“By a housebreaker trying to make a getaway and finding the boy barring the path.”
The ramrod snapped, causing Jarvis to subside suddenly onto the bottom step.
“This is appalling, Lieutenant. It never once crossed my mind that
…”
“Ours neither. Until this suspect made us think twice. For a hard case, he seemed a bit too worried we had caught up with him-carried on as if there had been aggravating circumstances.”
“I’m sorry, old boy, not quite with you.”
“That’s when housebreaking can become a capital offense. We checked back and discovered two interesting things: the first was he had not burgled a house since the night of November the fifteenth-”
“The night Andy died?”
“Yes, although it tied up only after we’d checked out our crime sheet for that week. The other thing was a lipstick found among the recovered property; it is not a common brand, and we were able to trace the sale of a similar lipstick to this house.”
“That’s a damn funny thing to steal!”
Of course it was. Kramer, who had almost begun to believe the story, struck himself an invisible blow. But no harm done.
“You could say this wog is a damn funny bloke,” he went on. “A bit crazy, if you ask me. He agrees to anything you say.”
“Have you asked him if he did it?”
“Naturally.”
“And what does he say?”
“I told you, he agrees to anything-but the prosecution expects me at least to attempt to find some actual proof.”
“Will he hang either way?”
“Who knows? Personally, I think he’ll be locked away safe in the loony bin.”
Jarvis got his pipe alight.
“Then you might say this was nothing much more than a formality?”
“Off the record, yes.”
“No real need to bother Caroline, then?”
“I would have thought, sir,” Kramer said, “that you would realize that when the Colonel gives an order, you do your utmost to carry it out.”
That brought Jarvis back on parade. He straightened up and nodded curtly.
“Quite so. I’d forgotten you chappies were really a paramilitary outfit. And a damn good thing, too, if I may say so. I’ll tell Caroline you’re here, and then you can go up to her.”
Kramer clicked his heels together.
And spent the wait on a closer examination of the curious brass plates decorating the roof beam.
Pembrook had been so much better since lunchtime that he found himself given a clean bill of health just to get him out of the place. The decision was taken by the assistant district surgeon, who obviously thought his superior overcautious in ordering a day’s rest.
“There’s a good Rugby match at the Station Ground,” he advised. “Go and get some fresh air.”
“I will,” Pembrook answered, heading straight for the car pool and cadging a lift to 39 Woodland Avenue, which turned out to be the biggest house he had ever been inside.
Not that he was allowed further than the hall until the mistress had been summoned by a Bantu maid of infuriating superiority. The black bitch had given him the very distinct impression he should have presented himself at the back door, and he deeply resented that.
But she must have been new and not the usual carbon copy of her employer, because Sally Jarvis’s grandmother, Mrs. Trubshaw, was exceptionally hospitable-despite her natural concern that he should call. She ushered him into the drawing room and sent another maid for her granddaughter, adding an order for tea. “And now,” she said, taking up her embroidery, “ do tell me about yourself. It’s so unusual to come across one of us in your profession.”
She had to be joking.
The girl lying demure and dainty between the candy-striped sheets might have made it a lasting impression if Kramer had not noticed the hockey stick and shin guards under the window. She had to be tough, to play goalie. For the rest, she was-her head at any rate-a typical adaptation of the current debutante ideal now the State President had permitted such things: shoulder-length blond hair, plucked eyebrows, pert nose, and arrogant chin. The eyes were green and unabashed. The mouth ever so slightly sorry for itself.
“Hello, Caroline, I’m Lieutenant Kramer of the CID.”
“Hello.”
“How are you feeling-any better?”
“It only hurts a little, thank you.”
“Uhuh. Mind if I sit here? I’ve got just a couple of questions to ask you.”
“Daddy told me.”
She was nervous despite appearances-it showed in her voice. But curiously, not as much as he anticipated.
“What did your father tell you, then?”
“You know, about Andy. Something to do with a burglar.”
Kramer opened his notebook and wrote her name at the head of the page.
“The medical evidence suggests that Andy was drowned somewhere around eleven o’clock-where were you at this time?”
“I’ve already-”
“Please, miss. It’s best we start from scratch again. Just answer my questions.”
“I was here, asleep in my bed. I got in just before ten, had a shower and listened to pop on Springbok Radio. I must have dropped off before the advertisements because I don’t remember hearing them.”
“Say about ten-thirty, then?”
“Yes.”
The old, old story: much too glib, much too swiftly phrased, much too earnest. She was lying. Gold dust at the first turn of his shovel. And the ready means to assay it.
“But what if I told you there wasn’t any pop on Springbok that night? If you remember, it was the day of General Marais’s state funeral-all stations were playing solemn music.”
“Then it must have been Lourenco Marques. I didn’t really notice. Does it matter?”
He put a tick in the margin.
“ Ach, no! Us blokes just get in a habit of examining the facts. So you were asleep here. Did anything wake you? Did you hear any sounds?”
“Nothing at all until Jackson brought in my orange juice in the morning.”
“Dead to the world,” Kramer said, as he made a note.
“Pardon?”
“I said, Did you like him?”
“Who?”
“The American. Did you like him? Yes or no?”
“No,” she said spontaneously, and then looked appalled at herself.
“Don’t worry, your father’s already said he was a bit of a you-know-what.”
“Hell’s bells!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Daddy’s a jolly sight cleverer than I thought. Me and my friends thought Andy was effeminate until we found out.”
Kramer played for time by demonstrating his nasty smoker’s cough.
“But surely he wasn’t as bad as that?” he croaked.
“He was, though! A proper sex maniac with hands like hairy spiders running all over you.”
“I don’t believe it, miss.”
