did you yourself follow it at the time?”

“Only headlines and the first couple of paragraphs. Prins says Ringo was putty soft, so maybe his conscience pricked him.”

“In my book, conscience begins at home,” said the Colonel with a vague smile, fully aware he was being got at. “They were old friends, him and Vasari, and they’d always pleaded the same way together before. Huh! Here, let me have that fine little fellow.”

The kitten was passed over and its mother climbed into the Colonel’s lap. A huddle of manacled prisoners, being escorted across the yard by Security Branch plainclothesmen, looked at them curiously.

“Well, Colonel?”

The yard cat’s proud purring was like a row of dots.

“Well, Tromp, you just carry on, man. Let’s see where this theory of yours gets us. Personally, I find this case one big mess of assumption, presumption, names that link, names that don’t, and a bit of a nightmare into the bargain. But what else can one do? Blast away with your shotgun at anything that moves and you’re bound to hit something, I suppose.”

“Thanks, sir. It’s certainly reached that stage now.”

Colonel Muller yawned. “Only wish we’d managed one positive achievement today, that’s all.”

“Ach, we have,” replied Kramer, giving mother and son a last chuck under the chin. “I’d best go and give Ma Roberts a bell.”

But when Kramer heard that the parrot had taken ill, he hadn’t the stomach to add to Mrs. Roberts’s troubles. So instead he asked her whether she knew why her son had turned state evidence. It was the first thing that entered his head.

“So many people have asked that,” Mrs. Roberts replied in a voice twittering with revived indignation, “and it really isn’t at all fair. Especially as Tony made him do it, made him do what he’d never have done otherwise, the loyal little mite. If it hadn’t been for that kind Sergeant Prins, the Lord knows where he might have ended up! And to think that Tony could try a trick like that on his friend-that came as a terrible, terrible shock to us.”

Kramer winked at Zondi, who had just walked in with some photographs, and then tried to extract some sense from that bewildering outburst.

“Tony? You’re saying Tony Vasari-”