There it was again-only a fifth-rate comedian would try to capitalize on such a commonplace ambiguity of words, but the tone alone was suggestive.
“I meant-hello, is that the exchange? I want a call to Johannesburg. From Trekkersburg 42910-the Jo’burg number is 7723612. Two hours’ delay? At this time of night? I don’t care if you’re having to route calls via Bloemfontein!”
“Tell them you’re the police.”
Kramer looked over his shoulder at Lisbet. She had closed the sliding doors across the alcove where they had eaten and was now sprawled smiling on the settee.
“Hello, exchange? Are you still there? Make it a person-to-person fixed-time call for eleven o’clock. The name’s Kramer. I want to speak to Johnny Pembrook. Thanks.”
“That was a funny thing to do, not to use your position,” Lisbet said.
“There’s wine left in the bottle, isn’t there?”
She pouted.
“You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”
“Is there any reason why I should?”
“No.”
This time he was certain, the denial had been so softly spoken. She moved slightly to give him space to sit.
“You’re strange,” she said, touching his hands. “You seem so hard and tough yet you’re gentle as well.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The Swanepoels.”
“Hey?”
“You’ve never once been to see them. You can’t face the idea, can you? Not after seeing what actually happened to Boetie.”
“ Ach, no, I stay away because I don’t like saying sorry for something I haven’t done.”
“No emotions?”
“They reduce efficiency.”
“In private life, too?”
“I haven’t got one,” Kramer countered.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Am I wasting my time?”
Jan Smuts International Airport was agog with the discovery of a bomb on an Alitalia jetliner. All passengers on the flight had been hustled aside for questioning. There were police everywhere.
But, to Johnny Pembrook’s relief, none of them had a moment to spare on assisting a colleague in distress. By waving his identification card at each checkpoint, he was able, despite being lightheaded, to reach the taxi rank within minutes of touchdown. The stewardess, who had been very quick with the sal volatile, was probably still searching for him.
He was obsessed with one thought: to see Sally Jarvis and complete his mission before falling over.
The taxi door swung open and he climbed in.
“Where to, sonny?”
“Parktown.”
“It’s a big place.”
“Er, 39 Woodland Drive.”
“What’s that off? Woodland Avenue?”
“Could be.”
“Never been there before?”
“Just drive.”
“Hey…”
“Get going. I haven’t got all bloody night!” bellowed Pembrook, betraying his state of extreme agitation.
The taxi driver made a casual adjustment to his rear-view mirror. In it he saw a disheveled youth with a very pale face and the shakes.
“Just a minute, son, while I take a look at my map. You just got in?”
“Yes, on the Durban plane, five minutes ago.”
“I see.”
“Have you found the address yet, driver?”
“But what about your suitcases?”
“Just this bag.”
“You can’t have much in there.”
“What the hell business is it of yours? Give me the map-I’ll guide you.”
“It’s all right, we’re on our way. As the bishop said to the actress.”
Pembrook sat back and glared at the funny man who fully deserved to have ears that stuck out at right angles like Mickey Mouse. He hoped the sod got leprosy in them.
For this was certainly no time for idle chitter-chatter and pedantry. Pembrook felt terrible; he wanted desperately to flop down on a bed in the barracks-to see a doctor even, for the pain. But he knew such a move could bring immediate suspension from duty and that would not help the lieutenant. Hell, no, old Kramer was depending on him. Whatever the reasons, he had been given a chance to shine, and shine he would as long as he could. This meant he would be foolish to take a chance of being well enough in the morning to carry out his assignment as arranged. It had to be seen to without delay. His plan of action crystallized: extract fact from Sally Jarvis, telephone same reverse charges to Trekkersburg, find a cheap hotel to lick his wounds in. With luck, he would be fine come sunrise. If not, too bad-at least the investigation could continue.
Pembrook focused with difficulty on some flashing lights ahead. There were several vehicles parked on the highway itself and he spotted a policeman.
The taxi slowed down.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t stop,” Pembrook said. “It’s just an accident.”
“That’s what you think, you bugger,” muttered the driver, suddenly accelerating and then slamming on his brakes.
Pembrook was flung hard against the front seat. His forehead struck a chrome ashtray and he slumped, momentarily stunned, to the floor.
“It’s a roadblock!” the taxi driver shouted triumphantly as he leaped from his seat.
“Hey, what’s going on?” an authoritative voice inquired.
“The bomber! I’ve got him in there-grab him quick.”
The back doors of the taxi were wrenched open. Pembrook was dragged out and put on his feet. A couple of thick-set constables held him there, his arms pinned.
“Look,” he said and got no further.
“Came out of the main building like a bat out of hell, Sarge,” the taxi driver burbled. “All shaking and white, with just a bag. Very jumpy. Wanted to be taken to Woodland Drive in Parktown-there isn’t such a place. Then he says he got straight off the Durban plane but it gets in an hour before that!”
“Pressure trouble,” explained Pembrook.
“Huh! He’s trouble, all right-isn’t he, Sarge? Told me to drive like hell and not to stop for you either.”
“He doesn’t look like an intellectual,” said the sergeant, unsnapping his handcuffs.
“Just shows you how clever the swine are! I was telling the blokes on the rank only yesterday that appearances meant nothing these days. Take pop stars, for example. They arrive here all dressed in-”
“What’s your name?” the sergeant asked Pembrook.
“John Pembrook. This is all-”
“Where from?”
“Trekkersburg.”
“Any papers to prove it?”
Pembrook thought fast. His driving license had his parents’ address on it. It would do for identification and he could sort out the rest of the story without revealing his affinity. The cautious sergeant was just the sort of fatherly type to wreck his plans through an excess of charity.
