James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

Willie Boshoff looked up from the crate in the old storeroom and watched Ferreira returning in an apparent fury from the hotel across the yard.

“What did I tell you?” the hotel manager stormed. “It was him! Him making bloody snide allegations. I’ll sue the bastard if he ever tries that again!”

“Lieutenant Kramer?”

“Who else? Didn’t I say he’d gone all po-faced when I told him about the wops this morning? Didn’t I say that the next thing would be him accusing me of bloody lying?”

“Take it easy, hey?” soothed Willie, lifting out a stack of old 78’s in their paper covers. “Sarge Jonkers let it slip that this investigation, whatever it’s about, is pretty big.”

“Then why the hell pick on me?” Ferreira demanded.

“True, he must be getting a little desperate,” Willie joked-and then checked anxiously to see if he’d pushed his new-found friendship too far.

But Ferreira was already intent on hurling everything out of a dusty washstand slumped in the corner. Metal mousetraps, light fittings, shoe boxes filled with brownish snapshots, two lampshades, a cigarette-card album, and a pile of piano music-half-eaten by termites-hit the floor.

“I am going to find that register,” Ferreira muttered, tugging savagely at a pile of moldy rugs, trying to get at the squashed cardboard cartons beneath them. “I’m going to find it and stuff it right in his gob.”

“Did you tell him we’d been looking for it?”

“Why should I’ve?”

“Well, I mean.…”

“Huh! Then he’d have thought that he really had me on the bloody run! No, let him sweat a bit,”

“Then maybe I-”

“So you only came down here to rook a free lunch out of me?” cut in Ferreira, very sarcastically. “I’ll not forget that in a hurry the next time you offer to lend me a helping hand.”

Then he gestured with two fingers, to show he didn’t mean what he’d just said, and calmed down. It was difficult, once you had got to know him better, to understand why he and Jonkers were such big pals: not only could he be quite witty, but he was a nice, generous bloke as well.

Willie gave him a menthol king-size and they lit up.

“What did the Lieutenant actually say, Piet?”

“I didn’t give him much of a chance to say anything, my friend. All he got out was some crack about me doing favors for him ‘and who else?’ by remembering the woman. How do you like that?”

“Ah,” said Willie. “I see. Still, he’s got to check every point, I suppose. You mustn’t take it personal.”

They continued the search. When you had a suitable excuse for it, there were few things more interesting than rummaging about among other people’s belongings, and the ones they’d forgotten all about made the best goodie mines of the lot. There was also a sense of history and heritage to be found amid the cobwebs and mildew that made you envious of anyone with a heap of rubbish in their yard. Willie’s sole relic of his own past was an elastic belt with a twisted-snake clasp, now barely big enough to fit round his thigh, never mind his waist, with which he’d been presented one Christmas at Underbrook Boys’ Home.

“I think I’ve got it!” Ferreira announced triumphantly, upsetting a box of dented Ping-Pong balls as he pulled at something on top of the tool cupboard. “It’s in with all the old invoices in this sodding ruddy case under this pile of crap here.” He heaved at the case’s handle and it snapped off.

“Need some help, Piet?”

“Ta, but I’ll manage, thanks.”

Willie reached back into the bottom of the crate and took another look at the small magazines he had just uncovered there. They were called Lilliput , after some kids’ story he had heard about in General Knowledge, and yet didn’t seem very childish when you tried to read the English they were written in. He flicked through a less buckled copy, searching for cartoons without captions, and was startled by the sight of a naked woman who had allowed herself to be photographed. She was beautiful.

“Come on, Willie, I’ve got the book open,” Ferreira called to him. “Let’s see what their names were, and show that clever bugger how to investigate.”

So beautiful it scared him so that he trembled. Then Constable Willie Boshoff did a terrible thing.

Distracted by the suddenness and ferocity of the storm lashing Witklip, Kramer abandoned his ruminations, rose from the desk, and went through into the charge office to borrow a match-a pretext, he knew, for asking again if there was any news of Zondi. Perhaps he should have sent someone out to look for him, yet it had seemed a course of action fraught with unpleasant possibilities, whether or not the little idiot had got himself into trouble.

“Sergeant Zondi is coming,” Mamabola informed him, turning from a window steamed up by the fug of police, public, and a goat.

“About bloody time! Is the young boss with him?”

Mamabola flinched as lightning struck close by. “No, sir. Goodluck suggests he may be at the hotel and has been captured there by the floodwaters. Hau, this is happening so quickly!”

“Ja, at least God doesn’t bugger around,” said Kramer, all too aware of the time that had been wasted that day.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the verandah, goose-pimpling in the hail-chilled air, and catching his breath as another fork of lightning blazed and banged. The raindrops were falling so hard they misted the lawn with splashes and the dirt pathway danced pink. Anything more than twenty yards away was lost in a luminous, swaying grayness, while water sheeted from the glutted gutter overhead, obscuring his view of the gate.

Walking through all this, really taking his time and soaked to the skin, came Zondi.

“Run, you fool!” bellowed Kramer.

Then, having moved to where he could see better, the truth of the situation came home to him. Mickey was dragging that leg a pace at a time, shuddering uncontrollably as his weight came upon it, clenching his fists tighter, and coming on. He staggered.

Kramer flicked his cigarette aside. “Wait, Mickey!”

“No, boss; men would see.”

As faint as these words were, a hiss in the hissing of the rain, they halted Kramer like a shout.

He backed away from the verandah’s edge. Zondi veered to the left, cutting across the grass beneath the flagpole, missing the path to the steps by miles. Then his faltering course made sense: he was trying to avoid the window.

His collapse came just as he reached to pull himself up by one of the posts supporting the verandah roof. But he didn’t fall: Kramer grabbed the outstretched hands and swung him up, let go and altered his hold, cradling the poor bloody idiot in his arms.

“Mick?”

Zondi murmured, “No, boss.…”

Kramer took a step toward the door with him. Then he retreated to where Zondi had tried to climb up, and laid his burden down very gently beside a puddle on the verandah floor. After dabbing away the blood from a bite mark on the lower lip, he went inside.

“Hey, you two!” he said, beckoning to Mamabola and Luthuli. “Something is the matter with Sergeant Zondi-you’d best fetch him into my office. He’s lying out there like a drunk.”

They carried him in and Luthuli clucked gravely.

“Where we put a boy in here?” he asked.

“On those dagga sacks,” Kramer directed, pointing to the bulky marijuana haul lying labeled in the corner. “Have you got any brandy?”

Mamabola nearly had his supercilious smile punched off him, but came up with the answer nonetheless. “Sergeant Jonkers usually procures it from that drawer, sir.”

“Get me a mug.”

While the tin cup was being fetched, Luthuli fussed about, arranging Zondi comfortably on the bags of dried leaf. The patient seemed not too bad; it was always difficult to gauge the color.