James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

He gazed at the thing in his hands. That’s all it was: a thing. Yet it had already turned Constable Willem Pretorius Boshoff SAP 13408 into a thief for ever and ever, amen. From now on, every thief he caught could say, “Hyprocrite!”-and he’d have to let them go. Even the coons. He’d have to quit the force.

“Put it back, man-simple!” said Willie, and immediately felt easier. “What do you want this old rubbish for?”

He sighed at himself in exasperation and opened his tunic; he could smuggle the magazine back into the storeroom as easily as anything; no problems. He could say his cigs had fallen into the crate and he’d gone to look for them. Fifty to one he wouldn’t even need to do that.

Wondering at his inexplicable folly, Willie flipped open the pages for one last cold and indifferent glance at the photograph of the lady with no clothes on. She filled him. Again a dizzy compulsion obliterated any thought or scruple; he hid the magazine with great cunning, winked in its direction, and saw his hand twist the ignition key.

Being so scared and excited was really quite nice, in fact-especially when no actual harm could possibly come of it.

There ought to have been a sign saying KLOZED-IN VERANDER or something. Kramer had found what seemed to be private territory-a screened-off section on one side of the hotel, which was equipped with four decent wrought-iron chairs and a table-but nothing vaguely resembling the apparatus of enclosure. The exposed red cement floor was covered with blisters of rainwater, and there wasn’t even a piece of string between the pillars to prevent you falling over the edge into the flower bed.

“All seen to,” said Ferreira, coming out through the French windows, followed by a wizened Zulu. “The boy’s got dry cushions and he’ll give the table a wipe. How do you like my spectacular view?”

Kramer turned about cautiously. He liked the view; the last glare of the upstaged sun was highlighting the great white stone, while throwing the rest of the landscape into deep, interesting shadow. The storm-clean air, heavy with the odor of wet earth and broken vegetation, was tuned to a shortwave sucksboo of twitterings, zingings, and pingings, chirrups, clickings, and croaks, dominated by the morse-chattering mynahs. So he liked what he smelled and heard, too. It was invigorating.

“The bar’s beginning to fill up now-it’s after six. Would you like to take a look at some of them?”

“What’s that, Piet?”

“They’ve heard about you being here.”

“And?”

“I said you were baby-sitting for Willie. Old Gysbert nearly bust a gut-he’s one you can knock off your list right away.”

“Why? Has he got one arm?”

“Ach, what I meant was you’ve never known a wild man like Gys! Here, you sit where the floor isn’t so wet. A huge bloody thing, he is-big black beard; you’ll know him. Farms about eight kilos out and drives a truck like a madman. Every time he goes into Brandspruit the traffic cop gives him another ticket.”

Kramer’s gut twinged. “Has he-is he married?”

“Widower,” replied Ferreira, motioning the barman to put the tray of drinks down on the table. “Took up with Annie Louw after Tiens was killed, then she got TB and he was left with just the one daughter. Nice kiddie, blond the same as her mum. Goes to the government boarding school in ’Spruit during the week, comes home weekends and holidays. Hell, he’s strict with her, though, and she’s only-what? Maybe fourteen, fifteen? Like another?”

“Uh huh.”

“Just lately he’s stopped her coming to the barbecue because the Jackson boy took her into the old barn one night. It was nothing, only kids’ stuff, bit of a fumble, but Gysbert nearly took off! Karl de Bruin-a nice old bugger-he had to talk reason to him before we had bloodshed. The Jackson boy was yelling-Gysbert had his hair, you see? — and saying he’d tell his father, and Karl was saying that kids would be kids and the boy had just been boasting. What a schlamozzle! Gysbert will knock any man down who crosses him, as Frikkie knows only too well, and that would include hard cases even like Tommy, who was there as well. About two years ago, he very nearly went on a charge over what he did to a guest who got fresh. But I mustn’t give you the impression his heart is in the wrong place.”

Ferreira, well-oiled himself, continued to talk about the man while making a production of pouring two more Scotches without a tot glass. Gysbert Swanepoel hadn’t always been such a wild man, it appeared, but had undergone a personality change after the death of his wife. For some months he had remained his old, quiet self, then one night he’d arrived half-tanked already and had never looked back. But Kramer wasn’t taking much of this in. It all added up: Wednesday had been the end of the school term in Natal, the description of the man and his driving matched, and the incident had taken place within nine kilometers of Witklip. Only by an outrageous coincidence could it have been anyone but the Swanepoels. And to think that, in his half-awake state, he’d superimposed his dream hussy over a fleeting glimpse of a giggling schoolgirl. Far worse, to think that he’d been on the brink of challenging Ferreira’s claim there were no beddable females around-God, that would have sounded like an allegation of a statutory offense! He felt as though he’d just passed an ice cube.

“And so, you see,” Ferreira was saying earnestly, “I think that should qualify him automatic.”

“Who?”

“The Reverend Kotse.”

Then Ferreira grinned to show he knew that Kramer hadn’t been attending. He was not altogether correct, however.

“De Bruin acted as peacemaker?”

“Karl always does. He hates to see any trouble.”

“What age is he?”

“Around fifty, the same as Gysbert, although you’d never guess it. A bloody good farmer-in fact, maybe our best. Him and his son have made pots of it, but they’re not the kind of people to let it show. Hell, I see what you’re driving at.…”

Kramer looked at the white stone through the facets of his whisky glass, making it bulk and shrink as he turned the thing slowly in his hand. His stomach was expanding and contracting in much the same way: a sure sign of breakthrough fever in the intuitive male. He switched his gaze suddenly to Ferreira.

“I can’t imagine it, Lieutenant. A more law-abiding-”

“Interesting, Piet, very interesting. Tell me, did he take on Gysbert Swanepoel all by himself, or was his son also present?”

Ferreira shrugged. “They’ve always been on good terms, despite the differences now between them, so it wasn’t really-”

“He’s a churchgoer?” Kramer asked.

“Er-ja. Nearly all the Afrikaner ones are. You know how-”

“Prisons? Connections with warders?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Ferreira, frowning a little.

Kramer began to tread, toe to heel, along the edge of the verandah between the two pillars. One false move would have him in mud up to the ankles-one false move and he’d be in something similar, although a lot nastier, up to his nose, for Karl de Bruin was obviously a highly respected member of the community.

“I’m going to start with the search,” Kramer said, returning to the table to finish his drink. “That way I stay winning whether we find anything or not. The subtle stuff can come later.”

“Start searching right now?” Ferreira gasped.

“I’d prefer it to be in daylight while he’s away from home,” admitted Kramer. “Does de Bruin play bowls or do anything like that at the weekends?”

“Um-no. Tell you what, though: the barbecue committee will all be here tomorrow afternoon, fixing up the kids’ holiday special. He’s the chairman.”