some would call it mischance. They were careful with alibis and fingerprints. They had answers for everything. They often took tremendous pains to eradicate the body. In the final analysis, though, they saw themselves ranged against the police-whether in the open or watching from a thicket of deceit. They knew that the very act of concealing their connection with the murder had incriminated them. They were committed to a battle of wits. Even if they succeeded in setting up a “missing person” situation, they never knew when the bugle might suddenly sound as a pet dog unearthed a delectable but forbidden bone. A perfect murder, however, owed nothing to this outlook. Its perpetrator made no attempt to disassociate himself from his deed-simply because he was totally confident his deed would never be recognised as such. He shed clues without a care because no one would ever seek them. He did not give the police any more thought than they an unfamiliar name in the Gazette ’s Deaths column. His way was Nature’s Way. A pedant might insist that some element of risk remained: a husband impregnating his wife could not be certain a mongol would not result. Yet in both cases only the odds were what mattered. And the odds against having a mongol would be considerably lower than those against a doctor doubting his own opinion on the demise of a known cardiac case-and astronomically lower than those against a professional undertaker switching bodies in the heat of some unspeakable passion. Yet the battle had begun.
“Well, Georgie, I must say you’ve really pulled one out of the hat this time,” Kramer remarked, affable on adrenalin.
“Thanks,” Mr Abbott muttered. He was well into his third glass and very, very much happier.
Kramer’s glands had, in fact, started to cause havoc with their secretions. It was like being love-struck; he felt lighter than air, eager and ready for action. All he wanted was to go charging out and get his man. Sick. It was altogether a condition to be profoundly distrusted. So he decided to sit back, talk a little, ponder a little, be nice to Georgie who was not bad for an English-speaking bloke.
“You see,” he said, “it was a case of all or nothing with the bastard who did it. You can bet your last cent he had a lot at stake. So what does he choose?-the ultimate weapon, a bloody bike spoke. Only, things have gone wrong and it’s like getting caught in your own fall-out. Anyone can shoot a gun, or stab with a knife, but very few can handle a spoke. That narrows it down.”
“I’d say.”
“Another thing: what was a white girl doing getting mixed up with kaffir gangster tricks? That’s a good one for you.”
“It is indeed, marvellous.”
“Go easy on that stuff, Georgie.”
“Never fear, old boy, Ma’s gone home to mumsywumsy. Even worse, she is. Still alive only because she doesn’t want me to get my hands on her.”
Kramer laughed.
“Tell you what, bring the bugger back here when you get him,” Mr Abbott offered, “I’ll see to him for you.”
His leer was frightening.
“Not a chance,” Kramer replied, standing up. “This one’s all mine. He won’t know what hit him.”
Mr Abbott raised his glass to toast the sentiment.
“Just you see he doesn’t get to hear of what happened today,” Kramer warned softly. “This gives us a good start as long as we keep it quiet. Understand?”
“Absolutely, old boy.”
Mr Abbott’s company had suddenly become tedious. Besides which, Kramer no longer felt rarin’ to go. So he went.
3
There was still no one in the Murder Squad offices when he got back, but a ridiculous note had been left in the typewriter. It said that Colonel Du Plessis had an important engagement and should be contacted at Trekkersburg 21111 only if absolutely necessary. That was the Brigadier’s home number. Of course, he was holding a braaivleis to celebrate his dragon daughter’s betrothal to some fair maid of an architect. Ordinarily, this would have invited a stock outburst from Kramer-what a bloody time to go stuffing yourself on barbecued sausage with an eye on the main chance. But, under the circumstances, he could not have wished for anything better. Whether something was “absolutely necessary” or not was entirely a matter of opinion. He could get on with the investigation without interference at least until morning. It was also pleasing to find the others were still out for this meant no pressure to delegate. The case was all his-and Zondi’s, when that idle kaffir bothered to look in.
He buzzed the duty officer.
“Kramer here, just back from Abbott’s place. White female Le Roux definitely murdered. Stab wounds. Suspect Bantu intruder.”
The duty officer’s silence was as loud as a yawn. Good, without lying he had made it sound sufficiently commonplace; after all, dozens of whites surprised burglars, to be fatally surprised in turn.
“But keep it from the Press, will you, Janie?”
Captain Janie Koekemoor reassured him of this on the grounds he knew bugger all about it anyway having just come on.
Perfect. He replaced the receiver.
Where to begin? There were already quite a number of people to see: Farthing, Dr Matthews, the Trinity agent, and the occupants of 223A Barnato Street. He would arrange for Ma Abbott to make her statement to the local police rather than recall her, it was the least he could do.
With speed as an essential factor, the party in 223A seemed the best bet. For a start it was likely they were Miss Le Roux’s landlords and that would save a bit of digging about. Kramer knew the properties down that side of Trekkersburg. Since the Act which kept most Bantu out of town overnight, many servants’ quarters had been converted at considerable expense into bachelor flats. This meant 223A would probably have a key handy and he wanted to examine the murder scene as soon as possible.
Kramer paused only to scribble an offensive note to Zondi. Then he went down the back way to the car park. There was a new batch of used cars on loan from obliging dealers and he chose a beaten-up black Chrysler with three wireless aerials, white-walled tyres, and leopard-skin seats.
The house at 223A was exactly what he had been expecting: a blankfaced bungalow wearing its mossy roof like a cloth cap pulled low over two verandah windows. It was set only a few yards back from the pavement, to allow plenty of room behind for a sizeable outbuilding.
A closer examination revealed many small signs of neglect, especially in the paintwork, and unusually heavy burglar guards over every aperture including the door, which was closed. A fortress for aged whites too nervous to have even a handyman prying around-folk who would not readily admit a stranger in the failing twilight. Well, the important thing was not to sneak up but give fair warning and let the Valentino charm do the rest.
So Kramer banged the gate and clattered the knocker as heartily as a priest. It worked. In less than a minute there was a rattle of chain, two bolts shot back, and the door opened just far enough for a grey-haired bantam of a woman to poke her beak out. The reek of lavender water would have sickened a bee.
“Yes?” she demanded.
Work-worn fingers began twisting her necklace as if she meant to throttle herself at the first sign of danger. But then she belonged to a generation that believed in a fate worse than death.
“CID,” Kramer announced, very civilly. He proffered his identity card. It was snatched away through the bars and the door closed.
Oh ja, life was made up of waiting for the gaps between the waits. Kramer glanced about him. The verandah was bare, apart from two chairs. One was made of cane, large, easy lines, and piled with enormous cushions with a flower pattern. The other must once have stood beside a Victorian dining table. It hurt just to look at it with its impossibly upright back. Their peculiar juxtaposition suggested something. The distance between them was less than polite society permitted but greater than intimacy required. They were, in fact, just close enough for pulse- taking. So in the cane chair you would find an ailing widow wealthy enough to have a paid companion seated by her side. It was a useful insight and Kramer used it unashamedly as the door opened again.
