“Can’t you see a connection between these two cases-is that what’s troubling you?”
“Naturally, we wasted a whole night on it. I tell you it’s quite straightforward. Gershwin killed Shoe Shoe for some damn fool reason, you know what these wogs are, and now he’s trying to make a good story for the court. They always do, even if they know they’re going to hang.”
“You mean this thing about getting a message from an unknown gang to kill his bloke or else?”
“Yes, it’s either that line or the one about spirits whispering evil things in their ears. What made it sound wrong at the start was he didn’t know the gang’s name. We just didn’t give him a chance to make one up, that’s all.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Trompie, he could have heard something somewhere.”
“A whisper you mean? Okay, so there’s a gang that makes small fry like Gershwin jump to attention and mess themselves. Let’s say the same lot’s behind Miss Whatsit’s murder. Is it likely that an outfit that uses a hired pro would delegate a job to a fumbler like Gershwin?”
“Thought you said you were impressed by his m.o.? It was a fluke you found Shoe Shoe’s body so fast. It could have been there years and then do you think anyone would have bothered to even ask Gershwin about it? Not a chance. You didn’t do anything when he was stabbed. And that’s another point; if Shoe Shoe was found dead in an ordinary way, surely the chances would be that someone would look for a spoke hole?”
“That’s my girlie, but it wasn’t a fluke that we got on to Shoe Shoe-it was a logical progression from the Le Roux murder. Zondi just followed it up.”
“Ah, but they didn’t expect that to be discovered in the first place, did they? There’s your fluke.”
Kramer began to soap his hair.
“Have it your way,” he said. “But this is all theory. The only link it suggests is that a gang with a name we don’t know is going about knocking off white girls and black beggars. Take it from there, if you can.”
The Widow Fourie went out and returned with a fresh packet of Luckies. Kramer had slid down to rinse his hair and so only his nose, mouth and knee-caps were above water level. It startled her mildly when the lips parted to speak.
“I know for a fact that Gershwin Mkize murdered Shoe Shoe,” the lips intoned slowly, “and I know for a fact that even if what Gershwin said was true, there is nothing more he can tell us.”
It was strangely impressive, rather like a scene from some ancient legend about a sub-aqua oracle. The Widow Fourie stood fascinated.
But Kramer said nothing more. He surfaced with a great splash and grabbed for a towel. The Widow Fourie handed him one absently.
“What about Shoe Shoe though?” she asked. “Surely he would know-you’d have thought he’d have said something when they were doing that to him.”
“According to Gershwin he had a hell of a lot to say-but it was all nonsense. He must have cracked with the shock. Can’t say I’m surprised, it was the second time for him.”
“What sort of nonsense?”
“Just gibberish and it didn’t help matters that Gershwin tried to put it all into bloody English as usual. We pushed him hard on this but got nowhere. In fact Gershwin was beginning to go a bit himself by then and you couldn’t really tell one lot from another. Stuff about people who tipped him-Shoe Shoe, I mean-and those that didn’t and councillors and the mayor’s car and all the important things he knew about important people watching from in front of the City Hall all day. Ach, I can’t be bothered. We didn’t even try to write it down in the end, just let him run on until he keeled over.”
“Do you remember any of it?”
“No. I tell you most of it was real rubbish.”
“Oh, just try to remember one thing. I think you’re so lucky to have an interesting job like yours is.”
Kramer could see he had made her day. Come to think of it, it was high time he made her. So, simply to sustain the mood, he said: “The last thing he said was ‘the steam pig’.”
“The Steam Pig,” she repeated slowly.
Kramer looked up from her legs.
“Come again?”
She was puzzled.
“The Steam Pig-the same as you said it.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“For God’s sake, Trompie, there’s no need to snap like that over a little thing.”
The Widow Fourie had reached the door before Kramer could speak again.
“You see,” he said quietly, “you say it like it’s the name of something.”
She turned and understood. And shivered.
Van Niekerk had made a most satisfactory start. For years he had gone about with a platoon of ballpoint pens ranged at the ready in his breast-pocket. One wrote in mauve ink, the others in red, black, green and the conventional blue. The thing was that he seldom felt justified in using them all in a single engagement, but this time he had.
And nobody could dispute how much such diversity had helped to clarify the complicated case sheet he had drawn up from his notes. Colonel Du Plessis, who had wandered in to ask casually after the Lieutenant, had done him the honour of staring at the finished job for fully five minutes.
He was alone again now, having moved into the Lieutenant’s delightfully spick-and-span office with all the paraphernalia he could possibly imagine his duties would require. He had pinned a large street map of Trekkersburg on the wall and marked various pertinent addresses with coloured drawing pins. He had spread the crime sheet on a card table borrowed from the sergeants’ mess. And he had placed the sparse collection of reports in a yellow basket labelled “ PRIORITY ”.
Which somehow forced him to read them all again even though they contained very little information. The one from Fingerprints on the cottage was a complete waste of time.
So he picked up two lists prepared from the Yellow Pages and debated whether to begin on the dispensing opticians or the electronic organ retailers.
A spin of a coin decided him on the latter. Soon he was copying down immense lists of improbable names read over to him, somewhat irritably in most cases, from invoice books. As the traders pointed out, this check failed to take into account the cash sales; but his reply to this was to the effect that the class of person he was interested in would hardly be likely to indulge in such vulgarity. This was also the reason he gave himself for omitting the two large cash-and-carry bazaars in the main street. The old women in Barnato Street had been most emphatic that the men they had seen going for lessons had been well dressed, prosperous-looking types.
As it was, Van Niekerk lost a lot of his early enthusiasm when he totted up the results and found he would have to check out one hundred and seventy-three names. They could wait. The opticians might provide an immediate lead.
But an hour later, and with two names still to contact, he was looking exceedingly sourly at Kramer’s name scrawled on the telephone directory cover. The opticians had been astounded by his inquiry-some had had to have the whole thing explained twice to them. Cosmetic contacts were definitely still a thing of the future in Trekkersburg, if not the entire Republic, and most of them doubted very much if they would ever catch on. He shuddered at the thought of going on to make a list of possibilities in Durban.
Thankfully the coffee arrived just then and, combined with a dozen brisk press-ups, restored something of his former vigour.
In fact he was actually reaching for the telephone again when Mr Abbott came through.
The undertaker had asked specifically to be connected to Lieutenant Kramer’s office so he wasted no time on formalities. He spoke briefly in a hurried whisper and rang off.
Van Niekerk shook his head sharply to clear it. Then he looked down at his shorthand note of the message:
“Got someone in the parlour asking questions about the deceased girl. Come quick. Not sure I’ll be able to keep them without a fuss.”
The mild-mannered co-ordinator took his cue. He was up and away and streaking for the street before it occurred to him to call the Lieutenant. But then this was a matter of extreme urgency and everyone knew how difficult it was at times to contact him. He could be anywhere.
