“Boss?”
Unable to restrain himself, Zondi rushed forward and then realized there was no blood to be seen.
Kramer worked the trigger guard off Jarvis’s finger and broke open the revolver. He cleared the chambers and a stunted spent cartridge, plus five others with curiously crimped noses, jumped into his hand.
Blanks.
“I’ve had them in there ever since the gala,” he admitted, winking.
Then Zondi recalled that, when locked in mortal combat with an oversexed witch doctor, he had seen a blond phantom making no attempt to use the firearm it carried. Sudden comprehension slid icily like a hailstone down his spine. He shuddered.
“You’re crazy, boss!”
“Why so? There was never any real likelihood of violence in this case. All kid gloves and romance in the bloody moonlight.”
So saying, Kramer put the rose between his teeth and poured the contents of the crystal vase over Jarvis. It was too warm for an immediate effect but they did not have to wait overlong.
“Where’m I?” Jarvis slurred-nobody expected for a moment he would come out with anything original.
“Guess,” said Kramer.
Jarvis’s lids parted briefly.
“My study,” he mumbled.
“Wrong,” said Kramer.
“Where then?”
“Hell,” replied Kramer. “Just improvising, you understand, until we get the noose on you. After that, who knows? I never take chances.”
This time Jarvis opened his eyes wide and kept them open.
“You Afrikaner scum,” he said, with such hatred Zondi feared for the worst.
But Kramer laughed. “Don’t blame me, Captain-blame Professor Aardvark.”
And he thoroughly enjoyed his little in-joke.
Zondi was able to share his amusement. It was he who had shown the lieutenant that the first word in any English dictionary was, in fact, Cape Dutch.
