“Ach, not you, too, hey? One of the best?”
“I knew they spoke very highly of him in the reserve, Lieutenant. He would come to them quietly and alone, sit many hours and hold a proper
ingxoxo
, speak with courtesy to the people and in their own language, and explain why he had to do such and such, for it was his duty. Many times, the suspect he was seeking would come forward with his hands held out like this for the cuffs, because the chief had turned to this offender and asked him to show the proper respect. There were times, too, when Boss Kritzinger did not take a man to jail, but he gave him a good beating instead, allowing him to be at work the next day so his family would not suffer.
Hau
, he could hit hard, the people say! They called him
Isipikili
, the Nail, because with one blow he could join together a man and a wife who had been fighting!”
“So this was an old weakness of his?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant?”
“Just go on, hey?”
“There was much talk, Lieutenant. Fortunately, my earnest request for advice was not seen as too urgent, so I was allowed to wait ignored and unattended for many hours, overhearing many things.”
“Such as?”
“About how the body of Boss Kritzinger had been found just after four o’clock in the morning, and that it had not been badly mutilated, although that of the white madam had been torn into many pieces. For a while it was wondered whether Boss Gillets had been made into even smaller pieces, then someone said no, he was away, working at the big game reserve. Everyone was much puzzled to know why this thing had been done. Another thing to puzzle them was that it seemed a new CID lieutenant was being sent up from Trekkersburg to take charge of the case. Everyone was greatly surprised, for they had expected Captain Bronkhorst to do this work. One man said maybe Captain Bronkhorst was afraid he would look bad if he failed to catch the person who had made the explosion. But later, Mtetwa, the Bantu sergeant, said no, it was not like that. He had spoken with a former CID colleague in Trekkersburg and had been told that Captain Bronkhorst was busy with a very big investigation, assisting the Security Branch to find a certain Bantu male, Nelson Mandela.”
“Who?” asked Kramer.
“Oh, some Xhosa,” said Zondi, with what seemed a very Zulu gesture of dismissal for someone belonging to a lesser tribe. “I seem to remember he is also ANC, once a lawyer.”
“Oh, ja? Why didn’t the Colonel just tell me that?”
“Lieutenant?”
“Ach, never mind,” said Kramer, motioning for him to continue.
“Then, in the afternoon, Boss Bokkie Maritz arrived at the police station, sir, driving a Trekkersburg Chevrolet, and I was
afraid he might see me and say something to identify me to the others, and so—”
“Which would have been bloody typical!”
“And so, in great haste, sir, I made off with many questions still unanswered in my head.”
“Uh-huh, and somehow took yourself into the Bombay Emporium just after I went in there …”
“I had great need of cigarettes, sir.”
“So getting a close look at me within minutes of my arrival in Jafini was just a coincidence, hey?”
“Indubitably, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t you bloody try lying to me, hey?”
“
Hau
, would your most humble servant ever do such a thing, my master?”
“Damn right you would, kaffir!”
And they both laughed, as though they had just invented a new kind of joke together.
“The truth is, Lieutenant,” said Zondi, dragging out Moses’ tin trunk to sit on, “I thought I recognized the boss from somewhere, and wanted to double-check on this.”
“And?”
Zondi shrugged. “I still wasn’t sure, boss. I just knew I had this strange feeling that the Lieutenant and me—”
“Ja, ja, ja,” interrupted Kramer. “How come the next time I saw you, you were sneaking along the Nkosala road, heading for Fynn’s Creek?”
“Sneaking, Lieutenant?”
“Ach, you know what I mean! Or are you going to deny taking a bloody big dive into the cane to avoid me?”
Zondi smiled. “I took a shortcut to the sea, that is true, boss.”
“But why?”
“I wanted to speak with Moses Khumalo, Lieutenant.”
“For what reason?”
“Something had begun to interest me greatly, boss. Something that did not make sense at all.”
“Oh, ja? Explain.”
“After you left the trading store, boss, I wanted to find out more, for such is my nature, and so I went to Mama Dumela’s shebeen, down in the shantytown. I had begun to wonder whether Moses Khumalo had not returned to Fynn’s Creek much sooner that I remembered, and so might possibly have seen something that—”
“So you
had
been drinking with him the previous night?”
“Not exactly with him, Lieutenant, but in the same room, correct. I was seated at another table with different menfolk. Mama Dumela pours her illicit liquor very freely and so naturally her customers talk very freely, making it a good place for finding out many useful secrets.”
“Any bloody excuse, hey?”
Zondi smiled. “When I returned to Mama Dumela’s, boss, many people were already gathered there, to speak with much excitement about the killing of the whites at Fynn’s Creek, and to mourn the passing of Boss Kritzinger. In the center was the old woman from the police station whose fowls had been stolen, retelling all that she had heard. Mama Dumela said that plainly these killings had been born of such great evil that even the crocodiles had been too afraid to come back out of the water.”
“You’ve lost me, man …”
“What Mama meant was, Lieutenant, why had the bodies not both been eaten up during those four hours it took to find them?”
“Shit, she’s right!” exclaimed Kramer, suddenly seeing again, in his mind’s eye, Dingaan the iguana snapping up the morsels of bacon fat thrown to him every morning by little Piet Fourie. “Christ, I’ve kept being nagged by the feeling I was overlooking something! Those crocs zoom back pretty quick!”
“Maybe not always, Lieutenant,” said Zondi. “It is hard to know how a creature like that will behave. Such a big explosion could have frightened them very, very much, making them hide in the water and—”
“Ja, but it’s a good point nonetheless. I wonder why nobody else has come up with it?”
Zondi said nothing, but concentrated instead on stubbing out his Texan on the sole of his tennis shoe.
“Here,” said Kramer, producing his pack of Luckys and shaking the dune sand from it.
They both lit up again. “What else did you learn at the shebeen?” asked Kramer.
“Nothing, boss—not even the approximate time Moses the cook boy had left to go back to Fynn’s Creek. Nobody could remember. And so I decided to make up some excuse to come here to the beach, and that’s when the Lieutenant saw me.”
“Bloody caught you in the act, you mean!”
“Right!” said Zondi, chuckling. “
Hau
, you came up very suddenly, Lieutenant!”
“And did you find out why the crocs hadn’t had their midnight feast?”
Zondi shook his head. “No, Lieutenant, that was to remain a big mystery. I still have not solved it.”
“But what did you make of all that stuff you got Moses to tell you about Sergeant Kritzinger’s visit?”
“The Lieutenant knows I—?
Hau
, I had not expected anyone to take such an interest in a raw kaffir like Khumalo!”
“Ja, your second big mistake. But I still want to know what conclusions you drew, man …”
“It seemed Boss Kritzinger’s words had gladdened the young madam’s heart in some way, but I was not sure how, boss. Is there any investigation Boss Kritzinger could have been conducting that involved the interests of the young madam?”
“Christ, is that the best you can do? No other ideas?”
Zondi shrugged. “I suppose Boss Kritzinger could also have brought her news of a visit from her lover that night—something of the sort to greatly excite her.”
“Ach, now wait a minute! Remember, this is a white madam you’re talking about, hey? So watch it!”
“Lieutenant, when I was young, before I could join the police at sixteen, I worked two years as a houseboy …”
“So what?”
“I am thinking of Moses Khumalo, Lieutenant. In my experience, white masters and white madams almost never give you time off unless they want you out of the way to afford them full privacy. For example, boss, many have a mating custom after the big lunch on Sunday, and so their servants are always permitted to take the rest of the—”
“Damn it, man, I understand what you’re hinting at,” said Kramer, “but it’s a bullshit theory that doesn’t fit the facts. Boss Kritzinger was the only other person killed by the blast; I don’t know of any pieces of some bare-bummed bloody ‘lover’ blown all over the place!”
“Then it could have been Boss Kritzinger himself who—”
“Ach, no! Had Moses ever seen him at Fynn’s Creek before, hey?”
“No, that is true, Lieutenant,” said Zondi, shaking his head. “And it is also true, boss, I have heard nothing at the shebeen of a scandalous nature concerning Boss Kritzinger.
Hau
, you should hear how some white masters and madams in this district behave! One houseboy was saying—”
“Enough!” said Kramer. “Almighty God, who’d have thought you kaffirs were such bloody gossips? Can we get back to more serious matters?”
“Gladly, Lieutenant,” said Zondi. “Which means, boss, I must repeat my question.”
“Which one was that?”
“I asked the Lieutenant whether Boss Kritzinger had been
investigating a case that could have lifted a weight from the shoulders of the white madam, making her—”
“And the answer is, ja, possibly, but there could be a lot more to it than that. I hope you’re not expecting me to start reeling off to you the whole of my bloody investigation so far!”
“Are we not both Murder and Robbery, my boss?”
“Jesus wept, you really are the cheekiest damn kaffir I’ve ever bloody come across!”
“
Hau
, Lieutenant,
very nearly
Sister Theresa’s exact words to me on many, many occasions,” said Zondi.
F
INALLY, THE SQUALL
outside the hut hollered for help, and its big brother came running, a God Almighty storm, which hammered at the hut door and started trying to tear off the roof thatch.
“A pity this didn’t happen three nights ago,” remarked Kramer, forced to raise his voice. “Would have put a bloody dampener on things, hey?—might even have blown the fuse out!”
Zondi nodded, but clearly he was still preoccupied by the resume Kramer had just finished giving him. His eyes had that unfocused look, although directed at the candle flame, and he remained motionless, hands deep in his jacket pockets.
“My uncle used to have a pet baboon who sat just like that, dead still for hours,” said Kramer. “His excuse was old age and constipation—what’s yours, hey?”
“Lieutenant?” said Zondi, turning, and his broad smile caught up a second later. “
Hau!
I’m sorry, my boss, but many, many things have begun to fit together, making everything so much clearer!”
“Oh, ja?”
“But, er, with respect, the Lieutenant will allow me to correct one of his possible theories? Boss Kritzinger could not have eaten that last meal of meat curry with Boss Grantham.”
“How the hell would you know that, hey?”
“Because, Lieutenant, Moon Acre is a place of employment for many, many runaway men, and it was there that I was on surveillance that same night, hiding from the dogs in a treetop near the compound. I can swear to you that Boss Grantham ate alone at round about eight o’clock, and then listened to his radio on the front verandah, drinking gin and tonic, until close to eleven, when he told the chef and the other staff to go off duty. He then retired to his bedroom, and there he remained reading until the explosion, when he came running out with a rifle in his hands, calling out in an alarmed manner for his
induna
.”
“The big bang took him by surprise, you say?”
“I am sorry, Lieutenant.”
“Ach, no! Let’s get at the facts, man! That could save me a lot of time, as it tends to bugger any case against Grantham, doesn’t it?”
Zondi shook his head. “I see no reason for that, my boss. Clearly, there are many strange things that happen at Moon Acre of which we have still much to learn.”
“Incidentally, did you spot Cousin Nun-Shagger there?”
“No, boss, but the possibility remains. I must make further inquiries.”
“Uh-huh. Where else have I gone wrong so far, that you know about?”
“It was not I, boss, who took the Sunday-best clothes of Moses Khumalo, the cook boy.”
“Oh, really? Who did, then? Any ideas on that score?”
“I think it was probably a Bantu quite unconnected with this case, my boss—somebody also drinking in the shebeen that night. Someone who overheard Moses saying he had been given the night off because his boss was away, and who would have known, by watching Moses, that it would be many, many hours before he returned to Fynn’s Creek. This someone could have slipped away then, and gone to see what he could steal from him—or even steal from the house, boss. The point is,
Lieutenant, those clothes must have been taken the same night as the explosion, because the next night, when you caught me speaking with Moses Khumalo, they were no longer there.”
“Hell, Moses couldn’t be sure of that, when I last asked him!”
“Maybe not, Lieutenant, but during my visit, when Moses went to make water, I gave this hut a quick search, just as a test of his honesty. This tin trunk, boss, was quite empty.”
Kramer sighed and shook his head. “On second thoughts,
Smart
Arse might have been a better name for you,” he said, holding out his Lucky Strike packet, two cigarettes protruding.
“Many thanks, Lieutenant! Actually, in this matter, I thought exactly the same way as the boss did: I also started a search for the clothing thief, thinking he might perhaps have witnessed matters of interest at Fynn’s Creek that night, but without success, sir. I would think that since the explosion he has been very, very afraid of those clothes, and has probably buried them deep in some ant-bear hole.”