The Steam Pig (7 page)

“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.

And snorted again, in surprise. Zondi had flicked the stub of his Texan so that it struck the sweat patch in the yellow suit between the shoulder blades. Before he could turn, Zondi was at his ear.

“What's the trouble, is Arm Chop swallowing his pennies again?”

“Ah, Detective Sergeant Mickey Zondi,” said Gershwin without a sideways glance. “Arm Chop he a good boy now, spend short time in lavatories. My thoughts are for this new fellow by the phone box. He not look too damn happy.”

It was part of Gershwin's vanity that he would rather speak bad English than Zulu, his mother tongue.

“Why not?” Zondi's tone was light, bantering. “His first week in the big city? I bet when you spoke to him about it, the wax turned to honey in his ears. Look here, you said, you're not useless after all. Your brothers cannot come in to find work because they have no passes, but the police will not mind if you don't have one—they leave your kind alone. All you have to do is show your legs to the Europeans and they will give you money that you can send home to your mother—and your brothers.”

“Too true,” agreed Gershwin, supremely amiable.

Zondi switched to Zulu: “But now he knows. He wants his brothers to carry him away. But they have no passes.”

“Later he will get more for his families,” Gershwin said, sticking to English. “I'm telling you this one took much petrol to find, he stays far in the mountains. Much, much petrol—much money.”

“Have a Texan.”

Gershwin nipped one from the packet and dropped it in his eagerness to whip out a flashy gas lighter.

“Hell no, have another,” said Zondi in English again, catching him by the shoulder as he bent to retrieve it. Gershwin nodded—then, noticing a quick movement, used his heel to grind the tobacco into the ground. A black urchin, who made his living by rolling smokes out of stubs, slunk back on to the court-house verandah.

Zondi made Gershwin take his light off a match. That was for the kid.

“But business stays good, does it, Gershwin? I see there are two other new ones besides the boy.”

Gershwin took care to exhale into Zondi's face. He did not blink.

“So, so, Mr Zondi.”

“How many altogether?”

“Ten, maybe twelve.”

“And is Shoe Shoe still your Number One?”

“Number One topside.”

There was a slight hesitation before the affirmation of Shoe Shoe's status.

“But he has not been living down at your place in Trichaard Street for nearly a month now.”

That was the way; play it down, play it cool.

“Silly fellow that, Shoe Shoe. I telling him it best place but he like to sleep in the market too much.”

“Why so?”

“He no like the other unfortunatelies. Say he different from them. Say he was not born to shame mother.”

“Who looks after him, then?”

“I pay boys.”

“With his rent money?”

“I must not be out of my pocket because he is funny chap, Mr Zondi.”

“That boy over there, is he one who helps?”

“Any boys. My driver finds them.”

“So Shoe Shoe just says he isn't coming back to Trichaard Street one night?”

“I telling you.”

“Why so suddenly? He had been there four years—yes?”

Gershwin's thumb-nail went to work on the bark again. He was digging quite a hole in it.

“That's right,” he said, very bored.

“And suddenly last night he leaves the market, too. Without his barrow.”

“Ah, now I know your troubles, Mr Zondi! But nobody steal Shoe Shoe, you know. Police not to worry.”

Gershwin was grinning from one small ear to the other.

“No?”

“He fear a spell from the others, they jealous. He take taxi up mountains to look for witchdoctor.”

“When?”

“Saturday before yesterday.”

“By himself?”

“Shoe Shoe save much money—not one family to him, you see—but why pay for two?”

“Do you know which taxi?”

“Parrot taxi cheapest.”

He meant pirate—and knew no inquiry was ever likely to succeed in that direction.

“There's a whole row of witchdoctors in Brandsma Street, Gershwin.”

“Those with shops no good; all same like white doctors. Shoe Shoe come back by-and-by.”

Gershwin's grin had fixed, hooked back on his eye teeth. His disclosure was in no way absurd, it all tied together nicely. If anything could make a Zulu—even as handicapped as Shoe Shoe—head for the bush, it was the dread of having had a curse on him. Such spells could only be dealt with in a secret place.

It seemed that Gershwin held a winning hand. So Zondi played the Joker. He tipped his Texans out, so they showered down at his feet, and beckoned the scavenger over. Then he walked briskly away, turning once to enjoy the conflict on Gershwin's face that finally lost him his composure. The kick was a second too late—the boy and the jackpot had disappeared into the shimmering air.

 

6

K
RAMER WAS SEATED
at the wheel of a taxi in the Market Square, an old sock drawn over the For Hire bracket. The owner was away drinking his health in a nearby bar.

He had chosen the taxi because the rank was close to the flower stalls and he wanted to keep an eye on the yellow Dodge. There had been nothing rewarding so far. Gershwin's stooge was leaning listlessly on the boot, exhausted by writing some very elementary words in the dust on the back window. The driver was asleep.

Which, by a process of association, made Kramer aware that he was suffering a hangover from some dream which had plagued him until little Piet came in. There was a little of it left, like a heeltap at the bottom of his skull. He could still taste the cloying sweetness of it. Gradually a few images re-formed in his mind's eye. Theresa le Roux had been warm from her brow to the trim of her ankles. Under the blue gums by a slow brown river, with Christmas beetles shrilling in the bush beyond, she had reached out for him. The little grey dress had slipped off on its own. The hooks on her purple bra had parted at a touch. But as her round breasts sprang free, Dr Strydom's stitching had come undone and they had flopped into his lap.

He flinched. It was high time he got his thinking straight about Miss Le Roux.

But at that moment he spotted Zondi making his way towards him through the flower stalls—and between them stood the Dodge. A robust housewife beckoned for a Bantu to take some oranges to the car park which lay further back. Zondi barged the other contenders aside and shouldered the bag, effectively masking his face with it as he passed the stooge.

He dumped the bag not far from the taxi rank, accepted a coin with a humble smile, and approached on the stooge's blind side. Kramer raised a hand to call him over, to tell him it was not worth it, then changed his mind. It could be amusing to see what happened next.

Almost to order, two Cape Coloured tarts began a slanging match a few feet on the far side of the Dodge. The stooge slouched over and a small crowd of layabouts gleefully gathered. Cheers woke the driver, who got out to join his colleague. The obscenities were riveting, but Zondi hesitated. The men in yellow were still too close to the car.

Then an Indian roadsweeper stopped his handcart beside Zondi. He obviously wanted to exchange droll remarks but found instead he was tucking the housewife's coin into his turban and watching in some bewilderment as Zondi advanced on the mob with the hired broom.

Kramer switched on the taxi's engine, just in case. You never knew with Zondi. It could turn into a very unpleasant situation.

Zondi walked swiftly up behind the stooge and driver, stopped a yard short, aimed the broom handle between them, and lunged with all his weight. He caught the bigger tart 'twixt buttocks—it was like being goosed by an ostrich. She reacted on reflex with a practised and devastating backhander. The buckle on her bag ripped across the stooge's face even before her head could turn. And then the driver got his. They screamed and went for her. The other tart gave the rallying cry to every Coloured within half a mile and the fight was on.

It was all action.

Except over on the near side of the Dodge. There Zondi was displaying an almost supercilious calm as he opened the doors to examine the interior. He went over every inch of the upholstery, pried into every stub-filled cranny, tipped up the ashtrays which were empty. Something in the glove compartment finally caught his eye. He carefully closed the doors before crouching to inspect the underside of the vehicle.

He came up smiling just as the market master arrived on the scene blowing frantically on a police whistle. It was definitely a situation in which you went by priorities—Kramer abandoned the taxi to its driver, and the fracas to an Indian constable wobbling up on his bicycle. Zondi had a lead.