James McCure - The Steam Pig

“Ah, Lieutenant,” Bob grinned, “it’s good to see you again, man.”

“Bobby, you must talk to him about coffee,” Mrs Perkins said earnestly. “He won’t listen to me.”

“Time enough, I think our friend’s got other things on his mind tonight.”

“Too true,” Kramer agreed.

“Well, I’m not staying, so you boys can get on with it right away,” Mrs Perkins said. “I must give Bobby his welcome but that’s all I can manage at this time of night.”

Kramer bit hard on his lower lip.

“Good night then, dearest,” said Bob, hugging her with his cheek to her bosom.

Kramer went on stirring his coffee until she had left the room. Bob failed to notice Kramer never took sugar.

“Just before we begin, Lieutenant,” he said, “I want you to hear something special. No, I won’t touch your tape unless you listen.”

So Kramer sat back and watched him operate the controls of a large tape deck which stood against the wall. The volume came up and he heard Bob’s voice saying: “What is your attitude to the pop scene, Mr Sinatra?” The reply came unmistakably from the crooner. The recording lasted eight minutes and at the end it was plainly not a parody although the contrast of accents was most striking.

Bob laughed delightedly. “I see I’ve got you wondering, hey?”

And then he explained what he had done was to record a Voice of America programme, make a transcript of the interviewer’s questions and then substitute his own voice using another recorder and the master tape.

“Not bad, is it?” Bob concluded. “It gives the wife goose pimples.”

Kramer conceded he, too, might have had the goose pimples if the coffee had not been so hot-which was how he preferred it, so please don’t fetch any milk.

“Okay, now what is it you’ve brought me?”

“This tape-open it and you’ll see the problem.”

Kramer liked the way Bob handled the box, setting it down first before removing the lid. He was no fool, despite his sad little tricks.

“Ah, someone’s tried to put a match to this.”

“Seems likely.”

“Burnt a section like a slice of cake right through to the spindle. You’ll lose a lot on the outer winding, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right, any info you can give me is more than welcome.”

“I’ll do my best. I’m off tomorrow, so I can work right through.”

“So you said on the phone. When do I come round?”

“Make it about nine.”

“Okay.”

Kramer got up to leave before any more questions were asked but did not move quickly enough.

“Where did you get it?”

“In a rubbish bin.”

“I’d guessed that, it’ll need some cleaner before I get started. But haven’t you any idea who it belonged to?”

“It’s a personal effect-the only one of its kind, or that’s what I’m hoping.”

“You aren’t saying much, are you?”

“No. There are good reasons.”

“But I bet I know where you got it all the same.”

“ Ach, never in a hundred years.”

Kramer was at the door before the next sentence spun him round like a. 45 slug.

“You got it from the Le Roux girl’s place.”

“How the jesus do you know that?”

“It’s been on page one since the first edition,” Bob stuttered, shaken solid. He tugged a rolled copy of the Gazette out of his jacket which lay on the chair.

Kramer snatched it. Some bastard was going to pay for this, pay through the nose and every other orifice. His eyes flashed over the headings, starting with the 72 pt Caslon Bold lead banner and going in five jumps down to a 24 pt Gothic Condensed five-liner over an 8 pt panel:

Mystery death of a mystery girl

Trekkersburg police today disclosed that a city music teacher had been found dead in her flat-and that foul play had not been ruled out.

She was Miss Theresa le Roux (24), of 223B Barnato Street, who lived on her own.

Colonel Japie Du Plessis, Chief of the CID Division, told the Gazette last night: “The circumstances surrounding the death of Miss le Roux are giving cause for grave concern. However, we will not know what action to take until the full results of the post mortem are in our hands.

“ In the meantime, a senior police officer has already begun preliminary investigations in an attempt to trace anyone who can tell us anything about her. As far as we are aware, she has no next-of-kin.

“ May I take this opportunity of asking members of the public to come forward if they have even a small piece of information – leave it to us to decide whether or not it is important.”

Col. Du Plessis added that he had every confidence that the matter would be treated with dispatch and referred to the division’s high rate of success in the past.

That was all. But it was enough to make Kramer deliver a string of obscene threats which placed the entire universe in peril.

“How the hell did the Press get on to this?” he demanded finally, shaking Bob by the arm.

“I’m not the editor,” he replied, “but I seem to remember something on the social pages which might help-try four and five on a thirty-two pager.”

Kramer turned to them. Christ, he should have guessed: right across the top of page four was a five-column picture taken at the Brigadier’s braaivleis and immediately behind the old bull, as he stood with beer can raised, lurked the beaming figure of Colonel Du Plessis. What an ideal moment to take the opportunity; he was already beckoning over the reporter as the flash went off.

“Bob, you’re right, man-this is the case. I thought I had a long start on the buggers but now I must have the stuff on the tape before six.”

“Six?”

“Isn’t that when the Gazette deliveries start?”

“Deliveries, yes, but don’t forget the first edition is off the presses at ten.”

“So? It’s for the farming areas, isn’t it?”

“We also sell a few dozen to the cinema crowds as they come out-and on the station. Some people can’t resist a morning paper the night before.”

“Jesus.”

It was all Kramer had left in him to say. At ten he had still been taking his time in the cottage. In fact, he had not left until after eleven, because he had checked his watch just after seeing Miss Henry move away from the light. An ice cube slid slowly down his spine: all he had seen was a silhouette-backlighting would have had the same effect whether the watcher was inside or outside the house. And another thing-those six cars outside Dr Matthews’s place in Arcadia Avenue. If you had to keep watch in what would otherwise have been a deserted street, where all the residents garaged their cars at night, it was quite an idea to invite your friends along and make a party of it. Zondi could be in danger. He had to move fast.

Bob followed him to the door, promising to do all he could but apologetically emphasising that nine o’clock was the earliest he could expect results.

“Fine,” said Kramer. “This lot is so buggered up now it doesn’t matter that much. Thanks a lot, man.”

The corner of De Wet Street and the Parade was deserted. Zondi should have been waiting there for at least an hour-the two calls had taken far longer than Kramer anticipated.

He parked the car and sat. He needed to think carefully before making his next move. It would be very rash for a white, even armed, to attempt to follow in Zondi’s footsteps. On the other hand, he rebelled against the thought of calling in help. His mind reacted to the dilemma by blanking out.

He was staring across the pavement at the statue of Queen Victoria, which had presumably survived into the Republican era because it was so incredibly gross, when something stirred on the Great White Mother’s lap. He saw a slim brown hand reach up for a snap-brim hat hung on the sceptre. Moments later Zondi slid down and strode casually over.