“Well, sir, where does that leave us? Any good?”
“Manners, please, Pembrook. Thanks very much for your help, Mr. Pipson.”
“I can go?”
“You’re a free man in a free country.”
The secretary made sure Kramer knew he was amused. They shook hands in a most friendly way.
“Ah, one thing, though, Mr. Pipson. Please keep our little game to yourself. I don’t think Captain Jarvis would care to be told about it.”
“I wasn’t going to phone him, if that’s what you mean!”
“Hey? That didn’t enter my head. I just meant when he next came up. Just cause needless trouble, perhaps.”
The secretary beamed with relief.
“I see,” he said. “I’m so pleased. The club’s suffered enough as it is. You must come up for a proper game sometime. Cheers.”
Pembrook grinned as he watched him retreat with a spring in his step.
“That was neat, sir,” he said.
“But I meant what I said,” Kramer replied grimly. “Jarvis is out of the running.”
“Oh, bloody hell, no! Why’s that?”
Zondi moved in closer.
“Did you think,” Kramer asked, “that Jarvis took advantage of the secretary for a nice little alibi? I did at first. But the problem is that he just didn’t have enough time to get it all done and be certain of being in sight afterwards. Not unless he knew, down to almost a split second, how long it would take to have Boetie dead, mutilated and in the right place for the ritualistic touch. The bloke who did this wanted the job to look right-he couldn’t take the risk of a rush job. Strangle, slice with the sickle, and prop in the tree? He’d never have tried it unless he did a test run.”
“A practice, sir?”
“No, a test, I said. And if he had, there’d be two bodies on our plate, not one.”
15
Square one was an appalling prospect-coming, as it did, so soon after Kramer’s heady exposition. They stood about the flag on the third green like three mountaineers who had planted it on the wrong peak.
“Sodding bloody hell,” said Pembrook after much deliberation.
“Too right,” Kramer concurred.
Zondi said nothing.
“Anyway, would two minutes have been enough for the killing, sir?”
“Huh? Well, there was that lift murder down in Durban.”
“Oldroyd?”
“The same. He got in with the tart on the ground floor, escaped at the fifth, and the people buzzing from the sixth couldn’t believe she was dead already.”
“Then couldn’t-”
“ Ach, man, for Christ’s sake! Oldroyd wasn’t setting anything up, he wasn’t trying to fool anyone. A crime of passion and he was caught the same night. The only relevance is the time factor.”
“But-”
“All this is beside the point, Pembrook.”
“You misunderstood, sir. I was going to apply what you told me earlier and suggest we take a look at this bloke Glen. He was there when Boetie spoke to Caroline; you never know what his reaction might have been. We seem to have overlooked him all down the line-not that he struck me as important before.”
Kramer had his notebook out and open before Pembrook finished speaking.
“Glen Humphries, of 24 Leafield Road, Greenside,” he read out. “Articled clerk with the law firm of Henderson and Blackwell. Shall we go?”
“Where, sir?”
“To the secretary, of course-find out first if this bugger also belongs to the club. Get some background. Better come along, too, Zondi, in case we want a check with the caddies again.”
Still Zondi said nothing.
“Wake up, kaffir! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I was listening to all the noise from the car, boss. Never have I heard so many messages.”
“You don’t say. If it’s worrying you, go over and see what’s happening.”
Without further delay, Kramer made for the clubhouse with Pembrook marching smugly by his side.
Zondi shrugged.
The inquiry was over. Constable Hendriks, somewhat dazed, had been allowed to sit down.
Colonel Muller stood up and stalked out. He entered the control room just as the call to Kramer’s car was acknowledged.
“Give,” he ordered, grabbing the microphone away from the chief operator. “Receiving you, Zondi. Where is the lieutenant?”
Zondi’s voice replied from the speaker on the wall: “He is not here, Colonel; he is very busy.”
The Colonel kept his thumb off the speak button while uttering an imperative unfit for broadcasting. As guest of honor at the Rotary luncheon, he could hardly afford to be any later.
“Then take this down very carefully, Zondi,” he said, “and give the message to the lieutenant as soon as you can.”
“Sir!”
“It concerns a dead dog,” the Colonel began.
And frowned as the chief operator, strangely overcome by mirth, blew a mouthful of tea through his nose like an elephant.
In a state of acute distress, the secretary left Kramer and Pembrook to themselves in the office.
“Fits, sir, doesn’t it?” Pembrook said gleefully. “Glen was here in the morning as well as the afternoon-with Jarvis the nearest we got was that he had played a round on the pitch- and-putt the night before. Must say, these articled clerks do all right, don’t they? Tuesday’s a working day for most people.”
“They get time off to go to lectures,” Kramer replied, resting his foot on the old-fashioned safe. “Wait until we see him before jumping to any more conclusions. He could be on holiday, for all we know.”
Pembrook continued to pace about, leaving his fingerprints on the vast array of silver cups and his ash all over the carpet.
“Oh, come on, sir! If you hadn’t got the same feeling about this that I had, you wouldn’t have asked the secretary so few questions.”
“He said Glen was just out there in the car, so why should I?”
“Can I go and get him, sir? I mean, he might try and-”
“Sit down!” barked Kramer. “If my foot wasn’t so sore, I’d give you a good kick up the arse. How many times have I told you we have to go carefully in this sort of case? This isn’t one you’re going to solve with rough stuff. Any violence and we’ve made a mistake and that’s us finished. We play it cool all the way.”
From inside the winged chair Pembrook was heard to mutter, “It all bloody well fits.”
“What does? We’ve heard Glen was here and that he’s a fiery-tempered, spoiled little bastard who once clobbered a caddy for whistling. Huh! I bet you I could find ten others like him in this place any night of the week.”
“Then there was Caroline’s attempt to keep you from interviewing him, which-”
“Say no more, Pembrook. I’m noticing quite a lot myself now but from here on we work strictly with facts. Fact one: Where was Glen on the night in question? Let him tell us that.”
The door opened and Glen Humphries, a very frightened-looking little bastard, was led in.
Zondi was caught napping, stretched out full length on the back seat and snoring softly. Not that anyone gave
