a damn what he was doing, but the double slam of the doors brought him round quicker than a kick. And the Chev’s almost instantaneous takeoff had him startled into an apology.
“ Ach, shut up, will you?” Kramer snarled. “If you want to sleep, sleep. I don’t care.”
Down through the plantation they bumped and skidded.
“That was the last thing I expected,” Pembrook said, making out he was addressing himself.
Kramer fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and accepted Zondi’s light for it without thanks. Probably it was the same two guinea fowl which reached safety only by turning themselves into polka-dotted cannon balls. At the gate a delivery van sidestepped into the ditch. Its Indian driver turned away, with his eyes screwed up, as the Chev plunged on to the dual highway behind him.
They reached the far lane safely.
“Christ,” whispered Pembrook, again to himself.
“Hey?”
“Nothing, sir. Just-”
“Look, Pembrook, don’t play around with me in this mood. Tell me what the trouble is.”
“Well-er-can we be sure that it was really there on the day?”
Kramer had never been asked a more fatuous question. Forgetting all about the routine checks that would doubtless confirm the claim made by Master Glen Humphries, the plaster cast encasing the fractured hand had been signed and dated by a score of inane acquaintances. It was in itself an affidavit, testifying that, for a period extending back at least three weeks, the bearer had been incapable of tying his own shoelaces-let alone strangling someone with a stout wire.
“Pembrook?”
“Sir?”
“If you don’t like the way I drive, you can get out and bloody well walk.”
Dismayed at being found so transparent, Pembrook shrank back, mumbling denials.
“Can I speak?” asked Zondi. “I have a message from the Colonel.”
“That’s all I need!”
“Boss?”
The rage in Kramer was having an effect on him more pronounced than half a bottle of peach brandy before breakfast. He no longer cared what he said or did. It was really quite pleasant, although potentially very dangerous unless he soon found some means of channeling it to advantage.
“Don’t tell me-the killer’s gone prancing in and confessed everything. Was it the Mayor?”
Zondi grinned into the mirror.
And Kramer eased back on the throttle.
“Okay, you tell me,” he said.
“Colonel’s radio message as follows: ‘It concerns dead dog mentioned during inquiry into death of Asiatic juvenile Danny Govender, arrested on suspicion by Housebreaking in Greenside area, Rosebank Road, three nights ago. Was held because story believed to be rubbish made up to cover real purpose there. Anyway, Govender alleged he was investigating the death of a very big dog, a bitch as big as himself, at the weekend.’ ”
“ You’re not making this up, kaffir? ”
“True’s God!”
“Go on, but I warn you…”
“Then the Colonel says: ‘I took an interest when told Govender alleged dog had been strangled by prowler.’ ”
Zondi paused for dramatic effect and then continued with a passable impersonation.
“‘Housebreaking made no attempt to verify this story at the time, but contacted the licensing department this morning at my request. I consider it more than a coincidence that the biggest dog in the neighborhood was a ridgeback Great Dane cross bitch belonging to Captain P. R. Jarvis. Suggest you now follow my advice, drop farfetched theories, and switch investigation from family to the criminal element. One last point: Housebreaking has apparently overlooked the burglar’s success despite number of watchdogs kept. This could indicate we should be looking for a white-even one living in Greenside.’ ”
Something odd happened to Pembrook’s expression. Kramer noticed it at once.
“You look as if you know about this?”
“No, sir! First I’ve heard about it.”
“Then how come the Colonel so obviously knows that the Jarvises have no dog at present?”
“He-he could have got the license people to make a casual inquiry. By phone.”
“Hmmm. Possible, I suppose. Always knows more than you think, that bloke. What do you make of his theory?”
A catch in Kramer’s voice made Pembrook swing round surprised. There was a disturbing smile on the face he examined.
“Pretty farfetched, too,” he said cautiously. “If the prowler was white and didn’t have trouble with dogs, why did he do this one in?”
“Some dogs won’t be friendly with anyone,” Kramer reminded him.
“Even then, the more unfriendly they are, the harder to get near their throats. Ach, I can see what the Colonel is getting at, all these factors strung together-dog strangled, Boetie strangled, prowler surprised a white burglar, a white murderer, coincidences-but it doesn’t hold together when you think about it. For a start, we know now what the Colonel doesn’t know-and that is what Boetie saw at the swimming bath. It wasn’t the prowler that time and Boetie was at home when the dog was killed. Makes your head spin.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Kramer replied. “Like you say, the Colonel’s got it all wrong. He’s been sitting at the inquiry with his mind on other things, just slinging together a few ideas. But it’s all there.”
“Hey? I can’t see anything to work on.”
The Chev slipped off the highway down a byroad. Half a mile later it was in Greenside.
“I’ve got you, boss!” Zondi exclaimed as they turned in to 10 Rosebank Road.
Which left Pembrook very indignant indeed, so indignant he rounded on the other passenger.
“Come on,” he snapped, “you tell me what I’m too thick to get from all this!”
“ Hau! But you are not stupid, Boss Pembrook. You said this thing yourself: that it is hard to get near the neck of a bad dog.”
“Unless,” Kramer intervened, “it’s your own dog-and it’s probably expecting you to put its collar on.”
“Not back to Jarvis again!”
“Why not? Doesn’t this give us our other body? One as big as a juvenile?”
The Trekkersburg Rotarians never got to hear the Colonel’s speech on the primary role of the police force as guardians of the security of the Republic, although they came very close to doing so.
The empty dishes had been whisked away, the cigars brought round, and the coffee served; he was about to stand up, curiously niggled by a feeling that he had not got that hunch of his about the dog quite right, when the hotel’s manager rushed in.
“I’m sorry but you’re wanted urgently at police headquarters,” he said.
“What on earth for?”
“Somebody’s running amuck there with a gun. Two shot already!”
“Nonsense!”
“That’s what the sergeant on the phone said. They’ve got him cornered in the billiard room.”
The Colonel’s second hunch of the day was fully substantiated: Constable Hendriks had cracked.
A bumblebee in the hollyhock beside the great wooden door fizzed no louder than the fuse to a bomb, and yet Kramer heard it. All of Greenside lay hushed; the beginning of a drowsy afternoon in a suburb so civilized that everyone rested indoors until the heat wore off and servants could serve tea.
But, for now, the heat was on. Kramer could feel it there in his belly, too, burning like peach brandy.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, making a crude, brutal gesture with his hands.
Zondi gave a growl of approval.
“Surely you don’t mean that?” Pembrook asked.
“Nice and quick, boss,” Zondi said, smiling.
“Think I’m mad?”
