James McCure - The Steam Pig

“The Brigadier was very pleased to hear I had put you in charge of this case.”

“In charge? Don’t make me laugh. I didn’t decide to bugger up the thing just to get your name in the paper.”

The Colonel tutted.

“Let me finish first, hey? The Brigadier said to me, he said: ‘That’s one of our best blokes, Japie, see you give him all the help he needs.’ In fact, he asked me to make a Press statement-knowing you were up against no-next-of-kin troubles.”

“Crap.”

That should have done it. That should have brought the bastard leaping over his blotter. Kramer had waited a long time to provoke him into a charge of striking a fellow officer; now he had the perfect excuse for his own behaviour, nothing happened. Like they said, the bitch was unpredictable.

“Please sit down, Lieutenant. Good. I’ve just been chatting to your little Bantu sergeant. He had a lot to tell me, all very interesting. A little worrying, too.”

So that was it. He now knew far more than Dr Strydom had managed to babble over the telephone. And if Zondi had done his job properly, the Colonel was browning his trousers at the thought of what the Brigadier would do if he got to know how seriously the Gazette story had affected the investigation. The Brigadier had plainly never said anything about the Press-he hated them.

“You’re worried, Colonel?” Kramer echoed innocently.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, how does a white girl, a teacher, get mixed up with kaffirs who use the spoke? I can’t see it happening.”

“Not Zulus either. Dr Strydom says he’s only seen it done on the Rand this way.”

“And Zondi says she’s been in Barnato Street for two years.”

Then Kramer had an inspiration: “Who says she had to be mixed up with kaffirs at all? These killers aren’t always in gangs-some work freelance. All you need is a contact and the right kind of money.”

It was not really an inspired thought-simply a repressed one, surfacing. Why his brain had sought to shield from it was obvious: it made him sick to the stomach.

“God in Heaven,” the Colonel whispered. “You mean some white fixed this one up?”

“I’m just guessing, but it makes better sense.”

“God in Heaven.”

They sat in silence. Kramer turned the idea over and over with a stick. It was ugly, it was revolting, it was unprecedented that a white murderer should get a black to do his dirty work. But it had a curious logic.

“Cost one hell of a packet,” the Colonel said at last. “If the killer came down from the Rand, you’d have to get him a forged pass or he might be picked up by the vans for vagrancy.”

Typically, he had chosen the point of least importance.

“Money’s nothing. Maybe he’s moved down here on his own and taken a job as a house boy. Things might have got too hot on the Rand, we’d better put through a Telex to Jo’burg and see if they have any leads.”

“I’ll see to that.”

“It’s the contact that is the trouble. A kaffir wouldn’t think of doing this job for a white unless he trusted him completely, knew him better than his own brother. But how? Where would they meet? Somebody would notice them together-the Special Branch are always on the look-out.”

“Maybe they could help us.”

“No, we’re not dealing with fools.”

“What about a middle man then? A black who fixes the deal independently?”

“The same goes for him. It could be a trap and he would be an accessory. Trust. Trust who?”

“What about this bloke Zondi says she was going to marry?”

“Oh, him. Yes, he’s our best bet so far-if he exists.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right now he’s just a medical theory, but I’ll look into it.”

“And Shoe Shoe?”

“Another theory, but it looks like we’ve moved out of his class. I’d better get round to the market square and call Zondi off.”

Kramer stood up and the Colonel accompanied him to the door.

On the way over, he said: “So you’ve found another excuse to have your Bantu pal along with you, hey?”

“It’s as much a Bantu case as white!” Kramer flared back.

“Easy, man, easy. I’m just pointing out that this trust you’re talking about can build up in certain situations, properly controlled of course.”

He should not have qualified his remark, now Kramer was no longer defensive but angry.

“Look, if you’re not happy with the way I work, then let’s go and sort this one out with the Brigadier.”

Beautifully done, a phantom toe-cap right in the old crone’s scrotum.

“Please, Lieutenant, there’s no need for that. Both of us know you-er, are best as a team. You missed my meaning.”

“So my work is all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“And I’m in charge of this case?”

“Completely in charge.”

“Right, then I don’t want any follow-ups in the Gazette, understand?”

“Should I tell them it was a false alarm?”

“Tell them if they print anything you’ll want to see the editor.”

“Fine, much better idea.”

“Also, I’m not writing a report on this case until it is finished and over.”

“You just get going, my boy, be your own boss. I’ve got a lot of interest in your success.”

“I bet you have,” said Kramer, closing the door behind him.

Shoe Shoe was still missing.

Zondi completed his ninth circuit of the City Hall and halted at the main entrance. The other beggars were about as usual, but he ignored them. He was going to ask his questions at the top.

So he crossed over De Wet Street and entered the courthouse gardens where the glimpse of a yellow Dodge drawing up at a side gate made him hasten towards a vantage point under A Court’s windows. But no one left the sedan as it was not yet one o’clock. Time to smoke a Texan.

At one the sun had passed its zenith and then the true afternoon began. As the shadow of the City Hall began to edge out over the pavement, the halt and maim left the civic portico and took up fresh positions. The spear of shade cast by the steepled clock tower switched sides and advanced on the other flank. At five it would slit into the General Post Office and people would pour out, cover the pavements, eddy into the gutters, and finally trickle away. But right now there was no rush. The heat was terrific.

And the yellow Dodge roared away down the Parade, leaving Gershwin Mkize to come lazily up the wide gravel path. The brown lawn on either side of him was so dry that the grasshoppers made tiny puffs of dust as they landed and took off. Their incessant movement contrasted strongly with the still forms of Bantu office messengers who lay sprawled during the lunch break with yesterday’s bread and yesterday’s papers. But it found an echo in the curious spring of Gershwin’s gait-which Kramer had once said was the result of going with a dirty woman. He certainly looked a type who would take on anything, with his thin lips, toffee-coloured skin and straightened hair.

Gershwin stopped and leaned against a palm tree. It was on a slight mound that enabled him to see over the traffic. The ringmaster had come to make his daily inspection.

Zondi remained where he was, about fifteen feet directly behind Gershwin, and smiled with satisfaction. It was always advisable to approach a man like Gershwin from the rear, whatever your motive. If it was hate, then, with his bodyguards waiting with the Dodge in the Market Square, your friends could lay odds. If it was just a few questions you wanted to ask, then men of his kind had no more sensitive area than the back-a slight touch there unsettled them, made them garrulous.

Gershwin began to show signs of irritation. His thumbnail worked on the bark of the palm tree, fidgeting the fibres away, and his two-tone shoe tapped smartly. Then out came the yellow handkerchief. He used it on his face like a powder puff before giving it a twist up each nostril. He snorted.