“Yes, dearie?” he prompted.
“Was she-was she marked in any way?”
The question had Kramer across the room in two bounds. He grabbed her.
“Why do you ask that?” he demanded.
Mrs Johnson shook herself free, anger putting colour in her cheeks.
“I’ve already told you that, young man-she had lovely skin.”
Kramer was suddenly aware that she, too, had lovely skin, now there was a flush to give it life.
And he noticed something else that stopped his breathing.
When seen together, the girl on the tray and the old woman standing beside it were, not in general but in detail, uncannily alike.
“You’re her mother?”
The reply was proud: “I am.”
Farthing waited, then replaced the sheet.
“She was not marked, Mrs Johnson,” Kramer said softly.
Gogol was not pleased to see Zondi again but Moosa was.
He said that Thursday was quite the worst day of his week. It attracted far too many raucous people and noisy lorries to Trichaard Street-why, he could not imagine. Ordinarily he could tolerate the odd hoot of a car-horn or a pedlar’s cry, but on Thursdays it was all too distracting for him to continue his third careful reading of Chamber’s Encyclopaedia, pre-war edition. Although he had reached Ichthyology and was eagerly anticipating picking holes in Islam again, he sensibly opted for a pile of undemanding American comics on Thursdays.
“Why not go out?” Zondi asked.
Moosa took sudden umbrage that one of Gogol’s fruit flies should dare to invade his sanctuary. He zapped it with Batman.
So Zondi just went ahead and disclosed the fate of Gershwin Mkize and his two henchmen. They were behind bars and this time for good.
“Damn,” Moosa groaned, looking very sorry for himself. “Damn and blastings. Have you told Gogol yet?”
“He doesn’t like kaffirs in his store who aren’t there to spend their money.”
Moosa sighed.
“A hard man, Sergeant,” he said. “A very hard man.”
Zondi allowed him to dwell silently on the ruthless nature of the greengrocer. And then he observed philosophically: “There is work and there is work.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“That there are many different things a man may do to earn his money.”
“Huh, money! That’s all that Gogol thinks is important. I tell him one, two hundred times, education is what makes a man. He just rubs his thumb.”
“Hau!”
“Yes, that’s the truth of it. He’s so mean that the other night I took one little bag of peanuts off the shelf downstairs and he wrote that down in his book, too.”
“So he is expecting you to pay him back then?”
This made Moosa laugh like a clown, one of the sad ones.
“But does it matter where the money comes from, Moosa?”
The Indian looked sideways at Zondi.
“I’m not mixed up in anything,” he said darkly-and showed his hurt when Zondi chuckled.
“You’re a man of education, right, Moosa?”
“I apply myself to my studies.”
“You have a quick eye and a good ear? You can think intelligently?”
“I have always done so.”
“Good. Then would you like a job where you decide your own hours-even what you’re going to do?”
“This is very interesting, I must say, Sergeant. What is it?”
“Ah, let us test your powers!” Zondi replied. “You guess.”
Moosa spent some time on it. Then he got it in a flash when Zondi took two Rand notes from his wallet and pushed them into the row of encyclopaedias.
“It’s good money and no tax either,” Zondi coaxed.
“Too damn dangerous. I’m a man of intellect, not a man of action, Sergeant-thanks all the same.”
“Rubbish, Moosa, you can take your time. Surely you don’t think a man with your mind is going to be outwitted by the types we’re interested in?”
Moosa shrugged.
“It happened once,” he said, flattered but wary.
“And couldn’t happen again, not with all the reading you say you’ve done. How about it? You could even have a little revenge if we can fix it.”
Moosa waddled over and examined the notes.
“But what are these for?” he asked.
“The tip-off about the Lesotho car.”
“Did that help you then?”
“Not so far-we need more about it and quickly. So you can call our small gift an advance if you like.”
While he was talking, Zondi took out a paperback and admired its cover.
“James Bond,” Moosa said. “Have you read any? Beautiful writing.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Zondi replied, casually handing the volume over.
Moosa took a long look at the blonde in Bond’s arms.
“Well, I must get back now,” Zondi said from the doorway. “We’re in a big hurry on this one. Maybe you could go out for a look this afternoon, Moosa?”
The reek of the flowers was overpowering. It began to sicken Kramer as he sat, ankle-deep in bouquets and tributes, at Mrs Johnson’s side in the store room and waited for her to stop weeping.
So he decided to go through and have a belated interview with Farthing. He might even take a statement.
“Is she comfy in there?” Farthing asked as he approached the counter. “I was so surprised when you said the showroom wouldn’t do. She doesn’t look it, does she?”
“Name?” Kramer asked gruffly.
“Jonathan Farthing.”
“Address?”
“I live here, I’ve a little flat round the back.”
“You took the girl from the cottage in Barnato Street?”
“I did the removal, yes.”
“By yourself?”
“We’ve got one of these clever new-fangled things with wheels on and handles.”
“I see. What can you remember of the occasion?”
“Just it was very straightforward. Bundled her in and shot back here.”
“You don’t seem to take your profession very seriously.”
“Frankly, Lieutenant, I’m not very interested in that side of things. I’m more-”
“ I’m not interested, Mr Farthing. Tell me what you saw at the cottage.”
“Well, it was all very tasteful, wasn’t it? Lovely curtains in the bedroom, I’ve been trying to find some of that material ever since.”
Kramer sighed and hoped his breath was bad.
“So sorry, I’m sure. The girl? It struck me she was very peaceful; the bedclothes were not disturbed or anything, apart from what the doctors had moved. Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten-I switched off her bedside lamp.”
“Still burning?”
“Yes, but it was the only one. After that I noticed whether the others were out.”
“You didn’t leave any fingerprints-how was that?”
