“Ja, gone. Normally he never went out much, and when he did, he’d always have something to say about it. Then I looked in his room and found just a few cheap clothes and a case not worth taking. That’s when I began to wonder. He’d been putting a lot on tick in the bar recently, plus he’d been making long-distance calls from my office here, also on account.”
“Which he’d have to settle when paying his next month in advance? Due this coming Monday?”
“Exactly. It was nearly triple the amount before. Frikkie argued with me, said I was being too suspicious, but I said he’d left the clothes to make me-”
“These calls-do you have the numbers?”
“No, but it’s a farm line, so the exchange in Brandspruit-”
“I’ll contact them. Did he get any mail?”
“Never. Said he had no family, and that all his friends were either dead or in England and the States.”
Kramer offered Ferreira a Lucky Strike while thinking that little lot over. It vexed him to realize that he’d never know whether Erasmus had consciously exploited the acceptable shadiness of a soldier of fortune; whatever the intention, it had been a stroke of genius. The hotel manager had been able to quash his own doubts quite happily, much encouraged, of course, by a half-witted policeman and the demands of assorted creditors. Yet this perfect plan had obviously come unstuck somewhere down the line.
“Do you think the other mercs could have got him?” Ferreira asked, supplying their light. “From the stories he told us, they sounded a real bunch of madmen. He even admitted once shooting up a school of kaffir kids to teach them a lesson-he thought they were helping the rebels, but it was a mistake. Killed forty of them, he said. If he was holding out on his mates, they might not show much mercy. What do you think?”
Just for an instant, Kramer almost fell for Erasmus’s cover story himself. “Ach, no; I’m not sure this is connected,” he said. “But talking of other people, did he ever have visitors?”
“None I know of, and-like I told you-he hardly ever left the place, except to go to the bank. Our terms are strictly cash, of course.”
“Uh huh. What about guests?”
“Always kept clear of them. You could see he didn’t much like getting in the same pool as the cripples.”
“And the locals? Was there anyone he was particularly friendly with?”
“Apart from Frikkie?”
Kramer nodded.
“No, nobody special. The farmers all knew him from the bar, naturally, and a few of them liked his stories. They sort of respected Tommy, but they didn’t invite him out or anything, if that’s what you mean. He wasn’t all that social himself. We hold a barbecue here every Saturday night; he came to the first one, but didn’t really show for the rest. I can’t remember seeing him, anyway. Everybody around here comes, sort of a tradition, and-”
“What about women?” Kramer cut in. “From our knowledge of this man, he had to have it twice a day, practically.”
Ferreira shot the rubber band at his calendar. “Unless he was taking his chances with black velvet, not a hope-not around here.”
“Sure?”
“I should know! If it isn’t a bloody granny, then it isn’t white. Period. You must have been in this kind of country before?
The young ones can’t wait to get out of it, get themselves off to varsity or training college and stay there.”
“Best take a weekend off and come to Trekkersburg to collect yourself a wife,” Kramer half joked, having sensed something false in the man’s locker-room bravado.
“I was married,” replied Ferreira, his face a blank, “but she died.”
That could have led to an awkward pause, to all sorts of imaginings about what had led to this poor sod’s burying himself alive in the backveld, yet Kramer handled it smoothly, he thought, by saying; “Register.”
“It’s by your elbow. His address is ‘care of’ the YMCA, Hillbrow, Johannesburg.”
“Then I’ll not bother to look. Just a couple more questions.”
“Ja?” said Ferreira, trying to find his rubber band again among all the papers. “Keep talking.”
“I need to know if anyone contacted Tommy here on Monday. You say he didn’t get any mail, but what about phone calls?”
“None I know of, and I was working here in the office almost all day. He vanished while I was still in here, doing the bar receipts.”
“Any strangers in the bar that night?”
“No; I’ve already asked to see if they knew where he went. Just the usual crowd.”
“And has anyone been here since Monday? Any new guests?”
“Nobody.”
Kramer took a look at the register after all, noted the number of Erasmus’s room, and got to his feet.
“I’d like to see 14,” he said.
“Seems a bit pointless,” objected Ferreira, scratching under his sunglasses. “If you want his things, the boy will put them in your Land-Rover. Frikkie and I were in there this morning.”
“All the same, I’d better.”
It was true that Kramer hadn’t any idea of what he might be looking for. But then again, it was equally true that Ferreira and Jonkers had been expecting to find very little-and that men who found what they expected seldom looked further.
8
There was a decided contrast between the weekly tariff pinned behind the door of Room 14 and the standard of amenities to be found therein. The floor was red concrete, softened and warmed over one square yard by locally made grass matting, and the four unevenly plastered walls were sloshed over with lime that came off on your hand. The plumbing to and from the cracked washbasin was the gray plastic stuff trained baboons can screw together, and both taps said cold on the top. The wardrobe and dressing table were so flimsy they moved bodily toward you at the tug of a knob, and the bed, a knee-high divan, seemed to have prolapse problems. Without question, the only furniture worth a second glance-not excluding the two blotchy mirrors-was an armchair of vast proportions in front of the French windows.
These windows, Kramer discovered, opened into an enclosed courtyard once used as a KIDDIES KORNER. He turned away with a slight shudder and applied himself to searching the room very thoroughly, scoring a great big fat zero. So he began on the armchair again, and Ferreira lost interest, mumbled something, and went off to have the leper’s bell rung for tea, leaving him alone.
Zondi slunk in then, raised an eyebrow, and said, “The very object of my intentions, boss.”
“This chair? Why? Have you picked up something?”
“Maybe. The bedroom boy has been telling me what a strange boss this was. He says that every morning, when he came to do the room, Boss McKenzie would be sitting in the big chair and wouldn’t move. This made his task very difficult, and so he reported it to Boss Ferreira, but he said it didn’t matter.”
“How about that?” Kramer said, tipping the chair back.
“There was another strange thing about him as well-he would wash his underwear instead of leaving it for the girls to do.”
“Uh huh? Or are you pulling my leg?”
Grinning, Zondi went on: “Honest to God, boss. He would leave it in the basin to soak, then hang it up in that courtyard out there. The bedroom boy was very cross about this because it meant he had to go into the next room to damp his cleaning cloth.”
Kramer laughed and tried the chair for comfort. “He just sat like this? How? Like a dummy?”
“Reading a book or a newspaper, the bedroom boy says. Never has he known another person in this place to behave in such a fashion.”
Back went the chair again. “Come on, you’ve got the skinny arms,” Kramer ordered. “Let’s see what you can
