James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

Mkuzi nodded, and fondled his yellow dog’s tattered ear. “Such is my belief,” he said, “but others think Izimu was attempting to escape that way when Dorothy Jele gave him a fright. The trouble was that she is a true Christian woman: she told the police she could not swear by God’s holy name it was definitely the witch doctor she had seen.”

“And what about Izimu himself, my father?”

“Oh, they did not trouble with him long,” sighed Mkuzi. “How could it be proved? He said he had been far away collecting herbs that day. We beat him also, three or four times, yet he stayed just as stubborn. Then, when his mother died of shame, and his wife fled to Nongoma, he suddenly went from us overnight, saying no farewells. I cannot tell you where he is now, although it is probably a great distance from here!” Then Mkuzi added politely: “Do you know, perhaps?”

“I know. It is a very, very great distance.”

“That is good. Have I told you what you wish to hear?”

“Indeed you have, my father! Believe me when I say that your words have brought great joy to my heart,” said Zondi, rising confident in the knowledge that the Lieutenant would feel the same way about the theft of Mama Buza’s baby.

Alone in the gloom of the station commander’s office, which was darkened by the approach of the four o’clock thunderstorm, Kramer sat hunched over the desk and glowered at some jottings he had made on the case. Only with an effort did he drag his mind back from worrying about what had become of Zondi-who was now several hours overdue-to the present state of the investigation.

The night before everything had been there, slotting together as snugly as anyone could wish: farm-party-uncle-hangman. But now, like alkalis added to acids, the words guest farm and barbecue party and Italian uncle had neutralized the whole process of deduction.

“Buggeration,” he said, losing concentration. “Come on, Mick! Let’s get out of here, man!” There was anxiety in his voice as well.

He doodled a noose and wrote Erasmus underneath it. He drew another to go above Ringo . The ballpoint dithered, trying to find a way of connecting them. The telephone rang.

“Tromp?” said Colonel Muller. “How goes it, man?”

“I’m getting Ferreira disease,” Kramer replied with a crooked grin, pathetically pleased to hear the old bastard’s voice. “I’m sure there’s a couple of-”

“The lead wasn’t any good?”

Mamabola looked in, holding out a large brown envelope.

“Hold on a sec, please, Colonel.”

Kramer opened the envelope and unfolded a huge wad of Telex. The DS had gone to town with a vengeance: it looked as though the screeds of figures might even include the hangman’s inside leg after all. Such a mass of mumbo jumbo was strangely comforting, if only as something to grasp onto when all else had gone to pot, and Kramer thought for a moment of the Bible in Tollie’s dead hand.

“The lead was fine,” he said, “but it led us nowhere, as I’ll explain.” Very briefly, he went over the main points.

“This uncle could have been-” the Colonel began to say.

“Looked like his sister, plus he had a passport. And wouldn’t old man Vasari have known a blood relative?”

“You made other checks, just in case?”

“Put it this way, sir: I’m quite satisfied there’s no bloody Italian anywhere near this place. All we’ve done is double-prove what we knew already. I don’t see this ex-POW as a suspect any longer either: paying the money was one thing, but carrying out a murder a whole year later doesn’t sound right anymore. A man like that wouldn’t take such a high risk, not in his position.”

The Colonel said carefully, “Now-er-what if I suggested we brought in some more men on the job, and made sure you were right on that last-er-business? I hear you told Marais he could get back on the scissors case, which leaves only you and your Bantu.”

“If you like,” Kramer sighed, leafing through the folios of Strydom’s message. Then he froze. On the last page was a postscript:

PLSE DNT FORGET MEMO REQD

B/SGT M. ZONDI MONDAY. C.S

“But what’s the matter, sir? Have you lost faith in the efficiency of your subordinates? We sweat our guts out and-”

“It’s not-”

“Jesus, that’s what it sounds like!” Kramer snapped, goading the old sod, yet knowing he’d have to give in afterward.

There was a shocked silence, then Colonel Muller spoke sternly and very coldly: “You do realize, Lieutenant Kramer, that your attitude is not necessarily in the best interests of the department?”

“Uh huh,” acknowledged Kramer, making the most of this while it lasted, and remembering Strydom’s exact words. “It could have far-reaching effects.”

“First you agree to a full-scale operation, and now you’re behaving like this? What’s going on, hey? You tell me!”

“Ach, something’s just come in to change my mind.”

“You bastard!” Colonel Muller laughed, with a warmth that surprised Kramer. “You bloody devious old bastard! For a while you were really giving me a bad time there; I thought you’d cracked. One day I’ll get you back, hey? That’s a promise! But you’d best get weaving now. Good luck!”

And the line went dead, dropping a weight of trust on Kramer’s shoulders that made it impossible for him to lift the receiver again and call his own bluff.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said.

The light from outside became dimmer. He went over to the door to thumb the switch, nearly asked after Zondi, but returned to the desk and picked up the Telex. A subheading caught his eye: JUDICIAL HANGING AS SUICIDE.

He slumped down and began to skim the annoying capitals.

FM T NEW YORK TIMES O 6TH APRIL 1926. T ROOM WAS ABT 35FT HIGH, 25FT LONG AND 25FT WIDE. T WALLS WR PAINTED A LT GREEN. TWO HIGH-POWERED ELECTRIC LIGHTS WR SUSPENDED FM T CEILING AND ANOTHER BRILLIANT LT WAS ON T WALL. IN T FAR CORNER STOOD WARDEN SCOTT. BENEATH HIS FOOT WAS A PLUNGER SIMILAR TO THOSE ATTACHED TO GONGS ON T FRONT PLATFORMS O STREETCARS. (MISS A BIT. C.S.) IMMEDIATELY ON HIS RIGHT AS HE ENTERED IS A CLOSET WH CONTAINS T DEATH MECHANISM USED BY T STATE O CONNECTICUT IN HER EXECUTIONS. TO ONE END O T SOFT ROPE, WH GOES UP THRU A HOLE IN T CEILING, IS A WT CAREFULLY BALANCED, IN THIS CASE, AGST T 135LB O CHAPMAN’S FRAIL BODY. ON T OTHER END, INSIDE T DEATH CHAMBER, WAS T NOOSE, WH WAS HELD BY A HOOK IN T WALL AND, AS IT WAS BEHIND CHAPMAN AS HE ENTERED THE ROOM, IT WAS PROBABLY NOT SEEN BY HIM. T WT IS HELD 3FT ABOVE T FLOOR LEVEL (VARIES O COURSE. C.S.) AND IS CONNECTED BY A STEEL ROD TO T PLUNGER AT T POINT WHERE T WARDEN STANDS.

WHEN IT WAS FIRST INSTALLED T CONDEMNED MAN UPON ENTERING T CHAMBER STOOD UPON A SMALL TRAP IN T FLOOR. HIS WT RELEASED A QUANTITY OF BUCKSHOT WH ROLLED SLOWLY DOWN A SLIGHT INCLINE UNTIL THEIR WT RELEASED T TRIGGER WH HELD T WEIGHT. IT WAS DECIDED, HOWEVER, TT THIS METHOD O EXECUTION WAS ILLEGAL, AS IT VIRTUALLY COMPELLED T PRISONER TO COMMIT SUICIDE, AND IT WAS ABANDONED FOR T PRESENT APPARATUS. FIFTEEN SECONDS AFTER CHAPMAN ENTERED T ROOM THERE WAS A SUDDEN CLICK AS T TRIGGER RELEASED T WEIGHT AND HIS BODY SHOT UPWARD. SAVE FOR T CLICK THERE WAS NOT A SOUND. T BODY HUNG SUSPENDED AT A HT OF 12FT. T NECK VERTEBRAE HAD SNAPPED AND DEATH HD BEEN PRACTICALLY INSTANTANEOUS.

(IN WHAT WAY IS THIS DIFFERENT TO A MAN WHO TAKES T FIRST STEP TOWARD MURDERING HIS FELLOW BEING ANYWHERE? DOES NOT BUCKSHOT START TO ROLL FOR HIM TOO? I PUT THIS IN SO YOU CAN TELL HANS WHAT YOU THINK. C.S.)

What Kramer thought as he finished the last page would not have pleased either of them, and came nowhere near touching on the philosophical point which Strydom had raised. Yet once his indignation had passed, and he’d rescued the crumpled sheets from the wastebin, he realized that the Doc had, however inadvertently, given him a nudge in a new direction. This brief description of an execution had evoked in him a sense of the cold, impersonal part played by the man with his foot on the plunger. He began to visualize a hangman, to dismiss the notion of revenge, and see that the role might be a form of fascination with power.