Trekkersburg police today disclosed that a city music teacher had been found dead in her flat-and that foul play had not been ruled out.
She was Miss Theresa le Roux (24), of 223B Barnato Street, who lived on her own.
Colonel Japie Du Plessis, Chief of the CID Division, told the Gazette last night: “The circumstances surrounding the death of Miss le Roux are giving cause for grave concern. However, we will not know what action to take until the full results of the post mortem are in our hands.
“ In the meantime, a senior police officer has already begun preliminary investigations in an attempt to trace anyone who can tell us anything about her. As far as we are aware, she has no next-of-kin.
“ May I take this opportunity of asking members of the public to come forward if they have even a small piece of information – leave it to us to decide whether or not it is important.”
Col. Du Plessis added that he had every confidence that the matter would be treated with dispatch and referred to the division’s high rate of success in the past.
That was all. But it was enough to make Kramer deliver a string of obscene threats which placed the entire universe in peril.
“How the hell did the Press get on to this?” he demanded finally, shaking Bob by the arm.
“I’m not the editor,” he replied, “but I seem to remember something on the social pages which might help-try four and five on a thirty-two pager.”
Kramer turned to them. Christ, he should have guessed: right across the top of page four was a five-column picture taken at the Brigadier’s braaivleis and immediately behind the old bull, as he stood with beer can raised, lurked the beaming figure of Colonel Du Plessis. What an ideal moment to take the opportunity; he was already beckoning over the reporter as the flash went off.
“Bob, you’re right, man-this is the case. I thought I had a long start on the buggers but now I must have the stuff on the tape before six.”
“Six?”
“Isn’t that when the Gazette deliveries start?”
“Deliveries, yes, but don’t forget the first edition is off the presses at ten.”
“So? It’s for the farming areas, isn’t it?”
“We also sell a few dozen to the cinema crowds as they come out-and on the station. Some people can’t resist a morning paper the night before.”
“Jesus.”
It was all Kramer had left in him to say. At ten he had still been taking his time in the cottage. In fact, he had not left until after eleven, because he had checked his watch just after seeing Miss Henry move away from the light. An ice cube slid slowly down his spine: all he had seen was a silhouette-backlighting would have had the same effect whether the watcher was inside or outside the house. And another thing-those six cars outside Dr Matthews’s place in Arcadia Avenue. If you had to keep watch in what would otherwise have been a deserted street, where all the residents garaged their cars at night, it was quite an idea to invite your friends along and make a party of it. Zondi could be in danger. He had to move fast.
Bob followed him to the door, promising to do all he could but apologetically emphasising that nine o’clock was the earliest he could expect results.
“Fine,” said Kramer. “This lot is so buggered up now it doesn’t matter that much. Thanks a lot, man.”
The corner of De Wet Street and the Parade was deserted. Zondi should have been waiting there for at least an hour-the two calls had taken far longer than Kramer anticipated.
He parked the car and sat. He needed to think carefully before making his next move. It would be very rash for a white, even armed, to attempt to follow in Zondi’s footsteps. On the other hand, he rebelled against the thought of calling in help. His mind reacted to the dilemma by blanking out.
He was staring across the pavement at the statue of Queen Victoria, which had presumably survived into the Republican era because it was so incredibly gross, when something stirred on the Great White Mother’s lap. He saw a slim brown hand reach up for a snap-brim hat hung on the sceptre. Moments later Zondi slid down and strode casually over.
“No Shoe Shoe,” he said. “His wheelbarrow is round the back of the City Hall but not one fellow knows where he is.”
“You asked plenty?”
“Oh yes, boss,” Zondi licked his knuckles.
The wind had gone. It was very cold and very early in the morning.
“Get in, I’ll take you home.”
“How come? We can go out to Peacehaven, boss.”
“Not tonight-I’ll explain why. Move it.”
As Kramer drove out to Kwela Village, he filled in on all that had happened. If that was the Colonel’s attitude, then he could not expect them to miss another night’s sleep.
Zondi lived with his wife and three children in a two-roomed concrete house which covered an area of four table-tennis tables and had a floor of stamped earth. He always had to direct Kramer to it as there were several hundred other identical houses in the township. All that distinguished his home was a short path edged with upturned condensed-milk cans too rusty to catch the car’s headlights.
“Go for Gershwin Mkize in the morning,” Kramer instructed him after they had stopped. “He should know where his merchandise has got to. Maybe Shoe Shoe’s sick? I’ve got to see the Colonel and Mr Perkins, then I’ll be in the market square if you’re not back in the office by ten.”
“Right, boss, see you.”
Kramer waited with his lights on the door so Zondi would not fumble the key, and then started off down the hill into town again.
Lucky man, that wife of Zondi’s was a good woman with a fine wide pelvis. Kramer caught himself wondering if it was not time he got lucky; he liked the idea of a loyal woman and he liked children. But no, he was a man of principle. It was not fair taking on such a responsibility in his job-you never knew when you might fetch up grinning at Strydom with your stomach. Anyway, he had found himself a widow with four kids. She would love a surprise guest.
5
For the second time running, Kramer awoke startled and lashing out. He was being kneed in the groin.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing!” someone yelled.
He pulled the sheet off his face. A delighted boy of five was advancing up him on all fours.
“Good morning, Uncle Trompie,” the child said, grinning round at his mother who stood by the wardrobe.
“You nearly took poor Piet’s head off,” chided the Widow Fourie.
“I don’t mind, Ma,” Piet said generously.
And the noise brought his siblings scrambling into the room to bounce on their Uncle Trompie. They were all older and that much bonier, but Kramer would have willingly put up with it for longer than their mother.
“What’s all this?” she demanded. “Out you go and let your Ma dress in peace. She’ll be late for work in a minute.”
“How long is a minute, Uncle Trompie?” asked Marie, the eldest, who knew anyway.
“Out!” shouted Widow Fourie.
“Hold it,” said Kramer, sitting up and reaching for his cigarettes. He had bought them from a machine and there was some change slipped into the cellophane wrapping. He added it to what was in his trouser pocket.
“Yes?” Marie moved eagerly forward.
“If you can tell me how long a minute is, then all of you can have a fizzy drink down at the Greek shop, it’ll be open by now.”
“Sixty!”
“Seconds! Right first time-now you lot get out of here and don’t come back till you’re burping.”
