upturned buckets, spooning up mealie meal porridge, greeted him with reserve. He declined their offer of a seat and a share of their breakfast, and leaned against the trunk of an avocado tree, thinking over what he had just learned. So Dorothy Jele had chosen to work for the Jackson family for a full generation without, it appeared, having ever requested more than a week at a time in which to turn her back on them. This deepened his interest in the case of Mama Buza’s baby-although that wasn’t, of course, what he was there for. At a guess, the Lieutenant would want to know if any had cross-examined her about the identity of the man in the forest.
Kramer overslept, to be awakened by the maid bearing a breakfast tray of fried bread and tomato. Intensely annoyed with himself, he leaped up, ate the bread while he shaved, and then dressed hurriedly, muttering recriminations. He left the bungalow shortly after eight and jog-trotted along the path, noting to his satisfaction that the door of Zondi’s hut was closed and that all was as quiet as it had been the night before. But as he drew nearer to the police station, he saw that his car had gone, and this made him run the rest of the way.
“Where the hell’s Sergeant Zondi?” he demanded on reaching the charge office.
Goodluck Luthuli stamped to attention. “He go by Jackson farm, suh!”
“Is that so? What’s that you’ve got there?”
Goodluck handed over an envelope marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL, which Kramer tore open where he stood.
The note-and the fact it was a note-somehow bothered him. But not half so much as the discovery that Zondi had helped himself to the Chev and buggered off. No doubt the cheeky sod was checking to see if anyone had tried to make Dorothy Jele swear to having spotted Izimu among the trees-only those hadn’t been his orders, and things in that department were coming to a head.
“Morning, sir!” said Willie, strolling in smelling of horse. “I’ve got that diagram ready like you asked for.”
That was slightly cheering; Kramer ordered him through into the office to see how it looked. Willie produced a sheet of white card-the shape belied its origin as the stiffener from inside a new shirt-and handed him a scale drawing that was remarkably good. Even the grain of the wood in the platform was there, and the lower figure- outlined in dots-had toes that pointed realistically downward.
“Not bad. But how’s the arithmetic of this? Last night you were sitting here moaning like a stuck pig.”
Willie hesitated. “Before you chucked me out, didn’t you say I could go and do it in feet and inches?”
“Uh huh. But explain this figure of twelve-eight-that’s a bloody sight less than I expected.”
“Still higher than an ordinary room, Lieutenant.”
Kramer sat down behind the desk, lit a Lucky, for breakfast, and motioned Willie to get on with it.
“Well, sir, I started by making the scaffold platform my fixed point. Then I proceeded to find the victim who had the longest drop-or, in other words, the one who took up the most room below that point in the ‘after’ position, so marked.”
“Izimu: he was the lightest, according to his P.M. report.”
“Ja, only he had a scrawny neck with no muscle tone. Although the tramp was heavier, he had shoulders like a buffalo, so Dr. Strydom reckons he took a six-foot drop. To that I added three inches for neck stretch, supposing the body was left hanging for twenty minutes for the heart to stop, plus another inch for clearance-both minimum amounts. So you could say that the bottom line of the sum is six-four.”
“From the floor up to the platform?”
“Correct, sir. Then for the ‘before’ position, or the space required above the trap door, I simply took the tallest person-the railway ganger-and added on his height of six-one.”
“Plus what?” Kramer asked.
“Three inches for the shackle attaching the rope to the adjusting chain.”
“But what if the hangman stands higher than six-four?”
“He’d have to bloody stoop, sir.”
Kramer was surprised into a short laugh. “You’re a typical example of what Doc’s expertise can do to a man, but I must say I’m impressed. Where did you learn to draw like this?”
“Ach, at the orphanage.”
“Uh huh?”
“That’s all there ever was a lot of-paper and pencils; sometimes crayons as well. A man used to bring us the old rolls from the newspaper and Matron cut them up.”
This was a guilelessness quite different from that shown by the knobbly-kneed abortion at Doringboom, and Kramer looked Willie over carefully, wondering if he had got him wrong. The scrutiny was misinterpreted.
“I–I didn’t mean to be rude just now, sir it’s just.…”
“Go on, man,” Kramer murmured.
“I appreciate we’re only trying for a minimum here, and that the gallows must be higher. It’s not that. And obviously Dr. Strydom knows a lot about the theory, only-”
“He also did the P.M. at about seventy executions.”
“Oh, I see,” mumbled Willie, becoming confused. “Then it doesn’t matter.”
But the obvious conflict in the kid intrigued Kramer. He called out for Luthuli to bring them some coffee, and invited Willie to take a chair. “You know something about the practical side? Something he’s overlooked?”
Willie cracked his knuckles. “Did you also mix with the warders when you were at police college, sir?”
“Occasionally.” Voortrekkerhoogte’s proximity to Pretoria made this inevitable.
“Then you know how they boast about the hangings. How they think it he-man stuff to watch those kaffirs getting the chop. Granted, it isn’t a sight I would want to witness. With a white or a colored it must be even worse.”
“Although they usually do them one at a time.”
“That’s true. But what I’m saying is that this expert advice here-ach, it seems somehow too posh.”
“In what way?” Kramer asked, glancing at the Telex slips.
“For instance, one Saturday night after a Rugby match, we were in the bar at the Van Riebeeck when the prison blokes started having sport with this little chap-I think his name was Kriel. He was down for his first execution on the Tuesday and the others were trying to put him off. It was no use him saying it was only a black bitch who’d smothered her ‘bambino’ to keep her job. Hell, they were the worst, these others told him; not only had you got to strap her up between the legs, but to a bloody stretcher as well. There was no other way of getting her there. Jesus, those were the buggers who really fought.”
“You’re losing me, Willie.”
“That’s how it started, you see, sir. Then they began to talk about the gory things, especially when the executioner gave too much drop. There was always blood all over, they said, which was why he’d seen sawdust near the coffin room. Yet according to these notes, such things shouldn’t happen.”
“I’m lost.”
Willie cracked another knuckle. “One warder said-it sounded true and he was drunk, so it made him cry a bit-he said that he’d seen the rope slip up and pull half this boy’s face off. The noose got stuck under his nose, which meant his neck broke okay, but all this part was scraped clean. Where was the rubber ring? Dr. Strydom says there’s a patent rubber ring that’s supposed to hold the noose tight until you can pull out the pin and push the lever.”
“If they were doing a big batch, then-”
“Not according to these notes, Lieutenant. Even with six on the trap there should be no difference. Then there’s all this velocity times mass squared over acceleration. And the elastic module of the rope they’re using.”
“Hey? It sounds more like a bloody space launching!”
“Ja, you could call it that,” Willie said, grinning. “Actually, it is part of the sums you’ve got to do if you want the drop to be right. But do you remember John Harris, the bastard who put a bomb on Jo’burg station? Their coach said they’d given him ‘an extra-long drop,’ just to make sure. They’re still talking about Harris, said he’d gone well and-”
“Gone well? Hell, I remember that expression now. Nice and quick, Luthuli.”
