The Gooseberry Fool (14 page)

“Shabalala!” he said out aloud, snapping his fingers, cheerfully cursing himself, feeling on top of the world and no pain.

The graveyard was a perfect place in which to hide.

Colonel Du Plessis was also at the Albert Hotel when Kramer finally turned up for his drink with Scott. The two of them were standing at the bar against the wood paneling on the far side. They gave him broad smiles and raised glasses of lager. Thank God for that, if nothing else. Orange juice, for Christ’s sake!

“Well, what did you get her, Tromp?”

“Something nice.”

“And delivered it in person, too, hey?” asked the Colonel, very snide.

Kramer looked down at him and, just for an instant, enjoyed a quickie fantasy in which he beat the old bitch to her knees with a brick. Then he chuckled and got an elbow on the counter.

Paul Rampaul, the most excellent of all Indian barmen, placed a brandy concoction beside it without a second lost. It was said that Paul, an urbane, very handsome man of considerable natural dignity, knew the favorite drink of every one of his customers—and proved this on their second visit.

“Merry Christmas, Paul.”

“And to you, Mr. Kramer, sir. A pleasure to see you again.”

That was all. None of the obsequious stuff most Indian barmen traded in. Mr. Rampaul was already back polishing his glasses.

“And how goes the Wallace case, Tromp?” asked Scott.

“Fine. I’ve got it all wrapped up.”

“Oh, dear, does that mean I’ve got to read your report now, Lieutenant?”

“I’ll give it to you verbal, sir.”

“Please, not tonight. Anyway, I like—”

“Everything on paper?”

The Colonel caught the edge of Kramer’s remark and specks of ice froze in his watery eyes. Every now and then, there was a tiny glimmer of evidence to support the myths surrounding this meek little whiner—this wormlike snake with fangs an inch long. But Kramer had never been one to bother with historic precedent.

“Yes, everything down on paper, my friend. I want everything—post-mortem, laboratory tests, scene of accident, statements.”

“Lab tests, Colonel?”

“I said that, didn’t I, Lieutenant Scott?”

Scott squirmed, then saw Kramer’s wink.

“Yes, sir, you said that.”

“But hell, Colonel, man, it’s an open-and-shut!” Kramer objected. “Wallace got on the booze at the Comrades’ because of the heat, wasn’t used to holding his liquor, came down the hill too fast and couldn’t make it. Chucked his arms up to protect himself and bam.”

“Kramer!”

“Sir?”

“That report will be on my desk at HQ on Boxing Day at ten sharp. Understood?”

“But, sir, I thought that as—”

“You think nothing once I’ve given an order!”

The other customers—and there were still a good number of errant fathers and husbands working themselves up to take knife to turkey—had paused in their joke-swapping about wife-swapping to eavesdrop. Paul Rampaul had discreetly left for the kitchen across the yard.

“Isn’t the lab closed over Christmas, Colonel?” said Kramer, keeping his voice calm.

“Ach, so it is!” the Colonel replied, becoming instantly jolly. “Send your stuff down to Durban—they’re open—and we’ll make that the day after Boxing Day—Friday. But I’ll have the rest of it when I said.”

“I’m to work Christmas Day?”

“Never know you to miss one, Lieutenant. It’s true, you know, Scott, this is a dedicated officer we have with us.”

So Kramer had been right—the bastards were out to get him. And Scott was already on the other side—very sly with his meaningful glances at the Colonel, very careful to laugh in the right places. But such positive proof of their intentions was unexpected. Perhaps the lager had something to do with it. No, unlikely. Whatever these men were, they were not given to carelessness. It gave the whole thing a new, vaguely sinister twist.

The lull in the exchange had encouraged their audience to get back to the one about the chap who came home unexpectedly and found a baboon in his closet.

“May I get you another, Mr. Kramer?”

“Thank you, Paul.”

“Maybe you think I’m being an old woman,” said the Colonel, nudging Kramer in the ribs. “Point is—and you must have overlooked this—I’m on temporary duty as divisional commandant. Colonel Muller gets back from the Free State on Friday lunchtime and I want all my own business tidied up by then for the handing-over ceremony.”

“Sir.”

“Ach, don’t think I can’t see you are disappointed, Tromp. I know what you were wanting to do: to give your little black friend some help on the Swart case.”

“Black what, sir?”

“Ach, you must have more faith in him, man!”

“I’ll try, sir.”

The Colonel and Scott both laughed loudly, as if Kramer had meant to be witty. So he pretended he had, forsaking his sarcasm.

“Come on, gentlemen, this round’s on me,” he said. “What is it to be?”

They had one drink with him, during which time he learned there still was no news from Zondi, then they left together. What bastards.

“Paul?”

“Mr. Kramer?”

“Here’s ten rand. Tell me when I owe you more.”

“I.…”

“Yes, Paul? Speak up, man.”

“I have no right to say anything, Mr. Kramer.”

Paul’s expression was very troubled as he pressed the glass up for the first of the doubles.

How Zondi had taken so long to arrive at the obvious was more than he could understand. Right back at the start he had realized that Jabula itself offered poor cover, but with exposed ground all around, it was better than nothing. He had tied himself down to the idea of finding Shabalala on the ground somewhere—or even up in the air, for he had checked the windmill—but never underneath it. While all the time, below the surface was the only place you could hide in a barren flatland, In fact, he could have come to thinking along the right lines much sooner if only he had simply paid proper attention to the fly woman. She had said that Shabalala had walked off through the huts. All Zondi need have done was to follow in his footsteps and then, at the end of the huts, he would have seen the graveyard ahead of him. But no, he had decided Shabalala was somewhere in those huts and had begun his search without asking a single question, convinced that any answer he received would be a lie.

All this was, however, behind him now as he stalked stealthily down on the burial place. There was a chance that Shabalala was no longer there, but this was unlikely, for his wife still had not returned and, if he had ears at all, he would know that the people of Jabula had good reason to deeply resent his coming. He could easily become their next victim.

Zondi refused to consider the chance that he was wrong yet again and Shabalala had never been in the graveyard. That way lay despair; besides, it lacked logic.

He had about a quarter of a mile to go and the grass was very short. There was nothing for it but to get right down and crawl on his elbows. Not only was it important that he should avoid flushing out his quarry; he also had to deceive any watching eye at Jabula: he doubted that his head, let alone his legs, could take another hasty retreat so soon.

Some of the ache and pain had returned, yet it was muted by fresh hope and the sense of well-being inherent in every hunt, whether for man or for beast. Zondi was not quite certain which of the two he would soon encounter skulking in its hole.

His hand touched cold scales and whipped back. Snake. Dead snake. He sobbed once with relief. In the dark, without sticks, he could have died then.

Zondi waited, however, for the moon to come out properly from behind cloud to make sure that the thing, a long, dull gleam of cobra, was beyond harming him. It was not uncommon for a snake chopped in half by a spade to still bite the gardener’s foot. No, it was quite, quite dead, and he tugged at its tip.

Then he crawled on with his torch between his teeth, trying to ignore what all this was doing to his clothes. There was not much farther to go.

At last he was beside a mound of stone in which a plank cross stood at an angle, just like on the church roof at Robert’s Halt. He waited stock still, listening, scoffing silently at the childish prickle of fear induced by such a place. In his job he had learned that a man need fear only the living. But there was no denying it, the smell of death was in the air, and it was never pleasant to breathe.

Not a single sound.

Zondi moved forward, down the rows of the recent dead, and on until he reached the first of the open graves. He lay flat and peered over the edge. It was empty. Six feet deep with sheer sides and a credit to the army engineers’ striving to bring perfection to everything.

Just then Zondi heard a pebble fall. It could have been dislodged by a rat, of course. Then a cough.

A wheezing cough that came from somewhere to his left.

Chill air came down into the valley, making the weeds stir uneasily and an owl lift like a shadow from a child’s grave. Zondi shivered, mainly because he was sweating heavily.

This was his moment of truth—as the lieutenant would say. Right, Lieutenant, sir, here he comes; let me show you how to get a man out of a six-foot hole without exposing yourself to any danger.

Another cough pinpointed the exact spot. Shabalala was at the near end of the open grave that had a thistle growing beside it. In less than a minute of extreme caution but, more importantly, silent movement, Zondi was there, too.

He raised his head and looked back at Jabula. One fire remained, its glow unbroken by figures seated around it. All were asleep.

Now, Lieutenant!

The dead snake was dropped into the grave, landing on something soft.

In seconds it was over. Shabalala gasped and came up out of the earth like a terrified rabbit out of a viper pit. He made one mighty leap, clawed frantically at the edge of the grave—for he was not a big man—and heaved himself out. He was still on hands and knees when the cuffs went on him and the muzzle of the PPK pressed into his forehead.

“Make no sound,” whispered Zondi. “Or I will shoot.”

And for the first time that day he prayed—prayed he would not have to pull the trigger.

Paul Rampaul risked his reputation and served a tonic water to Kramer. For a moment or two, it could have gone either way. Then Kramer sipped a little.

“Such is life, Paul.”

“Your change, Mr. Kramer.”

He slid over the best part of three rand.

“Take half for the kiddies, man.”

“That is generous, sir.”

“Ach, then buy your wife a present!”

Paul took the money with a small, grateful smile; he did not earn much despite the hours he worked. It was a few minutes before closing and only a very drunk bachelor, who lived in the hotel, shared the large room with them. But only in the most marginal sense.

“Quite a night, Paul?”

“Not too bad, sir.”

“But trouble in the public bar, I hear. What did old man Hall do? Hell, remember the time that farmer got stroppy in here with a bloke, wanted to start a fight? Then old Hall comes in with his bagpipes going like stuck pigs and they just stood, mouths like this.”

Kramer demonstrated and Paul Rampaul chuckled, shaking his head.

“Never fails, Mr. Kramer.”

“Well, did he?”

“Took his mouth organ, sir. Doesn’t like to risk his pipes in the public. He bought them in Scotland, they say.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Will you want another tonic, sir?”

“I’ll run you home if you like, man. No hurry.”

“It’s all right, sir, thank you; I sleep on the premises tonight.”

“Ach, that’s a shame.”

“Such is life, sir—your own words.”

Kramer was aware that he was talking to this black bugger in much the way he talked to a blacker bugger called Zondi and that this was causing some embarrassment. He did not give a bugger, as it happened. Christmas comes but once a year.

“No, not a tonic, just one more brandy, a single.”

“Very good, sir.”

Paul set it down before him.

“What shop did you get the present, Mr. Kramer? I believe you went down to my part of the town.”

“Huh! That I should remember!”

“May I ask who it was for, sir?”

“Me.”

“Sir?”

“My birthday,” said Kramer, toasting himself. “Today, the twenty-fourth of December. You should say ‘Happy returns.’”

“My best wishes, sir.”

Paul Rampaul was unbuttoning his white jacket.

“Not a good day for a birthday, Paul. No bastard’s going to give two presents; no, sir.”

“Must have been hard as a child, Mr. Kramer. Hard to take.”

“It was.”

By now the barman had changed into his sports jacket and had moved over to switch off the lights.

“I was born,” said Kramer, “in Bethlehem. Bloody Bethlehem. Know where that is?”