with the tatty-quality uniform as fresh blood on a stray’s fur.
Zondi could see himself stretched out and elongated in the belt buckle just three feet away.
“Why have you come, Argyle?”
“Your superior officer desires you to use the telephone.”
“Straightaway?”
“I regret that is the case.”
So did every God-fearing passer-by within hearing of Zondi as he hurried up the dirt roads to the township manager’s office.
The African clerks there were quick to smile and greet him-and had an outside line ready waiting. Zondi glared at the number the manager had noted down. It was to a call box and that was always an ominous sign.
But ten minutes later he was back telling Miriam that he had been given the day off.
The lieutenant was taking his gun up to the boy’s school, he had been told. In the meantime, he was going to sleep where he was calling from-the bird sanctuary. Mystifying.
“That is good, my husband,” said Miriam. “Now you will have the time to put a plank across the bottom of the lavatory door outside. How does the corporation think a modest woman likes to be on that squat pan with everyone looking in under?”
“I have heard,” replied Zondi with a leer, “that the corporation thinks it is part of our culture.”
He artfully lowered the door eight inches.
Probationer Detective Johnny Pembrook stood outside the Colonel’s office making sure he had no wind left to break. His gut had been in an uproar all night through sheer nerves. The order to report to the divisional commissioner had reached him in the barracks as he was turning in after a long, fruitless search for an old woman’s purse. The awful thing was that only the time had been stated and he had no idea what he had done. Not specifically, that was. It had really churned him over. A probationer detective makes a lot of mistakes. One too many and he goes back into blue for the rest of his days. And Pembrook wanted to join CID more than he wanted to play for the A team-although he would never admit it. That was the worst mistake he could make. God, how his stomach fluttered.
Then, having almost fired a live round, he decided to quit playing Russian roulette with himself and find out what it was all about.
The Colonel was surprisingly cordial.
“At ease, Pembrook,” he said in English. “How are things in CID?”
“First class, sir.”
“Good! You’re making nice progress.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It is time you did some paper work, though.”
Pembrook’s chin came up.
“Sir?”
“We want you to take some statements. These are the addresses-Swanepoel, Steenkamp, it’s all there.”
“What case is this, sir?”
“Oh, something of Lieutenant Kramer’s.”
“ Murder Squad, sir?”
“He’ll be the one to brief you.”
Pembrook could not help it.
“Why me? ” he blurted.
“I’m buggered if I know, Pembrook.”
The deputy headmaster usually acted as starter for the races at the annual interhouse gala because he had an old revolver left over from the war. So, with him away ill, it had been one less thing for Mr. Marais to worry about when Miss Louw’s friend offered to take his place.
But having now come face to face with the volunteer, and having been introduced, Mr. Marais was no longer too sure about that.
“This is very kind of you, Lieutenant Kramer,” he said in his smoothest headmaster’s voice, “yet is it very wise?”
“How do you mean, Mr. Marais?”
“Well, it might just cause an-er-awkwardness. As you can see out there, most of the parents are here this afternoon and some of them are very upset about what happened to Boetie. We even thought of canceling but we’ve got the inter-schools next week and this is how we choose our team. Also, it could make the children nervous.”
“Oh, I’m sure nobody will know who Trompie is-they’re all railway folk,” said Miss Louw.
Mr. Marais took off his rimless spectacles, polished the lenses, and replaced them over his rimless eyes.
“I’m held responsible for everything,” he said plaintively. “Bad language… Smells… You’ve no idea.”
“Look, if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. Only I can’t leave the gun behind for you because it’s government property.”
“Please don’t take that attitude, Lieutenant! We’re very, very happy to have you. An honored guest, you might say. I just needed to think a moment. No, I’m sure Miss Louw is right: nobody will know who you are.”
“That’s the beauty of it, man,” Kramer murmured, as he acknowledged the wave Mr. Marais gave him from the French windows opening out on the pool. Then he turned to Miss Louw.
“Why did you suddenly call me Trompie just now?”
“You forget-I told him we were old friends.”
“ Ach, of course. And you may just have something there, Lisbet. Now what must I do?”
It was all very simple. He was given a box of. 38 blanks, a program annotated to show him from which side each event began, a whistle to impose silence, and a pat on the shoulder for luck. He was also entreated to keep things moving, as there was a lot to get through.
A starter using a firearm is always regarded with some awe by children in bathing suits. There is something about that chunk of ruthless metal being carried so casually between their unprotected bodies that induces respect. A boy’s fascination for weapons plays its part as well, as does a girl’s dislike of loud bangs. With all this on his side, and his innate ability to have commands obeyed instantly, Kramer himself set an unofficial record.
Mr. Marais made a feeble joke about it over the loudspeaker. And then he explained that as it was only four o’clock, the ice cream had not yet arrived for the party after the prize-giving. Therefore there would be a short interval of fifteen minutes’ duration.
Lisbet had already pointed out to Kramer where her class sat in a block on the grass. He wandered down there, reloading his gun.
Although the first boy to speak was a good six years older than Mungo Nielsen, his response was the same.
“Let’s have a look, sir!” he pleaded.
Kramer made a show of reluctance.
“Come on, sir!” said some others.
He sat down.
“Don’t touch,” he warned. “You must never play with guns.”
“Blanks can’t kill you, can they, sir?”
“The wad would hurt, all right. You’d get a bad burn, too. Anyone know what kind of gun this is?”
“Smith amp; Wesson. 38 service revolver, six shots, muzzle velocity of four tons.”
“Not bad! How did you know that?”
“The police have them.”
“Oh, yes?”
“He’s a Midnight Leopard! Big show-off.”
The black-haired boy with a harelip frowned at the girl who had spoken.
“I’m not,” he said. “You know I’m not anymore. Nobody is.”
She stuck out her tongue at him and then smirked at Kramer.
“I know what you are, too!”
