“Not that he was any more explicit when he rang us,” he added hastily. “Didn’t have to be, really, because our diary had bugger all on it worth a lead. But don’t take my word on any of this-you could say I’m feeling a bit biased.”
“I won’t,” said Kramer, throwing down enough to cover his share of the meal and a tip.
“Look, this was on me,” the reporter protested, also getting to his feet. “This was our first-ever get-together, I’ll see to it, and you the next.”
Kramer ignored him. He was checking to see that he had his lighter.
“Er-you won’t mention I said anything, Lieutenant Kramer? And about that copy, it’s early yet so it should be ready for first edition and I’ll ring you as-”
“You do that, Clive,” said Kramer, storming out.
Last rounds were being bought. The small black boy in bare feet, who slipped into the canteen every now and then to remove empties, his eyes never lifting above table level, was doing very well out of partly consumed soda waters and Cokes overtaken by fresh orders. If the tone of the general conversation wasn’t high, its volume was, and in the hearty hubbub Marais had mellowed considerably.
“Poor bastards,” he said, indicating two Portuguese guests sipping beers. “How would you like the kaffirs to kick you out of your country and have to start all over again from bottom?”
“Who brought them in?” asked Gardiner, blinking as non-smokers do in a fug. He had not lit one for three days.
“I don’t know. Lots of the blokes feel sorry for them. Can’t do enough for you. Want you to know how much they like it here, in the Republic, I mean. That big one’s from LM, small one from Beira; got a tearoom up near the college.”
“Got every bloody tearoom these days,” said a young constable who overheard them. “Worse than the coolies.”
Their glasses were empty.
So Gardiner led the way out, pausing to question a uniformed sergeant who was drinking an orange squash in the doorway because he was on duty, and firearms weren’t allowed in the canteen anyway.
“Who’s the pushy little poop, Sarge?”
“One just talking to you? Oppenheimer.”
“Oh, ja,” said Gardiner, and then he and Marais walked down the wide passage and out into the yard, making for the latrine. Which had batwing doors like a Wild West saloon for some amusing, if obscure, reason.
“Well, here’s what I think of you,” said Marais, careful to aim at Trekkersburg between the bowls because the pipes into the gutter were missing and otherwise he’d soak his moccasins. “Now for the popsie and the back row at the drive-in. Pity Mickey’s made work for you or-”
The batwing doors clattered wide.
“Okay, Sergeant Marais, to my office,” Kramer said softly, his hands on his hips.
Gardiner tarried to rinse out his left stocking.
Zondi handed over the keys of the Chev Commando, which was better than new now, and borrowed his bus fare off Kramer. Then he walked around Marais, gave a quick smile behind his back, and left for home.
“Look, sir,” Marais began stiffly, having been given time by the interruption to prepare his defense.
“No, you look,” Kramer contradicted him, and indicated he should take a seat. “I’ll accept what you say about the papers in Jo’burg listening in on our radio and getting to the scene of crime just as quick. I’ll accept all that.”
Marais perched on the edge of Zondi’s little table, relaxing slightly.
“If I hadn’t been at the Wigwam, too, then it would have been a very different matter, Marais. Then I would expect you to take it personally- very personally. But, as it was, I had the same chances as you. The main point is this: it seems to me that there’s a definite case for thinking we’ve been buggered about by this arsehole who runs the club. The police, that is. I want this fully investigated. And if there is anything in it, I want charges brought against him. False information, obstruction-”
“Perjury? I’ve got his statement already, sir.”
“Hey? First class-let me see it right now.”
The prodigal left the room like there was veal on the menu, and Kramer used the delay to ring the Widow Fourie and say he would be later than planned. And yes, he had told Mickey that his help would be needed for the move to the house. He realized it could not keep being put off. He would see her.
Marais had just returned, bearing the docket, when the Gazette reporter rang through with his story.
“That’s not bad,” Kramer said, with a half smile of relief at the end of it. “Except you don’t get a fusillade with five shots set days apart, hey? I do appreciate it’s in English, but… Ja, that’ll be fine. Perfect. Uh-huh, and I’ll scratch yours.”
He glanced across for a reaction, but Marais was too engrossed in scribbling something.
“Oh, ja? Never! ‘Bye.”
The receiver’s weight cut the rest dead.
“I’ve listed them,” Marais announced.
“Go ahead-read.”
“ One -suspect’s report to duty officer logged at ten-thirty; for press to be there at ten-forty, calls must have been made immediately afterwards.”
“Or before?”
“Hmmm. Two -suspect’s abusive manner on finding press had been asked to wait outside.”
His diplomacy was acknowledged by a curt nod.
“ Three -suspect’s response to learning that exhibit A was being removed from the premises. By that I mean his offer to save police time and put it in his pig bins.”
“Come again?” Kramer asked, tossing over a lighted Lucky Strike.
“Ta, sir. Well, I thought Monty was just arse-creeping at the time, but obviously, now we’ve got this publicity angle, he hoped the snake could go in the newspaper pictures. It would have looked good, and if you can print crash pictures, I don’t see why not.”
“Uh-huh. Sharks-they publish killer sharks. And?”
“ Four -suspect’s excited manner. Warrant Gardiner was telling me tonight that once Monty found a junkie dead in his bog and-”
“Hey!” interrupted Kramer. “What about number five? Now, that really interests me.”
Marais had no fifth point listed. He looked up, slightly off balance
“Sir?”
“When you’re on night duty, man, what time do you get up after a night off? Early? Or late, like after the nights you’ve been on?”
“You-um-get into a sort of cycle, really. So it’s usually late like the others. If you don’t, by the time… Oh, I get you. Ten seems early for him?”
“Gives him a fifteen, sixteen-hour working day.”
“Ja, but-hell, that’s a nasty allegation!”
“But what?”
“According to his statement, he always comes in at ten to see the post, fix cabaret bookings, order drink and grub, and let the cleaner in.”
“How do you make a reservation, then?”
“That’s done through his home number-his wife sees to that. Let me see…”
Marais nipped a statement sheet out of the docket.
“Here it is. ‘I always go into the club for a couple of hours in the morning, returning home to sleep at around noon. I had no appointments, so this was my intention until a report was made to me by Bantu Male Joseph Ngcobo, in my employ as a part-time-’”
“Never mind the pieces you wrote,” said Kramer. “Just tell me where you took over.”
His insight tickled Marais, who put a finger on the third line down. “From ‘until a report’ onwards, sir. Hell, he tried to make it a bloody book and wanted to put in hearsay.”
“They all do, old son. That was a nice thought while it lasted. You were saying? Four?”
“ Ach, just that Monty didn’t seem so easily shocked before. Very cool, the warrant said. But four isn’t such a
