James Mcclure - The Sunday Hangman

“Hau, that is mad to print so much!” Zondi exclaimed, taking the book from him. “What kind of people are these?”

“Read it and see if you can find out,” said Kramer, getting up off the ammunition box.

“Lieutenant?”

“I want to make a quick call and then get back to de Bruin. Easier he tells us the rest than we try to work it out. Makes the mind bloody boggle, doesn’t it?”

Feeling very detached, Kramer went out into the charge office and found there a man bleeding from a superficial spear wound. The three Bantu constables were grouped around him.

“This man reports a fight at a beer party, sir,” Mamabola said, coming to attention. “Big one?”

“Thirty to forty persons involved.”

“How far away? Any firearms?”

“Five kilometers-no firearms.”

“You want any issued?”

Mamabola glanced at Luthuli, who was testing the weight of his knobkerrie in the palm of his left hand. “No, thank you, sir. Goodluck says that could make the people all turn on us. It would be better with just the club.”

“Off you go, then,” Kramer said, tossing over the Land-Rover keys. “Take the walkie-talkie in case there are more than that by now, and you can’t put a lid on it. Sergeant Zondi will be listening this end.”

Luthuli, the veteran of such affairs, gave a casual order and they trooped out, taking the injured man with them. After making a scribbled entry in the Occurrence Book, Kramer put through his call to Trekkersburg.

“It’s Tromp, Doc,” he said. “What’s news?”

“Ach, you wouldn’t believe it, man!” Strydom said. “This television business is no joke. You remember how they used to say it would turn everyone antisocial? Not a bloody hope! I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cups of coffee made in a whole year before, and it hasn’t been even a week yet. And yours? Anything come up yet?”

“Ever heard,” said Kramer, turning the book over to read the title, “of Albert Pierrepoint?”

“Now, there was an expert!” enthused Strydom. “A man after my own heart! You should read what he says about the Americans and their standard five-foot drop and four-coil cowboy knot. Twenty-six minutes one poor bugger had to strangle. His own lowest time was nine seconds from entering the cell to the snap of the rope. The only annoying thing is that he never goes far enough into the detail.”

“You’ve read his book, then?”

“Ja, I got it from the library some time ago. As a matter of fact, I noticed it was out only yesterday, when I was getting a note on the machine hanging to you on the Telex. That piece from the paper, remember? What were your own reactions to that?”

Kramer’s detachment detached itself. “That wasn’t a cutting sent to you?” he growled. “You might have-”

“In 1926?” Strydom laughed. “What kind of teenager do you think I was? It comes from a collection called By the Neck .”

“You didn’t consider, though, that the existence of these books might be relevant?” Kramer said, dismissing his oversight.

“Hey?” There was a pause. “Ach, never. The examples they give are inadequate. Er-have you found someone who has read them?”

“Uh huh. And another book, too, by a barrister called Duff.”

“Duff’s Handbook? Man, isn’t that a hoot?”

“It’s meant to be funny?”

“Of course! My favorite part is where he suggests that there should be an exam for-”

“Funny? A lot of bloody nonsense?”

“What would be the point of that?” Strydom said in some bemusement. “If the facts he gives weren’t accurate, then his whole-”

“Almighty God, Doc!”

“-sarcasm would be for nothing.”

Kramer found himself actually speechless. He tried to articulate a home truth, but the sound wouldn’t come.

“Ohhhh, I see what’s got your Tampax in a knot,” Strydom said with a chuckle. “You’ve found somebody with Duff and you think it might be him? Before you make a fool of yourself, Trompie, let me tell you something you must have overlooked.”

“Ja?”

“That’s a bloody abolitionists’ book, man!”

Kramer gave Zondi the walkie-talkie set and a curt instruction, and went back into the station commander’s office. He slammed the Pierrepoint autobiography down on the desk in front of de Bruin. The fanner turned white.

“Jesus, you silly bugger,” Kramer said cheerfully, sitting down in the chair behind the desk and putting his feet up. “Look what I’ve found in your truck! You shouldn’t have worried these books were banned, because they’re not.”

De Bruin swallowed, and tried to hide his confusion behind a weak smile.

“They’re not?”

“To make sure, I’ve only this minute checked with the man in Trekkersburg. A total misunderstanding all round, although I will make a full apology for my part in it.”

“Well, naturally I wouldn’t.…”

“Good! And I mustn’t forget to return your keys.”

Kramer slid them to the midpoint of the desk. His strategy was crude, but, very roughly, it came down to this: the complete innocent would be only too glad to grab them and get the hell out; the sinner, for want of a better word, would suspect a trick. De Bruin squashed his hat onto the back of his head, and tucked his thumbs behind his braces-as if half of him wanted to go and the other half to stay. Very curious.

The keys remained untouched.

“Is that all, Lieutenant?”

“Definitely.”

“I’m still lost to know quite why my remarks caused this reaction.”

“Prisons Act, Number Eight of 1959.”

“But that-” de Bruin began, as though he knew equally well that the act merely made it an offense to publish false information about prisons.

“Ja?”

“Doesn’t mean a lot to a layman.”

“Ah!” said Kramer. “Then take my advice and don’t concern yourself with such dreary matters. Haven’t you got a party waiting? Hell, I’ve kept you long enough!”

“Trying to get rid of me?” de Bruin joked without much conviction.

Kramer thought he caught a whiff of what was going on then: the man seemed to be acting compulsively, to be forcing himself, not only to prolong the converstion, but to take it into deeper waters as well. More than one self-confession had come his way with this sort of preamble.

“Not before you’ve had your compensation!” he said, bringing his feet down. “Now, I know Frikkie keeps a bottle of the same in here somewhere.”

“Well, I won’t say no,” chuckled de Bruin, sitting again.

Fortunately Luthuli had seen to it that the two tumblers were clean, and the brandies were poured in a trice. That was another thing: for a churchgoer, de Bruin was being fairly intemperate, and his strained look had never left him.

“Cheers,” Kramer said.

“All the best.”

The brandy became a momentary preoccupation.

“So you must be an abolitionist, Mr. de Bruin? It explains why you’re so chock-full of information.”

“In a way, I suppose I am. I’ve got an interest, certainly.”

“Uh huh.”

“I-er-knew someone involved once.”

“You don’t say?”

“A youngster.”

“In this district?”

“On the coast. Durban, as a matter of fact. Or, more exactly, I knew his mother-lodged with her during the war, while I was working at the post office. Tragic. It was terrible what it did to her.”

“Uh huh?”

De Bruin stalled, sipping at his drink. His eyes had changed: the hardness had gone-now they were wary and expectant. Kramer, who had been under the impression he’d been holding the rod, realized abruptly that he was, in fact, the tin fish. The man was trying for a rise out of him.