The owner of the first house on the even-numbered side of Vista Road responded quickly to the loud knock on his front door.
“Electricity,” Kramer said.
“I’ve paid my bills.”
“Not bloody interested, I’ve come to check on a power leak. Where’s your meter?”
The householder sullenly admitted them and pointed to the meter board on the hall wall.
“Boy!”
Zondi leapt to it. He flicked on the torch, reached up on tiptoe and shone the light on the main current dial. Kramer noted down a figure.
“This one’s okay, let’s go.”
Without another word, they left the house and went into the next. And as they worked their way down to No. 14, they became aware that the street was not half as deserted as it had first appeared. Kramer had anticipated this: Lenny might also be peering out between lace curtains, but he was to have no warning of what was really approaching him.
“You think he’ll be by his place so early, boss?” Zondi whispered as he closed the gate to No. 12.
“I reckon this is about the time he gets up,” Kramer answered. “The day’s just beginning for his kind.”
Zondi shambled up to the front door of No. 14 and tapped it with his torch.
Van Niekerk could not believe the time. It was midnight and the telephone was ringing again.
In his struggle to answer it without leaving his warm cocoon of blankets, the bloody stretcher unstretched and he rolled on to the floor.
He struggled to his feet, making a wild snatch for his pyjama trousers. The night was cold.
It took two syllables to incense him.
“Look here!” he shrieked into the mouthpiece. “If you ring up one more time, coolie, I’m sending a van down for you! Understand? Zondi is not here and there are no bloody pictures for you. Now shut up!”
He slammed the receiver down and stood trembling.
There was a sound of laughter from through in Housebreaking where they were working late.
Kramer was driving now and Zondi was on the back seat. They were cruising downtown Durban, thinking about what they had just learned and wondering what to do next.
The door to No. 14 had been opened by an old man in braces. He said he was Willem Peterson and that his son, who owned the house, was out. The only other resident, a used-car salesman called Lenny Francis, was out, too.
Kramer had pushed him aside and searched the house. It was empty. Zondi had checked the outbuildings and garage. Nothing.
So they had taken a closer look at what Lenny’s room had to offer. It was not much. The dresser and wardrobe were filled with jazzy clothing. There was a bulky pile of musclemen magazines and a rusty chest- expander. There were some comics and a paperback on karate. There were no letters or papers of interest.
They had gone back to old Willem, who was waiting as instructed in the front room, and asked him what he knew about the lodger.
Only that he sold cars and went out a lot at night-sometimes not returning until the next day. He did not like this but his son did not mind. He had explained to Willem that salesmen often worked such hours as they could hardly expect men to leave their jobs to buy a car during the day. It was natural for the lodger to be out after hours and on Sundays.
The old man’s patent disapproval of Lenny was a great help. By pandering to it, Kramer was able to extract a reasonable account of his movements over the past few days.
Lenny had got back very late on Sunday, the night Tessa had been killed.
On Monday he had remained in his room until about seven in the evening before going out for about three hours.
On Tuesday he had gone out very early, no doubt to break the news of his sister’s death to his mother. (How odd that he knew in advance that it would be worth his while to go to the station and buy a copy of the Gazette.) Lenny had returned at lunchtime to pick something up. The son had asked for a lift into town but Lenny had said he was going upcountry. He could have been meaning Trekkersburg.
And on Wednesday evening-twenty-four hours before-he had left in his car at about six after spending all day in bed. He had not come back.
“It’s a pity this isn’t last night,” Kramer remarked.
“Too true, boss.”
Zondi’s voice was tired, he had not slept in two days. It was very late and very pointless to track a man down in a strange city.
“Man, if we only knew one place this Lenny goes to,” Kramer sighed, reluctantly turning the Chev around to head for Central CID and the helpful deputy.
“Just a minute, my stomach he says we do,” Zondi replied, leaning forward over the seat. “What about the pie-cart?”
Kramer held the lock on the wheel until the Chev had completed its 360 degree turn and then he opened it up down West Street. Three blocks further on they saw the lights of the mobile diner where it had been trundled out into the car park.
“Two pies, boss?”
“Two each.”
They drew in with a screech of brakes and killed the lights. A bunch of teenagers in a hot rod beside them raised a small cheer, and two tramps-who had been pestering an elderly couple in a Mercedes-scuttled into the shadows.
But Kramer was aware only of the lime green ’57 Pontiac parked near the exit. One front wing was crumpled and the number plates were those registered in the name of Leon Charles Francis.
“I go, boss,” Zondi hissed. And he slipped out of the car.
Kramer watched him in his rearview mirror as he moved swiftly back towards the entrance. He was going to come in again at the other gate and have a look in the Pontiac as he went by. He moved out of sight.
Kramer flashed his lights for service. An old Indian in a filthy waiter’s jacket clamped his tray under one arm and advanced like a somnambulist.
As he gave his order, Kramer could see out of the corner of his eye that Zondi had reached the Pontiac and was giving the thumbs-down. Stuff it.
But the waiter was not as dopey as he looked. He was half-way back to the pie-cart when he returned to Kramer’s window.
“Sorry to be troubling you, master.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You come by this place with a native man in your car, master. That man by the other side.”
“What of it?”
“He is working for you?”
“None of your bloody business.”
“For police, maybe, master?”
So it was not that the man wanted to know whether he should bring half the order on a piece of newspaper.
“CID.”
“That car he belong to Lenny Francis. You look for him?”
“Could be.”
The waiter made his quota of change jingle in a pocket. Kramer gave him some money of his own.
“God bless you, master. Lenny leave that car here last night. He go with many chums in black stationary wagon. Along eight o’clock time.”
“Sammy, you’re a bright boy.”
“Chums they come from same place as you, master. Also got Trekkersburg numbering plate.”
Kramer winced. He had overlooked this in their elaborate plans for casing 14 Vista Road. Still, Lenny had not been there to care. And he could stay wherever he was at least until daybreak.
