“ Pardon, sir?”
“Forget it. Now, Zondi, my heart bleeds for you, but tell us what you found out. We’re all busy men here.”
Zondi began, in the way of his people, at the very beginning. He told them how, in his ragged jacket and trousers, he had slunk up to the door of the back veranda at the Jarvis house and informed the maid he was a togt boy. She came back and said there were no odd jobs going. Then he had pleaded for a morsel of food. This had brought him a doorstep of stale bread, spread thickly with apricot jam, and a can of black tea, well sugared. He had been given permission to eat in the compound.
There he had encountered one Jackson Zulu, the head cookboy, who was resting from his labors and idly planning the midday menu. He looked askance at the stranger and ordered him into the coal shed. Jackson had such a grand manner, Zondi almost obeyed him.
Then he had shown Jackson his handcuffs and suggested a confidential chat. Jackson was a wily old bird, though. Before agreeing to anything, he had asked if Zondi, who would have to be educated if he really was a detective sergeant, could spell “asparagus.” Oddly enough, he could. Jackson added it to his list on the back of an old bill and pronounced himself ready to be of any service. He had a great respect for the police, as had any man with something to lose.
They got on tremendously after that. Shrewdly, Zondi had started with the staff, leaving his questions about the family to appear polite afterthoughts to make Jackson feel important.
The Jarvises employed a head cookboy, a head maid who cooked in his absence, a housemaid, a wash girl part time, a garden boy, and a youngster who helped him. They had all been with the family some time and had arrived with first-class references.
“Get on with it,” said Kramer, tossing a cigarette to Pembrook. The smoke might dry up that damn nose of his.
Zondi seemed mildly aggrieved but continued. Captain Jarvis-that was a captain of an army-was regarded as a good master. He was very particular about everything, and sometimes he swore terribly in a language nobody else understood, but he was just. The remarkable thing about him was the fact he never went out to work. Jackson had once asked tactfully for an explanation from the missus and she had told him a long story about sharing petrol that he could not understand. Still, it did not matter, as the wages were better than most.
Jackson liked his missus very, very much. She was much younger than her husband and never got angry. She forgot many things, too, and that was why she let Jackson run everything and even order groceries by telephone himself. It was a great honor to be so trusted. One of which, of course, Jackson was eminently worthy. Zondi had entirely agreed with him.
That loosened things up a bit. Jackson then admitted that there were times when the Jarvis household was not a pleasant place to be. There was the night of the elder daughter’s birthday, for example. There had been a dinner party with ten guests and no less than six delicious courses which Jackson had served personally, resplendent in his red sash and white gloves. He had thought the missus very happy and talkative. Why, she had raised her voice like their own women did when they were enjoying themselves. And yet, afterwards, there was a quarrel in the missus’s bedroom-his employers slept separately-that became so bad that he and the other servants were told to leave the washing-up. The master had shouted that the visitors would say things about her that could do the family harm.
Jackson had shrugged. He could follow the ways of the Europeans so far and then… Perhaps the Captain had taken too much spirits. Any sober man would have seen how attentively the guests had listened to the missus-and have heard how loudly they laughed.
This elder daughter? She was not so bad but a bit cheeky. Also very lazy about getting up and usually had her breakfast on a tray. He put this down to the fact that she had a lover called Mr. Glen.
The younger daughter, Sally, was a different calf altogether. More like her mother although she was not the pretty one. Hau, she had been so sad until she, too, found a little lover. At first he had come to the house just to swim, and then he had been invited to lunch.
That was another bad meal, Jackson remembered. Hastening to add that the cooking had been, as always, fit for a paramount chief. The thing was the boy had eaten his fish with the meat knife and fork. Then, when the meat was served, he tried to cut his steak with a fish knife. The little missus had been so angry when the others laughed because he complained the knife was blunt. She cried afterwards, too, when he had gone. Only the missus seemed sorry for her and asked that Jackson make some ice cream. After this incident he had given them their meals separately on the back veranda. There was talk, he added in hushed tones, that despite speaking English, the boy was actually an amaboona. A Boer.
Zondi relished echoing, by example, a degree of restrained horror. Kramer took the recollection better than Pembrook, who seemed, for some reason or other, acutely embarrassed. Then Jackson had tried to get back to the garden boy, about whom he harbored certain suspicions. There was this curious habit he had of going to sleep immediately after his evening meal. But Zondi wanted to know if the story of the little missus had a happy ending.
The boy had been up at the house on Saturday, Jackson said. No, not since then, because the little missus had gone away suddenly to stay with her grandparents in Johannesburg. That was on Monday. Oh, yes, of course, a driver was also employed now. He had taken her with the master.
“What about the American?” Kramer demanded.
“Jackson did not say much, boss, because he was at home in his kraal for the month. He could only tell me the maids thought he was very strange in his ways. He cut up all his food before-”
“Please, no more bloody table manners, man!”
“I was also going to say he spoke to the maids like they were white. They were afraid his mind was dirty.”
“That’s all?”
“ Hau, one more thing. They told Jackson that one morning the maid who makes the beds found a sock in the older daughter’s sheets. The laundry maid helped her return it to the proper place.”
“Young Andy’s chest of drawers, no doubt?”
Zondi laughed, nodding.
“You bastard,” said Kramer. “Why not start there with your story? Still, we’ve learned a lot, hey, Pembrook?”
“Yes, we have, sir.”
“Still not happy about something. What is it?”
“Must I answer that, sir?”
“Zondi, push off outside a minute.”
He left, closing the door carefully behind him.
“Come on, Constable, speak up.”
“It’s just-well, this doesn’t strike me as-er-a very wise procedure, sir, sending in Zondi. I’m sorry, sir.”
Kramer turned his back on him and then went over to look down into the street.
“Orthodox, you mean? What happened to Boetie Swanepoel wasn’t orthodox, Constable. Remember that. And to help you get your job into its correct perspective, I’m ordering you to go down now to the mortuary and ask to see the body. I want you to touch it with your left hand. I will then sign that hand in ink. You will not wash that hand until this docket here has some red tape around it. Understand?”
“No, sir. I mean-”
“What the hell do you mean, Constable?”
“I’ve already seen Boetie, sir. It’s not that. I’m worried about what will result if the cookboy tells his employers. If we’re wrong-”
He was interrupted by Kramer’s chortle.
“ Ach, Pembrook, let’s have our storyteller back in and see if he can’t put your mind at rest. You’ve got the aptitude for CID but still a lot to learn.”
Zondi entered warily.
“Sergeant, did you speak to any other of the servants?”
“No, sir.”
“And how did you end your interview with Bantu male Jackson Zulu?”
