Zondi let go. Watching Msomi run for a place on the benches, and feeling a clawed fist grab the walls of his stomach.
Chainpuller.
The walls were pale lime with scuff marks. A map of Trekkersburg almost covered one of them. There was a gray filing cabinet to which a calendar had once been glued. A small table with a stool, and a large desk with pigeonholes and a chair. Two wire wastepaper baskets and a pair of telephones. Two ashtrays: one an inverted piston head, the other an empty paper-clip tin. A wooden pole with a leather loop at one end. Daubs of white paint saying CID on anything worth stealing. In other words, the office was not much to look at, but it had atmosphere.
Monty Stevenson apparently thought so. He stood on the scarred linoleum flooring as if expecting matter-of- fact violence to be done to his person at any moment. He shivered.
And the walls went on whispering.
“Still here?” inquired Kramer, just back from the same old story in Peacevale, yet with calculated suddenness behind his back.
Stevenson went rigid, which had its comic side.
Kramer picked up the pole, slipped the thong over his wrist, and let it swing to and fro.
“Getting stuffy,” he remarked, and used the pole to open both fanlights. Then he hung it up on its hook.
Marais came in, dusting the sugar from his teatime doughnut off his chin, and burping with selfish satisfaction. He picked up his notebook.
“Where had you got to?” Kramer asked. “How many more stories is he going to tell?”
“Swears it’s the truth now, sir.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it is! I’m prepared to-”
“You shut up.”
“Can’t I even sit down, please?”
“Seen Zondi?” asked Kramer, seating himself at his desk. Marais was already back on the stool.
“Er-no, sir. Well, now it goes like this. After seeing the last customer out of his club at twelve-twenty on the night in question, he then-”
“Got his name?”
“It was one of my members, so I’ve-”
“Carry on, Marais; the time was twelve-twenty.”
“He went to close his office, remembering there he had business matters to discuss with Miss Bergstroom, the dancer. It was her last night of the booking and he would not be seeing her again. So he went to the dressing room and found she had been, quote, the victim of a tragic mishap, unquote. The snake was still moving slightly, but he could see it, too, was dead. His first reaction was to ring for the ambulance-and us- then he admits realizing the situation could, as you suggested, be turned to his advantage. He knew that by then the Sunday papers were already being printed and that on a Saturday night the daily papers usually had only a junior poopsqueak on call. By the way, the prisoner once worked on the advertising part of a paper, so that’s how he knows all this.”
“Births or deaths?” asked Kramer.
“So the point is, sir, he knew that raising the alarm then wouldn’t bring him the kind of attention he wanted, but he denies that he arranged matters so the press would be there before we. In all other respects, it’s much the same as we worked out together. He’s prepared to give another full statement, although I have informed him of his rights.”
“Yes, Officer. I thought that if I left everything just as it was, and had the boy go in there on Monday, then I wasn’t really doing any wrong. I mean, what harm could possibly come of it?”
“Now you know,” said Kramer.
Marais, the clown, wrote that down.
“By the way, Stevenson, did Miss Bergstroom have an agent?” Kramer continued after a pause.
“Of course! I don’t hire any old act for-”
“Then how come you had to talk business with her?”
“I’m sorry? What was that?”
Kramer laughed and stretched, lifting an imaginary pair of barbells, and arching his back.
“I look at it this way, Stevenson,” he said. “I know a bit about papers, too, you see. A morning one like the Gazette or the Durban Herald has a hell of a hard time filling its front page on a Monday with only the weekend to pick from. Man, the times I’ve been in a charge office on a Sunday morning and the reporters have practically begged me to take my gun and make some news. I agree with you about the early hours, but that doesn’t apply to around eleven-then you can’t hope to get better service. Everybody gets so sick of car crashes and sailing regattas and all that rubbish, and they miss the good juicy court stories. You could have gone in on Sunday, hey? Why not?”
Stevenson began to tremble properly.
“Ja, I thought so,” said Kramer. “If you’d said you’d just popped along to see how Miss Bergstroom was doing, your wife would have been suspicious, hey? And with good reason? Even so, you could have invented some excuse if you weren’t all tangled up by your guilty secret.”
“Hey?” said Marais.
“The actual reason Mr. Stevenson wanted to see Miss Sexy Snake Seventy- voetsak -and the actual nature of the business. Am I right?”
The prisoner sat down just where he was on the floor.
Marais looked almost sorry for him.
But Kramer had just had another thought, and picked up the statement made by the cleaner. There was still the matter of the rigor mortis to tidy up.
“According to the boy Joseph, you dismissed him before entering the dressing room a second time. Did you in fact enter it?”
Stevenson took all the breath he could hold and said, “Only for a moment. I couldn’t stomach the smell then-nor the sight. It haunted me all Sunday in nightmares, quite different if you-I mean, I’d had too long to think about it. And that’s the honest reason why I was turned up when I telephoned and-”
“If you want to know, that was your big mistake.”
“Saying she was stiff,” added Marais.
“But she was dead and don’t all…?”
“ Ach, these laymen,” sighed Marais, getting him to his feet.
“So you never even touched her the first time,” Kramer said, finding that a more interesting comment.
“I-I could see all I wanted to. Her breasts weren’t moving- and she did look stiff! Like sticks, those arms were.”
“And how did you know her heart had stopped? Or would you get lipstick on you doing the kiss of life?”
“ What? Oh, dear God, is that what all this has been about? You mean she might still have been alive? Like a drowned person? That I could have-y’know?”
Kramer, who had only just had the idea, shrugged.
“The post-mortem report will be here in a few minutes if you’d like to wait,” he said matter-of-factly.
Emmerentia, who was Strydom’s lovely and gifted small granddaughter, called Trekkersburg Natural History Museum the “dead zoo.”
He was thinking of this with a fond smile as he walked up the steps into its entrance hall and stopped at the reptile cases, which were new.
And yet, Strydom discovered, not everything in this section was as dead as it looked. By waiting patiently, and watching for a flicker of tongue, it was possible to distinguish between exhibits that were inanimate and those that were lifeless, so to speak.
The excellence of the preserved specimens was such that he was sure he had come to the right place. In fact, he would have returned for a second look, had not a Zulu attendant-with immense wooden plugs in his earlobes-pounced suddenly to polish his breath marks from the glass.
Strydom continued down a short passage and into the large mammals hall. It was huge and vaulted, with a gallery for insects and anthropology, and echoed so readily that he went up on tiptoe to skirt a charging bull
