James Mcclure - Snake

“Oh, ja?”

“Do point out to them that snakes are incapable of their legendary capacity for swift cross-country sorties in pursuit of game rangers,” Bose said. “The truth is they easily tire, due to their blood’s slow rate of oxygenation. Terribly sluggish, if I may use the term. As to top speeds, I would put a mamba’s best sprint at somewhere around the four-miles-an-hour mark, but that’s rather a tangent.”

“I get you! Bergstroom’s pulling one way, to bring it round and get it off, but it’s pulling the other way in panic and just for one second it starts to go flop and boomph!”

Bose nodded slowly after due consideration, and then replied, “Would you like me to draft out a more detailed exposition, for inclusion, say, as a footnote?”

“Man, would I appreciate that? Please. But for how long would this have gone on? A minute?”

His mentor politely hid a smile but the big gray eyes leaked it.

“The metabolism of Python regius is not altogether quite as…” Bose paused and rephrased: “The process of suffocation by constriction is always fairly prompt, and yes, as you say, three or four minutes would or could be sufficient. But I’d imagine, with regard to a struggle, it would take at least five times as long to exhaust him.”

Strydom did the sum, then saw the dressing room quite vividly in his mind’s eye: while it was messy and untidy and nothing was in its proper place, it certainly showed no sign of a prolonged struggle. Why, there was the stool, right beside the body, and still upright. The mirror wasn’t straight, but seemed to have been put up that way.

Then somehow he was led on to think the unthinkable.

The colonel had broken his plastic ruler. He placed the halves of it on either side of his blotter and took up the note.

“Where did he get pencil and paper?” he asked Kramer.

“Off Ben, who was acting for him.”

“This was last night? Late?”

“Uh-huh, in the cell.”

“What was the nature of their conversation?”

“Stevenson hoped Ben could get him off the charges. Says he kept asking for it to be settled out of court, like a civil case or something. Ben explained the difference, said he’d have to appear in court today to be remanded, but it wouldn’t take long and he’d get bail. Asked Ben if the press boys would be there, and Ben told him you could never tell-and it wasn’t any good trying to bribe them.”

“You would not have opposed bail?”

“By this time, Marais was in possession of fresh information. Did you know-”

“Later, Tromp; this first. I’ve got to ring Ben Goldstein myself. Already the widow is onto us for ‘unlawful harassment’ of her husband. What the hell did you do at his place yesterday? Now the maid there says she overheard you threatening him with a broomstick!”

“Fairy stories. And as for his wife, she despises his guts.”

“She doesn’t have to anymore, Kramer. She can just cherish a dear, sweet memory of him. That’s trouble you’ve been in before.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pleased with yourself, hey? Then you take another look-here!”

Colonel Muller dropped the note into Kramer’s lap as he stalked across to the window.

On one side the thing read in neat, but progressively heavier writing:

I am sick of who you think you are. I will NOT take orders to stand up in court and face that kind of publicity. Why should I? I’ll show you I can still be a free man. I’m only sorry for Jeremy.

And, on the reverse side, in thin, hasty loops:

Why not ask Shirley, Lt. Kramer? Maybe it’s too late for me to remember that now though!!! M.S.

So Stevenson had seen that the pen was a sword that cuts both ways, Kramer noted with a smile.

“Now it’s a laughing matter!” the colonel exploded. “You’ve got him crapping himself so hard that the last thing he does is try and bloody cooperate! He scribbles that on the back and then what? He takes his stinking socks and ties knots in them and stuffs them down his throat! They tell me he must have pushed them as far as his finger could reach. God in heaven!”

“Ja, but I think it was him puking up behind them that made the wool seal off tight,” Kramer muttered, staring at the last line again.

“Where’s the district surgeon? That’s his job!”

“Nobody knows, sir. Wife says he had a bad night.”

“Huh! My heart bleeds. Whatever happens, see he knows about the conference at eleven. I want you, the DS, and Marais all here on the dot!”

“Look, meantime I’ll give Sam a bell for you,” Kramer said, rather than offered. “This is my doing, so there’s no need for you to worry.”

And he left the room, with the colonel staring suspiciously after him, saying for the umpteenth time, “God in heaven.”

As first guesses go, it went. Shirley was not Mrs. Stevenson’s first name; hers was Trudy. Then Winifred Amelia.

“Fly me to Miami,” said Bix Johnson, mystifying Marais.

Who had asked him to show him where things were kept at the Wigwam.

“Then we’ll just have to go through the whole list of members,” Marais said, still showing imagination. “He’s the sort of bloke who uses first names in preference, am I right?”

“He does, he does.”

Marais was pleased with his clever use of the present tense; he needed the piano player’s spite kept alive for a while yet.

“And yet you are sure he didn’t have any women friends or acquaintances by that name?”

“You must be joking, Sarge. Only got Eve to sit with him because he was the boss.”

“ Ach, look-it’s only initials,” Marais complained, flipping over the pages of the membership roll.

“Upsy-a page back. There you are: Shirley.”

“And it’s Mr., so it must be a bloke.”

“Quick!” said the enigmatic Johnson.

Marais was as quick as he could be, and copied down two telephone numbers and a home address before checking in the other book kept near the entrance. Shirley had been in the club on Saturday night.

“Any good fascist reason why I shouldn’t stay on awhile and get through some blues, Sarge?”

“Not my piano,” said Marais, pleased at how his English had improved in such company to include repartee.

Big Ben Goldstein looked like Nero after the fire insurance paid out. His clothes were the most expensive, his manicure came at fifty cents a cuticle, and his expression was one of ill-concealed glee.

Which misled some people into thinking he was not totally honest-not only the dishonest themselves, but others with old-fashioned prejudices. Ben was so honest that sometimes it hurt, but it hardly hurt at all to tell Trudy Stevenson there was nothing he could do for her that would be of help.

“And so, my love, we leave it there-all right? Don’t worry, I’ll not send a bill. If it’d just been Monty, then you had grounds. But I can’t act now knowing what I do. You follow?”

“He’s dead, and he was the only other one who knew! What can they prove?”

“Me, I wouldn’t try them.”

“You tricked me!”

“Okay, okay, so I tricked you. Better I should trick you than it happens in front of a judge. If the police are willing to drop everything now, so be it. Come back in the morning if you still want to discuss details so soon, the winding-up, all that. But I myself would see a doctor, get some pills. Elspeth, my dear, will you show this lady out?”

Mrs. Stevenson jerked her elbow free.

“You bastard,” she hissed at Ben.

“Paternity suits I don’t contest, madam.”

“Wow!” said the delectable Elspeth, who had been left standing. “That was like a cork out of a bottle!”

The outer door slammed.

“No, that was Mrs. Rat out of a rat trap,” Ben said sadly, and then started to dial the CID number. He owed it to the hard-arsed bugger to thank him for the warning.