The Sunday Hangman

“Sit down, farmer. Stay down until I’ve asked my questions. Why did you see fit to make these contradictions?”

“I don’t like to hear talk like that, Lieutenant Kramer.”

Kramer decided to sneer. “Oh, really? Too gruesome for you, is it?”

The pupils of the man’s eyes were like flies caught in chips of amber. His lips-smiling so winningly a moment before-were tightly pressed together. A pulse ticked in his left temple.

“It was too gruesome for me. His comments could also have upset people who might think his account was accurate. Upset them very much.”

“Ach, I see: sort of part of your duty as a leader in the community?”

“If you like,” said de Bruin, tensed against the next move.

“How do you know Constable Boshoff was wrong? What are your sources of information?”

The hat revolved faster in the stubby fingers. “I just know it isn’t like that. The state wouldn’t allow it. To talk like that is close to treason.”

“Treason? You interest me, Mr. de Bruin. What made you say that, may I ask?”

“What? It’s nothing-a figure of speech. We all use it.”

“Uh huh?”

“That’s all. Are you finished?”

“So the state wouldn’t allow it,” Kramer repeated with deliberate sarcasm; acknowledging the fact that nothing need ever be wasted by adding: “All the state asks is that a condemned prisoner is hanged by the neck until dead.”

“In one sense, but the people who do it are trained.”

“When, where, and how, Mr. de Bruin? From your vast knowledge, you must be able to tell me that!”

With calculated suddenness, Kramer rose and went round to stand over the unhappy man in the chair. De Bruin tried to smile again, blinking against the light overhead, and licking his lips before answering.

“Well, it would have been some time ago, I suppose. Perhaps things have changed, perhaps there have been retirements. I may even be wrong, in which case I’d be happy to apologize to young Willie in private.”

“Apologize?”

“Look, I’ve stood all-”

“Apologize? Kiss and make up, you mean? Then walk out of here? You’re under bloody arrest, Mr. de Bruin, as you damn well know!”

De Bruin got slowly to his feet, dropping the hat on the chair behind him. “No, I don’t damn well know. You asked for a lift and then started making this fuss. I think it’s time you gave me an explanation, young man, or-”

“An explanation? That’s your job, Karl.”

“I’ll not say another word until I’m informed as to what the devil you’re playing at, and that’s final.”

The tawny eyes stayed steady, the big fists bunched; there was no fear in him, and, very obviously, he was tough. Filled with a righteous indignation that only the innocent or the insane would feel their right.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Go away,” said Kramer, without looking round.

“It’s me, Lieutenant! I’ve got a report that’s urgent!”

De Bruin glanced at the door, giving Kramer an instant in which to lift his truck keys from the desk.

“Wait, I’ll be back,” he said, and left him standing there. Once in the charge office, Kramer gave his orders. “Nyembezi, by this door. Mamabola and Luthuli, get outside and search that truck. I want everything from it-tools, tow rope, sacks, maps, the lot. And now your problem, my friend?”

Willie pointed at the office door and made I-can’t-talk-here signs. He looked fairly canned and rocky on his feet-ready for bed, in fact. But there was something in his expression that made Kramer hasten after him into the garden.

“Piet told a lie and I caught him,” he said breathlessly. “Said he’d been down the road while all the time he was in Brandspruit, scared of seeing you until it was over. He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t buggered it all up. Stayed away as long as he could. You know what?”

“He tipped off de Bruin?”

“Hell, how did you-”

“Guessed, just this instant. The house this afternoon, the way the bugger’s been taking it. Last night was it?”

“After you’d gone, sir,” said Willie, getting his thumb caught in the Land-Rover’s key ring. “Bloody hell-stupid, isn’t it? Ja, he said he hadn’t meant to, but you’d given him a-”

“What did he say to de Bruin?”

“He swears he only asked a few questions of a general nature, but hanging did come into one of them. This seemed to catch de Bruin’s ear and-well-it’s a bit of a muddle what came after that. The point is that de Bruin must have had warning. I thought I’d better tell you right away in case you were having trouble.”

“What’s Ferreira doing now?”

“He’s running the party. He wants to say he’s very sorry and will make sure nothing else goes wrong. He couldn’t help himself. I’m just on my way back there, so if there’s a message, I can take it for you. Yee-aaagh, that’s better.”

Kramer patted him on the shoulder. “A bloody fine job, Willie! I’m going to make special mention of this in my report. But there’s a question I should ask.”

“Fire away, Lieutenant!”

“With all the drawing you did last night, how much sleep did you get? We’ve an early start at daybreak looking for the evidence in this case; it really would be a help if one of us could be right on the ball in the morning. I can’t tell you what to do with your off-duty hours, but.…”

Acute disappointment showed first in Willie’s face, then he made some adjustment and shrugged. “Say no more, sir! Boshoff is on his way. Will you be wanting these in the meantime?”

“Ta,” said Kramer, taking the Land-Rover keys. “There could be a Bantu incident, I suppose. See you at sunup, Willie. Don’t worry; this is being noted as well.”

Willie grinned, waved, and set off across the road toward the Haagner household. He walked with his hands in his pockets and whistled off-key. Very briefly, Kramer was ashamed of treating him like a wad of gum that had lost its flavor, and then admitted how much less bother it would be with him safely tucked away. The mean-minded part of himself that did these things was always right.

“Hau, sir, look at this we have found,” Mamabola said, hurrying over from de Bruin’s truck. “Wrapped in newspaper under the front seat. Still very clean.”

It was a loosely wrapped parcel of what felt like books. Kramer took the parcel, gave them orders to continue the search, and walked back into the light cast from the verandah. He paused and checked the date on the paper: it had been sold that morning. Gingerly, he uncovered the contents; as he’d thought, three books. The top one was black and as thick as a hymnal. There was no title on its outside, so he flipped two pages:

A New Handbook on Hanging.

Under which he read:

Being a short Introduction to the fine Art of Execution, containing much useful Information on Neck-breaking, Throttling, Strangling, Asphyxiation, Decapitation, and Electrocution; Data and Wrinkles on Hangmanship; with the late Mr. Hangman Berry’s Method and his pioneering List of Drops; to which is added an Account of the Great Nuremberg Hangings, a Ready Reckoner for Hangmen; and many other items of interest by CHARLES DUFF of Gray’s Inn, Barrister-at-Law.

Next page: Published in 1954 by Andrew Melrose, Ltd., of London, New York, Toronto, Melbourne, Sydney, Cape Town. Next page:

DEDICATED RESPECTFULLY

to

THE HANGMEN OF ENGLAND

and to similar

CONSTITUTIONAL BULWARKS

everywhere

Preface.