James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

What a bloody dreadful prevaricator he was. Even Erasmus, with his pathological need to lie his arse off, would never have tried that level of crap on a grown man, let alone a Witklip mealie strangler. At the very least, he would have required a half-witted woman and a degree of cozy intimacy before letting loose that little lot-two things that, everyone seemed to agree, Witklip had denied him. Then Kramer had a sudden, diabolical inspiration.

“On another matter entirely, Frikkie,” he said matily, “your lady wife does haircuts-am I right?”

If pink sound were a possibility, that was all that came down the line for nearly half a minute.

Kramer did his chuckle. “No need to fear the Commies when we’re around, hey? Tell her I might be calling soon for one of her creations. And, Frikkie, thanks for the other stuff, man; it has cleared up one small point very nicely. Bye now.”

He replaced the receiver, opened the Erasmus docket, and put a tick beside the note about hair clippings being found in the deceased’s ears. Then he looked up to see that Zondi had missed the joke.

“Can’t you see? He chucks in all this bulldust about Errol Flynn and that, which is some gossip his wife told him, hoping to make himself sound like a big agent, and gets caught up in his own-I give up. The only thing that makes you kaffirs laugh is a Rhodesian.”

“I think, boss,” Zondi said solemnly, “that Sergeant Jonkers accidentally told us more than he realized.”

“And that isn’t funny? I lay you ten rand Mrs. Jonkers hasn’t been to a barbecue for twelve weeks either-never mind what that randy bastard organized with her during the rest of the time. Where’s my jacket?”

Zondi helped him into it, allowing himself a small, pinched smile at Kramer’s expense.

“Okay, Mickey,” Kramer challenged, “you tell me what makes kaffirs laugh, then.”

“I will tell you two words to which we are sensitive.”

“Watch it! Kill the light; I’ll do the door.”

Together, and rather slowly, they started along the balcony to the staircase leading down to the hall and the street.

“Those two words,” said Zondi, stopping on the top step, “were ‘rich uncle.’ ”

“That was the Tollie Twist that he always-Christ!”

“Whoa, boss! There are many rich men in this country, and that case is only fifty-fifty-Boss?”

“Come on, man! It’s not midnight yet,” Kramer called back from the hall, and went out into the dark, clutching at a straw he hoped to make bricks with.

Kramer found the eminent Mr. Cecil Colgate robed in his less than judicial dressing gown. “I confess that I do prefer,” Colgate rumbled, “to have my failures decently forgotten, and to rest-particularly at this hour of the night-upon my laurels.”

Kramer made his appreciative smile double as an apology.

“I certainly won’t offer you coffee, Lieutenant, as you obviously don’t get enough sleep-but I dare say a brandy would do?”

“Very kind of you, sir.”

While his host poured the drinks, Kramer took a polite look at the photograph hanging above the study fireplace, and was surprised to see a rugby team with several nonwhite players among it.

“I was a Dark Blue,” Colgate murmured modestly.

“Uh huh?”

“But you’ve intrigued me, old chap, so let’s not become sidetracked. Here, sit.”

They sat down in a pair of leather-upholstered armchairs and stretched out their feet to the dusty fire logs. The brandy was as smooth as spit: sheer perfection.

“Cheers,” said Kramer, belatedly remembering his manners.

“Your health! We were discussing the Vasari case, and you’d just sailed rather close to the wind by implying I’d profited by ill-gotten gains. Criminal slander.”

“Hell, I’d done that, sir?” replied Kramer, knowing the sly twister of old. “So okay; let me sail all the way and ask you for the truth of the matter.”

“Can’t do it.”

“But I thought we’d agreed that if I didn’t-”

“You see, if you wanted to know exactly where that money came from, then I’ll say again I can’t oblige. Can’t, not won’t.”

“Sir?”

“But I can tell you something of the background-which I insisted on knowing before I accepted the brief.”

When Colgate’s chin trebled and his hooded eyes closed to slits beneath the white mustaches he had for eyebrows, there was never any need for anyone to beg him to continue. Kramer merely cocked an ear.

“Dear me, yes; that brief. As it happened, I’d already turned it down flat, being a trifle chary of the situation, when Mrs. Vasari came alone and unbidden to my chambers to have me repent my decision. By Jove, what a scene that was! I’d never set eyes on the good woman before, of course-had just had a few words with young Willerby, her solicitor, over a game of pills at the club. Didn’t care for the sound of it at all; extremely dubious.”

“In what way, Mr. Colgate?”

“Willerby said he’d had a telephone call from an anonymous well-wisher offering to meet, on Vasari’s behalf, the fees of-as he put it-the best at the bar. One does get this sort of thing now and again, especially when a young defendant is involved, and these cranks can be a terrible bore. Willerby tried to knock it on the head by quoting my usual remuneration, and then had to do a spot of humoring when, to his disgust, this individual asked for a week or so in which to arrange payment.”

“This ‘well-wisher’ stayed anonymous?”

“Oh, absolutely! Willerby was only too happy with the notion that no names would embrace no pack drill, and he was responsible enough to make no mention of this to the family. But the next go-off was that Mr. Vasari received an anonymous call at his place of business a week later. On this occasion, the well-wisher merely gave my name and stated that the money would arrive shortly. And so, by God, it did! Willerby’s secretary found it in a brown paper parcel, left lying on her desk and marked very clearly. He had the family in that morning, as you can imagine, and asked them if they had any way of accounting for this munificent gift. After the first spot of excitement, Mr. Vasari could only suggest with fervor that it was all thanks to the Virgin Mary.”

Kramer gave an amused snort. “And the scene in your office?”

Colgate fetched over the brandy bottle to replenish their glasses. “She came walloping in, was fended off by my clerk, then by a junior-and ended up chucking the money about. Better than a grand opera! I had to have her into my room, if only to place the money in the safe, and despite my maidenly protestations, she insisted on pleading her case.”

“Uh huh? I mean, yes?”

“Say when. Here’s where I break my professional confidences, I’m afraid.”

“When.”

“Bit of background first,” Colgate said, sitting back and warming the brandy between his huge pink hands. “In ’42, Signor Vasari was interned by Smuts, having left Italy four years previously because of an intense dislike of fascism. Often wondered if he was aware that the illustrious Field Marshal, architect of the UN and all that, had once had a native village bombed for not paying its dog tax-but that’s by the by. Off he went with the other Italian chappies, and the little woman was left to fend for herself. Not a bright prospect, when your English is still wonky and your Afrikaans is non est , so she did the only sensible thing: she took in lodgers. Plenty of youngsters were after digs in Durban at the time, having been seconded from the back veld to take over jobs left behind by men in the armed forces, and she experienced no difficulty in soon establishing herself. They got used to spaghetti and she learned to speak Afrikaans; dreadfully lonely, many of those youngsters were, of course, and quite unable to feel at ease among the lower sophisticates of the post office sorting room. On one occasion, when she was sitting in the parlor alone with one of them, she burst into tears over hearing that her home town had been razed by the Yanks-they were listening to the nine o’clock news-and was mortified when her guest, while attempting to comfort her, burst into tears himself. But I seem to be wandering rather from the point, except it is pertinent to understand she had a true mamma mia’s heart. Those young men all loved her, as I heard subsequently from other sources. Now I shall attempt to remove your glazed look by corning to the nub of the matter: Signora Vasari was unmistakably Italian, a comely wench with dark eyes and a gorgeous accent, and this-”